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By:

Abhijit Mulye

21 August 2024 at 11:29:11 am

The Unequal Cousins

Raj Thackeray’s ‘sacrifice’ saved Shiv Sena (UBT) but sank the MNS Mumbai: In the volatile theatre of Maharashtra politics, the long-awaited reunion of the Thackeray cousins on the campaign trail was supposed to be the masterstroke that reclaimed Mumbai. The results of the Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation (BMC) elections, however, tell a story of tragic asymmetry. While the alliance has successfully helped the Shiv Sena (UBT) stem the saffron tide and regain lost ground, it has left Raj...

The Unequal Cousins

Raj Thackeray’s ‘sacrifice’ saved Shiv Sena (UBT) but sank the MNS Mumbai: In the volatile theatre of Maharashtra politics, the long-awaited reunion of the Thackeray cousins on the campaign trail was supposed to be the masterstroke that reclaimed Mumbai. The results of the Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation (BMC) elections, however, tell a story of tragic asymmetry. While the alliance has successfully helped the Shiv Sena (UBT) stem the saffron tide and regain lost ground, it has left Raj Thackeray’s Maharashtra Navnirman Sena (MNS) staring at an existential crisis. The final tally reveals a brutal reality for the MNS - Raj Thackeray played the role of the savior for his cousin, but in the process, he may have become the sole loser of the 2026 mandate. The worse part is that the Shiv Sena (UBT) is reluctant to accept this and is blaming Raj for the poor performance of his party leading to the defeat. A granular analysis of the ward-wise voting patterns exposes the fundamental flaw in this tactical alliance. The vote transfer, the holy grail of any coalition, operated strictly on a one-way street. Data suggests that the traditional MNS voter—often young, aggressive, and driven by regional pride—heeded Raj Thackeray’s call and transferred their votes to Shiv Sena (UBT) candidates in wards where the MNS did not contest. This consolidation was critical in helping the UBT hold its fortresses against the BJP's "Infra Man" juggernaut. However, the favor was not returned. In seats allocated to the MNS, the traditional Shiv Sena (UBT) voter appeared hesitant to back the "Engine" (MNS symbol). Whether due to lingering historical bitterness or a lack of instructions from the local UBT leadership, the "Torch" (UBT symbol) voters did not gravitate toward Raj’s candidates. The result? The UBT survived, while the MNS candidates were left stranded. ‘Second Fiddle’ Perhaps the most poignant aspect of this election was the shift in the personal dynamic between the Thackeray brothers. Decades ago, they parted ways over a bitter dispute regarding who would control the party helm. Raj, refusing to work under Uddhav, formed the MNS to chart his own path. Yet, in 2026, the wheel seems to have come full circle. By agreeing to contest a considerably lower number of seats and focusing his energy on the broader alliance narrative, Raj Thackeray tacitly accepted the role of "second fiddle." It was a pragmatic gamble to save the "Thackeray" brand from total erasure by the BJP-Shinde combine. While the brand survived, it is Uddhav who holds the equity, while Raj has been left with the debt. Charisma as a Charity Throughout the campaign, Raj Thackeray’s rallies were, as always, electric. His fiery oratory and charismatic presence drew massive crowds, a sharp contrast to the more somber tone of the UBT leadership. Ironically, this charisma served as a force multiplier not for his own party, but for his cousin’s. Raj acted as the star campaigner who energised the anti-BJP vote bank. He successfully articulated the anger against the "Delhi-centric" politics he accuses the BJP of fostering. But when the dust settled, the seats were won by UBT candidates who rode the wave Raj helped create. The MNS chief provided the wind for the sails, but the ship that docked in the BMC was captained by Uddhav. ‘Marathi Asmita’ Stung by the results and the realisation of the unequal exchange, Raj Thackeray took to social media shortly after the counting concluded. In an emotive post, he avoided blaming the alliance partner but instead pivoted back to his ideological roots. Urging his followers to "stick to the issue of Marathi Manoos and Marathi Asmita (pride)," Raj signaled a retreat to the core identity politics that birthed the MNS. It was a somber appeal, stripped of the bravado of the campaign, hinting at a leader who knows he must now rebuild from the rubble. The 2026 BMC election will be remembered as the moment Raj Thackeray proved he could be a kingmaker, even if it meant crowning the rival he once despised. He provided the timely help that allowed the Shiv Sena (UBT) to live to fight another day. But in the ruthless arithmetic of democracy, where moral victories count for little, the MNS stands isolated—a party that gave everything to the alliance and received nothing in return. Ironically, there are people within the UBT who still don’t want to accept this and on the contrary blame Raj Thackeray for dismal performance of the MNS, which they argue, derailed the UBT arithmetic. They state that had the MNS performed any better, the results would have been much better for the UBT.

The Unsung Defender of Calcutta

79 years ago, a little-known meat trader Gopal Mukherjee stopped India’s prized city from being swallowed by Partition.

On August 27, 1946 Calcutta exhaled. Four days earlier, columns of British troops had restored order to a city drenched in blood. The curfews imposed by Governor Frederick Burrows were lifted. More importantly, it was now clear that Calcutta, India’s most prosperous city east of Bombay, would remain within India and not be folded into the newborn Pakistan. For the Muslim League’s chief minister of Bengal, Huseyn Shaheed Suhrawardy, this was a bitter defeat. For Hindus, it was deliverance.


Behind that deliverance stood not a politician or general but a short, pugnacious meat trader with a wrestler’s build: Gopal ‘Patha’ Chandra Mukherjee. In the popular histories of Partition his name is absent. Yet Dominique Lapierre and Larry Collins’s Freedom at Midnight and the Pakistani-Canadian historian Ishtiaq Ahmed’s Punjab: Partitioned, Bloodied, Cleansed both credit him with tipping the scales in the Bengal capital. Without him, Calcutta’s fate might have mirrored that of Lahore.


The year 1946 was India’s year of suspense. The Labour government of Clement Attlee had dispatched a ‘Cabinet Mission’ to broker a settlement between the Congress and the Muslim League. Led by Sir Stafford Cripps and Pethick-Lawrence, the plan envisaged a three-tier structure: provinces grouped in clusters, with a weak centre controlling defence, foreign affairs and currency. It preserved the fiction of unity while granting regions autonomy.


The League grudgingly accepted. But Jawaharlal Nehru, head of the Congress, let slip that nothing prevented tinkering with the plan later. To Muhammad Ali Jinnah this was betrayal. He declared ‘war’ on the Congress, abandoning constitutional methods. Maulana Azad, the Congress president, would later lament that Nehru had once again sabotaged the chance of a united India.


If Pakistan was to be born, Jinnah reasoned, its eastern wing needed more than jute fields. It needed Calcutta - the industrial and cultural hub whose mills ran on the fibre harvested in Muslim-majority East Bengal. With Muslims making up roughly 35 percent of the city’s 3 million people, Jinnah and Suhrawardy saw an opportunity.


Direct Action

On August 16, 1946 the Muslim League called a general strike, ‘Direct Action Day.’ Suhrawardy, aided by a pliant governor, declared a public holiday. Weeks of propaganda primed the city’s Muslims: Hindus were warned to flee. Thugs were released from jail; crude weapons were distributed. League leaders assured crowds that the police had been “taken care of.”


By the afternoon, some 500,000 had gathered on the Maidan, Calcutta’s central parade ground. The rally descended into an orgy of violence. Looting, rape and arson spread block by block. Naked women were paraded through the streets. By nightfall, the sewers ran red. The police looked away. Burrows refused to call in the army.


The pogrom raged for three days. Congress leaders pleaded with Gandhi to intervene. He declined. Tens of thousands of Hindus fled the city. The League’s strategy was working: empty Calcutta of Hindus, redraw the demographics, and fold it into East Pakistan.


Enter Patha

It was then that Gopal Mukherjee stepped in. Five foot four and stocky, he earned his nickname ‘Patha’ (goat) from his family’s meat-trading business. He was also a wrestler and organiser of local vyayam samitis (gymnasiums) that doubled as neighbourhood defence squads. By 1946 he commanded some 800 loyal men.


When the killings began, he armed them. Force, he declared, would be met with force. Unexpected reinforcements swelled his ranks: 300 Bihari labourers stranded at Howrah station and 500 Sikh taxi drivers joined him. Suddenly the League mobs found themselves facing trained, muscular counter-attackers. From August 19, the tide turned. The Hindus no longer cowered; they retaliated. By August 20, the hunters had become the hunted. League gangs melted away. By the 21st, Mukherjee’s men controlled swathes of the city.


Only then did the police resurface. On August 22, Burrows at last summoned army columns. By then, their task was mostly ceremonial. Calcutta was already back under control -Mukherjee’s control. The threatened exodus reversed. The city’s demography remained intact. Pakistan’s dream of an eastern capital withered.


A forgotten figure

The ‘Great Calcutta Killings’ as they came to be known, left more than 4,000 dead and many times more wounded. They hardened attitudes on both sides, accelerating Partition. But they also demonstrated how local actors, far from the negotiating tables in Delhi and London, could shape destinies.

Why then is Mukherjee absent from India’s mainstream histories? Partly because his methods of muscular reprisal sat uneasily with the Congress’s official canonisation of non-violence. To leftist intellectuals in post-independence Bengal, a meat trader commanding armed gangs of wrestlers did not fit the image of the city as the ‘intellectual capital’ of India. And in a secular republic, celebrating a Hindu strongman’s role in halting Muslim rioters was politically fraught.


Yet to the thousands who returned to their homes after August 1946, Mukherjee was no thug but a saviour. His network of gyms and akharas had offered Hindus the means to defend themselves when both the colonial state and Congress leaders failed. As Lapierre and Collins observed, “One short, stocky man stood between Calcutta and Pakistan.”


Remembering Mukherjee does not require romanticising violence. The killings were gruesome on both sides; revenge claimed innocent lives. But his story highlights a larger truth about Partition: its outcomes were not preordained by Jinnah, Nehru or Mountbatten. They were shaped in the alleys of Calcutta, Lahore and Amritsar by local actors. Seventy-nine years on, Calcutta remains India’s pride and not Pakistan’s possession. That is thanks not only to high politics in Delhi and London, but also to the grit of a forgotten butcher and his band of wrestlers.


(The author is a political commentator and a global affairs observer. Views personal.)

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