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Time of India
3 hours ago
- General
- Time of India
Bengaluru's IT professionals turn road masons to fill potholes as authorities won't
Bengaluru: While the rest of Bengaluru waved flags and listened to speeches on Independence Day, a group of residents at Gunjur, in the backyard of the city's tech corridor, picked up shovels. Their mission: To fill the potholes that the civic agency wouldn't and the govt didn't care about! Frustrated by years of civic apathy, over 25 young working professionals got on the ground to scoop gravel with their bare hands to repair the Gunjur–Doddakannelli road. Many of those who donned the role of masons and road repairers were IT engineers who fuel Bengaluru's global reputation. "When the daily commute becomes back-breaking for us and our kids, we are left with no option but to act, as those in power have turned a blind eye to the crumbling road infrastructure," said a resident of an apartment complex flanking the road. Holding plastic sacks and wearing masks, the youngsters picked up gravel dumped by the roadside for a long time and patched the potholes and craters on the stretch. Videos of them at work, some raising slogans of Inquilab Zindabad and Vande Mataram, spread widely on social media after Namma Balagere (@BalagereConnect) posted them on X. Many slammed the govt for its failure and lauded the citizens. You Can Also Check: Bengaluru AQI | Weather in Bengaluru | Bank Holidays in Bengaluru | Public Holidays in Bengaluru | Gold Rates Today in Bengaluru | Silver Rates Today in Bengaluru "This should have been the way how the whole of Bengaluru celebrated Independence Day," a social media user said. by Taboola by Taboola Sponsored Links Sponsored Links Promoted Links Promoted Links You May Like Florida Residents With Credit Card Debt Could Be In For Loan-Free Relief Forbes Learn More Undo Harsh Kumar, who mobilised the residents of his apartment complex for the task, said: "This is what a citizen movement looks like. Commuters encouraged us, some even parked their cars and joined in. We had no option left after complaining for over a year." The volunteers have now vowed to repeat the effort on Sept 5 and Oct 2. The material used for filling had actually been left by the roadside for months, Kumar said. "But the 100m stretch next to Gunjur club was not always like this. The road was so good that children used to skate on it," he recounted and added: "It deteriorated to this extent in just two years." Another resident of an apartment complex nearby said they had been complaining to authorities for over a year. "The officials say they will get it done once they get the requisite funds. This is not an isolated case, but the issue is with every road in the Varthur ward," he added. "In the past, even when there were funds, the quality of work was poor," he said, questioning the substandard work. Netizens tagged PM Modi and DyCM DK Shivakumar and appealed to them to provide basic infrastructure in the tech corridor. When contacted, a local BBMP official said: "We have undertaken pothole filling work at Panathur, Balagere Road near Bhoganahalli Junction and adjoining areas. We will do it in other areas too shortly." BBMP also tweeted photographs of pothole-filling work in the area as a face-saving measure. —— INSET What netizens said -Deepak K Jha posted a table showing BBMP's zone-wise property tax collection data, with Mahadevapura at the top with Rs 1310.6 crore collected in 2024-25. "Tax is mandatory, providing infrastructure is optional," Jha wrote alongside the table. —- Tax like England, service like Somalia. Shame on politicians and BBMP officials -Gaurav on X —- It's the same situation everywhere. The cost we citizens pay due to these freebies. We will head towards bankruptcy very soon -Sandesh Pai —- This whole area is left to be rotten. MLA least bothered. They are winning without doing anything. Common people suffer daily -Rahul Stay updated with the latest local news from your city on Times of India (TOI). Check upcoming bank holidays , public holidays , and current gold rates and silver prices in your area.
Time of India
3 days ago
- Politics
- Time of India
Traders organise tricolour march in Prayagraj
Prayagraj: Traders of Sangam city organised a tricolour march to honour Shaheed Abdul Majid Rayeen sacrifice at the Shaheed Sthal (Martyr's Memorial) near Ghantaghar. Abdul Majid Rayeen was martyred on August 13, 1943, during India's freedom struggle. Tired of too many ads? go ad free now As part of 'Har Ghar Tiranga' campaign, Mohamad Kadir, the nephew of Shaheed Abdul Majid, offered floral tributes at the memorial. President of the Civil Lines trade association, Sushil Kharbanda highlighted bravery and sacrifice of martyrs, including Murari Mohan Bhattacharya, Bhagwati Prasad, and Abdul Majid Rayeen. Kadir recounted that following Mahatma Gandhi's call during the , a group of young freedom fighters marched from Ghantaghar waving the tricolour flag, shouting slogans like 'Quit India' and 'Inquilab Zindabad'. Led by Rayeen, they advanced towards Johnstonganj and Anand Bhawan. However, the British rulers shot down Rayeen along with Murari Mohan Bhattacharya and Bhagwati Prasad. The march saw a large gathering of traders carrying national flag, raising slogans like 'Vande Mataram', 'Jai Hind', 'Amar Shaheed Amar Rahe', and 'Bharat Mata Ki Jai'.
News18
3 days ago
- Politics
- News18
Bharat's ‘Original Sin': Partition Was Not Freedom, But Civilisational Betrayal
The cruel irony of partition is that it was agreed to by a generation that had produced some of India's greatest sons. August 14, 1947 – the day when Bharat was amputated. The partition of India marked the beginning of humanity's most brutal exercise in forced migration and ethnic cleansing. For thousands of years, Bharat had stood as an unbroken testament to civilisational resistance. This was the land where Prithviraj Chauhan fought seventeen battles against Muhammad Ghori, capturing and releasing him repeatedly rather than executing an unarmed enemy – only to pay the ultimate price for his adherence to dharmic principles. This was the soil where Maharana Pratap chose a lifetime of guerrilla warfare in the Aravalli hills rather than bow before Akbar, declaring through his very defiance that 'Mewar would rather die than submit". This was the land where Guru Gobind Singh and his 40 Sikhs put up their last stand against lakhs of Mughal marauders at Chamkaur Sahib. It was also here that Chhatrapati Shivaji carved out Hindu Swarajya from the heart of Mughal-dominated Deccan – showing that indigenous dharmic rule was not just possible but essential. These warriors understood what their descendants forgot in 1947: that Bharat was not merely a piece of real estate to be divided among competing claims, but a sacred geography consecrated by the blood of countless martyrs who chose death over dishonour. The heroes of Bharat's past would have been bewildered by the events of 1947. For centuries, they had held a simple truth: the motherland was indivisible, not because of political convenience but because of spiritual principle. When Rani Padmini chose jauhar over surrender at Chittorgarh, when fifty thousand defenders died at Somnath rather than abandon their sacred duty, when Bhagat Singh walked to the gallows declaring 'Inquilab Zindabad," they were asserting a fundamental belief that some things are worth more than life itself – and the unity of Bharat was foremost among them. When Giants Bowed to Pygmies The cruel irony of partition is that it was agreed to by a generation that had produced some of India's greatest sons. Gandhi, who had inspired millions around the world with his principle of ahimsa and satyagraha, ultimately acquiesced to a solution that guaranteed unprecedented violence. Nehru, the 'architect" of modern India, accepted the vivisection of the very nation he claimed to love. The Congress leadership, which had spent decades demanding 'Purna Swaraj," settled for a truncated independence that mocked their own ideals. These leaders forgot the lessons written in blood across Indian history. They forgot that Bharat's civilisational strength lay not in accommodation with those who sought to divide her, but in the unwavering resolve of those who understood that some compromises are tantamount to suicide. When Subuktigin's forces faced Jayapala's confederation, the Hindu king sent this message: 'You have heard and know the nobleness of Indians—they fear not death or destruction. In affairs of honour and renown we would place ourselves upon the fire like roast meat, and upon the dagger like the sunrays". This was the spirit that had sustained Bharat through centuries of invasion and upheaval. The Sikhs who lived as sovereign people in open defiance of Mughal rule, the Rajputs who fought at Haldighati, the Marathas who challenged Mughal supremacy for over a century, the countless unnamed warriors who chose martyrdom over submission—they would have been stunned to see their descendants voluntarily handing over vast swathes of their homeland to those who demanded it. The Numbers Tell the Story of Betrayal The numbers alone reveal the magnitude of this tragedy. Between 14.5 and 18 million people were displaced in what historians now recognise as the largest forced migration in modern history. Conservative estimates place the death toll at one million, though scholars like those at Harvard suggest the true figure could be as high as 3.5 million. In Punjab alone, virtually no Hindus or Sikhs survived in the western region. The violence was organised, systematic, and genocidal in its intent. Women bore the brunt of partition's savagery. Thousands were raped, with many facing mutilation or death. Pregnant women were disemboweled, infants killed by smashing their heads against walls, and entire train cars became mobile slaughterhouses. This was butchery on an industrial scale. The economic devastation was equally catastrophic. India lost 75% of its jute production and 40% of its cotton supply to Pakistan, while being deprived of vital wheat-growing regions. The railway system, built over nearly a century, was brutally severed. By 1951, India's railway network had shrunk from 65,217 kilometers to just 53,168 kilometers. The refugee rehabilitation costs alone consumed over a million rupees daily, resources that could have been devoted to development. The British Escape: Washing Hands of Responsibility Lord Mountbatten's role in this disaster cannot be understated. Tasked with transferring power by June 1948, he inexplicably moved the date forward to August 1947, giving himself just five weeks to divide 400 million people. He brought in Sir Cyril Radcliffe, a lawyer who had never set foot in India, to draw borders that would determine the fate of millions. Radcliffe himself later admitted he had no knowledge of Indian geography, culture, or demographics, and yet his lines condemned millions to death and displacement. Britain, exhausted by World War II and facing potential civil war in India, chose to cut and run rather than manage an orderly transition. The British demobilised troops who might have maintained order while leaving behind armed ex-soldiers who became the core of the communal militias that perpetrated the worst violence. They created the conditions for catastrophe and then fled, leaving Indians to deal with the consequences Modi's Recognition: Confronting the 'Original Sin" By declaring August 14 as Partition Horrors Remembrance Day, Prime Minister Modi has forced the nation to confront a truth that post-independence India had preferred to ignore. What could have been a heroic culmination of a freedom struggle, by August 1947 became a civilisational failure that contradicted everything Bharat had stood for across centuries of resistance. The remembrance serves a crucial purpose beyond honouring the dead and displaced. It reminds us that the forces that made partition possible—the willingness to sacrifice principles for political gains, the acceptance of foreign-imposed solutions to indigenous problems, the abandonment of civilisational wisdom in favour of 'modern" political convenience—remain active today. Modi's decision acknowledges what Bhagat Singh, Chandra Shekhar Azad, and countless other martyrs would have immediately understood: that partition represented the first time in Bharat's long history when its own children agreed to dismember their mother. For a civilisation that had produced the concept of 'Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam" – the world as one family – the acceptance of permanent division based on religious identity was not just political failure but spiritual bankruptcy. The Ghosts That Still Walk Among Us Seventy-seven years later, partition continues to extract its price. Every border skirmish, every communal riot, every missed opportunity for regional cooperation can trace its roots back to August 1947. The billions spent on defense, the resources devoted to maintaining hostile borders, the human potential wasted in cycles of suspicion and conflict – all are glowing tributes to partition's destructive and bloody legacy. But the deepest wound is not economic or political, but civilisational. Partition represented the moment when Bharat abandoned the dharmic principle that had sustained her through millennia of trials. The ancient understanding that the motherland was sacred and indivisible, that some principles were worth more than political convenience, that resistance to civilisational destruction was a sacred duty – all were sacrificed on the altar of modern political 'pragmatism'. top videos View all The tragedy is not just what happened, but what might have been. A united subcontinent would today stand as a civilisational superpower, combining the world's largest population with ancient wisdom and modern capabilities. Instead, we remain prisoners of a decision made in haste and regretted at leisure, our potential constrained by borders drawn by those who understood neither our history nor our soul. Views expressed in the above piece are personal and solely those of the author. They do not necessarily reflect News18's views. About the Author Sanbeer Singh Ranhotra Sanbeer Singh Ranhotra is a producer and video journalist at Network18. He is enthusiastic about and writes on both national affairs as well as geopolitics. Click here to add News18 as your preferred news source on Google. tags : freedom independence day Partition 1947 view comments Location : New Delhi, India, India First Published: August 13, 2025, 15:29 IST News opinion Straight Talk | Bharat's 'Original Sin': Partition Was Not Freedom, But Civilisational Betrayal Disclaimer: Comments reflect users' views, not News18's. Please keep discussions respectful and constructive. Abusive, defamatory, or illegal comments will be removed. News18 may disable any comment at its discretion. By posting, you agree to our Terms of Use and Privacy Policy.
Indian Express
09-08-2025
- Politics
- Indian Express
Independence Day Special: Filmmaker and animator Suresh Eriyat on how processions have been the theatre where freedom is performed
I asked my 95-year-old father how it was when India won its freedom on August 15, 1947. He was 17 years old then. But strangely, when I asked him, he didn't have much to say. That caught me off guard. My father is not the sort who runs out of stories. He usually has plenty — anecdotes rich with colour, exaggerated just enough to make you smile and a memory for details that rivals fiction. But this time, he just looked at me, as though I had asked him about someone else's life. He wanted me to give him clues. 'What do you want to know?' he asked, as though freedom itself had become too abstract to remember. Then I recalled something: he always loved processions. Any kind. Political rallies, religious parades, protest marches, temple utsavams, funeral cortèges — you name it. He would always take me by the hand and run to the gate when we heard distant drums or the sound of marching feet. The crowd, the rhythm, the collective emotion — he was an audience to them all, regardless of what was being said or sung. He simply loved the spirit of movement. And I think that's how he experienced Independence, too — not in that exact moment of political handover or Nehru's speech, but in the after-sounds, the processions that followed. Not just the ones celebrating freedom, but all the ones that came after — the constant streaming of people onto streets, asserting something, asking for something, mourning, rejoicing, living. Because let's face it — freedom doesn't change anything overnight. Especially when you are 17, and your world hasn't quite shifted yet. There's no dramatic flash of lightning or tearful applause. For many, it might have been a day like any other. And that might explain the blankness in my father's recollection. But, perhaps, it wasn't really blank. Perhaps it was something else — something unspoken and slow. A deep feeling without a dramatic vocabulary. My father grew up without a father himself. His elder brothers were kind but they weren't storytellers. They didn't pass down memories of the freedom struggle or political awareness in any structured way. And in a society where most stories of the freedom movement were framed around the participation of men, perhaps, he didn't know what role he was expected to have. That kind of silence sits heavy in a memory. But Kerala was one of those places, I've heard, where everyone participated — men, women, students, workers. It wasn't the kind of movement where a few did all the heavy lifting. And so, I like to believe, even if he wasn't marching, he was watching. Watching everyone walk. Watching change go by. That watchfulness stayed with him. He never missed a demonstration. Even in later years, I remember him reading out loud the slogans from placards held by striking unions or humming along with temple chenda melams as they passed our house. I used to shout 'Ingulab Sindabad!' (quite a few years later I realised it was 'Inquilab Zindabad') and run around our home with the same spirit of the demonstrators — completely oblivious to what it meant. I think processions, for him, and later for me, became the theatre where freedom was performed. Where he could witness something alive. Freedom, when it finally arrived, wasn't a firecracker burst. It was a slow, noisy, moving, dancing, grieving, singing thing. And I often wonder if, in those processions, he didn't also see other things. Spirits, maybe. Ghosts. His stories were always full of them. Myths that belonged to our land — yakshis, gandharvas, bhoothams. I have a theory. When the British brought rationality and science into our systems, they also quietly erased a lot of our own myth-worlds. Superstitions, they called them. And with them, a whole ecosystem of spirits and inherited fears and fascinations disappeared from public discourse. But maybe, with freedom, some of them came back. Not to haunt, but to be part of us again. Maybe that's what he saw in the processions. Not just people but the myths we weren't afraid to carry anymore. A freedom not just for the body but for imagination. For the ghosts, too. And that's the drawing I want to make for August 15 this year. My father and I watching a procession go by. In it, people of every kind. The living. The long-gone. Today, public processions and demonstrations feel fewer, often restricted or reshaped. The freedom to walk together — to protest, to celebrate, to simply be in movement — has been trimmed down. Except for the occasional baraat, the religious parade or a funeral passing, the street feels quieter now. But maybe that's why we remember. Maybe that's why the image of my father at the gate still stays with me. Because those processions weren't just about the moment, they were reminders of possibility. Of togetherness. Of voices gathering into something greater. And perhaps that spirit hasn't vanished. Perhaps it's just waiting, like a distant drumbeat. For us to notice it again. To move again. Because freedom, like a procession, finds its way back. Suresh Eriyat is a filmmaker and animator
The Hindu
25-06-2025
- Politics
- The Hindu
Emergency's dark days still haunt Attappady's Manappan
In Attappady's Kavundikkal hamlet, 80-year-old tribal leader Manappan still shudders at the mention of the Emergency. Fifty years have passed since its imposition on June 25, 1975, but the memories of his incarceration remain etched in his mind and evokes a deep sense of dread. Manappan's arrest was a direct result of his affiliation with Communism, an ideology that put him in the crosshairs of the authorities. He was arrested from his hamlet along with fellow tribal leader Bhinnan, a companion in his struggles who would eventually succumb to the passage of time. Manappan's voice cracked as he recounted his 18-day ordeal in Palakkad District Jail. The darkness of the prison cell was matched only by the brutality of the regime, leaving scars that still linger decades later. 'Those days were painful,' he said. His passion for Communism ignited in 1967 and propelled him to the forefront of Attappady's tribal land rights movement. His defiant chants of 'Inquilab Zindabad' and 'Engal bhoomi engalukku, aaru vannalum tharamatte' still echo, a reminder of his unyielding spirit despite facing repeated imprisonment. Manappan's eyes lit up as he recalled his association with Communist stalwarts such as E.M.S. Namboodiripad and E.K. Nayanar, who had sought refuge in Attappady during their underground days. A warm smile spread across his face, reflecting the deep respect and admiration he had for those leaders. He is now leading a retired life along with his wife, Panchi, at Kavundikkal, Attappady. 'From our interactions with Manappan, we could gain a lot of insight not only into the lives of the tribespeople, but also into the social transformation that the tribal community witnessed over the years,' said T. Satyan, a former teacher at Government Vocational Higher Secondary School, Attappady. Manappan reminisced about his childhood in Attappady, where only two Tamil schools existed. He carried sand from the riverbank in a bag to use as a writing surface. The school uniform included a Nehru cap and students enjoyed mid-day meals under K. Kamaraj's Chief Ministership. A unique aspect of school life was a barber's regular visit to cut the students' hair every two months. His life took a dramatic turn when Attappady was hit by landslides and cholera in the early 1960s. Leaving behind his job as a hostel warden, he returned to his hamlet to help his community. His memories of the region's malaria-infested past were stark. He was grateful for the Italian doctor who brought relief to Attappady by spraying DDT in the late 1940s.
