Pawarhouse Putri

SUDDENLY, a whole lot seems to make sense in Supriya Sule’s life. She’s 38, claims to have a great marriage with her techie-businessman husband Sadanand Sule, has two kids, has been anointed a political princess with her induction into the NCP, is prospective inheritor of her father Sharad Pawar’s political legacy, and is tipped to become a Rajya Sabha MP next month.

She manages several vanguard schools for adivasi girls and suburban children, is involved in youth wings and new wave self-help groups for women in western Maharashtra, and is beginning to discover that self-realisation and political zeal can mix with nurturing a family and a flourishing career.

At least this is what Sule— Supriyatai, sister, to her colleagues, admirers, fans, enthusiasts, groupies—would like us to believe as we zip through the Mumbai-Pune Expressway on a five-hour dawn ride to her first major public meeting in Indapur, near her father’s pocketborough of Baramati.

It does not take long to discover Sule is achingly modest and trendily PC (politically correct), a Deccan BoBo (bourgeois-bohemian), born to political royalty and given to cutting-edge philanthropy.

“I discovered quite early I was born for this life,” she says breezily, from the front of the car. “I think anyone who is sensitive, observant and conscious of one’s surroundings will want to do something. Of course, it helps I come from a political family, I would be foolish to deny I have privileges because of who my father is. But the party can help tremendously to promote my causes of education and health. The party will give me direction. Anyway, I have to live up to the expectations of my father and party too.”

Well, ‘Daddy’ is the party boss and the party HQ is in the house, but if Sule refers to the party like some Soviet-style apparatchik, the blurred lines are made agonisingly clear at the festive venue of her meeting in the courtyard of the Shri Samarth Vigyan Mandal, a school for the deaf and dumb.

The Pawars have kept the programme—the donation of an ambulance—non-political, keenly aware of the pitfalls of thrusting a dynastic heir on the nascent party just yet.

As trumpets blow and drums roll, Sule is ushered into the colourful pandal and on to the dais by women in traditional Narayanpet and Paithani sarees. She gathers the jumbo-sized garlands in mock horror and chastises all those who fall at her feet with stern warnings.

... contd.

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