Just when you thought the Kalvakuntla family had exhausted its stock of political drama, in comes K. Kavitha with her latest one-woman show: “Jagruti is as powerful as BRS.” If this were a comedy special, it would be sold out in seconds. But alas, it’s just another tired episode in the long-running soap opera titled “The Family That Thought It Was Telangana.”
Let’s give credit where it’s due. Kavitha did indeed bring cultural festivities like Bathukamma into the limelight, reviving a tradition that was more forgotten than forgiven. She wrapped it up in pink party colours, called it Telangana pride, and sold it as Jagruti — the so-called cultural wing of the BRS. But now, claiming that Jagruti is equivalent to the BRS is like saying the tail wags the dog. Or worse, that the tambourine player in the orchestra is running the symphony.
The move reeks of desperation. After all, the BRS — formerly TRS, formerly a movement, now a fallen dynasty — has been reduced to a family WhatsApp group with party flags. After their humiliating ouster by the Revanth Reddy-led Congress, the Kalvakuntla clan has been scrambling to stay relevant. So, enter Jagruti — Telangana’s new saviour? Or just Kavitha’s Plan B now that Plan A is under investigation?
To be fair, this isn’t the first time Indian politics has seen “cultural wings” being used as ideological smokescreens. Remember the PWG’s Digambara Kavulu and Jana Natya Mandali? Militant poetry, songs of the oppressed, revolutionary dance-dramas — all floated to sell a violent ideology wrapped in lyrical muslin. Now here comes Jagruti, with all the poetry but none of the revolution, trying to resuscitate a family empire that’s politically comatose.
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Let’s talk about that empire for a moment. In nine years of unchecked power, K. Chandrashekar Rao transformed a state movement into a private limited company — Kalvakuntla & Sons. The CEO: himself. COO: his son K. T. Rama Rao. CFO: nephew Harish Rao. Corporate Communications: daughter Kavitha. HR Department: Two more nephews in the Rajya Sabha. And somewhere in the boardroom, 30-odd family members allegedly entangled in scams, schemes, and shady deals — from irrigation contracts to liquor policy, from e-Formula races to phone tapping.
Telangana’s version of the House of Cards was less about cunning and more about entitlement. KCR wanted to play the Nizam minus the crown but with full zamindari rights. And like the Nizam’s court, sycophancy was rewarded and dissent was exiled. The family ruled not like elected leaders, but like nobles — complete with their own patronage networks, silken hypocrisies, and selective memory.
So, when Kavitha thunders through the media circuit that her Jagruti is just as potent as BRS, it’s not a declaration of political strategy — it’s nostalgia. A throwback to a time when a Kalvakuntla surname guaranteed you a Cabinet seat, or at the very least, a Council berth through the back door.
Of course, it helps that some media houses — either out of boredom or borrowed loyalties — are amplifying this hollow threat as if it’s the Magna Carta. “Kavitha’s Letter to KCR Rocks BRS!” scream the headlines. As if this father-daughter drama is anything but scripted. If this is journalism, we owe a national apology to giants like Potturi Venkateswara Rao and Gajjala Malla Reddy, who must be rolling in their graves at the mockery of reportage now parading as prime-time news. And to ABK Prasad — a living legend — who, despite age and frailty, continues to contribute professionally, on and off, from an old age home.
What’s worse is the assumption that the Telangana voter is still stuck in 2014. That they will once again fall for folk songs, flower festivals, and family melodrama. But Telangana isn’t the backward outpost it once was. Literacy is up, awareness is higher, and the public mood is less forgiving. People have had a taste of what family rule looks like — and they’re not ordering seconds.
The Congress government may have its flaws, but for now, it has the moral upper hand. It has opened judicial probes, summoned KCR and KTR for questioning, and signalled that the age of impunity is over. Even if accountability is slow, the symbolism is sharp.
So let’s not kid ourselves. Jagruti is not a cultural revolution. It’s political necromancy. And if the Kalvakuntla family thinks it can resurrect its fortunes with poetic threats and nostalgic narcissism, then they’re in for a rude awakening. The next Assembly polls — and even the local body elections — will likely deliver the final verdict.
In the end, Jagruti may bring Bathukamma songs to the stage. But as far as the electorate is concerned, it’s already curtains for this performance.
