The last silken note falls silent

Raju Korti
There are departures that feel less like an end and more like the quiet extinguishing of a lingering glow. With the passing of Suman Kalyanpur nee Hemmady, that glow dims perceptibly. For with her exit, the last living links to India’s great galaxy of playback legends have finally dissolved into memory, leaving behind an era that now belongs entirely to history.

She belonged to a time when voices did not need amplification through spectacle. They travelled on emotion alone. And hers was one such voice. Gentle, unassuming and silken to the core, it carried within it a rare blend of restraint and resonance. It never demanded attention, yet commanded it effortlessly.

And yet, the very quality that made her unforgettable also became her greatest professional disadvantage. Her voice bore an uncanny resemblance to that of Lata Mangeshkar. In an industry where Lata and her equally formidable sister Asha Bhosle were already calling the shots; such similarity was less a compliment and more a quiet disqualification. The lazy and often unkind labels of “Lata clone” or “second Lata” followed her persistently, betraying more ignorance than insight. For a clone imitates. Suman never did. She simply sounded like herself, and that happened to echo another great voice.

In truth, the difference between the two was, as connoisseurs would say, ‘unnees bees’. So fine was this distinction that even in their rare duet Kabhi aaj kabhi kal kabhi parson from Chand, one could scarcely tell where one voice ended and the other began. But fate is seldom fair in matters of timing. To be born into the shadow of greatness, however inadvertently, is often to remain confined within it.

The Hindi film industry, never known for its generosity, compounded this challenge. Stories abounded of a duopoly, even a monopoly, that left little room for another soprano of similar timbre. Whether these were exaggerations or veiled truths may never be conclusively known. Both Suman and Lata maintained a dignified silence on the matter, lending a quiet credence to the old adage that silence often speaks louder than words. What stood out, however, was Suman’s grace. Not once did she stoke controversy. On the contrary, she readily acknowledged Lata as the superior singer, a gesture that revealed as much about her character as her music did.

Destiny, though, has its own ways of restoring balance. When Mohammed Rafi and Lata Mangeshkar fell out over the issue of royalties, Hindi cinema witnessed an unusual interlude. The two titans did not sing together for several years. In that gap, Rafi’s collaborations expanded, and Suman Kalyanpur found herself stepping into a space that demanded both competence and courage. It proved to be her finest professional phase.

What followed was a series of duets that remain etched in memory. Thehriye hosh mein aa loon from Mohabbat Isko Kehte Hain, Parbaton ke pedon par from Shagoon, Chand hai taare bhi hai from Rooplekha, Jazbaye dil jo salamat hai to, Jab se hum tum baharon mein from Main Shaadi Karne Chala, Aajhu na aaye balma from Saanjh Aur Savera, and Ke jaan chali jaaye from Anjaana were not merely fillers in the absence of another voice. They were expressions of a singer who rose fully to the occasion.

To attribute these successes solely to circumstance would be to diminish her artistry. For alongside Rafi, she held her own with remarkable poise. The argument that she was merely the ‘replacement’ dissolves the moment one listens closely. There was clarity in her notes, an almost crystalline purity that could not be borrowed.

Her versatility extended well beyond duets. With Manna Dey, she created memorable pieces like Naa jaane kahaan tum the from Zindagi Aur Khwab and Tum jo aao to pyaar aa jaaye from Sakhi Robin. With Mukesh, she lent grace to Baharon se puchho from Mera Ghar Mere Bachche and Ye kisne geet chheda from Meri Surat Teri Aankhen. And in lighter moods, her youthful lilt in Chhodo chhodo meri bainya from Miya Bibi Raazi carried the freshness of an adolescent voice discovering its own range.

Her solo repertoire, too, stands as testimony to her depth. Composers of the calibre of Khayyam entrusted her with compositions like Bujha diye hain khud apne haathon, Zindagi zulm sahi, Jo hum pe gujarti hai tanhaa, and Haal-e-dil unko sunaya tha. These were not songs one assigned lightly. They required emotional intelligence as much as technical finesse.

Beyond Hindi cinema, her contribution to Marathi music remains profound. In the evocative world of bhavgeet, her renditions of Din raat tula mi kiti smaru and Maavaltya Dinkara left an indelible imprint. Songs like Saanj aali dooratun, Jhim jhim jharati shravan dhara, Ketkichya bani tithe, and Aakash pangharoni reveal a voice that could caress language as delicately as it handled melody.

There was also that delightful anecdote from a programme in Nagpur. Reminded of the non-film song Rim jhim rim jhim lo barse moti ke daane, inspired note for note by Billy Vaughan’s Come September, she responded not with dismissal but with childlike enthusiasm, singing a portion of it on the spot. That was Suman Kalyanpur. No airs, no pretensions. Only a quiet joy in music.

Her life off the microphone mirrored her art. Self-effacing, almost shy, she avoided the aggressive networking that the industry often rewards. Coming from a relatively comfortable background, she neither cultivated sycophancy nor engaged in the cut-throat manoeuvring that defined many careers. In an age where even excellence sought validation, she remained content with expression.

Recognition, when it came, was often delayed. The conferment of the Padma Bhushan, coming so late, invited the inevitable remark of “better late than never.” Yet such honours, in her case, felt almost incidental. For artists of her kind, awards are mere labels. Their true recognition lies in the permanence of their voice.

To say that she was overshadowed would be both true and insufficient. For even in that shadow, she created a luminous space of her own. A space defined not by rivalry, but by refinement. Not by assertion, but by assurance.

Today, as we bid farewell to the Dhaka-born singer once fondly called the “Dhake ki Malmal,” one is reminded that the softest fabrics often endure the longest. Her voice was just that. Fine, delicate, yet enduring beyond time.

And now, as that voice falls silent, it leaves behind not an emptiness, but an echo. An echo that will continue to drift through radio waves, old recordings and the private corners of memory. For voices like hers do not vanish. They simply recede, like a gentle note that lingers long after the music has stopped.

High Command, low stability, that’s Congress for you!

Raju Korti
The change of guard in Karnataka is less a political transition and more a ritualistic replay of the Congress party’s most enduring internal culture. In a party that governs barely a handful of states today, Karnataka stands out as one of its strongest bastions. Yet, paradoxically, it is here that the Congress seems most determined to remind itself, and the country, of its chronic inability to manage power without breeding dissent.

DKS (Instagram grab)

The exit of Siddaramaiah and the elevation of D. K. Shivakumar follow a script so familiar that it borders on the predictable. As murmurs of discontent grew louder within the state unit, the party did what it has done for decades. It dispatched observers, conducted the ritual of consultations, and ultimately deferred the decision to the high command, now embodied by Rahul Gandhi and Mallikarjun Kharge.

This top-down culture is not new. It has its roots in the era of Indira Gandhi and continued seamlessly under Sonia Gandhi. The faces have changed, but the instinct remains intact: centralise authority, manage factions, and impose a solution that is less about governance and more about containment.

What makes the current transition particularly perplexing is the absence of any compelling or transparent reason for Siddaramaiah’s removal. By most accounts, there was no immediate governance crisis, no electoral debacle, and no visible administrative collapse that warranted such a shift. Yet, the Congress has once again chosen to prioritise internal arithmetic over external accountability.

The proposed arrangement under Shivakumar only deepens this impression. The idea of appointing four Deputy Chief Ministers is not merely unusual, it is symptomatic. It signals a deeply factionalised power structure where leadership is not asserted but negotiated, not consolidated but distributed. Such an arrangement is less about governance efficiency and more about political appeasement, an attempt to placate competing power centres within the party.

India has seen similar experiments before. In 2019, Y. S. Jagan Mohan Reddy appointed five Deputy Chief Ministers in Andhra Pradesh, setting a record of sorts. States like Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, Maharashtra and Karnataka itself have periodically resorted to multiple Deputy CMs to balance caste equations and regional aspirations. But these are expedients, not solutions.

The more fundamental issue is constitutional. The post of Deputy Chief Minister does not exist in the Constitution of India. It carries no independent authority and is, in essence, a Cabinet Minister with a more ornamental designation. Financial powers remain with the Chief Minister, and all major decisions require his approval. In that sense, multiplying Deputy Chief Ministers does not multiply governance capacity. It merely multiplies political egos that need accommodation.

Siddaramaiah (Wikipedia)

The Karnataka reshuffle also underscores another recurring feature of Congress politics: dynastic continuity cloaked as organisational stability. The likely induction of Siddaramaiah’s son into the Cabinet is a telling signal. It suggests that while individuals may be replaced, their political legacy, and by extension their influence, must be preserved within the system.

Meanwhile, the choreography continues. Meetings in Delhi, consultations with central leadership, and the inevitable Congress Legislative Party meeting that will rubber-stamp what has already been decided elsewhere. Even the turbulence that diverted Siddaramaiah’s flight to Jaipur seems an apt metaphor for the party’s internal journey: unpredictable, circuitous, and ultimately controlled from afar.

At one level, this is politics as usual. At another, it is a revealing commentary on a party that has struggled to evolve beyond its centralised command structure. In an era where regional leadership and decentralised decision-making are increasingly seen as political strengths, the Congress continues to rely on a model that prioritises control over coherence.

Karnataka, once again, becomes a case study not in governance but in intra-party management. The faces at the top may have changed, but the system that produces these changes remains resolutely the same.

And that, perhaps, is the Congress party’s greatest paradox. Even when it changes, it does not.

Trump’s Iran overture & his penchant for unilateral announcements

Raju Korti
If the past is any indication, the latest assertion by President Donald Trump that a peace agreement with Iran is “largely negotiated”, sits at the intersection of ambition, signalling, and strategic ambiguity. At face value, the claim suggests a diplomatic breakthrough in one of the most intractable geopolitical theatres. Yet the immediate rebuttals from Tehran, particularly on the sensitive question of control over the Strait of Hormuz, underscore a more familiar reality. The contours of any such agreement remain undefined, contested, and possibly overstated.

Trump: Jumping the gun as usual.

The Strait of Hormuz is not merely a bargaining chip but a critical artery of global energy flows. Iran’s insistence on retaining exclusive authority over its management, including shipping routes and permits, indicates that sovereignty concerns remain non-negotiable. Trump’s suggestion that the strait would be “opened” appears less a reflection of agreed policy and more an attempt to frame the narrative in advance of any actual convergence. This divergence highlights a structural gap between declaratory diplomacy and negotiated substance.

Compounding this is the conspicuous absence of any meaningful progress on the nuclear file, historically the central axis of US-Iran engagement. Despite Trump’s earlier insistence that any agreement must address Iran’s nuclear ambitions, Tehran’s position suggests that this issue has not been substantively engaged. This omission is telling. It implies either that negotiations are at a preliminary stage or that the public articulation of progress is detached from the actual negotiating agenda.

The reported dynamic between Trump and Benjamin Netanyahu adds another layer of complexity. The apparent divergence, with Netanyahu favouring immediate military pressure and Trump advocating a negotiation-first approach, may not be a straightforward rift. It could equally represent a calibrated dual-track strategy designed to maximise leverage. By projecting dissonance, Washington and Tel Aviv may seek to create uncertainty in Tehran’s strategic calculations. Alternatively, it may reflect genuine differences in threat perception and timing, with Israel prioritising pre-emption and the United States exploring diplomatic manoeuvrability.

What lends coherence to Trump’s latest claim is his well-established penchant for unilateral and premature announcements. This approach, visible across trade, security, and diplomatic domains, is not incidental but instrumental. By declaring a deal before it is fully formed, Trump attempts to shape the negotiating environment itself. Such assertions serve to set expectations, define the narrative, and compel other actors to respond within a framework he has already publicised. In game-theoretic terms, it is an effort to constrain the option space of counterparts by anchoring outcomes in the public domain.

This tactic also leverages asymmetries of power and perception. For Iran, publicly contradicting the United States risks escalating tensions, yet acquiescing to an inaccurate narrative could weaken its negotiating position. The result is a delicate balancing act, where Tehran must simultaneously refute and engage. Reports that American officials themselves have characterised Trump’s statements as primarily for domestic consumption further complicate the picture. It suggests a dual messaging strategy; one aimed at international counterparts and another at a domestic audience attuned to displays of assertiveness.

The broader strategic implications of this episode are contingent on whether rhetoric can translate into structured negotiation. If Trump’s announcement is a precursor to intensified diplomatic engagement, it may generate momentum, however artificially, towards dialogue. The emphasis on not rushing into a deal, coupled with the continuation of economic pressure through port blockades, indicates that Washington is still operating within a coercive diplomacy framework. Negotiations, in this sense, are not a departure from pressure but an extension of it.

However, the risks of this approach are equally evident. Premature declarations can erode credibility if they are not substantiated by tangible outcomes. They may also harden positions on the opposing side, particularly if perceived as attempts at public coercion. In the context of Iran, where strategic patience and resistance to external pressure are deeply embedded, such tactics may yield diminishing returns.

The reference to the earlier nuclear agreement under Barack Obama as a “flawed framework” further situates Trump’s current posture within a broader ideological critique. By framing his approach as the “exact opposite,” Trump seeks to differentiate his strategy not only from Tehran but also from his domestic predecessors. This layering of domestic political signalling onto international diplomacy adds another dimension to the analysis.

Ultimately, the substance of Trump’s claimed agreement remains uncertain. What is clearer is the method behind the messaging. The announcement functions less as a confirmation of diplomatic success and more as an instrument to shape the trajectory of negotiations. Whether this leads to a verifiable agreement or dissipates into another episode of rhetorical overreach will depend on the ability of all parties to move beyond narrative construction to concrete compromise. In a region where symbolism and substance often diverge, the distinction between the two becomes the central question.

When cockroaches campaign and parasites pontificate

Raju Korti
Cockroaches, it is often said, will outlive humanity. Parasites, on the other hand, never quite die, they simply change hosts. Indian politics, with its remarkable resilience and adaptability, appears to have taken both metaphors rather seriously.

Enter the Cockroach Janata Party.

(Pic merely symbolic)

Founded by Abhijeet Dipke, the man who decided to give satire a party symbol, the CJP is less a political formation and more a running commentary on the ecosystem it seeks to mock. Its timing is not accidental. It scurried into public consciousness after remarks attributed to Justice Suryakant about cockroaches and parasites triggered outrage, amusement, and a predictable avalanche of hashtags.

The internet did what it does best. It turned metaphor into meme, outrage into opportunity, and somewhere along the way, irony into an organisation.

The Cockroach Janata Party is, in many ways, an exaggerated extension of the Aam Aadmi Party template. Where the AAP once emerged as a disruptive force challenging entrenched political structures with the rhetoric of the common man, the CJP takes that rhetoric to its logical absurdity. If the common man could organise, why not the most indestructible creature in the urban imagination? If the system is seen as parasitic, why not embrace the label and contest elections under it?

Social media, always eager for novelty, has lapped it up. The CJP’s rise has been swift, not in terms of votes or cadres, but in shares, likes, and forwards. Its messaging is sharp, irreverent, and perfectly calibrated for an audience that prefers its politics with a garnish of sarcasm. Young users, fatigued by repetitive political narratives, have found in it a form of catharsis. Others have treated it as a joke that has gone just far enough to be taken seriously.

Yet, beneath the humour lies a familiar pattern.

Movements born in the digital ether often mistake visibility for viability. The CJP’s proclamations about youth frustration, systemic decay, and the need for radical overhaul resonate at a superficial level. But resonance is not the same as relevance. The distance between a trending hashtag and a polling booth is far greater than it appears on a smartphone screen.

This is where the satire begins to turn on itself.

The Cockroach Janata Party claims to represent the ignored, the dismissed, the trampled upon. But beyond the clever wordplay and visual symbolism, there is little evidence of organisational depth. No grassroots machinery, no sustained engagement with communities, no clear articulation of policy beyond broad, almost theatrical declarations. It thrives in the realm of commentary, not in the arena of action.

And that is its central contradiction.

Revolutions are not conducted on timelines or in comment sections. They are messy, laborious, and deeply rooted in human engagement. Social media can amplify voices, but it cannot substitute for the slow, unglamorous work of building trust, negotiating differences, and delivering outcomes. The CJP, for all its noise, remains confined to the echo chamber that created it.

This is not entirely new. The trajectory of the Aam Aadmi Party itself offers a telling contrast. It began with street protests, public mobilisation, and a clear articulation of grievances before translating that energy into electoral success. Even then, sustaining that momentum required transitioning from rhetoric to governance, from protest to policy. That journey has been anything but simple.

The CJP, by comparison, appears content being perpetually in the protest phase, without ever stepping into the discomfort of responsibility. What, then, does this phenomenon say about democracy?

At one level, it reflects a healthy irreverence. The ability to mock power, to turn criticism into caricature, is a sign of a society that has not entirely surrendered its voice. The very existence of a party like the CJP suggests that political discourse is not immune to humour, however biting it may be.

At another level, it reveals a growing impatience with conventional politics. When citizens feel unheard, they often resort to satire as a form of protest. The joke becomes a shield, allowing them to express dissent without fully committing to a cause. But there is also a risk.

When politics becomes performance, and movements become memes, the line between engagement and escapism begins to blur. It becomes easier to laugh at the system than to participate in changing it. The Cockroach Janata Party, in this sense, is both a critique and a symptom. It exposes the absurdities of the political landscape while simultaneously embodying the limitations of reactionary, novelty-driven activism. Its surge, therefore, is unlikely to translate into longevity.

Novelty has a short shelf life. What is amusing today becomes repetitive tomorrow. Without substance, structure, and sustained effort, even the most creative political experiments fade into obscurity. The CJP’s future, if it remains anchored solely in satire, is likely to follow that familiar arc.In the end, the cockroach metaphor may prove unintentionally ironic. Cockroaches survive because they adapt to hostile environments, not because they trend on social media. Political movements, too, endure not through clever branding but through the hard work of relevance.

The Cockroach Janata Party has certainly captured attention. Whether it can capture anything beyond that remains an open, and rather uncomfortable, question.i 

"High spirits in the House of Udta Jhoomta Punjab"

Raju Korti
The latest stir inside the Punjab Legislative Assembly had less to do with legislative heft and more with olfactory speculation. The Opposition, led by the Indian National Congress, claimed that Punjab Chief Minister Bhagwant Mann addressed the House “drunk”, turning what should have been a sober exchange into a heady controversy. Mann, never one to shy away from theatrics, found himself at the centre of a debate where the proof, as they say, was not in the pudding but allegedly in the breath. The Assembly, usually echoing with policy arguments, briefly resembled a courtroom of whispers, winks, and raised eyebrows.

Mann (Wikipedia grab)

Yet, in a political culture that often thrives on exaggeration, the episode also revealed the Opposition’s flair for dramatic timing and the ruling side’s studied nonchalance. If governance is serious business, Punjab’s politicians reminded us that it is also, occasionally, comic theatre. Whether the charge holds water or evaporates like a fleeting scent, the incident has already added another anecdote to Mann’s colourful public persona, where the line between satire and statesmanship is, at times, delightfully blurred.

Thereafter, as a reminder of how enduring some impressions can be, I had written this on a blog on Mann on January 19, 2022: One must hand it to the propensity of the Aam Aadmi Party in choosing candidates that do full justice to the party's label. Going by that yardstick, its CM's face in Punjab, Bhagwant Singh Mann has to be the 'Aamest" of them all. I am presuming readers have caught on to the superlative degree. Mann's credentials are such that any journalist will give his right hand to write the man's colourful profile.

The 48-year-old MP from Punjab's Sangrur the same place from where the signatory to the historic Punjab accord, Akali Dal President late Harchand Singh Longowal hailed; has been making waves with videos that show him inebriated in the jostling crowds. Even as he is seen talking, his face flushed red, he is being held in place by supportive partymen.

There is a considerable outrage in certain quarters of Punjab that an "alcoholic" is being projected as CM's face. That too in a state that has already acquired notoriety for rampant drug abuse. Now we all know that an "alcoholic" is a sober version of the cruder "drunkard". But Sardar Bhagwant Mann dismisses all such ungenerous talk and is least bothered about the dubious reputation that precedes him.

The man has made it to the record books by arriving in the parliament drunk. It is a measure of his popularity that he still is a crowd puller with the theatrics that he used so effectively as contestant of a Laughter Show, incidentally hosted by another Sardar, Navjot Singh Sidhu. The comedy forum was fine but in the august House he clearly looked like a square peg in a round hole, if you forgive my penchant for some cheap pun. Bhagwant Singh Mann has earned the sobriquet "Pegwant Singh Mann" not for nothing.

I have no idea what is Mann's preferred brand and whether he goes for the country-made stuff or the imported one, but in 2019, Mann had reportedly promised not to touch alcohol again. Apparently, he reneged on that. Confronted by some snouty journalists about getting back to his drinking habits, Mann had a classic reply that would do any pulp film-maker proud: "At least I don't drink people's blood." Taking his justification forward, he also retorted that "no one is perfect. Look at the Congress CM. He sits with his Pakistani women friends and says cheers.

"You can't, of course, hold it against Mann for his indulgence. That may not have to do anything with his skills as a politician. I know many politicians who enjoy a drink. I particularly recall one 75-year-old politician from Maharashtra (now no more) who could down a full bottle of Scotch and still stand ramrod straight and speak minus the lisp that comes with it. Comparatively, Mann might be still learning to hold his glass.

To be even more fair to Mann, he has a number of cassettes even before the advent of digital and video era, and has hosted several satirical shows. The reason why AAP leadership dithered long before naming him as the CM face was because of its inability to find an alternative. The party, I suspect, was sort of pushed to an expedient corner with Mann winning elections consecutively in 2014 and 2019. Besides, Mann emerged as the majority choice in a phone-in poll conducted by the party.

As an aside it would be pertinent to recall the first two lines of a song tuned a few years back by one of the greatest composers of this century, Himesh Reshammiya. It is for you to decide whether the lines are chivalrous or uncharitable about the Punjabis. The lines say that after sunset, it is risky to toast the Punjabis with a glass in their hand as they tend to veer out of control. The lines run thus:
ओ ना पिलाना पंजाबियो को नाप तोल के
सूर्य अस्त, पंजाबी मस्त.

Mann calls himself a social drinker that many assert gives drinking an elite status. I am hoping that he does become the chief minister without giving up on any of the traits that make him so uncommonly common. It is worth the fun. AAP's pride will be people's envy.

 i 

The unquiet prospect of a refugee tide into Bangladesh!

Raju Korti
I find myself looking at the unfolding West Bengal assembly elections with a sense of déjà vu, layered with unease. Elections in India are often intense, but this one feels distinctly more turbulent, almost existential. For Mamata Banerjee and her Trinamool Congress, the stakes are nothing short of political survival. For the Bharatiya Janata Party, it is an opportunity to breach what has long been a formidable bastion. Exit polls, as always, speak in discordant voices, yet there is a perceptible suggestion of a churn, even a possible upheaval.

The exodus after 1971 war (file grab)

What concerns me is not merely who forms the government in Kolkata, but the chain reaction such a verdict could set off beyond India’s borders. For decades, West Bengal has been both a destination and a transit point for migrants from Bangladesh. Estimates have varied widely, often coloured by political interpretation, but even conservative assessments suggest that several million undocumented Bangladeshi migrants reside in the state. Some figures place this number between 3 million and 10 million, though precise data remains elusive due to the very nature of undocumented migration.

If a new political dispensation were to pursue a stringent policy of identification and deportation, the implications would be immediate and profound. A reverse migration of even a fraction of these numbers would place extraordinary pressure on Bangladesh, particularly Dhaka. This is a country already grappling with economic headwinds, currency stress, and periodic political unrest. Its population density is among the highest in the world, exceeding 1,200 people per square kilometre. Urban centres are stretched, infrastructure is fragile, and employment generation struggles to keep pace with demographic realities.

To suddenly absorb a large influx of returnees, many of whom may have lived in India for years or even decades, would not merely be an administrative challenge. It would be a humanitarian, economic, and political test of considerable magnitude. Housing, employment, healthcare, and social integration would all come under strain. The spectre of informal settlements expanding around Dhaka and other cities is not difficult to imagine. Nor is the potential for social friction, particularly if returnees are perceived as outsiders in their own country.

At moments like this, history offers both perspective and caution. In 1971, during the Bangladesh Liberation War, India received an estimated 10 million refugees fleeing violence in what was then East Pakistan. States like West Bengal, Assam, and Tripura bore the brunt of this influx. India, despite its own economic limitations at the time, opened its borders and treated these refugees as guests. Camps were set up, international assistance was mobilised, and an enormous humanitarian effort was undertaken. The strain was immense, but it was managed with a combination of political will and societal resilience.

The parallel is not exact, but it is instructive. Then, India was the recipient of a refugee tide driven by conflict. Today, Bangladesh could potentially face an inward surge driven by policy enforcement across the border. The difference lies in preparedness and context. India in 1971 had the moral clarity of a humanitarian crisis unfolding next door. Bangladesh today would be dealing with a more complex situation involving identity, legality, and economic capacity.

Yet, it would be simplistic to assume that such a scenario is inevitable. Deportation at this scale is not merely a political decision. It requires legal processes, bilateral coordination, and verification mechanisms that are often painstakingly slow. Questions of documentation, proof of origin, and human rights obligations complicate any mass exercise. Even if the political intent is strong, the administrative execution is likely to be gradual and contested.

There is also the alternative scenario. If the Trinamool Congress retains power, the status quo may largely persist. Migration, both legal and undocumented, would continue to be managed in the ambiguous space it has occupied for years. Demographic shifts would remain a subject of political debate rather than immediate policy action. For Bangladesh, this would mean avoiding a sudden shock, though the underlying issues of cross-border movement would remain unresolved.

Between these two possibilities lies a spectrum of outcomes, each carrying its own implications. What is clear to me is that migration in this region cannot be viewed through a narrow electoral lens. It is deeply entwined with history, geography, economics, and human aspiration. Any abrupt attempt to redraw these patterns risks triggering consequences that extend far beyond the immediate political moment.

As I reflect on this, I am struck by the irony of borders that once opened to receive millions in a time of crisis potentially becoming conduits of return under very different circumstances. The subcontinent has lived through the upheavals of partition, war, and displacement. It has also demonstrated an ability to absorb and adapt. The question now is whether that collective memory will guide a measured approach, or whether the pressures of contemporary politics will push the region into another phase of uncertainty.The answer, perhaps, will not emerge from the ballot boxes alone. It will depend on how responsibly power is exercised once the votes are counted.

नात्यांचा नवा हिशेब: मी उपरा, म्हणूनच अनाम

राजू कोर्ती 
माझ्या स्मरणात अजूनही एक धूसर दुपार ताजी आहे. साधारण १९८३ चा काळ असावा. एका जुन्या, शांत लायब्ररीत मी वारंवार पाहत असलेले एक पुस्तक.‘उपरा’. लक्ष्मण माने यांचे ते आत्मकथन, जणू एखाद्या वेदनेचा दस्तऐवज. एक दिवस मी ते हातात घेतले आणि वाचत गेलो. पानोपानी उलगडत गेलेली जातिभेदाची निर्दयी वास्तवता, अपमानाची चिरफाड, आणि समाजाच्या कडवट नजरा. हे सर्व मनाला चटका लावून गेले. ‘उपरा’ म्हणजे केवळ बाहेरचा नाही, तर आपल्या जगात असूनही न स्वीकारलेला, अनोळखी, अनाहूत, अनाम.

तेव्हा मला वाटले होते की हा ‘उपरेपणा’ हा जातीचा, गरिबीचा आणि सामाजिक अन्यायाचा परिणाम आहे. पण आयुष्याच्या पुढच्या वळणांवर मला जाणवले. उपरेपणाची कारणे इतकी सरळ, इतकी एकरेषीय नसतात. काळ बदलतो, संदर्भ बदलतात, पण ‘उपरा’ हा शब्द मात्र त्याच अर्थाने चिकटून राहतो. फक्त त्याची कारणे बदलतात.

आज मी मागे वळून पाहतो, तेव्हा लक्षात येते की उपरा  हा केवळ जातीनं ठरत नाही; तो समाजाच्या बदलत्या ‘अल्गोरिदम’नं ठरतो. एकेकाळी नात्यांचे गणित धर्म, जात, भाषा, संस्कार यावर मांडले जात असे. पण आजचे समीकरण वेगळे आहे. पैसा, प्रतिष्ठा, रूप, पद, सत्ता, आणि प्रभाव. ज्याच्याकडे हे आहे, तो ‘आपला’; ज्याच्याकडे नाही, तो ‘उपरा’.माझ्या आयुष्यातील सर्वात कडवट जाणीव हीच.

मी सवर्ण असूनही (त्याचा अभिमान बाळगावा की लाज वाटावी हे तुम्ही ठरवा) आज उपरा आहे. कधी काळी माझ्याकडे साधनसंपत्ती होती, ओळखी होत्या, माझ्या भोवती माणसांची गर्दी होती. लोक तळहातावर घेऊन फिरवायचे. पण ज्या क्षणी या सर्व गोष्टी निसटल्या, त्या क्षणी नातीही विरघळून गेली. आज माझ्याकडे ना पैसा आहे, ना पद, ना रूप, ना प्रभाव. आणि म्हणूनच, आज मी कुणाचाच नाही.

सॅम्युएल हंटिंग्टनने ‘क्लॅश ऑफ सिव्हिलायझेशन्स’मध्ये जगातील संघर्षांची कारणे धर्म आणि संस्कृतीत शोधली. पण माझ्या छोट्याशा जगातला संघर्ष वेगळाच आहे. येथे सभ्यता नाही, तर स्थिती  बोचते . तुझ्याकडे काय आहे, आणि माझ्याकडे काय नाही, यावर नाती तुटतात, जुळतात, आणि मोडतात. आजचा माणूस विचारांच्या नव्हे, तर वस्तूंच्या आकर्षणाने जोडला जातो.

माणूस जन्मत: उपरा नसतो. त्याला उपरा बनवले जाते. हळूहळू, नजरेआड, शब्दांविना. आणि एकदा का तो या चौकटीत बसला, की त्याचे अस्तित्व नगण्य होते. अपमान हा त्याचा दैनंदिन अन्न बनतो, आणि एकाकीपणा त्याचा श्वास.

माझ्या उमेदीच्या काळात मी अनेकांना आधार दिला. तनाने, मनाने, धनाने. आई-वडील गेले आणि डोक्यावरचे अखेरचे छत्र हरपले. जीवाभावाचे दोन्ही भाऊ काळाच्या पडद्याआड गेले. आयुष्याचा आधार असलेली मोठी बहीणही निघून गेली. इतक्यावर नियती थांबली नाही; मोठ्या भावाचा उमलत्या वयातला मुलगाही हातातून निसटला. प्रत्येक आघात गिळून टाकत राहिलो -- शब्दांविना, आवाजाविना. पण या सगळ्या हानीनंतर जे उरले, ते एक खोल, न बोलता येणारे पोकळीचे जग… आणि त्यात वाढत गेलेले उपरेपण, जे हळूहळू मला नैराश्याच्या अथांग गर्तेकडे ढकलत गेले. पण आज जेव्हा मला आधाराची गरज आहे, तेव्हा माझ्या दारात येणारे पाऊलसुद्धा थांबत नाही. रस्त्यावरचे कुत्रेही कदाचित क्षणभर थांबतील; माणसं मात्र नाही.

हे सगळं लिहिण्यामागे माझा उद्देश केवळ उद्वेग व्यक्त करणे नाही. ही एक नोंद आहे. त्या उपऱ्यांची, जे समाजाच्या काठावर जगतात. जे दररोज जगतात, पण कुणाच्याच स्मरणात नसतात. ज्यांचे आयुष्य एक प्रतीक्षा बनून राहते. शेवटाच्या, मुक्तीच्या.पण मुक्ती इतकी सहज मिळत नाही. ज्याच्या वाट्याला जे आले आहे, ते भोगल्याशिवाय त्याची सुटका होत नाही. म्हणूनच उपरे जगतात किड्यांसारखे. आणि मरतातही तितक्याच शांत, तितक्याच दुर्लक्षित पद्धतीने.