Bhandaru Srinivasa Rao
“One wonders why the language of our politicians keeps sinking lower every day,” said Dr. P. S. Gopalakrishna, former Director of All India Radio, over the phone one morning.
A gentle, sensitive man, he would lose sleep over a single inappropriate word slipping into a radio broadcast. Imagine, then, his anguish today—listening to the reckless and coarse language hurled about by our politicians on television channels. He lamented that people no longer know the difference between words that may or may not be said. But what could he do? He belonged to another era—an era that seems almost extinct now.
Yet even in earlier ages, the line between decency and depravity was tested. In the Treta Yuga, when Ravana abducted Sita and held her captive in Ashokavana, he said, “Why waste your life pining for Rama? You don’t even know if he’s alive. Say yes, and I will make you my queen, offering pleasures beyond imagination.”
Sita, in dignified contempt, placed a blade of grass between them, signaling that in her eyes, Ravana was worth no more than that straw.
By the Dvapara Yuga, the erosion of decorum had taken a new form. In the royal assembly, Duryodhana shamelessly gestured to Draupadi to sit on his lap. Bhishma, Drona, and other elders closed their eyes and ears in mortified silence.
And now, in the Kali Yuga, the fall has become freefall. Values collapse at an unstoppable pace. The distinction between right and wrong speech has vanished entirely. When everyone nods in approval, who even notices the difference?
In the past, poets were so conscious of propriety that they would write in their prefaces: “I have composed this work avoiding impropriety and adhering to propriety.” Even the possibility of using an unfit word worried them. That humility and self-awareness have now disappeared.
The great poets once knew exactly where to charm and where to strike. Even while portraying evil, they preserved grace in language.
There’s a famous tale from the Vijayanagara court. Once, in Tenali Ramakrishna’s absence, King Krishnadevaraya posed a riddle to the court: “Kunjara yoodhambu doma kuththuka jochchen.” None could solve it. Curious about Tenali’s response, the royal priest Tatacharya sent a gatekeeper to ask him. Tenali mischievously offered a coarse, even vulgar completion. Tatacharya and Bhattumurthy fumed and complained to the king.
When summoned, Tenali offered another version—this time an elegant, poetic one.
“Ranjana chedi Pandavulari,
Bhanjanulai Viratu kolvu paalairakata!
Sanjaya! Vidhi Nemandunu,
Kunjara yoodhambu doma kuththuka jochchen!”
The king burst into applause: “Bravo, Ramakrishna! Your wit cuts sharp on both sides.”
The story reminds us that words have power—to elevate or to degrade. Some words may sting the ear and jar the tongue, while others can convey the same meaning with refinement. Director Jandhyala once demonstrated this brilliantly in a film—implying vulgarity without uttering a single obscene word.
True, live television poses challenges in editing what is said. But replaying such language endlessly only amplifies it, exposing impressionable audiences to toxicity they should never hear. Here, the media’s irresponsibility far outweighs the politician’s fault. Controlling it would serve society far better than merely condemning political rhetoric.
Once, during a TV debate, a party spokesperson told me candidly, “Our leader has instructed us—not to spare anyone, journalist or analyst. Argue hard and assert our stand.” No leader in his right mind would say such a thing. Whether the spokesperson spoke out of ignorance or intent, if true, it disgraces his leader more than his opponents.
If you cook rice without sifting out the tiny pebbles, you’ll only end up cracking your teeth. Remove them, and the rice tastes fine. Even unlettered villagers know this simple truth. Yet, our modern politicians seem blind to it—or pretend not to see it. That is the real tragedy.
Today, words like “moral right,” “sincerity,” and “the public is watching” have become hollow slogans. The first two have vanished entirely from party politics. If only politicians remembered the third—the public truly is watching—it would do wonders for their image, their parties, and democracy itself.
Among that “watching public” are not just party loyalists or die-hard admirers, but countless apolitical citizens who neither follow nor understand politics. To remember this would serve every political party better.
As generations change, the present mocks the past. The young dismiss elders as outdated and irrelevant. Yet it is from such youth that tomorrow’s leaders, thinkers, poets, and writers emerge. Their sense of civility shifts with the times, while the older generation stands by helplessly—unable to speak, unheard even when it does. The conflicts and distortions bred by this generational gap now permeate every sphere of society.
It is therefore essential that every stakeholder—politicians, journalists, analysts, and citizens alike—reflect on their role responsibly. They must resist the lure of unhealthy sensationalism. The media, especially, must learn to balance excitement with restraint, and uphold its duty of truthful, dignified reporting.
Let us end where we began—with good and evil. They were born alongside creation itself. The challenge is not that they coexist—it is that we have forgotten how to tell them apart.
