The day, January 28, 2026, is a Black Day for every person associated with Baramati. Baramati, a small locality in the Pune district of Maharashtra, has a population of around 80,000. Despite such a small number, the locality has roads as soft as gliding butter, two beautiful lake shores offering people incomparable peace, 6-7 aesthetic areas specifically designed for older, middle-aged people to walk, sit around, and spend time with their mates, forcing them to forget their domestic sadness, if any. And, we suddenly lost every feeling of peace, calm, content, satisfaction, etc. on the day our beloved Dada died.
I had just woken up when I heard about the plane crash. The news said that five people had died on the spot, and this man, Ajit Pawar, Deputy Chief Minister of Maharashtra, was seriously injured. I am sure, not only I but every citizen of Baramati (Baramatikar) must have suspected that Dada was also no more in that moment, and tears began rolling down our eyes before anybody, especially I, could even register that feeling. I was praying for some miracle to happen in that very moment, but the intensity of the accident that had just happened near the small airport we have here was clearly visible, and that literally pushed me into believing that "everything was over."
In the next half hour, it was officially declared that Dada, our father figure, our everything, was no more. Our heartbeats stopped. Everybody was clueless and numb, so was I. I honestly had never thought that I would get so affected by a politician's death. But it was too late to understand and register this feeling in my brain that Dada was not just a politician; he was a family member to every person in Baramati. Knowingly or unknowingly. He was the person who thought about the comfort of every person staying here. Just like any other father who thinks about the comfort, growth, and needs of his kids and has a lot of unconditional love for them. This is the sole reason that Dada's death actually felt like I had lost my father in that very moment, and that killed me even more. I honestly took another minute to get back to reality and told myself, "Bro, it's Dada, your Dad is fine."
My father had left for his routine that day, and I immediately called him just to hear him crying. I told him to come back home, and in the meantime, I gathered the courage to go on the ground to check the reality. The journalist in me was not allowing me to just see what's happening in the news. Dada's close associates were howling near the site in question; everybody was scared for no reason, as if they were anxious. Dada's family was yet to arrive, but I could see Yugendra Pawar (Dada's nephew who contested against him in the Maharashtra Legislative Assembly election from Baramati constituency) from very far away at the government hospital, crying his heart out and making constant calls. While on my return from the spot, everything had started shutting down. People were scared, running from here and there, clueless about what exactly was happening around. Half of them were still in disbelief, reassuring and asking each other, holding hopes that someone might just say, "It's fake news, and Dada is still alive, in the hospital and under treatment."
Dada's departure is truly a personal loss. It feels as if we've lost one of our very close family members. And there are credible reasons to feel this. For Baramati, development has always meant Ajit Dada. He had that vision for this locality and wanted to make it the best in Maharashtra. He had dreamt of it and had been rigorously working to fulfil that. It's not just to praise him or highlight his naturally funny and considerate behaviour at the same time, but he just lived like that. He used to wake up very early in the morning and begin to work, and he used to expect the same from his assistants. He would simply walk through the core areas of the city to check if the areas are clean, there's no pending infrastructural work, or plan a new development just like that. And all this while, everybody in the city would be fast asleep.
I once remember seeing him behind my house from the window, at around 5:15 am, making some plans for the riverfront which we have here behind. He held focus, soft anger in his eyes, and assertiveness, at the same time, which made him look like a serious human. But at that very moment, I saw a sweeper boy passing by and waving at him in a friendly manner. Dada instantly shifted his focus, waved back with a smile, probably making that boy's day, and got back to planning. He was this simple. I know it's hard to believe that any politician can be this soft-hearted and assertive at the same time. But this is what Dada lived like.
Once Dada was walking with his men in the area where I stay at 6:30 am. And we personally were going through some civil problem related to ownership of some land, in which only a government employee could help us. My brother had tried a couple of times here and there, but nothing seemed to work out. That day, the moment we knew that Dada was walking around and could genuinely help us somehow, my brother ran down the stairs and approached him. The men around him tried to stop him from approaching without any official appointment, but it was Dada who further stopped these men. "Aaee, what is it. Let him speak," he said to his men in his soft, yet assertive tone. For the next 10-15 minutes that morning, my brother, out of nowhere, was talking about the problem we had, and Dada was patiently listening to him, further directing a few of his men to look into the matter diligently and clear the unwanted mess. This was Dada for us. For every Baramatikar. Easily approachable, soft-hearted, and yet assertive.
Every Baramatikar has at least one such story. I am sure. Why would his going away not feel like a personal loss to us?
There's one more reason I think that we are so shaken by his death. And that's the suddenness. Nobody here was mentally prepared for this. Had it been any other leader who would have passed away, given health reasons or age, it would have made us feel sad but less shaken. Dada’s passing struck like a shockwave, leaving every person here asking the same question: "Is he really gone? It feels untimely, undeserved, and tragically wrong."
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Today, it's the third day after his death. And everything is still silent. The streets are quiet like never before, people are sad, and nobody is even in that frame of mind to communicate, even simple, routine things. It’s just quiet. It feels as if even the trees, bushes, and the winds are mourning Dada's death. It's the sadness in our eyes that is beholding these feelings, of course. But, yeah, it is what it is!
Now, we honestly are worried for the city, its future, and its progress. We are worried for ourselves. What will we even do without him? Our survival here is not going to be easy. Without leadership like Dada’s, there is a fear that Baramati could slip back by a decade. We long to see the city remain clean, vibrant, and smiling, just as it was under Dada’s guidance. Till yesterday, we held pride in saying that "I am from Baramati, I am from Dada's city." Hereinafter, it'll be a struggle to say with the same pride: this is my city, this is Baramati, this is Ajit Dada’s Baramati.
(The author is a journalist from Baramati)
