Maharashtra today is staring at a mirror it no longer recognises—and perhaps no longer wants to. This is not merely a phase of political turbulence or a temporary spike in crime statistics. This is a systemic moral collapse, where governance has grown timid before criminals, public discourse has turned feral, and women—particularly women without political power but with public visibility—have become the softest, most convenient targets. The state that once set standards of political decorum is now sinking into a daily spectacle of vulgarity masquerading as activism and hate speech hiding under the convenient umbrella of free speech.
Let us begin with the hard truth we keep dodging. Crime against women and the girl child in Maharashtra has reached alarming proportions. Thousands of rape cases in months, hundreds of murders, trafficking networks thriving in urban shadows, drugs flowing unchecked, girls disappearing with terrifying regularity—these are not aberrations. This is the sound of a state losing control. Law and order today feels reactive, cosmetic, and selective. Press conferences replace policing. Twitter statements substitute governance. And accountability is tossed around like a political football no one wants to own.
This vacuum of authority has produced something even more dangerous: a culture where anger is loud but misdirected, and outrage is intense but intellectually bankrupt. Instead of attacking the state machinery—those who actually wield power—sections of society have chosen a far easier route: character assassination by proxy. When institutions feel untouchable, women become targets. That is not activism; that is cowardice.
The recent controversy involving Anjali Bharti exposes this rot with brutal clarity. While speaking about sexual violence—an issue grave enough to demand restraint, seriousness, and moral clarity—she chose to descend into vulgar, sexually loaded language aimed at Amruta Fadnavis. Not at the Home Department. Not at the police. Not in the cabinet. Not even directly at the Chief Minister. But at a woman who holds no constitutional authority, no executive power, and no role in law enforcement.
This is where the argument collapses entirely. If you are angry about rapes, murders, trafficking, and state failure, your target must be the state. Full stop. When that rage is redirected at a CM’s wife using obscene language, what you are revealing is not moral courage but a deep-seated comfort with misogyny. And worse, the normalisation of that misogyny through applause, viral clips, and ideological justification.
There was a time—not very long ago—when Maharashtra politics, despite ideological battles, preserved a baseline of civility. From the first Chief Minister Yashwantrao Chavan to Eknath Shinde, the office of the Chief Minister was treated as that of the first citizen of the state. Political disagreement never spilled into personal abuse of families. Yashwantrao Chavan symbolised a certain gravitas in Maharashtra’s political culture: restraint in speech, dignity in public life, and an unspoken understanding that power must carry responsibility, not theatrics. From Chavan onward, despite ideological differences and fierce political battles, the office of the Chief Minister retained a sense of reverence. Personal families were kept out of the gutter. Language had limits. Lines were rarely crossed. That is precisely why today’s degeneration feels so jarring. When we say Maharashtra politics has fallen from grace, the comparison is not imaginary—it is historical. From Yashwantrao Chavan’s statesmanship to today’s abuse-powered discourse, the decline is visible, measurable, and frankly, alarming.
Wives of Chief Ministers remained outside the battlefield, accorded dignity whether visible or private. That unwritten code has now been shredded with disturbing ease. Since Devendra Fadnavis rose to the helm, his wife has been subjected to a relentless, venomous campaign—mocked for her appearance, body-shamed for her looks, sneered at for her clothes, abused for refusing to fit the outdated, submissive mould some people still expect from a “CM’s wife.” This is not social critique; it is sexualized public lynching. And it marks the first time in Maharashtra’s political history that a Chief Minister’s wife has been so openly and viciously targeted by trolls, activists, and opportunists across ideological lines.
Amruta Fadnavis is not a constitutional figure. She is an independent individual, entitled to her lifestyle, her choices, her voice. She did not sign up to be a punching bag for state failure. To argue otherwise is to openly endorse the idea that women related to men in power are fair game for abuse. That is not progressive thought—it is medieval thinking with a smartphone.
The defence offered in such cases is always the same tired excuse: freedom of speech. But freedom of speech was never meant to be freedom to be filthy. It exists to protect dissent, not depravity. Criticism of power is healthy; vulgarity directed at women with no power is intellectual laziness dressed up as rebellion. Social media has only accelerated this decay, turning platforms into courtrooms where the mob is judge, jury, and executioner—and taste, decency, and responsibility are declared casualties.
This moral collapse is not limited to so-called rebels or fringe voices. The ruling class carries its own heavy share of blame. The BJP today is demanding police action—and legally, it may be justified—but it cannot absolve itself of its long-standing habit of indulging in aggressive, personal, and often obnoxious rhetoric. Party leaders who routinely weaponise language, encourage street-level theatrics, and blur the line between outrage and abuse have no moral high ground.
Take Chitra Wagh—vocal, confrontational, and selective in outrage. She raises hell when it suits the party line, then performs elegant U-turns when investigations begin to look inconvenient. Sudhir Mungantiwar publicly joking about stripping political opponents? Nitesh Rane and Navneet Rana relentlessly injecting religious polarisation into every issue? This constant lowering of discourse has consequences. When leaders speak recklessly, the streets speak filthily. The ecosystem is connected.
The opposition, too, cannot pretend to be innocent. While Kishori Pednekar and others have rightly condemned the offensive remarks, their own political machinery has long benefitted from troll armies and insinuation-driven politics. Selective condemnation does not cleanse systemic hypocrisy. The greatest tragedy in all this noise is what gets drowned out—the actual victims. Girls who were raped. Women who were murdered. Families destroyed beyond repair. Their pain is not a slogan. Their suffering cannot be monetised through YouTube views or viral outrage. When the discourse drops to obscene personal attacks, the real issue—state failure to protect its women—gets buried under the filth.
This is how societies rot. Not in one dramatic collapse, but in small daily acts of moral compromise. When misogyny is tolerated in the name of ideology. When abuse is excused as passion. When leaders weaponise language, and followers amplify it without thought. When women’s dignity becomes collateral damage in political warfare.
Maharashtra is not merely facing a law-and-order crisis. It is facing a crisis of values. Respect for institutions has eroded because institutions failed to command respect. Respect for women has eroded because society selectively applies principles depending on convenience. And unless this vicious cycle is broken—clearly, firmly, unapologetically—the state risks becoming a place where power is feared, not respected, and women are spoken about, but never truly protected.
If anger against corrupt or inefficient governance is real, let it rise where it belongs—against those in power. But if that anger seeks relief by abusing women, then it deserves to be called out for exactly what it is: not rebellion, not courage, not truth—but moral bankruptcy shouted from a loudspeaker.
