The summer of 1996 remains etched in my memory for many reasons. I had just completed my Class X board examinations and was trying hard to recover from another disappointment: India’s exit from the ’96 Cricket World Cup after the heartbreak at Eden Gardens. At that age, an idle mind was dangerous territory, so I buried myself in books. My father would regularly check out stacks from the school library, and I consumed them endlessly through that long summer.
Those afternoons in Tamil Nadu were unforgivingly hot. Playing outside was often impossible, and with only two television channels available at home, television became the default escape. My parents had refused to subscribe to cable TV because I was in Class X, so Doordarshan was almost the entire universe of televised content available to me.
At the time, Doordarshan was dominated by news broadcasts and campaign material for the upcoming General Elections and the Tamil Nadu Assembly elections. Looking back, I realize how politically insulated I had been until then. Having grown up largely within a school campus environment, the churn around Mandal politics had barely touched my consciousness. Reservation policy would not personally affect me for another two years, so I had no strong ideological framework through which to view politics.
What I did know was that my father was deeply anti-Congress, which surprised me because his extended family had historically supported the Congress party. My grandaunt had even hosted Indira Gandhi at the family home whenever she visited southern Tamil Nadu.
Like many middle-class Indians of that era, I also carried a simplistic assumption: that anyone who spoke English fluently must naturally be intelligent and therefore capable of being a good political leader. Yet, strangely, I never fully absorbed the worldview of the English television media of that period. Even as a teenager, I could sense the strong biases in the presentation styles of figures like Prannoy Roy, Rajdeep Sardesai, and Barkha Dutt.
I remember being irritated by what felt like a consistently hostile tone toward Atal Bihari Vajpayee and Lal Krishna Advani during televised debates. As a teenager watching from the outside, much of what Vajpayee and Advani said sounded reasonable and coherent to me. Yet the supposedly sophisticated anchors often treated them dismissively, something I never fully understood at the time.
Local political coverage on Doordarshan was limited and rarely confrontational toward the state government. By contrast, public sentiment against the Tamil Nadu government led by J. Jayalalithaa between 1991 and 1996 was intense. Allegations of corruption were widespread, and the extravagant public display of wealth associated with Jayalalithaa and V. K. Sasikala generated enormous resentment.
What stood out most, however, was that the loudest and most influential voice against Jayalalithaa at the time was not Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam or M. Karunanidhi. It was Rajinikanth.
Riding the immense popularity of blockbuster films such as Annamalai, Baashha, and Muthu, Rajinikanth had become more than just a film star. His speeches against the government carried enormous emotional and political weight. Sun TV and the DMK machinery leveraged his popularity extensively during the campaign.
I vividly remember one particular episode from that election season. Rajinikanth had returned from a trip to the United States sometime in April, and his arrival in Chennai became a media spectacle. He appeared with a completely shaven head, and almost overnight countless fans across Tamil Nadu imitated the look. The excitement in the air was impossible to miss. Streets echoed with songs from Muthu, Annamalai, and Baashha.
As with today, election campaigning was required to end 48 hours before polling day. Yet Sun TV aired Rajinikanth’s now-famous interview on the eve of voting, creating a major controversy. The interview produced several memorable lines. Rajinikanth sharply criticized Jayalalithaa and mockingly referred to the government as “JDMK” rather than ADMK. In another moment, when an emotional fan expressed anger toward actor Mansoor Ali Khan for criticizing Rajinikanth, he calmly advised the fan to remain respectful and tolerant of differing views.
That election was also personally memorable because it was the first time I visited a polling booth. My grandmother was too frail to walk independently, so I accompanied her and helped her cast her vote. For a teenager, it felt like witnessing democracy from up close for the first time.
Nearly thirty years have passed since then. In all those decades, I have felt genuinely excited about politics only twice: once during 2013-14, in the lead-up to Narendra Modi being declared the BJP’s prime ministerial candidate, and then briefly again in 2021 when K. Annamalai became the Tamil Nadu BJP president.
People may disagree strongly with Annamalai’s politics or ideology, but his charisma and ability to connect with ordinary voters are difficult to dismiss. Even many of his critics acknowledge the effectiveness with which he presents facts and arguments in public discourse.
Today, I sense among BJP supporters in Tamil Nadu a mood somewhat similar to what existed during Rajinikanth’s political moment in 1996. There is visible anticipation around Annamalai’s return from the United States, even though nobody outside the party leadership truly knows what plans Narendra Modi and Amit Shah may have for him. Officially, he is simply another BJP karyakarta. But for many BJP supporters in Tamil Nadu, he represents something much larger: perhaps the last remaining political hope for a meaningful alternative in the state.
