When we consider Indian theatre’s greatest dynamic innovators, one name is Adi Pherozeshah Marzban. A writer, actor, director, broadcaster, and all-around creative rebel, Marzban didn’t merely update Parsi theatre — he revolutionised it. Famous for bringing wit, Western insights, and a startlingly modern voice to an art form then suffocating in time-worn historical plays, Adi Marzban provided Parsi audiences with something to chuckle about — and ponder.

Born in Bombay in 1914 into a legacy of journalism and dramatics, Marzban inherited pen and stage from his father, Pherozeshah Marzban, a playwright who wrote under the pseudonym Pijam. The bloodline boasted another giant — Fardunjee Marzban, founder of Jam-e-Jamshed and Mumbai Samachar. With schooling at Bharda New High School and a degree from Elphinstone College, young Adi’s mind was honed for sharp thinking and sharper satire.

Early in his career, he experimented with journalism and comedy writing — editing the Jam-e-Jamshed and writing for the satirical Gupsup magazine. But theatre, that lively energy in Parsi life, soon became the forefront in his life. Beginning as a director in the 1950s, he produced various plays in English and Gujarati. But it was Piroja Bhavan in 1954 that was a turning point. A box office and critical hit, it marked a change in Parsi theatre — from big, historical dramas to small, character-based farces and comedies.

His sojourn in the United States at Pasadena Playhouse on a UNESCO scholarship introduced him to advanced theatre arts and international techniques. Equipped with this knowledge, Marzban returned not only with new concepts but with new norms. His joint ventures with producer Pesi Khandavala were revolutionary — they brought models of paying and profit-sharing to amateur theatre, liberating artists like never before.

Marzban’s theatre was hardly amateur. Every moment glinted with refinement — from light to speech, melody to staging. His ability in comedy could match no other than his sense for storytelling, with foundations in social awareness and commonplace inanities. His plays were comic, to be sure, but they were intelligent observations on life, culture, and the Parsi society.

He was a one-person creative force — a musician who could play multiple instruments, a painter trained under Walter Langhammer, and even a magician and ventriloquist. His rehearsal rooms were playgrounds of improvisation, and his actors — including stars like Ruby and Burjor Patel, Hosi Vasunia, and Homi Tawadia — flourished under his guidance.

With over 100 Parsi-language productions, English hits such as Charley’s Aunt and An Inspector Calls, and classic Gujarati comedies such as Katariyun Gap and Behram ni Sasu, Marzban’s presence cannot be denied. He also left his mark on the radio with thousands of scripts for popular Buddhi Dhan Shak Mandal, and television with What’s the Good Word?

He dabbled in movies, writing Carnival Queen and the Zoroastrian history documentary On Wings of Fire. Marzban’s life was as rich as his plays — vibrant, dynamic, and always a few steps ahead of the times.

Despite his incredible achievements, he always stayed humble, sharing a life with his beloved wife, Silla, a respected TV personality, in their home on Chapsey Terrace in Mumbai. Tragically, he lost his battle with lung cancer in 1987. Still, even in his absence, the impact of his legacy continues to shine brightly, reminding us of the deep connections and contributions he made during his life.

Kishori Amonkar (1932-2017)—a name which inspires reverence, rebellion, and raga. She was more than a voice; she was a movement. One of Hindustani classical music’s most iconic and revolutionary figures, Amonkar, did not merely sing—she revolutionised the paradigm of how music could be sensed, articulated, and, therefore, changed.

Born in Bombay in the dying embers of British India, music was Amonkar’s inheritance and battleground. Taught by her mother, the iconic Mogubai Kurdikar of the Jaipur Gharana, young Kishori learned the strict discipline of classical technique and the flame to challenge it. Her formative years were spent on tanpura-accompanied journeys with her mother, observing silently, soaking up, and planting the seeds of a future musical revolution.

Amonkar was already a force to be reckoned with in the classical scene by her late teens and early twenties. Then illness intervened—a hiatus that, in retrospect, proved her turning point. While forced out of music, she didn’t withdraw; she reinvented herself. When she resumed performing in the 1960s, her music wasn’t confined within gharana orthodoxy. She grasped the solid foundation of Jaipur Gharana’s precision and extended it, deepened it, and even ventured to break its rigidity. To Amonkar, music was never intended to be contained by lineage—it was designed to fly.

She once proudly asserted, “There is nothing called a gharana. There is only music.” This feeling permeated her every recital—a sonic khyal boom, a delicate thumri, or a spirituality-evoking bhajan. She sang with such expressiveness, such romanticism, such spiritualism. Her technique was infused with such authority over men (gliding between notes) that it approached not singing but the art of colouring with sound.

But she wasn’t always cherished for her defiance. Amonkar was criticised by purists who felt she was watering down the tradition. Her answer? Integrity and isolation. She didn’t play to the gallery; she played to the divine. “Music is a dialogue with the divine,” she said. Her stage presence was commanding, her rehearsals intense, and her silence before a concert sacred. She asked for respect, not applause—and delivered transcendence.

Offstage, she was no less powerful. Amonkar was strongly outspoken regarding how women were treated in music. She demanded equitable pay for artists and notoriously stormed out of performances over rude audience conduct—an action still discussed today as a defence of artist integrity.

Her musical understanding went beyond performance. She taught extensively on rasa (emotion) in music, wrote a boo,k Swaraartha Ramani in Marathi, and left behind a rich tradition of students who bear her name with pride. Even in films, she left her imprint, lending her voice to movies like Geet Gaya Patharon Ne and Drishti briefly before moving away from commercial music—led by her conviction that film sacrificed the soul of swaras (notes) for words.

Amonkar’s legacy is inscribed in her awards—Padma Bhushan, Padma Vibhushan, Sangeet Natak Akademi Fellowship, and many others. Yet her real award lay in each listener who remained transfixed, each raga she reimagined, and each boundary she transgressed.

She died in her sleep on April 3, 2017—almost in time for her 85th birthday next week. But her voice, haunting and therapeutic, remains. 

As tabla maestro Zakir Hussain said, “Her performances were landmark events that echo centuries.”

Today, we do not simply recall Kishori Amonkar—we return to the revolution she sang.

Field Marshal Sam Hormusji Framji Jamshedji Manekshaw, known as Sam Bahadur, was India’s most revered military leader. His name goes hand in hand with courage, strategy, and leadership, and his contribution to India’s military history is incomparable. For being the mastermind behind India’s resounding victory in the 1971 Bangladesh Liberation War, he was the first Indian Army officer to be given the rank of Field Marshal. His four-decade-long career in the armed forces, covering World War II to India’s post-independence wars, established him as a national hero.

Early Life and Military Beginnings

Born on 3rd April 1914, in Amritsar, British India, Manekshaw was of Parsi descent. He was in the first batch of cadets at the Indian Military Academy (IMA), Dehradun, in 1932. Commissioned into the British Indian Army in 1934, he was posted to the 12th Frontier Force Regiment and subsequently to the 8th Gorkha Rifles. His daredevil spirit and keen mind gained him an early reputation.

Manekshaw acted extensively in the Burma campaign against the Japanese in World War II. Despite being seriously injured, he continued to command his troops, for which he received the Military Cross for gallantry. His image as a fearless officer became well known, and on Indian independence, he was involved in restructuring the newly established Indian Army.

Rise Through the Ranks

Manekshaw played a pivotal role in many military actions after independence. He was present in the 1947 Indo-Pakistani War and contributed notably to resolving the Hyderabad crisis. His career received a big jolt in 1962 when he was wrongfully accused of treason during a politically driven trial. Despite that, his honour was never sullied, and he was later exonerated of all allegations.

By the mid-1960s, he had achieved prominence again. He led the Indian troops successfully as the commander of the Eastern Command during the 1967 skirmishes with China at Nathu La and Cho La, India’s first triumph over China militarily. In 1969, he was made the 7th Chief of the Army Staff, paving the way for his most illustrious success.

The 1971 Bangladesh Liberation War

The most defining point in Manekshaw’s career was in 1971 when the East and West Pakistan tensions heightened. East Pakistan (Bangladesh) was flooded with millions of refugees because of the atrocities of the Pakistani army. Prime Minister Indira Gandhi requested Manekshaw’s advice regarding military intervention.

He famously refused to jump into war in a historical setting, as he said the army needed to be well-planned. His strategic patience had the benefit of keeping India militarily and logistically prepared when the war in December 1971 finally erupted. The Indian Army, under his command, made a lightning-fast and decisive attack, which led to Bangladesh’s liberation in 13 days. On December 16, 1971, Pakistan’s General A.A.K. Niazi surrendered 93,000 men, one of the most significant military victories.

For his exceptional leadership, Manekshaw received the Padma Vibhushan, the second-highest civilian honour for India. He was promoted in 1973 to the five-star rank of Field Marshal and became the first Indian officer ever to be bestowed with this position.

Legacy and Leadership Style

Sam Manekshaw was a great strategist and a commander who inspired unflinching devotion in his soldiers. His quick wit and bold nature often conflicted with politicians, but he never compromised his values. He had a great sense of humour and a charismatic personality, and he was loved by his soldiers and civilians alike.

One of his most iconic statements was in 1971 when he was questioned regarding an attack by Pakistan on India. He said, “I guarantee you that if they dare attack us, they shall cease to exist as a nation.” His confidence and clarity of mind characterised his leadership.

Even in retirement in 1973, Manekshaw was still a highly regarded voice in military and strategic matters. Yet, his funeral in 2008 was characterised by the absence of senior political leaders, a move roundly condemned by the public and the military community. Despite this, his reputation remains unblemished.

Honours and Recognition

Manekshaw’s achievements have been recognised in many ways. He was commemorated with the issue of a postage stamp in 2008. The Manekshaw Centre in Delhi, the Manekshaw Parade Ground in Bengaluru, and several roads and institutions bear his name. His victory in the war of 1971 is commemorated annually on Vijay Diwas (December 16).

In 2023, Vicky Kaushal played Manekshaw in the biopic Sam Bahadur, sharing his fantastic tale with a new generation.

A Legacy

Field Marshal Sam Manekshaw was not merely a military general but a beacon of valour, discipline, and strategic ingenuity. His achievements marked the modern history of India’s army and secured the country’s security. As one of India’s most outstanding soldiers, Sam Bahadur will never be forgotten as the man who led India to triumph.

Hemant Joshi is a renowned academic, journalist, and author who has contributed significantly to media education in India. With more than three decades of experience, Joshi has been a Mass Communication and Journalism professor at the Indian Institute of Mass Communication (IIMC), New Delhi, and Jamia Millia Islamia. His areas of expertise include print and broadcast journalism, media theory, and linguistics.

Born on March 27, 1954, at Nainital, Uttarakhand, Joshi received his postgraduate education at Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU), New Delhi, majoring in Linguistics and French Literature. His profound knowledge of languages has facilitated him working as an interpreter in international conferences, translating between Hindi, English, French, Italian, and Russian. His literary works have also reflected this multilingual expertise, especially in translations and reportage.

A Career in Academia and Journalism

During his career, Hemant Joshi has played a pivotal role in developing the academic literature on journalism and communication in India. He has guided several generations of journalists at IIMC, one of the nation’s top media schools. His research interests cover media ethics, communication tactics, and mass media’s contribution to development.

Outside of academia, Joshi has been actively engaged with global organisations like the International Association of Mass Communication Research (IAMCR) and the International Communication Association (ICA). In 2008, he was elected to the International Council of IAMCR, a recognition of his contributions to media studies on a global scale.

Literary and Scholarly Contributions

In addition to teaching, Hemant Joshi has been a prolific writer and editor. Among his publications are anthologies, translations, and media studies books. Some of his prominent books are:

“Mahayuddhon ke Aaspaas” – An anthology of eight French poets translated into Hindi.

“Arthat” – A compilation of journalistic work by great poet and journalist Raghuvir Sahay.

“Media Writing”, “Journalism and Mass Communication Basics”, and “Communication for Development” – Written in collaboration with his wife, Manjari Joshi, these books are essential texts for media students.

His articles on journalism, regularly published in major Hindi newspapers, deal with a wide range of subjects such as language, media ethics, and global politics.

A Legacy Based on Language and Media

Joshi comes from an intellectual and academic family. He is the in-law of Raghuvir Sahay, a renowned poet and journalist, and Manjari Joshi, his wife, a former TV news anchor, author, and writer. Their sons, Piyush Joshi (MBA, FMS Delhi) and Gunjan Joshi (a Chau dancer and heritage activist) carry forward the family tradition of arts and intellectual endeavours.

His family contains scientists, academicians, and artists to highlight a healthy cultural and intellectual heritage. They include Prof. P.C. Joshi, an educationist; Gaurav Joshi, a space scientist; Hema Singh, a theatre personality; and more.

The Power of Multilingualism in Journalism

Joshi’s mastery of several languages has been a key factor in his professional life. His capacity to translate and interpret between various linguistic environments has not only enriched his journalistic career but also enabled him to make significant contributions to cross-cultural communication. His translations, mainly from French to Hindi, bring world literature closer to Indian readers.

Conclusion

Hemant Joshi’s career is a remarkable blend of journalism, academia, literature, and multilingual expertise. His contributions have shaped the practice and pedagogy of mass communication in India. Whether through his books, translations, or teachings, his influence extends across generations of journalists and scholars. A lifelong advocate for the power of language in media, Joshi’s legacy continues to inspire and inform the evolving landscape of journalism.

History favours the winners, but a few spirits leave a legacy deeper than the conquerors who occupied the throne. Among them is Dara Shikoh, son of Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan, a prince whose dreams for India were based on tolerance, inquiry of the mind, and spiritual harmony. His untimely death at the hands of his younger brother, Aurangzeb, changed the history of the subcontinent. If fate had been more benevolent, India could have taken a different route—where the cultures merged instead of colliding and wisdom was honoured over dogma.

A Prince Unlike Any Other

Dara Shikoh was born in 1615 in Ajmer. He was not only the eldest son of Shah Jahan but also his beloved heir. Unlike his warrior brothers, Dara found himself interested in philosophy, art, and the quest for spiritual knowledge. He studied Persian poetry, Sufism, and Sanskrit scriptures to narrow the gulf between Islam and Hinduism. His most renowned work, Majma-ul-Bahrain (The Confluence of the Two Seas), tried to bring harmony between Sufi and Vedantic schools of thought.

His scholastic ventures took him to translate fifty Upanishads into Persian, which brought these Hindu scriptures into contact with the Islamic world. A syncretic India, as envisioned by Dara, is one in which religious divisions get dissolved by converging wisdom. But his idealism marked him as the target of orthodoxy clergy and his ambitious sibling Aurangzeb.

The Battle for the Throne

When Shah Jahan got sick in 1657, the Mughal Empire sank into a brutal succession war. Even though Dara was the heir apparent, he faced bitter opposition from his younger brothers—Shah Shuja, Murad Bakhsh, and the most powerful, Aurangzeb. While Dara was a statesman and a scholar, Aurangzeb was an able tactician with a hard-bitten will to power.

In the decisive Battle of Samugarh in 1658, Aurangzeb outmaneuvered Dara. Defeated, the philosopher prince fled, seeking refuge across the empire. However, his journey ended in Sindh, where he was betrayed by Malik Jeevan, a chieftain he had once saved. Captured and paraded through the streets of Delhi in chains, the fallen prince faced a humiliating end.

A Tragic End and a Lost Vision

Aurangzeb, who dreaded Dara’s popularity with the masses and ulema, branded him a heretic. He assembled a panel of orthodox ulema, who condemned Dara as an apostate. During the evening of August 30, 1659, four executioners butchered him before his son. His severed head was dispatched to Shah Jahan, who was confined to Agra. Upon viewing the mangled corpse of his son, the devastated emperor fainted.

Dara was interred in an unmarked tomb in Humayun’s Tomb—a tragic fate for a prince who had envisioned uniting Hindustan’s multicultural faiths and cultures. His death secured Aurangzeb’s rule, leading to an age of strict orthodoxy that estranged many communities and eventually debilitated the Mughal Empire.

What If?

If Dara Shikoh had become king, the course of Indian history might have been altered to one in which pluralism, debate, and cultural blossoming characterised the empire instead of religious bigotry. His dream, though defeated, still encourages contemporary scholars, artists, and intellectuals.

In another universe, Dara Shikoh would be remembered not as Hindustan’s lost prince but as the grand reconciler of its spirit.