Empathy from Telangana History
Walking in the Shoes of People from Different Eras — Struggles & Triumphs
History is not just dates and dynasties. It is the laughter of a potter’s wife, the sweat of a farmer lifting water from a Kakatiya tank, the fear of a mother during a siege, the hope of a young girl carrying Bathukamma. Empathy is the historian’s most human tool – the ability to step into another’s life, across centuries and social divides, and feel what they might have felt. Telangana’s long journey offers countless portals for empathy: from the stone‑age hunter by the Godavari to the Dalit woman in the Telangana Rebellion, from the Kakatiya soldier defending Warangal to the weaver of Golconda’s famed muslins. This article invites you to listen to their silent voices.
Why Empathy? It Humanizes the Past
Empathy transforms names on a page into living, breathing people with desires, pains, and joys. It makes history a conversation, not a lecture.
When we understand why a peasant revolted or a woman chose a certain path, we stop seeing them as “primitive” or “alien” – we see fellow humans.
The struggles of landless labourers in 1946 echo in the lives of today’s migrant workers. Empathy for the past enriches empathy for the present.
Imagine a farmer named Mallayya in the fertile lands near present‑day Warangal. The Kakatiya king Ganapati Deva has just built a massive tank – Pakhal Lake – to capture monsoon rains. Mallayya’s village is assigned to maintain a section of the bund. His family contributes grain as tax, but the tank means a second crop of paddy each year. His wife grinds millet at dawn; his children chase birds from the fields. Mallayya’s feet are cracked from the plough, but after harvest, he offers coconuts to the village goddess. He never sees the king’s court, but he sings a folk song about Rudrama Devi’s bravery. His triumph is simple: his family eats two meals a day. His struggle: unpredictable rains, land disputes, and the ever‑present tax collector.
Meet Lakshmamma, a Dalit woman in a village near Nalgonda. Her family is tied to a landlord (doralu) under the vetti (forced labour) system. She works the landlord’s fields from sunrise to noon – without pay. Only after that can she tend her own small plot. If she refuses, her hut is burned. Her daughter is taken to the landlord’s house as a maid – likely to be abused. Lakshmamma has no papers, no school, no clinic. Her only healer is the local vaidya. Yet she maintains a small tulasi pot at her doorstep. Her triumph: the birth of a healthy son, a neighbour sharing extra roti, the monsoon arriving on time. Her struggle: dehumanizing labour, caste violence, no escape. In 1946, she will join the Telangana Rebellion, but for now, she endures.
Imagine being born a princess, but your father has no son. You are trained in sword and horse, in administration and diplomacy. At 14, you are crowned Rudradeva Maharaja – using a male name. Your courtiers whisper: “A woman cannot rule.” You face rebellions from your own nobles. You ride into battle, pregnant. You issue land grants in your own name, and slowly, the whispers fade. You defeat the Yadavas of Devagiri. Your daughter inherits after you. You die leaving a stable kingdom.
Zahara Begum sits on the floor of a cramped room in Old Hyderabad, rolling beedis (hand‑rolled cigarettes) from 5 AM to 9 PM. She earns 30 paise per 100 beedis. Her husband is a daily wage labourer. She has rolled beedis since she was nine, her fingers stained brown with tobacco. She never learned to read. But she sends her son to a Madrasa, hoping he will become a cleric and escape poverty. Her triumph: her children do not go hungry. She has a small savings chit for her daughter’s wedding. Her struggle: chronic cough, back pain, exploitation by contractors, no sick leave. She has never seen Golconda Fort, though it towers a mile away.
Boppanna is a master sculptor from a village near Palampet. For twelve years, he has carved black basalt into dancing maidens, mythical yalis, and lotus medallions. The temple is dedicated to Lord Shiva. His son learns to hold a chisel at eight. They are paid in grain and land, but their real reward is seeing the temple grow. One day, a visiting prince asks: “How do you make the stone look soft?” Boppanna smiles and shows his hands – calloused, scarred, but precise. His triumph: his art will stand a thousand years (Ramappa is now a UNESCO World Heritage site). His struggle: constant dust, risk of a mallet slipping, no fame – his name is not carved anywhere.
Abraham is a Jewish gem polisher working in a small workshop outside Golconda Fort. He came from Persia, attracted by the legendary diamond mines of Kollur (present‑day Nalgonda district). He sits hunched over a wheel, grinding a rough stone for weeks – one wrong move, and a fortune is lost. He handles diamonds that will become the Kohinoor, the Hope Diamond. But Abraham will never own a diamond. His pay is just enough for a room and bread. He hears rumours of a great diamond being cut for the Mughal emperor. He never sees the final jewel. His triumph: his skill is respected. His struggle: the anxiety of working with stones worth more than his lifetime earnings.
Nayaka Nagayya is a commander in Prataparudra’s army. For months, the Delhi Sultanate’s forces have surrounded the outer fort. Food is running low. He sees his fellow warriors die from catapult stones and trebuchets. Inside, he hears a traitor has opened a gate. The king offers to surrender – Nagayya begs to fight. But it is over. The royal family is captured. Nagayya escapes into the forest, living as a hermit, haunted by the faces of fallen comrades. His triumph: he once held a sword for his land. His struggle: survivor’s guilt, loss of purpose, the end of an era.
Podiyal is a Gond elder from the forests of present‑day Komaram Bheem Asifabad district. His people have ruled this land for generations under the Sirpur‑Chanda Gond dynasty. His son is a warrior in the Gond army, fighting off Maratha raiders. Podiyal knows every stream, every medicinal root. He performs rituals to Persa Pen (the clan deity). He watches as new settlers clear forest for farmland. He fears that his grandchildren will forget Gondi language. His triumph: his kingdom still stands, autonomous. His struggle: ecological change, cultural erosion, pressure from lowland kingdoms.
Mallu is a 17‑year‑old boy from a landless family. He has joined the Communist Party’s armed squad after the police killed his father. He learns to use a country‑made pistol. He distributes pamphlets in his village, urging peasants to stop paying vetti. One night, the Razakars attack his hamlet. He hides in a well while his neighbours are killed. After the Indian Army’s Police Action (1948), he expects the government to redistribute land. But the rebellion is suppressed by 1951. Mallu surrenders, spends two years in prison. Later, he works as a daily labourer. His triumph: he saw his landlord flee. His struggle: the revolution he dreamed of never came.
Ravi is a 19‑year‑old from Karimnagar, studying in Hyderabad. He faces discrimination in college placements – “Andhra candidates get preference,” he is told. He joins the Telangana JAC protests. One afternoon, police open fire on a rally near the university. His friend falls next to him, dead. Ravi carries the body to a hospital, his shirt soaked in blood. He leaves college, becomes a full‑time activist. For 45 years, he attends meetings, goes on hunger strikes. In 2014, at age 64, he finally sees Telangana formed. His triumph: statehood. His struggle: decades of waiting, lost youth, the memory of a dead friend.
What Walking in Their Shoes Reveals
After travelling through these lives – farmer, queen, sculptor, soldier, rebel, student – certain truths emerge:
- Struggle is universal, but its shape changes. A Kakatiya farmer feared rain; a Nizam‑era bonded labourer feared the landlord; a modern IT worker fears layoffs. Fear and hope are constants.
- Triumph is often small, not epic. Most people’s victories are not battles or legislation – they are a child’s laughter, a good harvest, a roof that doesn’t leak. Empathy corrects the historian’s bias toward “great events.”
- Powerlessness is a different kind of pain. Rudrama Devi could issue decrees; Lakshmamma could not even complain. Yet both experienced loneliness and the weight of expectations.
- Unheard voices often carry wisdom. The Gond elder knew sustainable forestry before the term existed. The beedi roller understood supply chains better than any economist. Empathy makes us better listeners.
Empathy does not mean excusing violence or romanticizing poverty. It means recognizing the full humanity of people who lived before us – with all their complexity, contradictions, and quiet dignity.
Practical Ways to Cultivate Historical Empathy
- Read primary sources like letters, diaries, and folk songs. These are closest to raw experience.
- Visit historical sites and pause. At Golconda Fort, don’t just take photos – sit on a wall and imagine a sentry on a cold night.
- Seek oral histories. Talk to elders in your family or village. Record their memories of the Nizam’s time, the 1969 movement, or the 1948 Police Action.
- Read literature and poetry from the era. Telangana’s folk songs (Oggu Katha, Bathukamma patalu) carry the emotions of ordinary people.
- Avoid presentism. Do not judge the past by today’s moral standards alone. Understand the constraints people lived under.
History without empathy is a dry chronicle of dates and battles. But when we walk in the shoes of a Kakatiya farmer, a Qutb Shahi jeweller, a Nizam’s bonded labourer, or a Telangana activist, the past becomes a living, breathing companion. We realize that their joys and sorrows are not so different from ours. The tools have changed – bronze replaced stone, computers replaced ploughs – but the human heart remains. Telangana’s history, like all histories, is finally a collection of one billion small lives. Empathy is the key that opens that door.
The next time you hear a historical name – Prataparudra, Rani Rudrama, Nizam Osman Ali Khan, KCR – remember that behind each name, thousands of anonymous people lived, loved, feared, and hoped. Their triumphs and struggles are part of who we are. To honour them, we need not erect statues; we need only listen – with an open heart.
- P. Sundarayya, Telangana People’s Struggle and Its Lessons (contains oral testimonies)
- Oral history archives: The 1948 Hyderabad Police Action – interviews by M. Ramchander
- Folk songs of Telangana – Janapada Geyalu (Telugu Academy)
- Cynthia Talbot, Precolonial India in Practice (includes translation of a woman’s inscription)
- J. D. B. Gribble, A History of the Deccan – for colonial empathy attempts
- Autobiographies: The Memoirs of Hyderabad by Nawab Mirza (Nizam’s court)
- Accounts of the Golconda diamond trade: Tavernier, Travels in India
- Modern empathetic fiction: Jalpita (Telangana peasant novel), Kala Venkat Rao’s poetry
Empathy is not sympathy – it is understanding without necessarily agreeing. It is the act of standing in another’s place and saying, “I see why you felt that.” In a world of sound bites and polarized debates, historical empathy is a quiet form of revolution. It makes us slower to judge and quicker to connect. And that is perhaps the greatest gift history can give.
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