Chapter 15: “Jai Andhra Batch”

 

During the time when the “Jai Andhra” movement, was in full swing, I was studying 10th class and writing my final exams. Those of us who wrote the exams that year 1972-73,were called the “Jai Andhra Batch.” Because of that agitation, studies of many students were badly affected as schools were closed for many weeks. Luckily, I somehow managed to passthe exams.

 

A few students, however, lost their lives during the agitation — due to police firing, lathi charges, rallies, hunger strikes, and by getting caught in political manipulations. The youth of that time, especially students, suffered a lot and lost precious opportunities.

 

The years 1972 and 1973 were particularly tough for me. I had to face three types of troubles during that period — my mother’s ill-health, lagging behind in my studies in the Telugu medium, and the “Jai Andhra” movement. So, in this chapter, I’ll tell you about all the three issues.

 

First, let me recall the moment when I was waiting for my 10th class results.

 

Tension — nothing but tension!

 

In those days, school and college results were published in the special edition of newspapers. Even though I had the newspaper, with the results printed on it, I couldn’t dare to look at it. My hands were shivering and I was sweating badly. Seeing my condition, my sister grabbed the paper from my hands.

 

Actually, she also wrote the 10th class exams with me. She had already studied in the same class earlier but repeated it once more to strengthen her basics. So, we both appeared for the exams together that year.

 

When I passed 7th class and moved to the 8th, the new rule of “common exams for 7th class” had just come into force. Once you passed 7th, there was no need to write any public exam until 10th. The 10th class public exam rule was introduced during the tenure of C.M. Sri K. Brahmananda Reddy.

 

After completing my 7th class in Guntur, I joined the Zilla Parishad High School at Nandigama for my 8th to 10th classes. The classrooms roofs were made of asbestos sheets. There were four sections for 10th class. Two sections — A and B — were for students who took Composite Mathematics, and the other two were for those who took General Mathematics.

 

My sister chose General Maths, while I opted for Composite Maths. As I mentioned earlier in the “Belt Master” chapter, Bhupathi Rao Master’s wrath fell heavily on our section but spared my sister’s section. She escaped that tension, but I didn’t.

 

I’ve already shared earlier how I wrote my 10th public exams — especially how I struggled through both Maths papers. My biggest doubt was whether I would even pass in Maths and Hindi.

 

And now, the results were finally out!

My sister pulled the newspaper from my trembling hands to check our numbers. But poor girl — she too was equally nervous!

 

At that time, when the results came, we were not in Nandigama. We were in Visakhapatnam. And  it wasn’t a summer tour for fun — it was entirely for a different reason

 

Mother’s Illness

 

My mother’s health was not good. When we were studying in the ninth and tenth classes, she was mostly bedridden. Our house was a tiled one, with good ventilation and sunlight. Mother used to lie down on the cot in the middle of the hall.

I have already mentioned that my father had a transferable job. With the hope of retiring in Nandigama, he got his transfer there.

 

It was when he was still working in Guntur that my Amma’s health first deteriorated. One day, all of a sudden, she suffered from severe bleeding and dysentery. The illness slowly became serious. At one stage, she would lose buckets of blood. Watching all this, we used to get frightened. Day by day, Amma became weaker. Treatment began, and with medication, she got a little better. In the meantime, we shifted to Nandigama.

However, she never fully recovered. She used to consult Dr. Panduranga Rao, an MBBS doctor settled in our town, and take medicines regularly. Still, she would be fine for four days and then fall sick for the next three.

 

Every day, someone or the other came to visit her. Since we had many relatives in that town, they would arrive after finishing their meals and household chores. They sat and talked for long hours, but their words carried an unsettling weight. Instead of offering comfort or courage, their conversations only deepened her fear.

 

Once, an old lady—around seventy years old, a widow—entered the house crying loudly. In those days, widows wore only plain white sarees, shaved their heads, applied vibhuti or sandal wood paste on their foreheads, and never wore kumkum. They wore only a single thin gold bangle, not the colourful glass bangles that married women wore. Later, after watching movies like Kanyasulkam, I realised that these customs were unfair, but even as a child, I used to feel bad that women had to remove kumkum and bangles after their husband’s death.

 

That old lady entered, crying loudly, saying,

“Oh Rajyam! You were once so full of energy — how did you become like this suddenly?”

 

Another old woman who was already with my mother said,

“Yes, Bullemmō, just last week I came to see her, and now look at her condition, poor thing!”

“I told them, didn’t I? They should have taken her to the city hospital earlier,” said one.

“That’s true,” said the other, “but can we afford that?”

“You’re right — city treatment costs a lot.”

Then another one added,

“Bullemmō, do you know Suramma? She was my distant relative. She had the same illness and passed away recently.”

“Oh really? She used to eat so little — just a handful of rice. Must be some black magic or evil spirit! For such mysterious diseases, what medicine can work? Anyway, how many days has it been since she died? I didn’t even know about it!”

Hearing such depressing talk, my mother used to get even more worried, lying on her cot.

Some people said it was due to evil spirits, others insisted on tying protective threads or applying sacred ash (vibhuti).

 

Even as a boy, I knew that such talk worsened a patient’s mental condition more than the illness itself — but I didn’t have the courage to say it.

There were even people who, while the patient was still in hospital, started discussing what arrangements to make after the person’s death! They would plan everything in advance — as if it were already certain.

No one dared to question them. And even if someone did, they would reply,

“See, once the body reaches home, we can’t keep it for long, right? It’s better to be prepared.”

They would say it with such confidence, as if they were the most experienced and wise people in the world.

That was the kind of wicked mindset some people had in those days.

 

The First Auspicious Event

 

At home, people often said such things, and somehow those words deeply affected my mother. Her health worsened. She began to fear that she might pass away without celebrating a single auspicious event (Shubha Karyam ) in our house. She told my father about it. Both of them thought for a while and decided to perform my elder brother’s Upanayanam (thread ceremony).

Since it was the first auspicious event in our family, it was celebrated with a little grandeur. Thankfully, the illness that had frightened my mother so much disappeared after a surgery in K.G.H Hospital, Visakhapatnam.

After that, she lived happily for about thirteen years.

She saw her children’s marriages, she saw her grandchildren.

After my marriage, when my wife Sridevi became pregnant, Mother was overjoyed. But soon after, she fell ill again and was admitted to a hospital in Vijayawada, where she breathed her last.

Later, a grandson was born. We named him Rajesh, so that her name would live on with us. By Amma’s grace, that boy has been living a happy and blessed life.

The Journey to Visakhapatnam

 

Coming back to the earlier time —Amma’s surgery was done at K.G.H. Hospital, Visakhapatnam. Before that, the doctors at Nandigama had already advised us to shift her to a better hospital.

 

So, we first admitted her to the Guntur Government Hospital, but the conditions there were not good. Following the advice of my younger uncle (Dr. K. Satyanarayana Rao), we hired a car — in those days, that was an unusual thing — and took her to Visakhapatnam.

 

Along with Amma, Nanna, my elder sister, and I also travelled.

 

That was my second trip to Visakhapatnam. The first time was years ago, when we went for my uncle’s wedding — that journey had been so full of fun!

 

All our relatives boarded the train together. Amma and my aunt (pinni) packed rice mixed with gongurachutney, kandipodi, and avakaya pickle, rolled into soft balls and placed lovingly in our hands.

 

The train swayed back and forth, and we too swayed with it, happily eating those rice balls. Those were such fun filled and innocent times!

 

But now, in this journey, the same Amma who once fed us rice balls with her hands was lying weak and silent beside me. I couldn’t stop my tears when I looked at her hands. She was lying on the rear seat of the car, pale and moaning softly.

 

I kept wondering: What exactly happened to her? Will she really recover after we reach Vizag?

These thoughts kept me restless all through the night, until our car reached Visakhapatnam by dawn.

 

 

 

At the K.G.H. Hospital

 

Without wasting time, my uncle got her admitted to the K.G.H. Hospital. It was a huge building — a British-era structure.

It wasn’t like the small hospitals in our village. As we walked inside, I was amazed to see the sight — nurses in white uniforms, doctors with white coats and stethoscopes around their necks, moving hurriedly in the corridors. I felt as if I was watching a movie scene.

 

They operated on my mother. She had stones in her gallbladder. The doctors even showed them to us.

I was surprised — “Stones inside my mother’s stomach? How could that happen?”

 

As a child, I remembered that while cleaning rice, Amma would sometimes accidentally put small mud lumps in her mouth. I strongly believed that those same mud lumps had turned into these stones inside her body!

 

After a week, she was discharged. We stayed at my uncle’s house, and it was there that we received our 10th class exam results.

 

Exam Results and the Sweet Reward

 

My sister was as nervous as I was. Uncle took the newspaper from us to check our numbers.

He first checked under First Class — no, our numbersweren’t there.

Then he checked Second Class — still no.

I began to think, “Looks like uncle has no faith in us at all!”

Then he turned toward us with a smile and said,

“Hey, tell me — what sweet do you both like?”

We were puzzled. Then he announced joyfully,

“You both have passed — in Third Class!”

That was it! For me, it felt as if I had climbed an elephant — I was so happy!

 

If I had been in my hometown then, I would have proudly run into the streets shouting to all my friends that I had passed!

Uncle again asked, “So, what sweet do you want?”

Immediately, I said, “Halwa!”

I already mentioned in the earlier chapter (‘Gorinta Poosindi’ – Part 10) how the sweet vendor in our village used to sell halwa for ten paisa — my favourite sweet since childhood.

I also liked boondi mithai, especially during temple festivals or fairs. Back then, there weren’t fancy stalls like today — just small makeshift mats with trays full of Mysore Pak, Halwa, Boondi, Katte Mithai, Laddus, Gavvalu, and Jilebirolls.

When I said “Halwa”, Uncle laughed and brought me a different kind of sweet made of khova — not the usual khovaballs, but something special.

It tasted wonderful. I ate it happily, though I didn’t even know its name then.

Only after my marriage did I learn from my brother  in-law that the sweet was called Kalakhand!

You might be wondering — “Was he really that innocent?”

Yes, I was! That very day, at my in-laws’ place, I made a strong vow in my heart —

 

“What’s the use of studying MSc in Bombay if I don’t even know what Kalakhand is ? It’s no use! I must change; I must become modern!”

But the truth is — even today, I haven’t changed.

My childhood memories — the food I ate, the movies and plays I watched — they’re still fresh in my heart, untouched by time.

 

I know the world keeps changing. I don’t blame people for that. Society cannot and should not remain still.

 

Yet, as long as I live, I’ll keep circling around those old memories —

That’s just who I am.

 

Seedless Grapes :

 

After my marriage was fixed, I went to my in-laws’ house (my uncle Mannava Giridhara Rao’s place) once or twice more — just casually, as people usually do. One day, my brother-in-law took me to Guntur’s Shankar Vilas Centre. Close by, there was a fruit shop where he bought seedless Grapes.

 

“These are seedless, brother-in-law,” he said.

 

Honestly, I had never eaten seedless grapes before. But instead of admitting that, I replied smartly,

“So what if they have seeds? You can always spit them out, right?”

 

He burst into laughter! Even today, that comment on grapesremains as one of the favourite jokes in my in-laws’ family. What to do — I was caught off guard that day!

 

Anyway, my uncle bought sweets and made our mouths sweet with joy. For me, just passing the exam itself was a big deal — and getting sweets on top of that made me feel overjoyed.

 

In those days, results were not available instantly like now. We had to check them only in newspapers. The pages would be filled with endless columns of roll numbers like lines of ants. When the results were announced, papers like Vishalandhra, Prajashakti, Andhra Prabha, and a few others would release special evening editions.

 

In cities where those papers were printed, they would sell out like hot cakes that very night. For people living in distant towns, the newspapers would arrive the next morning, carrying the much-awaited results.

 

My 10th class results (in 1973) had to be seen in Visakhapatnam — and that too in the next morning’s English newspaper at my uncle’s house.

 

 

 

 Our 10th class batch was no ordinary one. It was the 1972–73 batch, and we studied in Nandigama, close to Vijayawada. At that time, the Jai Andhra Movement was at its peak, with Vijayawada as its main centre.

 

Political parties and student unions were extremely active. Emotions were running high everywhere. In such an atmosphere, we had to prepare for our 10th class public exams. The exams, which were supposed to be held in March, got postponed for about four months — and results came even later.

 

That’s why we proudly used to call ourselves the “Jai Andhra Batch.”

Whenever someone shouted Jai Andhra!, we would instinctively reply Jai Jai Andhra! The slogan itself had a rhythm and spirit that filled us with energy.

 

Our house was on a side street near the main bazaar. Whenever any big leader came to town, announcements would be made through loudspeakers fitted to cycle rickshaws. Activists would march through the streets shouting slogans — “Jai Andhra! Jai Jai Andhra!”

 

Naturally, even children at home, including us, would start chanting the same without knowing what it truly meant. That was the atmosphere when I finished my ninth class and entered the tenth.

 

 

Why 10th Class was so Important

 

For any student, 10th class marks are crucial. If you scored well, you could even get a job without higher studies. Even otherwise, the 10th certificate remained valuable throughout life — for education, employment, and as a proof of birth.

 

We understood its real importance only later. Even now, I have preserved my 10th class certificate carefully. After more than five decades, it looks as old as an aged person — wrinkled, faded, and slightly torn, resting quietly in a corner of my cupboard.

If you ask whether my marks were great — not really! Especially in Mathematics and Hindi, I scored less. Still, I managed above 50 marks in most subjects. Yet, even now, I feel shy to show my 10th certificate.

 

Whenever I think of that certificate, the Jai Andhra movement immediately comes to mind.

 

Jai Andhra Meetings and my Interest in Speeches

 

In our town, Gandhi Centre was the hub for all kinds of meetings. Every evening, there would be one meeting or another. Through the loudspeakers, the speeches of political leaders could be heard even from our house.

 

As soon as we heard them, we would rush to the venue with excitement.

Though I didn’t understand politics at that age, I was fascinated by the way leaders spoke — their expressions, gestures, and style.

 

That observation later helped me develop an interest in mimicry.

 

One of my relatives, Komaragiri Krishnamohana Rao, a Jana Sangh leader, used to deliver powerful speeches. I was greatly impressed by him. I would even imitate him at home —

“Just think once! How are the conditions of Andhra people? Place your hand on your heart and think once again…”

That’s how his speeches used to go.

 

During that time, young leaders like Vasantha Nageswara Rao also gained popularity, while Kakani Venkataratnam and Tenneti  Viswanatham and some other leaders played key roles in the movement.

 

No one knew when rallies would start, when hunger strikes would happen, or when tension would arise. Suddenly, the police would intervene, and sometimes even firing incidents took place.

 

 

 

Between Movement and Studies:

 

Well, the movement went its way, and we went on ours.

Since exams were postponed, books went back to the shelves. Movies and outings increased. If our parents asked, we would simply say, “Exams are not now anyway!”

 

Some among us, however, used that extra time wisely — studying hard. We used to tease such people, calling them “bookworms.”

 

Still, it’s not that our batch neglected studies entirely. We used to dedicate some time for it. Our group would gather at my house and study together from 7 p.m. onwards. Around 9 p.m., we would go out for tea, and by the time we returned, everyone at home would be asleep. In short, we would get back only after the entire household was quiet.

 

That little bit of study helped us in the end to get through the10th exams.

 

Thank God — the danger had passed! Then began the discussions at home about which college to join next. But that story, I’ll save for another day.

 

Jai Andhra and the Film World

 

The Jai Andhra movement also affected the Telugu film industry.

At that time, I didn’t know much about it. But years later, while working for Andhra Prabha, I used to browse through old newspapers in the library and found several press statements issued by actors like Krishna, Gummadi, and Chalam.

 

People said that hero Krishna made a bold statement during that period — a move that reflected his strong political views. While searching on the internet recently, I once again came across articles about that time, and I was surprised at how politically aware Krishna actually was.

 

What I read left me quite impressed.

 

The political awareness within actor Krishna made him actively participate in the Jai Andhra Movement. In a press statement, he mentioned that the movement, which began for the creation of a separate Andhra State, was “a rare and historic event in India’s political history.”

 

He declared,

 

“All the people of Andhra have come together on one platform, speaking in one voice. This is a people’s wave — no power on earth can stop this wave.”

 

Not stopping at that, Krishna even undertook a fast in support of the movement.

 

The then-famous heroine Anjali Devi too responded. In a statement released to the press, she condemned the violence unleashed against the agitators. Paying homage to those who sacrificed their lives, she wrote,

 

“I offer my tears as a tribute to the brave souls who laid down their lives in this struggle.”

 

Even Chayadevi, who was known mostly for playing bold or tough characters on screen, was deeply moved by what she witnessed. In a newspaper statement, she wrote:

 

“The entire Andhra region has turned into a battlefield. Many of our brothers are falling to the bullets of the Central Reserve Police Force and the military. Sisters like Mahalakshmis are losing their mangalsutras. Many mothers have lost their sons. My heartfelt sympathies to those families.”

 

She appealed directly to the then Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, urging her to fulfill the demand of the Andhra people and immediately end the bloodshed.

 

Hero Chalam and actress Sharada issued a joint statement, saying:

 

“When living together, in a joint family, becomes impossible due to differences, it is better to live separately with peace of mind rather than being together with constant conflict.”

 

They also announced financial assistance to the families of those who had died in the agitation.

 

Another popular heroine, Jamuna, also expressed her anguish. Deeply disturbed by the police firing incidents, she suspended screenings at her own Alankar Theatre in Guntur for some time, and announced this through the press.

 

Veteran actor S.V. Ranga Rao too made an appeal — through a newspaper statement addressed to the then President V.V. Giri — requesting him to respect the sentiments of the Andhra people and to stop the ongoing violence.

 

Some film personalities openly stated, while others hinted through their movies, that when differences reach the breaking point, separation is better than forced unity.

 

In fact, the song “Telugu Jaathi Manadi, Ninduga VeluguJaathi Manadi” (Ours is the Telugu Nation, a bright, gloriousTelugu Nation) from the 1970 film “Talla-Pellama?”  was said to reflect N.T. Rama Rao’s inner feelings during that period.

 

Time, as they say, heals all wounds. As one film lyricist once wrote —

“Kaalam Maruthondee,

Chesina Gayalu Manputundee” means..

 “Time changes, and it slowly heals even deep wounds.”

Similarly, the Jai Andhra Movement too gradually came to an end.

 

Just as that movement had a strong impact on me during my student days, decades later, my son Rajesh too felt the heat of a similar struggle — the Telangana Statehood Movement — while he was studying engineering in Hyderabad.

 

Buses were being set on fire, rallies filled the streets, unrest spread everywhere, and hunger strikes were happening almost daily.

In the midst of all that turmoil, he had to travel to college and continue his studies.

 

Eventually, with the formation of Telangana State, that movement too reached its conclusion.

Now, we have two Telugu-speaking states.

These days, media channels often begin their reports with the phrase “In the two Telugu States…” — a reminder of how history has shaped today’s identity.

 

Footnote: The Jai Andhra Movement

The Jai Andhra Movement took place during 1972–73 in the Andhra region. It was an agitation for the creation of a new state consisting of Coastal Andhra and Rayalaseema regions of Andhra Pradesh.

It came to an end with the introduction of the Six-Point Formula.

 

The movement started after the Andhra leaders became furious over the High Court and Supreme Court upholding the Mulki Rules in Telangana. This led to widespread protests in Andhra, and the Jai Andhra agitation began.

 

In September 1973, the government announced a Six-Point Agreement, and Prime Minister Indira Gandhi assured the people of Andhra that the region’s development would be given due attention.

 

To recall the sequence —

After the creation of Andhra State from the state of Madras , the Visalandhra Movement took place, leading to the linguistic reorganization and formation of Andhra Pradesh.

Later, the Mulki Rules Movement in Telangana caused unrest among the people of Andhra, which ultimately gave rise to Jai Andhra.

 

Tensions reached a peak. The police opened fire to suppress the protests. On November 21, thirteen people died in police firing in three separate incidents. In Vijayawada, during December, another 23 people were killed in firing.

 

Among those who died were many innocent bystanders — people who had simply stepped out for some work.

Even today, remembering those incidents brings tears to the eyes.

 

The agitation left thousands injured, some permanently disabled, and lakhs of youth saw their future derailed.

 

New leaders emerged during that time — some rose to great political heights, some became legendary figures, and some later faded away.

 

For me, the Jai Andhra Movement remains unforgettable —

because it not only shaped my understanding of politics and society,

but also left a deep mark on my student life and my educational journey.

 

                                                      

*******