An actor-turned-politician, Pawan Kalyan marked one year in office as the Deputy Chief Minister and Panchayati Raj Minister of Andhra Pradesh on June 12, 2025. Known for his unwavering views on nationalism, cultural identity, and the unity of Bharat, Kalyan has increasingly emerged as a prominent nationalist voice from the South. On this occasion, he sat down for an exclusive conversation with Organiser Editor Prafulla Ketkar, speaking candidly on a wide range of subjects – from his personal journey into politics to sensitive and significant issues like temple autonomy, the North-South divide, and the ongoing debate over the three-language formula in education. Excerpts:
Why did you enter politics despite a successful film career? What drove that decision?
I never thought of becoming an actor in the first place. I grew up in a small, lower-middle-class, working-class family. My father, a Government employee in the police and later the Excise Department, was once a Communist in his teens and even went underground along with my uncle. So, political thinking was always part of our family environment.
He was also into fine arts — a theatre actor — so that mix of politics and art was present from my childhood. Politics, political history, and activism were always there in my upbringing. Acting came later, but my core concern was always society.
I’ve always seen myself more as a social actor than just a film star. Even in my film roles, I think I was more of a social activist. That’s how my mind works. The “actor” tag — I embraced it, but politics is where I feel more comfortable. Whatever I take up, I give it my 100 per cent.
How do you see your role as Panchayati Raj Minister, especially after organising over 13,000 Gram Sabhas in a single day? What was achieved through — any tangible outcomes?
My connection to villages is deeply emotional. We once had to sell our native house due to financial difficulty, and that bond with village life stayed with me. Wherever I go, I find villages beautiful — their roots, culture, and relationships remain intact, as long as they’re not urbanised.
With globalisation in the mid-’90s, I saw rural Telangana change — the collapse of its beauty and spirit. I remember the song Palle Kanneeru Peduthundi (“The village is crying”). But even before that song came, I felt the pain. Village life is sustainable, rooted in culture. Even tribal communities live with impressive dignity, using very little compared to urban lifestyles. That’s why, when we came to power, I chose Panchayati Raj — I felt I could genuinely contribute.
“My mother would ask me to pray, and I would — but then cartoons and media would mock what I just did. So I began questioning her beliefs. Thankfully, by 18 or 19, I realised: I shouldn’t mock my dharma”
One moment that shaped me was from 2005, when a farmer in united Andhra Pradesh said on TV, “Earlier, roads were laid for villages. Now, villages are being destroyed for roads.” His land had been taken even before the Land Act came into effect. That hit me hard. I asked myself — what happened to the Gram Sabha?
That’s when the concept seeded in me. I believed any issue could be resolved through a true Gram Sabha. But it had become symbolic — a formality, not a process. So when I pushed for real participation, it was a challenge. But people responded. That’s how we conducted 13,326 Gram Sabhas in one day.
Post Gram Sabhas, we allocated over 30,000 works. The previous Government had ignored village infrastructure — only focusing on pensions and handouts. Roads had collapsed. Through these Sabhas, we took up projects worth nearly Rs 4,800 crore. Despite financial constraints, we pushed forward.
More than just works, we restored confidence. People felt that this Government was willing to listen, willing to act, and willing to walk one step towards them. That, I believe, is the true achievement — making governance participatory again.
You are now being seen as a face of Hindutva in South India — someone who’s giving a strong
voice to it.
I feel Hindutva is a very misinterpreted term. What I’m representing is the entire nation — because it’s about the concerns of the people, the interests of the people. It’s not just about Hindus. It’s about any policy decision — and what Narendra Modi ji or the BJP does right now, I feel, is more relevant to the nation. It is not about Hindutva. It is for the entirety of the country — that’s how I look at it. Maybe, if people perceive me as part and parcel of the Hindu identity, or as representing that — that’s a different dimension altogether.
How do you see this entire issue of controlling temples — or siphoning temple money for some Government activity? You also proposed the idea of a Protection Board, during your Varahi yatra.
It’s a very thin and difficult line. I recall a saying by Chanakya — that siphoning temple money is unforgivable, an act of adharma. Why? Because when people give at temples, they do so with deep karmic intent — either in gratitude or seeking relief from suffering. That offering carries spiritual weight. Touching that money for other purposes invites ruin. Temple funds must be used to improve the temple, benefit devotees. If the Government redirects it elsewhere, that’s a serious issue. That’s why I proposed a Sanatan Dharma Board.
If Waqf Boards exist to protect Islamic properties, why don’t we have a similar body for Sanatan Dharma? It’s been whispered about, but rarely spoken in public. As a political leader, I know it has implications — but I’m not afraid of them. That’s what sets me apart.
In most villages, temple lands existed — but where’s the monitoring? Where’s that income going? The Endowment Board, being a Government body, isn’t fulfilling its duties. There’s a huge gap.
We need a proper regulatory agency — with both Government and private representation, especially dharmic voices: matadhipathis, sants. This isn’t just a State issue — this model should be applied across Bharat. That’s the vision behind the idea of a Hindu Board for temples.
Why are people ashamed to express their cultural identity in Bharat?
I think that’s how we’ve been conditioned. When I was in fourth or fifth grade, my mother would say, “Go to the Vinayaka temple and pray before your exams.” I’d go, pray, and return. But I clearly remember: if I wore a tilak, vibhoothi, or patta, I was mocked — even by fellow Hindu classmates. So from a young age, anything visibly Hindu was ridiculed. We slowly stopped showing it. Not out of shame, but hesitation.
Maybe it was the influence of Communism, atheism, or a distorted idea of secularism. Over time, we were conditioned not to express our faith openly — even though, deep down, most Hindus are sincere worshippers. That contrast confused me.
My mother would ask me to pray, and I would — but then cartoons and media would mock what I just did. So I began questioning her beliefs. Thankfully, by 18 or 19, I realised: I shouldn’t mock my dharma. My father, a devoted man, would wake up during Karthika Masam to do Rama Japam. That’s when I decided — I want to be bold and say, “Yes, I’m a Hindu,” and no one has the right to belittle that.
“If Waqf Boards exist to protect Islamic properties, why don’t we have a similar body for Sanatan Dharma? It’s been whispered about, but rarely spoken in public“
People admire devout Christians or Muslims — “he goes to church,” or “she prays five times a day.” But when it comes to Hindus, we’re treated casually, even within our own families. It’s like we’re expected to be quiet and self-effacing. That mildness has turned into indifference. Today, to be considered “progressive,” you’re expected to be anti-Hindu — and that’s the callousness I cannot accept.
The North–South divide is now extending into the language debate. “Hindi imposition” is a frequent allegation, especially in Southern politics, even though NEP allows a flexible three-language formula. How do you see this?
In school, I studied English, Telugu, and Hindi — three languages. Even in Chennai, I had a Hindi course. So, I honestly don’t understand the issue. It feels more political than practical. Today, when we’re making films or hiring large workforces from Uttar Pradesh or elsewhere, or when people from Srikakulam migrate for work, language is rarely a problem.
The three-language formula is essential for this generation. Learning Hindi helped me access Ramdhari Singh Dinkar’s poetry and other literature. Similarly, learning Tamil helped me too. Not learning is a disadvantage. Denying children the opportunity to learn more is a disservice. What I find ironic is that many political leaders in the South understand and speak Hindi privately — but publicly oppose it. I won’t name them, but I know who I mean.
“People admire devout Christians or Muslims — “he goes to church,” or “she prays five times a day.” But when it comes to Hindus, we’re treated casually, even within our own families”
Language is essential. If you want to run a TV channel and increase your viewership, you subtitle every episode in all languages. Apply the same to cinema. Apply the same to industry. Anyone who owns an industry in southern India wants to sell to the entire nation—so why not learn the language too? Wanting pan-India markets for business but resisting Hindi—that, to me, is a very small-minded thought.
There’s a narrative being played out, especially by your political friends in Tamil Nadu, that Vinayaka or Ganesha is a North Indian God and Murugan is South Indian.
In Tamil, “Pillaiyar” means Ganesh, “teru” means street, in Telugu “vuru” means village. There’s a saying: “In Andhra, there’s no village without a Rama temple. In Tamil Nadu, there’s no street without a Vinayaka statue.” So this whole narrative is a made-up thought process. One should understand the history. One should know the Puranas. Each and every God or Goddess has taken a certain place as their abode. That’s his Kshetra, Murugan, Kumaraswamy, Shankukh or Karthikeya — all names of the same divinity. If you take that aspect seriously, you’ll realise the entire Dandakaranya is in South India. The whole of Bhagwan Rama’s journey happened in Southern India.
In Telugu, there’s a long word we use: Pukkita Purana— it means something people say just for the sake of saying, without any seriousness — basically, ridiculing the Puranas. Now imagine when such careless words and narratives go deep into people’s psyche. That’s where these divisive narratives start getting created. I call it a very simple divisionist narrative. And if it were to be debated honestly — it would be destroyed quite easily. Because to say “this god belongs to that region” or “that god belongs to this region” — is an absolutely radical and baseless argument. It doesn’t hold up to truth or logic.
Watch the full video here:
Given your understanding of geopolitics, how do you see Operation Sindoor playing out? What should politicians and citizens do now?
As a teenager, I felt India had lost its fighting spirit. Too much non-violence made us docile. I used to pray to Hanuman and look at the mace, but in public life, we’re told to wait, to be patient. Somewhere, our courage was drained — through ideology, cinema, books, and culture.
The 2008 Mumbai attacks changed something in me. I was in Varanasi for my father’s last rites. Watching the 72-hour siege, I kept asking — how could they dare to hit us like this? I began wishing for a leader who would restore national spine and self-respect.
That’s why I supported PM Narendra Modi and Operation Sindoor. It wasn’t politics — it came from within. I met the victims’ families. One child, just 11, spoke like a 21-year-old overnight. Violence for its own sake isn’t the answer — but sometimes, a strong reply is necessary. That reply, that stance, instils courage in a nation. That’s how we awaken strength and responsibility.
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