The late deputy chief minister’s perceived rudeness was understood by those who worked closely with him as behaviour arising from impatience with delays and intolerance towards inefficiency
Nationalist Congress Party leader Ajit Pawar. File pic/Ashish Raje
From a distance, Ajit Pawar often came across as harsh, blunt, rushed, and unconcerned about how his words landed. However, politics is rarely understood from a distance. Those who worked closely with him saw a different man, impatient with delays, intolerant of inefficiency, and focused only on results. This gap between how he was perceived and how he functioned shaped his public life.
“Dadagiri” is usually criticised in society, and especially in politics. In Pawar’s case, however, it was often respected by those inside the system. Party workers, colleagues and bureaucrats did not see bullying. They saw firmness and quick decision-making. From the outside, the same behaviour often looked arrogant. This contrast followed him throughout his career.
Popularly referred to as “Dada” (elder brother), Pawar earned authority not through speeches or symbolism, but through action. He had little patience for political drama. What mattered to him was whether work got done. This practical style reassured insiders but unsettled those accustomed to softer politics, where promises are made to keep everyone happy, often without clear timelines or delivery mechanisms.
His reputation was built through small, everyday moments. During a visit to a new administrative building in Shirur, he noticed there were only six toilets, all on the ground floor. When officials explained that several offices would operate there, Pawar pointed out that villagers rarely come alone and ordered more toilets immediately. On another visit in other area, he saw staircase walls painted in a light colour and warned that they would stain quickly. Darker paint, he said, would last longer. These instructions were blunt and practical, focused on use rather than appearance.
Pawar’s politics was shaped in Baramati, where power is not just about winning elections but controlling institutions, cooperatives, and the local economy. From the beginning, he showed little interest in emotional appeals. His politics was about authority, execution, and outcomes.
That public image, however, had a personal side. I remember meeting him in 2012 at his official residence at Devgiri in Malabar Hill during my days as a Mantralaya correspondent with another newspaper. Instead of his usual white attire, he wore black trousers and a light blue shirt. It was a small detail, but it stayed with me.
During that informal meeting, I asked him a question many people think about but rarely ask: why does he often sound rude or arrogant, even in simple statements? His answer was not political “What does a person do,” he asked, “after losing his father at a very young age? If I had been soft, he said, people would have crushed me long ago. You would not be seeing me here today.” For him, it was not arrogance. It was survival.
That explained much. His bluntness did not come from power, but from early hardship. His toughness was not an act. It was protection built over time.
There were moments when this hardness showed a practical kindness. Once, in his Mantralaya office, he offered me tea. When I left it half-finished, saying it tasted more like hot water, an attendant offered to get another cup. Pawar stopped him. “If a reporter starts taking up office time over tea,” he said, “how will I give time to visitors and work? We’ll have a better cup some other day.” The matter ended there, firm, efficient, and oddly considerate.
His toughness was also tested during a crisis. When a major fire broke out at Mantralaya, and the staff was stranded on the sixth floor, Pawar stayed back on the premises. He coordinated the rescue and refused to leave until one individual stuck in his antechamber was saved. Unfortunately, the person died, but Pawar did not leave the premises till he was told that everyone, including staff and his own team, had been safely evacuated.
Pawar won his first election from Baramati in 1991 and went on to serve six terms as an MLA. Over three and a half decades, he became one of Maharashtra’s most influential politicians, serving six terms as deputy chief minister and shaping key decisions from behind the scenes. The chief minister’s post, however, remained out of reach.
At a time when politics leaned heavily on slogans and optics, Pawar spoke the language of numbers. As finance minister, he focused on income, spending, and financial discipline, often reminding audiences that governments run on balance sheets, not speeches. This made him powerful within the system, even if it connected less with voters seeking emotion and reassurance.
A few days before his death, during a political rally, Pawar made a remark that sounded more reflective than political. “Nothing is permanent,” he said, “only the earth remains; everyone else has to go one day”. “Politics,” he added, “has its place during elections, but once the contest is over, it should be set aside. What matters then is development of the area, the region, and society at large.”
He believed power must be taken when the moment comes, not earned through sentiment. That belief shaped the most dramatic turns of his career. Despite controversies, from irrigation allegations to remarks on empty dams, he rarely took back his words. His political moves divided opinion. Supporters called him practical, critics called him opportunistic. Pawar remained unmoved. For him, numbers mattered more than narratives.
For a man whose political journey began in Baramati, it ended in the same place. When Ajit Pawar passed away in a plane crash in Baramati on January 28, there was rare agreement across the political spectrum. Allies, rivals, colleagues, and staff all spoke of his distinctive style of working. He leaves behind more than empty offices; he leaves behind a political style that was uniquely his, controversial, often misunderstood, shaped by a particular time, place and temperament. Love him or dislike him, his style of functioning, often referred to as “dadagiri,” has left a lasting mark on Maharashtra’s public life.
Sanjeev Shivadekar is political editor, mid-day. He tweets @SanjeevShivadek
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The views expressed in this column are the individual’s and don’t represent those of the paper
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