KTR says Revanth Reddy turned Telangana into ATM for Indian National Congress.
Accusations fly as Reddy’s leadership faces trust deficit in Telangana.
A staggering sum whispered in political corridors—allegedly offered to a family, not just a party.
The accusations landed like stones in a still pond, sending ripples through the political landscape of Telangana. On a Sunday that should have been about rest, K.T. Rama Rao—KTR, as he is known to millions—stood before the public with a charge that cut to the heart of the state’s political soul. The Chief Minister, he claimed, had turned Telangana into nothing more than an ATM for the Congress party’s high command in Delhi.
The words were sharp, deliberate, designed to wound. But behind the political theater lay a deeper, more human narrative—a story of trust, of promises made and broken, of a people’s hard-earned money and where it truly goes.
KTR was responding to something that had reportedly been said in a speech, words that now echoed through the corridors of power. The Chief Minister, it was alleged, had made an extraordinary offer—that if any member of the Gandhi family faced financial instability, the Congress workers of Telangana stood ready to arrange a staggering sum: one thousand crore rupees. The number was almost incomprehensible, a figure that represented not just money but the collective contribution of millions of ordinary people—farmers selling their produce, teachers drawing their salaries, small shopkeepers paying their taxes.
The former minister’s voice, even through the cold medium of a written statement, carried a sense of betrayal. He spoke of the “state’s wealth being transferred” and “Telangana’s self-respect being pawned on the streets of Delhi.” These were not just political slogans; they were the laments of someone who had helped build the dream of a separate state, who had promised the people that Telangana’s resources would belong to Telangana’s children.
There was something painfully familiar in this accusation. Across India, in countless states and countless elections, the same story plays out—the tension between regional aspirations and national party machinery. For the people of Telangana, who had fought hard for their own state, the idea that their money might be flowing northward to the capital felt like a wound reopened.
KTR didn’t stop at the alleged offer to the Gandhi family. He painted a picture of a government that spoke with forked tongue. When it came to the 420 promises made to farmers, to women, to youth, to employees and retired employees, the government claimed poverty—not a single rupee to spare. And yet, in just two years, the state had somehow managed to incur a debt of three lakh crore rupees. The mathematics didn’t add up, and KTR pressed the point with devastating simplicity: where had the money gone? Not a single brick laid for development, he claimed. Public money, meant for public benefit, diverted into darkness.
This is the human core of political corruption—not just the abstraction of embezzlement, but the real-world consequences. The farmer who was promised loan waivers, still waiting. The young woman who hoped for job opportunities, still unemployed. The retired employee, counting on timely pensions, growing anxious. Behind every unfulfilled promise is a human being, adjusting their life around a hope that never materialized.
Then came the allegations about land—always the most visceral issue, because land is home, identity, survival. In the name of beautifying the Musi river, KTR claimed, the houses of the poor were being targeted. The lands of tribal communities in Lagacharla, lands that held generations of memories, were allegedly being taken. Even the Hyderabad Central University, a temple of learning, was not being spared. The mention of the “Anumula Brothers” and the HILT Policy painted a picture of systematic looting, industrial lands being grabbed under the cover of policy jargon.
For the ordinary citizen reading these allegations, the emotions are complex. There is anger, certainly. But there is also a weary sadness—a feeling of being trapped between political factions that seem equally capable of betrayal. The BRS accuses the Congress of looting; the Congress, in turn, has its own accusations against the previous BRS government. In this endless cycle of charge and counter-charge, the common person wonders: who truly speaks for me?
KTR’s final words carried a call to vigilance, a plea to the people to watch closely as their hard-earned money was allegedly diverted and their state’s future pushed into darkness. It was a classic political appeal, but beneath it lay a genuine question that every citizen must ask: where does my money go? The taxes paid by the auto driver, the small trader, the government clerk—do they build roads and schools and hospitals in Telangana, or do they travel in bags to Delhi, to secure positions, to protect power?
In the end, this is not just a political story. It is a story about trust—the fragile, essential bond between those who govern and those who are governed. When that trust is broken, when people begin to believe that their state has become an ATM for distant leaders, something precious is lost. And rebuilding it takes more than denials and counter-accusations. It takes transparency, accountability, and the simple, difficult work of proving, every day, that public money serves the public good.
As Sunday turned to Monday in Hyderabad, the accusations hung in the air. And in homes across Telangana, families sat down to their meals, wondering if the leaders they had voted for remembered that behind every rupee of tax money was a human being, working, hoping, trusting.