Of late, Indian politics seems to have discovered a curious new science: the art of the impossible comparison. Leaders, cutting across party lines and ideological spectrums, appear convinced that the surest way to sway the public imagination is not through careful planning, grounded policy, or measurable outcomes—but by invoking grand metaphors, global benchmarks, and cultural icons that stretch reality to the point of farce.
In this age of viral soundbites and headline-hungry news cycles, governance is increasingly packaged like a movie trailer. The bigger the promise, the louder the applause—at least for the first 24 hours. What follows later, when the dust settles and the fine print is examined, is often a quieter, less glamorous conversation about feasibility, funding, and follow-through. But by then, the comparison has already done its job.
Take, for instance, the once-famous promise by former Andhra Pradesh Chief Minister Nara Chandrababu Naidu to turn Hyderabad into “the next Singapore.” At the time, it raised eyebrows, sparked jokes, and inspired genuine debate. But if one strips away the rhetorical flourish, the underlying idea was not entirely absurd. Singapore, in political shorthand, has long been a symbol of efficient governance, urban planning, and world-class infrastructure. Naidu’s comparison was aspirational—an attempt to project a vision of global standards in roads, IT corridors, and civic amenities. One could argue, fairly, that parts of Hyderabad’s transformation in the IT and infrastructure space did reflect that ambition. The metaphor, while bold, had a discernible policy backbone.
The problem arises when such metaphors become copy-paste templates, stripped of context and substance, and deployed merely for applause. Enter the modern trend of “festival inflation,” where every local event, fair, or regional celebration is suddenly compared to something of civilizational magnitude.
The recent claim by Telangana Chief Minister A. Revanth Reddy about elevating the Medaram tribal festival to the scale of the Kumbh Mela is one such example that has left many scratching their heads. Not because Medaram lacks cultural or spiritual significance—it most certainly does—but because the comparison itself betrays a misunderstanding of what these two events represent in India’s cultural and civilizational landscape.
The Kumbh Mela is not merely a festival. It is a once-in-many-years convergence of faith, mythology, and mass participation on a scale that few human gatherings in history can rival. Rooted in ancient belief, tied to celestial alignments, and drawing millions from across India and beyond, it is as much a civilizational phenomenon as it is a religious one. It operates in the realm of collective Hindu consciousness, where ritual, pilgrimage, and myth intersect with logistics, governance, and international attention.
Medaram, on the other hand, is deeply local, intensely rooted in the tribal traditions of Telangana’s Mulugu forests. Its beauty lies in its intimacy, its connection to specific communities, and its grounding in regional history and folklore. To compare it to the Kumbh is not to elevate Medaram—it is to misunderstand both. It is like comparing a classical raga to a rock concert and insisting they should draw the same crowd because both involve music.
This habit of rhetorical overreach, however, is hardly confined to one party or one state. Across the political aisle, leaders have developed a fondness for turning every policy initiative into a “world’s biggest,” “India’s first,” or “global model” moment.
Remember the era when every new infrastructure project was going to make an Indian city “the next Shanghai,” “the next Dubai,” or “the next Silicon Valley”? Airports, riverfronts, smart cities, and even municipal parks were marketed with the same international benchmarks, as if geography, history, population, and economic structure were minor inconveniences rather than defining realities.
On the national stage, too, grand comparisons have become a favourite rhetorical device. One prime minister speaks of making India a “Vishwaguru,” a teacher to the world. Another promises “acche din” that will rewrite economic destiny. A third envisions bullet trains that will shrink a continent-sized country into a commuter belt. Each phrase has its own poetic charm, its own emotional appeal. But the danger lies in mistaking metaphor for roadmap.
Even opposition leaders are not immune. Welfare schemes are described as “revolutions,” administrative reforms as “new freedom struggles,” and election victories as “second independence.” The vocabulary of nation-building is borrowed generously, sometimes carelessly, to dress up routine political activity in the robes of historical destiny.
There is, of course, a reason this works. India is a country that responds deeply to symbols, stories, and shared cultural memory. A leader who can tap into that emotional reservoir can command attention far more easily than one who talks about budget allocations and implementation timelines. But symbolism, when overused, begins to lose its power. When every scheme is a revolution, no scheme truly is.
The irony is that these exaggerated comparisons often do a disservice to the very things they invoke. By casually name-dropping Singapore, Kumbh Mela, Silicon Valley, or global superpowers, politicians reduce complex, historically rich entities into mere marketing slogans. They flatten nuance into noise.
What gets lost in this process is the quieter, more meaningful work of governance—the unglamorous tasks of improving primary schools, fixing rural healthcare, streamlining local administration, and ensuring basic infrastructure actually functions. These achievements rarely lend themselves to poetic metaphors, but they shape lives far more concretely than any grand comparison ever could.
Perhaps the time has come for a new political fashion: the art of the honest promise. Imagine a leader standing at a podium and saying, “We will not turn this city into Singapore, but we will ensure clean water, reliable public transport, and functional streetlights.” It may not trend on social media, but it might just build trust.
Until then, the spectacle continues. Every riverfront will be a “global icon,” every festival a “world’s largest,” every policy a “game-changer.” And the public, armed with experience and a healthy dose of skepticism, will keep listening—half in hope, half in humor—wondering where aspiration ends and absurdity begins.
Because in the grand theatre of Indian politics, the comparisons may grow bigger, the metaphors bolder, and the promises louder. But reality, stubborn as ever, remains refreshingly unimpressed.
