Published Apr 04, 2026 | 3:09 PM ⚊ Updated Apr 04, 2026 | 3:09 PM
Chandrababu Naidu. Credit: x.com/ncbn
Synopsis: Even now, in 2026, the pattern repeats with comic predictability. Naidu “yet again” admits he pressured the Centre on this or that Telangana issue, then drops the casual bomb: “Telangana is my brainchild.” One can almost hear the collective eye-roll from Karimnagar to Mahbubnagar.
In a moment of vintage Chandrababu Naidu brilliance, the man who once went on a hunger strike to abort Telangana has now declared it his “brainchild.”
Yes, the same brain that midwifed Cyberabad, fathered the IT boom, and then spent years treating the Telangana demand like an unwanted pregnancy. Ladies and gentlemen, meet the political obstetrician who tried to strangle the baby in the delivery room and is now demanding a paternity test with a straight face.
Let us rewind the Naidu family album, shall we? Back when Telangana was still a loud, unruly toddler throwing stones and organising bandhs, Naidu’s Telugu Desam Party was the strict uncle insisting the child must remain under one roof. In 2013, while students immolated themselves and activists fasted unto death, Naidu parked himself in Delhi for an indefinite hunger strike—not for Telangana, but against it.
The man who once claimed in a 2008 letter that his party’s politburo had endorsed separation (Congress gleefully waved that letter like a paternity suit) suddenly discovered that dividing Andhra Pradesh would turn coastal deltas into deserts. He warned of Godavari dams, water wars, and apocalyptic famine.
The same visionary who sold “Swarnandhra” dreams to the world was now prophesying that Telangana’s birth would leave the rest of the state sucking its thumb.
It was classic Naidu theatre: one part melodrama, two parts realpolitik. TDP had smelled the wind shifting. KCR’s TRS was turning the statehood cry into a mass movement. So Naidu did what Naidu does best—he performed a political somersault so graceful it would make Olympic gymnasts weep.
By late 2012, the party that had threatened to pull down the NDA government over Telangana suddenly discovered “historic necessity.” Manifesto promises were made, foot marches undertaken, and the great flip-flop artist of Indian politics positioned himself as reluctant godfather. The baby was coming whether he liked it or not. Better to claim credit than be caught holding the forceps upside down.
And what of those deeds the Telangana faithful still recite like battle hymns? The police lathi-charges on Osmania University students, the tear-gassing of protesters, the midnight arrests, the water cannons on women and children—Naidu wasn’t Chief Minister then (Congress held that honour), but his TDP was the loudest voice in the “United Andhra” choir.
When the Srikrishna Committee report landed like a damp squib, Naidu’s party line was clear: delay, deflect, dilute. Every time Telangana activists marched, TDP leaders could be found in television studios explaining why “emotional integration” was more important than emotional aspiration. The brainchild, it seemed, needed a good thrashing before it could be acknowledged as family.
Fast-forward to 2014. The baby is born. Hyderabad stays with Telangana. Naidu becomes Chief Minister of the residual Andhra Pradesh and immediately sets about proving that the child he opposed was actually his all along. “Who built Cyberabad?” he thundered during 2018 roadshows in Hyderabad, as if Microsoft had landed because of his personal WhatsApp group.
He posed beside the very skyscrapers that had become symbols of Telangana’s economic grievance during the movement. The man who once feared Telangana would bankrupt the rest of the state was now claiming its gleaming IT towers as proof of his paternal genius.
It was like the father who locked the teenager in the basement for years suddenly showing up at the graduation ceremony demanding the valedictorian medal.
Even now, in 2026, the pattern repeats with comic predictability. Naidu “yet again” admits he pressured the Centre on this or that Telangana issue, then drops the casual bomb: “Telangana is my brainchild.” One can almost hear the collective eye-roll from Karimnagar to Mahbubnagar.
The same leader who once warned that bifurcation would be a disaster now insists he was the silent architect. It is the political equivalent of a man who spent nine months trying to convince his wife to get an abortion showing up at the baby shower with a “World’s Greatest Dad” mug.
Let us be fair. Naidu did build Hyderabad into a tech powerhouse during his 1995-2004 reign. He did lure global giants. He did lay the roads that Telangana’s protesters later marched on. But that is precisely the delicious irony. The very development he takes credit for became the strongest argument for separation—Telangana felt it was feeding the golden goose while getting only feathers in return.
Naidu’s “brainchild” succeeded so spectacularly that half the family demanded a divorce. And when the divorce finally happened, he treated it like a personal bereavement—until election season arrived and the ex-spouse’s house looked electorally tempting again.
This is Naidu’s greatest talent: turning every political U-turn into a victory lap. He opposed Telangana, then supported it, then opposed the way it was done, then claimed credit for its existence, and now calls it his baby. It is not hypocrisy; it is performance art. Other leaders change parties. Naidu changes entire histories. He doesn’t rewrite the past—he Photoshop it, adds a filter, and posts it as his family portrait.
So the next time Chandrababu Naidu claims Telangana as his brainchild, Telangana should perhaps send him a polite thank-you card. Something like: “Dear Appa, thanks for trying to stop us from being born. We turned out fine despite you. Love, the child you never wanted but now want to adopt for votes.”
After all, what is politics if not a dysfunctional family reunion where everyone claims credit for the kids they once tried to disown? And in that grand Telugu soap opera, Chandrababu Naidu remains the evergreen star—ever the doting father, ever the reluctant midwife, and always, always the man who knows exactly which way the wind is blowing before he pretends he summoned the breeze.
(Views expressed here are personal.)
