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23 August 2024 at 4:29:04 pm

Credibility Crisis

For years, Faizal Khan, known across the country by his affectionate moniker of ‘Khan Sir,’ has cultivated the image of an educator fighting a noble battle against an exploitative coaching industry. To millions of students, he is not merely a teacher but a folk hero, someone who is an outsider challenging entrenched interests while offering affordable education to the masses. But the recent episode surrounding the attack on Khan Global Studies in Patna raise uncomfortable questions and casts...

Credibility Crisis

For years, Faizal Khan, known across the country by his affectionate moniker of ‘Khan Sir,’ has cultivated the image of an educator fighting a noble battle against an exploitative coaching industry. To millions of students, he is not merely a teacher but a folk hero, someone who is an outsider challenging entrenched interests while offering affordable education to the masses. But the recent episode surrounding the attack on Khan Global Studies in Patna raise uncomfortable questions and casts a shadow on the educator’s reputation. According to reports, a group of men allegedly vandalised the coaching institute, pelted stones and assaulted a security guard. But the controversy did not end there. Soon after the incident, Khan claimed that seven to ten rounds of firing had taken place outside his institute. The allegation dramatically escalated the seriousness of the episode. His claim generated headlines, social media outrage and a wave of sympathy. Yet police investigations reportedly found no evidence of firing by the attackers. CCTV footage and local inquiries also failed to substantiate the claim. Then came a more troubling development. A video surfaced allegedly showing two security guards associated with Khan Global Studies had fired shots into the air. The guards have since been arrested. While the investigation is still underway, the sequence of events is, at the very least, fishy. If police are ultimately correct that there was no firing by the attackers, then how did such a dramatic narrative emerge? Why were claims of multiple rounds being fired presented with such certainty? Why did the alleged gunfire become the centrepiece of public messaging immediately after the attack? Khan’s rivals have claiming that it was the educator himself who orchestrated the attack to gain sympathy as his fortunes were flagging. While the truth of these allegations have yet to be proved, it is worth noting that the modern coaching industry is not merely an educational enterprise but also a business of branding whose teachers are celebrities. Coaching centres compete for market share, social media attention and student enrolments. Success stories turn into marketing campaigns. And victimhood can sometimes become a marketing campaign too. Indeed, the most striking feature of the episode is not the vandalism itself but the rush to construct a story of persecution before the facts were known. The suggestion that shadowy rivals sought to silence a successful educator fit neatly into an existing public image. It generated precisely the sort of public sympathy that influential personalities often enjoy. Students deserve better. They look to educators not merely for knowledge but for intellectual honesty. A teacher’s first duty is respect for facts. The Patna incident should therefore serve as a reminder that celebrity status cannot become a substitute for credibility. The damage will extend beyond one coaching institute or Khan’s reputation. It will damage trust itself. And for a teacher, there is no greater loss.

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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