A New India

The year of 1953 was very eventful and with the government launching the Gati Shakti plan made it even more evident.

Bombay was a city bursting with people, ideas, and dreams, where the scent of fresh pav mingled with the salty air from the Arabian Sea.

For some, it was a city of hope, a place to start anew after India's independence.

For others, like Bal Keshav Thackeray, it was a city slowly slipping away from its original spirit, its soul being buried under the weight of rapid migration and changing demographics.

Thackeray, at 25 years old, was far from the political force he would later become. In fact, most knew him as a cartoonist.

His work appeared in Free Press Journal, a local paper, where he used sharp lines and biting satire to poke at political leaders and the system.

He had a talent for distilling complex political failures into a single, powerful image.

But while he carved a name for himself as an artist, there was a fire simmering inside him that the sketches could not contain.

He felt it every day as he walked through the streets of Bombay.

This wasn't the city he had known as a boy, nor was it the city his father had fought for.

His father, Keshav Sitaram Thackeray, had been a prominent figure in the Samyukta Maharashtra Movement.

Which demanded the creation of a separate Maharashtra state for Marathi speakers, with Bombay as its capital.

That fight had been won or so they thought. Yet, as Bal looked around, he couldn't shake the feeling that the Marathi people were still losing.

Victory was just the beginning for the defeat to come.

It was a thought that weighed heavily on his mind as he sat one evening in a local tea shop with two of his closest friends, Sudhir and Vinod.

The tea was hot, the shop was noisy, and the city outside was buzzing with life, but Thackeray's mind was elsewhere.

"Bal, you've been quiet," Sudhir remarked, breaking the comfortable silence between them.

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He stirred his tea absentmindedly, eyeing Thackeray with curiosity. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

Thackeray looked up, a frown creasing his forehead. "It's this city, Sudhir," he said slowly, choosing his words carefully.

"It's not the same anymore. It's not the city we grew up in. Look around. Everything's changing, and not for the better."

Vinod raised an eyebrow, leaning in slightly. "You mean the politics? But isn't the new Gati Shakti Plan launched by the government going to help the people?"

"No," Thackeray shook his head. "Not just politics. It's the people. The city… It doesn't feel like it belongs to us anymore. Every day, more and more people come here, Gujaratis, South Indians, people from Uttar Pradesh. And they're taking everything, jobs, businesses, the land.

Where does that leave us, the Marathi manoos?"

Vinod sighed, glancing at Sudhir before responding. "Bombay's always been a city of migrants, Bal. People come here to build a life, to find work. You can't blame them for that."

"I'm not blaming them," Thackeray said, his voice steady but with an edge of frustration. "I'm just saying… where does that leave us? The ones who built this city, who were here first. Now we can't even get decent jobs in our own home. Look at the mills, most of the workers are from the north. Look at the markets, Gujaratis own half the shops.

And in government offices? South Indians."

Sudhir frowned. "You're not wrong, but what can we do? The city is growing. People from all over are coming. It's inevitable."

Thackeray's jaw tightened. He stared into his cup of tea, swirling the liquid without drinking it.

"It may be inevitable, but that doesn't mean we should sit back and accept it. We need to do something. If we don't stand up for ourselves, who will?"

Sudhir leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. "And what exactly do you think we should do? You're a cartoonist, Bal. What can you do beyond drawing?"

Thackeray met Sudhir's gaze, his eyes suddenly sharp and intense. "Cartoons can only do so much," he admitted.

"But words alone aren't enough. I've been thinking… we need something bigger. We need a platform, a voice for the Marathi people."

Vinod leaned in, intrigued. "A voice? What kind of voice?"

Thackeray paused for a moment, his mind racing with the ideas that had been building up inside him for months. "A movement," he said finally.

"A movement for the Marathi manoos. We need to unite the people of this city, our people, and make them realize that this is our home. This city belongs to us, and we shouldn't be pushed to the edges."

"A movement?" Sudhir repeated, skepticism creeping into his voice. "That sounds like politics, Bal."

"Maybe it is," Thackeray said, his tone firm. "But what's wrong with that? Look at what's happening in the city. The Samyukta Maharashtra Movement may have given us a state, but it didn't give us control over our own city. Bombay is supposed to be ours, but is it? No.

It's slipping through our fingers."

Vinod took a long sip of tea, digesting Thackeray's words. "So, what's your plan? You want to start a party? An organization?"

"I'm not talking about a political party. Not yet," Thackeray replied. "I'm talking about something more organic. A group that represents the interests of the Marathi people. A group that will fight for our rights, our jobs, our culture."

Vinod nodded, thinking it over. "It's an interesting idea. But what would that look like? How would you even start something like that?"

Thackeray leaned back in his chair, looking out at the busy street beyond the tea shop's window. "It starts with awareness," he said, his voice calm but determined.

"People need to understand that they're being pushed aside. That if we don't act, Bombay will no longer belong to the Maharashtrians. We need to organize the youth, the workers, the common man. We need to give them something to rally behind."

"And you think people will follow you?" Sudhir asked, his tone not condescending, but genuinely curious.

Thackeray shrugged. "Maybe not at first. But they will. The frustration is there, Sudhir. I see it every day. People are tired of being ignored in their own city.

We just need to give them a voice."

There was a silence between the three men as they absorbed Thackeray's words.

Outside, the streets of Bombay continued with life, oblivious to the conversation unfolding in the small tea shop.

But for Thackeray, this moment was important.

It was the first time he had spoken aloud about the ideas that had been going in his mind for months.

And now that they were out there, they felt real.

Later that night, Thackeray sat at his small desk at home, the dim light of the table lamp casting long shadows on the walls.

His wife and children were already asleep, and the house was quiet except for the distant sounds of the city outside.

He picked up his pencil, as he always did when he needed to think, and began sketching.

The lines were quick, rough, but purposeful. As his hand moved across the page, he wasn't just drawing a cartoo, he was trying to map out the future.

A future where the Marathi people of Bombay weren't pushed aside.

A future where they could walk into a government office, or a factory, or a market, and see their own people working there, leading, thriving.

Thackeray thought back to his father, Keshav Sitaram Thackeray, who had fought so hard for the creation of Maharashtra.

His father had always emphasized the importance of Marathi identity, of protecting the culture and language that defined their people.

But it seemed to him that the battle hadn't ended with the creation of the state.

It was just beginning.

"Bombay belongs to Maharashtra," his father had often said.

But looking around, Thackeray wasn't so sure.

Bombay, the city that had once felt like home, now felt like a place where the Marathi people were strangers.

And the more he thought about it, the angrier he became. This was their city. They had a right to claim it.

As he sat there, the idea of a movement began to take shape more clearly in his mind. It wouldn't just be about complaining or pointing fingers.

It would be about action, demanding jobs for Marathi people, demanding respect for their culture, demanding that Bombay remain a Marathi city.

He imagined a future, the youth of the city, the workers, the common man, all rallying together under a banner that stood for their rights.

It was an exciting thought.

This wouldn't be an easy fight.

But Thackeray was no longer content with just drawing cartoons.

The time for action had come.

He put down his pencil and leaned back in his chair, his mind still full of possibilities.

The Shiv Sena, as it would later be called, wasn't born that night. But its seeds had certainly been planted.