If the Thackerays don't save a Marathi school in their backyard, who will, wonders Syed Firdaus Ashraf.
On Friday, November 8, a message appeared on my social media.
It said that a Marathi-medium school on Mori Road in Mahim, north central Mumbai, would be demolished, and a protest had been planned for the next day at 11 am.
The appeal ended with a line in Marathi -- 'Marathi shaala vachnyasathi bhetu ya', which means, 'Let us meet to save the Marathi school'.
The message was not about one school alone.
It was the second Marathi school in Mahim facing demolition.
Many believed that a powerful builders lobby was eyeing the land for a shopping mall or luxury apartment complex. The post accused them of pushing out poor Marathi-speaking children for profit.
The BrihanMumbai Municipal Corporation, which runs the New Mahim school, had a different version.
According to officials, the school building was unsafe and in a poor condition. They said the structure was beyond repair and must be pulled down for the safety of students.
The BMC also stated that nearly 1,000 students from the school had been moved to other schools in neighbouring areas.
Last heard, the BMC was planning to conduct another structural audit to see if the Marathi school in Mahim could be saved by repairs.
To someone who lives outside Mumbai, this may seem like a routine matter of redevelopment.
But Mahim is no ordinary location in the city's political map.
It holds a deep connection to Mumbai's identity and to one of the city's most powerful political families -- the Thackerays.
It was in the Mahim assembly constituency that Bal Thackeray founded the Shiv Sena in 1966.
At that time, Bombay was undergoing rapid industrial growth, and people from across India migrated to the city for work.
Marathi-speaking people, the original inhabitants of the region, began to feel sidelined.
Most white-collar jobs in banks, offices and factories were being taken up by migrants -- especially educated South Indians.
Bal Thackeray, a political cartoonist by profession, began to speak openly about the neglect of the Marathi Manoos -- sons and daughters of the soil.
The Shiv Sena started with the goal of protecting the rights and pride of Maharashtrians.
In the 1960s, their slogans were sharp and emotional. One such slogan was 'Bajao Pungi, Uthao Lungi (drive away South Indians from Bombay)' which, though controversial and offensive, reflected the resentment that many locals felt at being left behind in the city.
Thackeray's movement gained ground quickly among the working-class Marathi youth.
Soon, the Sena began demanding job reservations for locals.
It set up the Sthaniya Lokadhikari Samiti to ensure that government and private companies in Bombay employed Maharashtrians.
The Sena grew strong and gained political power, eventually taking control of the BrihanMumbai Municipal Corporation -- the same body that plans to demolish the Marathi school in Mahim.
Over time, the Shiv Sena's politics changed.
It moved from being a party for Marathi pride to one that also pushed a broader Hindutva ideology, calling its leader Bal Thackeray the 'Hindu Hriday Samrat' -- the 'Emperor of Hindu Hearts'.
But the Marathi identity remained an emotional foundation of the party in which Mahim continued to be a symbolic stronghold.
Bal Thackeray was so disillusioned with Marathi voters after the Sena lost the 2009 assembly elections from Mahim that he was almost in tears appealing to Mumbai voters to vote for the sena In the 2012 BMC elections.
His emotional appeal worked and the BMC was once again retained by the Shiv Sena.
Sena Bhavan, the party's headquarters, stands a few kilometres from the school now facing demolition.
During the 2024 Maharashtra assembly elections, Maharashtra Navnirman Sena leader Raj Thackeray's son Amit Thackeray chose Mahim to contest his first election.
It was a statement that the Thackerays still consider Mahim to be the heart of Marathi politics.
That is why when I heard about the demolition and the protest, I assumed the Thackerays would be there.
After all, the issue of saving a Marathi school fit in perfectly with their political message.
It was about language, culture, and regional pride -- issues that had once built their entire careers.
But when I reached the protest site on Saturday morning, I was in for a shock.
Not one Thackeray was present -- not Raj, not Amit, not Uddhav, not Aaditya.
There were no Shiv Sena or MNS flags, no banners, not even local councillors.
Only a handful of people -- perhaps 20 -- stood there holding placards.
A few mediapersons with cameras had gathered, expecting a political face to arrive and make a statement.
But after waiting for over an hour, even they began to pack up.
The protest was led by Deepak Pawar from the Marathi Abhyas Kendra. He looked disappointed but determined.
Speaking to the small group, Pawar said, "We saw how Marathi mill workers were thrown out when the textile mills closed. Those lands were turned into malls and towers. Now, the same thing is happening to our schools. They are erasing Marathi identity from Mumbai in the name of development."
His words echoed the pain of many in the city who have watched Maharashtrians neighbourhoods disappear.
In the last few decades, Mumbai's transformation has been ruthless.
Mill lands have become shopping malls, chawls have become skyscrapers, and Marathi-speaking residents have moved out to the suburbs or smaller towns because they can no longer afford to live in the city.
The Marathi school, in this sense, is not just a building -- it is a symbol.
It represents the slow vanishing of Marathi culture from the heart of Mumbai.
To understand this loss, one must also remember the longer history of Maharashtra. The Marathi identity was shaped by centuries of cultural and political pride.
It was the land of the great Maratha empire founded by Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj in the 17th century -- a king who fought for self-rule, Hindavi Swaraj, and regional dignity.
His ideals of swarajya (self-governance) and swabhimaan (self-respect) became part of Maharashtra's soul.
After Independence, when states were reorganised along linguistic lines in 1960, Maharashtrians fought a strong movement to have their own Marathi-speaking state, separate from Gujarat.
The slogan then was 'Samyukta Maharashtra' -- United Maharashtra. The movement succeeded, and Bombay was declared the capital of Maharashtra. It was a moment of victory for Marathi pride.
But 65 years later, that pride seems to be fading.
The city that was once built by Marathi workers and mill hands now belongs mostly to builders, financiers, and politicians.
And in the middle of all this, the Thackerays -- once the loudest defenders of Marathi identity -- seem to have gone silent.
Their absence from the Mahim protest was symbolic.
It showed how far political priorities have shifted.
Today, the battles are fought over power-sharing, party splits, and alliances, not about saving a small local school or protecting the Marathi language.
As the protest ended quietly, I stood watching the empty compound of the old school.
Its walls were cracked and its paint peeling, but it held decades of memories -- of children reciting Marathi school prayers early morning.
Soon, bulldozers will arrive, and another chapter of Marathi Mumbai will vanish under the dust of redevelopment.
The irony is that this is happening in Mahim -- the birthplace of the very movement that promised to protect Marathi pride.
In the silence that followed the protest, one could not help but wonder: If the Thackerays do not come to save a Marathi school in their own backyard, who will?