metro india news  I hyderabad

In the glitzy lanes of Jubilee Hills, where luxury meets the grit of urban slums, an unlikely electoral showdown is unfolding: the battle for the hearts—and votes—of auto rickshaw drivers. As Telangana's ruling Congress and opposition Bharat Rashtra Samithi (BRS) gear up for the constituency's polls, both parties are pedaling furiously to woo this vital voter bloc, turning humble three-wheelers into symbols of political one-upmanship.

It all kicked off a few days ago when Transport Minister Ponnam Prabhakar ditched his official convoy for a hands-on thrill: he slid behind the wheel of an auto rickshaw, navigating Hyderabad's chaotic traffic while emphasising Congress's pledge. "We are committed to giving ₹12,000 annually to auto drivers," 

Prabhakar declared, his voice cutting through the honks. This wasn't mere photo-op fodder; it signaled the imminent rollout of a welfare scheme aimed at easing the drivers' financial crunch, a promise from the party's manifesto now inching toward reality.

Not one to be outmaneuvered, BRS fired back yesterday with star power. Former ministers K.T. Rama Rao and Harish Rao, powerhouses of the pink party, crammed into autos like everyday commuters, chatting up drivers about their daily grind. "Free buses have wrecked auto drivers' livelihoods—they're hitting the road to ruin," Harish Rao lamented, slamming Congress's flagship transport initiative as a double-edged sword that slashes fares but starves informal workers. KTR, ever the social media maestro, amplified the ride on X, framing it as genuine empathy over empty rhetoric.

Congress countered with flair. Minister Seethakka, flanked by State Women's Co-Operative Development Corporation Chairman B Shobha Rani hopped into an auto for a joyride through Jubilee Hills' bustling bylanes. "The government will resolve auto drivers' problems," Seethakka assured, weaving in tales of broader poverty alleviation drives. Her ride, a vivid tableau of solidarity, underscored Congress's narrative: from freebies to financial lifelines, they're the ones delivering.

Jubilee Hills, often synonymous with Tollywood glamour, hides a stark underbelly—sprawling bustees teeming with thousands of auto drivers whose votes could tip the scales. Their woes? Soaring fuel costs, fierce competition from subsidized buses, and a daily hustle for survival. Both parties' stunts—politicians literally riding shotgun—have injected drama into the campaign, sparking memes and murmurs: Is this heartfelt outreach or calculated choreography?

As the dust settles on these wheeled escapades, the real test looms. Will Ponnam's promises pull ahead, or will BRS's critique steer the wheel? Auto drivers, the unsung accelerators of urban life, hold the key. In this "auto politics" frenzy, Jubilee Hills isn't just voting—it's revving up for change.