M S Shanker
Today marks the 100th birth anniversary of Korlipara Balagangadhara Tilak—KB Tilak garu to those who knew him closely—one of the finest, yet most understated sons of the Telugu film industry. A fearless filmmaker, a committed social reformer, a freedom fighter, and above all, a principled human being, Tilak garu belonged to a generation that lived its convictions rather than advertised them.
Born on January 14, 1926, Tilak was known in cinema circles as a no-nonsense director—one who never bent, even while working with towering legends such as N. T. Rama Rao and Akkineni Nageshwar Rao. Once widely respected and deeply admired, it is unfortunate that today’s generation barely remembers this iconic filmmaker, who consistently chose substance over spectacle and integrity over convenience. While many may no longer be familiar with his work, he left behind a body of meaningful cinema that includes films such as Dharma Vaddi, Kolleti Kapuram, and Bhoomi Kosam.
I count myself fortunate to have known him personally—almost accidentally—during my early years as a journalist. Despite the wide generation gap between us, Tilak treated me not as a junior but as an equal. He generously encouraged my fledgling journalistic instincts, often complimenting my limited talents with a warmth that only a secure, large-hearted man could offer.
One of the most memorable phases of our association was when he enthusiastically joined me in conceptualising a weekly news video magazine inspired by India Today’s Newstrack. This was at a time when digital media in India was still in its infancy. He not only believed in the idea but, more importantly, believed in me. With the support of a senior colleague from All India Radio, Bhandaru Srinivasa Rao, we even managed to produce a few episodes of the programme, aptly titled “Spandana”—a name that perfectly reflected Tilak garu’s own philosophy of responsiveness and empathy.
When funding issues arose, and a potential financier attempted to hijack the concept, Tilak showed the true measure of his character. As a deeply self-respecting man who valued professional ethics, he refused to pressure anyone or compromise journalistic integrity. Even my own stubborn independence—some might call it arrogance—which ultimately derailed the project, never became a point of regret for him. He respected conviction, even when it came at a cost.
Beyond ideas and ideals, Tilak was unfailingly generous with his time and presence. Despite his stature, he volunteered wholeheartedly to support me during my stint as Press Club Secretary, helping organise major events and lending them credibility simply by being there. With no trace of ego, he introduced me to some of Telugu cinema’s greatest character actors—Gummadi Venkateshwar Rao, Prabhakar Reddy, Vijaya Nirmala, and others—often over simple, unpretentious gatherings at the Film Nagar Club.
To me, Tilak was also a true secular warrior, deeply committed to people-to-people friendship beyond borders. His efforts to foster goodwill between India and Pakistan—including leading a delegation there—reflected his lifelong belief that humanity must triumph over hostility. Regrettably, I could not be part of that delegation, a missed opportunity that remains one of my enduring personal regrets.
His quiet involvement in my life continued through some of my most significant milestones. When I launched my second entrepreneurial venture, www.mana-mlagaru.com, unveiled by the then Vice President Krishnakant garu, Tilak stood by me through every logistical anxiety—from arranging seating on the dais to calming nerves amid last-minute uncertainties over the Chief Minister’s presence. I still remember his insistence that all VVIP chairs on the dais be of equal stature—an instinctive expression of his egalitarian values. Though I overruled him in deference to protocol, the moment revealed his deeply ingrained belief in equality.
He was equally enthusiastic during my wedding reception in Secunderabad, attended by several distinguished guests, including N. Chandrababu Naidu garu and other senior leaders. His presence was not ceremonial—it was familial.
Tilak’s life itself reads like a chapter from modern Indian history. Born in Denduluru, West Godavari, to freedom-fighter Korlipara Venkatadri, he was drawn early into the freedom movement, participating in the Quit India Movement and enduring imprisonment in Rajahmundry Central Jail. He later worked with Congress Radio, participated in Praja Natya Mandali, and remained ideologically engaged all his life.
His cinematic journey—from assisting L. V. Prasad, navigating Bombay’s film world, to directing his last film Dharma Vaddi in 1982—was marked by experimentation, courage, and conviction. He passed away in Hyderabad in September 2010, leaving behind not just films, but a legacy of integrity.
As I remember Tilak garu today, on his centenary year, I feel not sorrow but gratitude—gratitude for having known a man who lived without pretence, gave without expectation, and stood firm without bitterness.
Such people do not merely pass away.
They endure—in memory, in values, and in the quiet lives they touched.
KB Tilak lives on.
