Bhandaru Srinivasarao
January 18, 1996 –
At dawn, as the train pulled into Renigunta station, I woke up to find many passengers preparing to disembark at Tirupati. On the adjacent berth, former minister and Telugu Desam Party leader Muddu Krishnama Naidu and my journalist friend M.S. Shankar were still fast asleep. Shankar, deeply devoted to the Tirupati deity, had initiated this trip, a journey he made once or twice a year.
The previous night on the train had been spent chatting with Muddu Krishnama Naidu. He had generously offered to arrange anything we needed for the temple visit, but we assured him that everything was already planned.
In my bag was a compact transistor radio, a gift from BHEL during a press conference. I turned it on as the 6 a.m. English news broadcast from Delhi began. Suddenly, the newsreader announced: “Here is a flash news. Andhra Pradesh’s former Chief Minister N.T. Rama Rao is no more. According to our Hyderabad correspondent, Pavani Vijayalakshmi…”
For a moment, I froze. Numbed by the news, I couldn’t comprehend how this was possible. Just the day before, NTR had addressed the press, and I had reported on it. There had been no signs of ill health. Could it be true?
The announcement came from All India Radio’s National Bulletin. As the train halted at Renigunta station, I woke Shankar and Naidu to relay the shocking news. Hearing it, Naidu began beating his chest, wailing, “I have become an orphan.” Shankar dashed out to grab a newspaper, but the headlines only mentioned NTR’s press meet—no word of his demise. The platform buzzed with routine activity, unaffected by the breaking news, which seemed to have surfaced too late for the day’s papers.
Naidu’s gunman, alarmed by his grief, rushed to his side. We disembarked from the train, burdened by the weight of the tragic announcement. Around us, life at the station went on as usual.
At the temple, the atmosphere was serene, and our darshan was swift due to prior arrangements. Yet, when we emerged, the world had changed. Tirumala was shutting down. Shops and hotels were closing, and the streets began to empty. We returned to Tirupati by taxi, only to find the town in mourning. NTR’s photos were displayed at intersections, draped in black flags. The streets were deserted, with all shops and vehicles absent.
Determined to file news reports to as many as half a dozen outlets—including Mid-Day, Sunday Observer, Blitz, Gulf News, and Outlook—my colleague MS Shanker and I headed to the Information Center, where our friend Subhash Goud worked. Although the office was officially closed, Subhash helped us gain access. Shanker quickly typed out four reports, and Subhash arranged for someone to escort us to the main post office to send them via fax. The post office was also closed, but after some convincing, we were allowed inside to send the updates.
Hunger struck once our work was done, but every hotel we approached was shuttered. Subhash’s aide led us to a small restaurant with its shutters down. Through the back door, we entered and found only a single plate of sambar rice available. We accepted it gratefully, treating it as prasadam.
By evening, we boarded our reserved train to Hyderabad. The train was eerily empty, and we feared potential disruptions. Thankfully, we reached home without incident.
Upon arrival, my wife informed me that I had received several urgent calls, including one from Rosaiah garu early in the morning. She had explained to him that I was in Tirupati.
The rest is history. Following the democratic restoration movement, NTR returned as Chief Minister—a victory I was privileged to broadcast to the world. Yet, fate didn’t allow me the honor of announcing his passing.
