Amid court challenges and fervent debates in Hyderabad’s assembly halls, the district notifications unveiled reserved wards, compelling many to relinquish their bids as novices claimed the stage.
Published Sep 29, 2025 | 12:00 PM ⚊ Updated Sep 29, 2025 | 12:00 PM
File photo of voters in Telangana. (Supplied)
Synopsis: The State Election Commission ignited a firestorm with the Telangana government’s order instituting a 42 percent reservation for Backward Classes in local bodies. Dubbed the “reservation tsunami” by villagers, it reshaped the political terrain, submerging longstanding aspirations while elevating fresh voices.
In the verdant lowlands of Khammam district of Telangana, the crisp air of late September 2025 carried the scent of impending change as the gram panchayat elections approached.
Slated for early December by the State Election Commission, the polls had ignited a firestorm with the government’s latest Government Order on 25 September, instituting a 42 percent reservation for Backward Classes (BCs) in local bodies. This pushed the cumulative quota — encompassing Scheduled Castes (SC) and Scheduled Tribes (ST) share — to an unprecedented 67 percent, overriding the traditional 50 percent limit and honouring the Congress’s 2023 manifesto.
Dubbed the “reservation tsunami” by villagers, it reshaped the political terrain, submerging longstanding aspirations while elevating fresh voices. Amid court challenges and fervent debates in Hyderabad’s assembly halls, the district notifications unveiled reserved wards, compelling many to relinquish their bids as novices claimed the stage.
Suresh, a determined 27-year-old SC youth from the Madiga community in Sathupalli village, stood at the crest of this wave. With a diploma in agriculture and a passion for community upliftment, Suresh had spent months mobilising the dalit basti — organising health camps, advocating for scholarships, and promising solar-powered streetlights.
“I’ve walked these paths barefoot; now I’ll pave them,” he’d proclaim at evening gatherings, his youthful energy drawing nods from elders. Unmarried and unburdened by the Panchayat Raj Act’s two-child norm, Suresh eyed the sarpanch seat with quiet resolve.
When the reservation lists arrived via the mandal office, jubilation erupted: His ward, formerly general, was now reserved for SC candidates under the bolstered quota. “This is our nod from fate,” Suresh beamed to his sister over a hurried call, his voice laced with triumph.
The policy’s embrace had propelled him forward, transforming a distant dream into a tangible ticket aboard the political express.
Contrastingly, Linga Reddy embodied the undertow’s casualties. A robust 55-year-old from the Reddy caste in Enkoor mandal, Linga had farmed his ancestral lands for years, his broad shoulders bearing the weight of village leadership aspirations.
He sought the upa-sarpanch position to push for better irrigation and fair land distribution, leveraging his network of fellow landowners. “Trust is earned in the fields, not handed by quotas,” he’d argue at the chai stall, distributing seed packets to curry favour.
However, the new reservation “tariff” — as locals wryly termed the expanded quotas — struck like lightning. His segment, once open, was reassigned to BC women, leaving Linga adrift.
“How can a stroke of pen erase my legacy?” he vented to Yellaiah, an SC labourer and longtime acquaintance, beneath the village peepal tree.
Yellaiah, 58, with his weathered hands and sage demeanour from the Mala subgroup, offered empathy. Himself eyeing a reserved SC ward, Yellaiah reflected, “The tide turns, brother; yesterday’s shore is today’s sea.”
For Linga, the loss stung deeply, forcing him to pivot to behind-the-scenes support for a general-category ally, his ambitions beached by the policy surge.
In the weaving clusters of Wyra, Vanaja represented the buoyant newcomers. A 39-year-old BC widow from the Goud community, Vanaja managed a small poultry farm while nurturing her two children — a teenage son and daughter, Indira, an 18-year-old aspiring teacher.
Adhering to the two-child stipulation that disqualified those with larger families, Vanaja qualified for the BC women’s reserved seat in her hamlet. “I’ve clawed through hardships alone; politics can’t be tougher than life,” she asserted at the self-help group, her resolve hardening like clay in the kiln.
Indira, inheriting her mother’s tenacity, helped craft speeches and posters, turning their modest home into a campaign hub. “Nanna, this quota is our bridge to tomorrow,” Indira said, her eyes sparkling with possibility.
Vanaja’s entry invigorated the womenfolk, who rallied for sanitation drives and skill centres, marking her as a fresh passenger on the political locomotive.
Deeper in the agency areas of Aswaraopeta, Rajesh Naik, a 31-year-old ST innovator from the Koya tribe, harnessed the ripple effects. Armed with a forestry certification and a venture in bamboo crafts, Rajesh targeted a reserved ST council seat.
“The old tracks led nowhere; this wave charts new routes,” he shared with Suresh at an inter-village meet, their camaraderie bridging divides. Rajesh’s outreach included eco-tourism pitches and tribal welfare forums, injecting vitality into stagnant debates.
As nomination deadlines loomed, the countryside thrummed with realigned fates. Suresh filed his papers amid cheers, his SC nod a beacon for the marginalised. Linga Reddy, sidelined by the tariff’s toll, found solace in mediation roles. Yellaiah stepped up cautiously, his chance a quiet victory. Vanaja and Indira’s alliance symbolized renewal, while Rajesh fueled progressive sparks.
The reservation tsunami had ravaged entrenched hopes, compelling veterans like Linga to disembark as upstarts boarded. In Telangana’s agrarian soul, where policy’s currents clashed with custom, the elections heralded evolution: From the flood, equity’s seeds might sprout, fostering a more inclusive voyage ahead.
(Edited by Muhammed Fazil.)
