Are Marathi Families Being Pushed Out of Mumbai After Decades of Sena Rule?

Every morning, lakhs of Marathi workers board overcrowded local trains from the outskirts of Mumbai. Their offices, markets and livelihoods are in the city, but their homes are no longer there. This quiet daily migration says more about Mumbai’s changing character than any election speech or party slogan.

Over the last two decades, as Mumbai expanded vertically and outward, the space for its original Marathi working population steadily shrank. What makes this shift politically significant is that the city’s civic body remained under Shiv Sena control for nearly 25 years, largely guided by Uddhav Thackeray. The question now being asked is simple, and uncomfortable: how did this happen under a party that claimed to speak for the Marathi community?

For many families, the issue is not ideology—it is geography. Neighbourhoods that once defined Marathi life—mill areas, chawls, dense cultural clusters—slowly became unaffordable. Redevelopment arrived with promises of better housing and dignity, but often delivered higher costs and uncertainty. Those who could not keep up moved farther away, turning daily travel into an exhausting routine.

The textile mill belt of central Mumbai once provided stable employment and affordable housing for generations. Lalbaug, Parel, Dadar, Girgaum and nearby areas were not just residential zones; they were ecosystems of work, language and community. When mills shut down, redevelopment was positioned as progress. In reality, many former residents found themselves excluded by paperwork, delayed allotments and rising maintenance charges. The land stayed in Mumbai, but the people were pushed out.

Today, a large share of the Marathi workforce lives in Virar, Badlapur, Karjat, Kasara and distant suburbs of Thane and Palghar. The price they pay is time—hours lost daily in transit—and a gradual weakening of community life. Festivals, neighbourhood bonds and local political participation have all suffered as survival took priority.

Economic access remains another unresolved issue. The Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation controls one of the largest municipal budgets in Asia, crossing ₹50,000 crore annually. Over decades, this meant enormous power over contracts, infrastructure and urban growth. Yet critics argue that Marathi participation in high-value civic projects remained limited. While many Marathi families continue to depend on informal trade and small businesses, entry into large-scale contracting and decision-making circles has been difficult.

Language and education reveal a similar contradiction. Marathi pride has been a recurring political theme, but Marathi-medium civic schools steadily lost students. As facilities declined and competition increased, parents shifted toward private English-medium education, seeing it as essential for economic mobility. In practice, Marathi survived as an emotional marker rather than a professional advantage in the city’s economy.

Supporters of the Sena often point to visible development—flyovers, roads, beautification—as evidence of governance. But for many Marathi residents, the more relevant measures are simpler: Can we afford to live near our workplace? Can our children study in good public schools? Can we access stable employment without leaving the city?

Among younger Marathi voters, there is growing scepticism toward symbolic politics. Emotional appeals to history and identity carry less weight when daily life involves long commutes, insecure jobs and rising expenses. Allegations of commissions and insider benefits have only deepened this mistrust.

Mumbai’s changing demography is not accidental, critics argue. It reflects policy choices that prioritised land value over livelihoods and redevelopment over retention. As elections approach, the debate is no longer about who speaks for the Marathi community, but who ensured that the community could continue to live and grow within the city it once defined.