From Ambassador Cars to Private Jets: The Death of Political Humility
In the summer of 1975, I was a boy fresh out of 9th class in our remote village, nestled deep in the forests of what was then united Warangal district—now fragmented into smaller pieces, with ours falling in Mulugu.
Back then, the world beyond felt distant. Tarmac roads from Warangal ended abruptly at Chalvai; from there to Eturnagaram, it was rough murram, and beyond that, only narrow clay paths wide enough for bullock carts wound through our villages.
Then came the electrifying news: Chief Minister Sri Jalagam Vengala Rao was coming to lay the foundation stone for a minor irrigation project under the Narsimhasagar scheme, just 5-6 km beyond our village, Boru Narsapuram in Mangapet mandal.
The village erupted in frenzy. Workers scrambled to widen and mark those muddy paths with white lime lines, making them passable for the CM's motorcade—a sight we'd never imagined.
Elders drafted a lengthy petition of our grievances, while plans were made to welcome the CM with refreshments served under the ancient neem tree that served as our village's 'rachha banda', the heart of community gatherings.
We boys cared less for politics; our eyes were on the promised sweetmeats.
When the day arrived, in the blistering midday heat, the CM's Ambassador car halted amid the throng. He stepped out graciously, sat beneath that shady neem tree, listened patiently to our people's pleas, accepted the petition, and departed.
Peering through the circle of elders, I saw a Chief Minister up close for the first time—humble, approachable, like any village elder. No pomp, no distance; just a leader among his people.
Looking back, that's what strikes deepest: leaders of that era lived close to the soil. They traveled dusty roads, trains, rubbing shoulders with the common folk. They knew our struggles because they shared our world.
Today, the contrast is stark and sorrowful. Even a lowly ward member struts with imperial airs, while Chief Ministers and ministers soar in chartered jets, insulated from reality. They behave like distant despots, blind to the grit of everyday life.
Why? Because power is no longer earned through trust, but bought with staggering sums — tens of crores splashed in elections, a brazen buying of votes rather than a bond with the people.
Political governments misuse a large contingent of the police force to protect their own, deploying them as personal bodyguards for MLAs and ex-MLAs, ministers and ex-ministers, and MPs and ex-MPs — these personnel mostly serving as errand boys, with a few even acting as "collection" agents — all at the expense of the state exchequer.
In a genuine threat assessment, few would consider these modern political robber barons worth a bullet. Yet they monopolise security resources, leaving ordinary citizens exposed and vulnerable.
And when they treat the entire government as their personal fiefdom — looting public property at will — the misuse of security resources seems almost petty by comparison.
How far we have fallen from those simpler, truer days — days when democracy felt real.
Today we must ask: Are we truly advancing toward a deeper democracy, or merely perfecting a new form of elected despotism — one where power is purchased, not earned, and rulers reign like emperors over a people who have become mere vote banks?