How does one map Marathi pride when individual celebration has become political spectacle?
The Maharashtra Day parade at Shivaji Park, Dadar, on Thursday. Pic/Shadab Khan
In April 1977, during the summer vacations in Itanagar, a month after the Emergency had been lifted, I first became aware of Maharashtra Day. I was a standard four student at Kendriya Vidyalaya there — part of the pan-India chain for transferable Central Government employees. My classmates came from all corners of India, besides the native Nyishi, Adi, and Apatani students. Marathi was almost unheard of in that small multi-hued world.
It was my archaeologist father (then posted at the Itafort excavation) who urged my brother and me to read about Maharashtra’s formation — and about Acharya Atre. A fiery orator, sharp editor, educationist and fearless public intellectual, Atre (1898-1969) became a presence in our lives, only by hearsay. My father spoke of Atre’s wit, his stirring speeches, and how one man’s vision helped shape Maharashtra’s destiny. We talked about Shyamchi Aai (1953), the Swarn Kamal-winner film that Atre directed, and about the importance of reading beyond school textbooks.
The four of us — Baba, Aai, brother and I — were a small, self-contained world speaking about Maharashtra in a faraway corner of Arunachal Pradesh. We, siblings, were too young to emotionally “miss” Maharashtra. India itself was in a churn, and the Emergency’s end dominated every adult conversation. As a nine-year-old, I barely knew of the litterateurs back home — towering minds such as PL Deshpande, who had spoken up fiercely for freedom of expression when it was under siege. Interestingly, during this time the socialists of Maharashtra had joined hands — which became rarer later!
The nature of Maharashtra Day has changed from a quiet remembrance to a public spectacle with political overtones. In this file photo from May 1, 2024, MNS president Raj Thackeray pays tribute at Hutatma Chowk. Pic/Sayyed Sameer Abedi
Today, as I look back — just four days after May 1, 2025 — I realise how quickly the years have flown. Maharashtra has turned 65. The nature of Maharashtra Day has changed dramatically: from a quiet remembrance to a public spectacle with strong political overtones and mass participation; of course a public holiday marked by less crowded roads. In earlier years, the Shiv Sena owned May Day, especially after it first came to power in 1995; now every party and its splinter group dutifully marks it. Somewhere along the way, Jai Jai Maharashtra Maazha has risen to anthem status. The other day, driving through the new Coastal Road Tunnel between Worli and Charni Road, I heard the state song by the forgotten poet Raja Badhe echo — pride and place blending in a surreal moment.
In fact, I visited Hutatma Chowk later to absorb the energy of the martyrs who had laid down their lives for the formation of the state. I was disturbed by the dug-up roads all around, but there was a silver lining, despite the chaos. People of all ages and ethnicities were sitting there, soaking in the evening. A simple act of gathering felt like a tribute in itself.
As my school years shifted across cities like Gwalior, Port Blair, and Shillong, I studied in successive classes alongside classmates from many languages and backgrounds. In Gwalior — where my mother’s family belonged — Marathi families had built close-knit lives within the predominantly Hindi-speaking culture, shaped in part by Gwalior’s past as a princely state under the Scindias, who carried a strong Marathi heritage. Later, in Port Blair and Shillong, the Maharashtra Mandals were like little islands of home — places where families gathered to keep old songs, festivals, and friendships alive amidst unfamiliar shores. I distinctly remember some families we did not vibe well with despite the Marathi, and some with whom we bonded beautifully during festivals. May 1 became a gathering of sorts — more than a ritual, less than a festival — where the idea of Maharashtra began to take deeper root.
I remember my brother and I acting in a skit for the Maharashtra Mandal in Shillong in 1978, where all the children, playing adults, performed to the famous Marathi folk song (bhondla geet) Sasurvashin Soon Rusoon Basli Kaisi. The song, around a newly married woman sulking and the entire family coaxing her back, was politically incorrect by today’s standards. As she shoos away each family member, the husband waves a mock threat of the whip; she pretends to protest, but relents with a laugh. No one found it awkward. Boys and girls, decked up in makeshift traditional costumes, mattered more than the politics tucked away in the lyrics. It was the rhythm of a language—playful, familiar — that bound us together, a long way from home.
Similarly, in Port Blair, I participated in a choreographed performance of the song Aaz Gokulaat Rang Khelato Hari (Holi geet) with Lata Mangeshkar’s voice resonating in the background. It was Suresh Bhat’s lyrics — though I only understood his stature as a poet much later — that brought a new dimension to our lives. Again, it was a happy coming together of Maharashtrians in a faraway land, held together by the thread of music and memory.
For us, Maharashtra lived most intimately in the Marathi we spoke at home — a language kept alive purely through habit and love, never through formal schooling. It was precious: a small, daily act of holding on to our roots when it could have so easily been lost. Every time we visited Mumbai, for weddings or vacations post-1980, we never felt like outsiders. We spoke the language fluently, naturally, and that was a huge blessing. I cannot thank my parents enough for protecting that thread.
Even today, when I see a book like Dr Bhalchandra Nemade’s Marathi for Beginners — originally written for his British students when he was teaching in London — I feel a version should be created for those who risk losing Marathi right within their own homes. When Marathi is the third most spoken Indian language and it has gotten a classical status (many argue against the use of the label), it is a fact that younger Maharashtrians do not necessarily speak it. For us to even begin making Marathi a language of opportunity and business, we must first keep it alive, spoken, and loved, before we can carry it into the world. Whenever the Speak Marathi slogan is raised — whether on May Day or any other day — it often ends up doing a disservice to the language, because it comes from a space of false confrontation rather than from a spirit of “let’s learn each other’s languages”.
For me, personally, being a Maharashtrian has always been a cultural anchor. It shaped my journalism — helping me move between Hindi, Marathi, and English with ease. It helped me connect with rural Maharashtra — to travel its length and breadth, to report on its breaking news, droughts, earthquakes, and epidemics, to understand its caste composition, and to sense the social-political fabric. It shaped my work in public diplomacy, where I serve as the Marathi editor in a diplomatic mission — an immense source of pride and sustenance for me.
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