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By:

Abhijit Mulye

21 August 2024 at 11:29:11 am

Deepening BJP-Sena rift exposed

Mumbai: Corridors of power in Maharashtra are witnessing a growing sense of unease. Stern and quick disciplinary actions against senior bureaucrats are rare in state administration. The recent suspension of a senior IAS officer for failing to brief a minister during an ongoing assembly session has sent shockwaves through the bureaucracy. It has also laid bare the intense power struggle between ruling alliance partners, the BJP and the Shiv Sena. The controversy erupted when presiding officer...

Deepening BJP-Sena rift exposed

Mumbai: Corridors of power in Maharashtra are witnessing a growing sense of unease. Stern and quick disciplinary actions against senior bureaucrats are rare in state administration. The recent suspension of a senior IAS officer for failing to brief a minister during an ongoing assembly session has sent shockwaves through the bureaucracy. It has also laid bare the intense power struggle between ruling alliance partners, the BJP and the Shiv Sena. The controversy erupted when presiding officer Dilip Lande ordered immediate suspension of Maharashtra Pollution Control Board (MPCB) Member Secretary M. Devendar Singh and Joint Director Satish Padwal. It is an unwritten parliamentary convention that presiding officers refrain from directing such severe administrative actions directly from the chair. However, the environment department acted with unprecedented speed. Sources indicate that the file implementing these suspension orders has already reached Chief Minister Devendra Fadnavis’ office. Babus Baffled This swift administrative compliance has caused a significant flutter among top officials. Many bureaucrats feel the Fadnavis administration is setting a dangerous precedent. Others quietly admit that the officers simply became collateral damage in a fierce political crossfire. The root of this administrative crisis lies in the fraught relationship between two key political figures. The environment department is headed by BJP Minister Pankaja Munde. Meanwhile, the MPCB is chaired by Shiv Sena leader Siddhesh Kadam. The two leaders reportedly do not see eye to eye. M. Devendar Singh, the suspended IAS officer, is widely considered to be close to senior Shiv Sena minister Sanjay Rathod. During his earlier tenure as the district collector of Ratnagiri, Singh also developed close ties with powerful Sena minister Uday Samant. Bureaucratic circles suggest that Singh was appointed as the MPCB member secretary last year primarily due to strong recommendations from Samant and Sanjay Rathod. Against this backdrop, the political rivalry between Munde and Kadam reached a boiling point. According to an MPCB insider, Kadam allegedly issued oral instructions to board officials ordering them not to share any information with minister Munde or her office without his prior consent. Caught between a hostile chairman and an inquiring minister, officers naturally shied away from providing crucial briefings. Sensing this deliberate blockade of information, frustrated Munde spilled the beans on the floor of the House. She admitted her inability to answer legislators’ questions due to non-cooperative officials. The issue quickly escalated, likely beyond the minister’s own imagination. The presiding officer intervened, and the bureaucrats ultimately bore the brunt of the political dysfunction. Top officials now privately acknowledge that this entire episode is a direct outcome of the shifting power dynamics between the BJP and the Shiv Sena. This incident is not an isolated case of administrative cracking of the whip. Recently, the government initiated strict disciplinary action against an assistant charity commissioner in Gondia simply for participating in a lucky draw without prior permission from her superiors. Together, these incidents are sending a chilling message down the administrative spine. While the government attempts to project an image of strict discipline and accountability, the bureaucracy is increasingly feeling the heat of coalition politics. Officials are now acutely aware that navigating the fragile egos of alliance partners is just as critical as their administrative duties.

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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