The state of Telangana has done it again—this time, not in information technology, agriculture, or even cinema, but on the global ramp of beauty pageants. The newly crowned Miss World is being proudly claimed as one of Telangana’s own. Social media handles, especially from the state’s PR machinery, are ablaze with congratulatory messages: “Daughter of the soil shines on the world stage!”
But let’s take a closer look.
The winner’s official name is Opal Suchata, born and raised in Bangkok. Her grandfather, one Uppal Rajesham, migrated to Thailand decades ago in search of work. He married a local woman—a graceful Thai lady—settled down, and lived a quiet life. Over the years, his tongue-twisting Telangana surname proved a bit much for the local community. Rajesham morphed into “Rasesam.” And “Uppal” became “Opal.”
His nostalgia for home lingered, though. When his granddaughter was born, he named her “Sujatha”—a familiar and melodious name across Telugu households. But language has a way of adapting. “Sujatha” slowly turned into “Suchata,” and the girl herself—an elegant blend of Thai poise and Indian heritage—grew up as Opal Suchata.
Fast forward to today, and the pageant crown sits pretty on her head. The headlines scream, “Miss World from Telangana!” The fact that she’s never lived in India, let alone visited her ancestral village in Warangal district, is a minor detail conveniently omitted.
But this is not just a celebration; it’s a cultural gymnastics routine. Suddenly, her win is proof of Telangana’s “global soft power,” her poise a testament to “Telugu tradition,” and her elegance supposedly shaped by “values imparted by her Indian roots.” Even the state tourism department is rumored to be drafting a campaign: “From Uppal to the Universe.”
Let’s be clear. Miss World Opal Suchata is a remarkable young woman in her own right. But the attempt to retrofit her identity into a parochial narrative is peak Telangana hyperbole—and perhaps a reflection of our deep hunger for global validation.
In the end, if there’s a lesson here, it’s this: When facts don’t fit, just twist the vowels, change a few consonants—and voilà, international glory becomes local pride.
