There are leaders who chase power — and then there are those who live for purpose. My uncle, Chandra Shekhar, India’s eighth Prime Minister and the legendary ‘Lion of Ballia’, belonged to that rare breed.
To the world, he was a fiery, fearless statesman who stood tall even when he stood alone. To me, though he was my ‘Tauji’. I called him my Chacha — the man who taught me that integrity isn’t inherited, it’s lived every single day… sometimes even with a steaming cup of over-sweet tea in your hand.
The name born in a jail cell
My name, Rachna, was given by my Chacha during the Emergency — yes, when he was behind bars. Between writing manifestos and debating democracy, he somehow found time to suggest names for his newborn niece.
That was him in a nutshell — even in confinement, his mind was free. He believed that ideas could not be jailed. To him, even something as small as naming a child was an act of creation, of hope — a rachna in itself.
The tea that taught humility
I’ll never forget a mid-80s trip to Ballia. He came to pick me up from school — my strict convent didn’t know what to make of this tall, booming-voiced “local guardian”. We drove in a three-car convoy, accompanied by his friend, Lt. Governor Markandey Singh.
By evening, we stopped at a tiny roadside dhaba run by an old woman. “Amma, sab ke liye chai banao,” he said.
When the tea arrived, I refused politely — I was a boarding school kid, after all. Clean hands, clean plates, no questionable kulhad chai for me! Chacha didn’t say a word. He just praised the amma’s tea with such enthusiasm that I caved. One sip — and I nearly went into a sugar coma. But he only smiled knowingly.
That day, he did’’t lecture me. He just taught me, gently, that true leadership is about dignity — not for yourself, but for others. It was the same humility that made him spend hours with people,
listening, never posturing. Whether it was Parliament or a roadside shanty, he treated every human being with respect.
The donkeys and diplomacy
The journey continued. With us was Lt. Governor Markandey Singh, one of Chacha’s closest friends. Someone asked how we’d know when we reached his village — there were no streetlights, no signs, just darkness and the occasional buffalo.
Without missing a beat, Chacha said, “Simple. You’ll know it’s Markandey’s village when you see donkeys waiting at the entrance!” Everyone burst out laughing. Two hours later, our convoy slowed down. We stepped out — and what do we see? Two donkeys grazing peacefully right at the entrance of the village. I swear I saw Chacha smirk like a magician whose punchline just landed perfectly.
Steven Seagal and the art of confidence
Years later, my cousin and I were watching a Steven Seagal movie at home. Chacha walked in, looked at the LaserDisc cover, and said casually, “Arre, yeh toh mujhse milne aaya tha.”We froze. “Kab? Kahan?” we asked in unison.
He waved a hand, “Bas, kuch time pehle.” And walked away smiling. That was Chacha — effortlessly confident, a man who never needed to prove anything. Whether he was meeting world leaders or playfully convincing his niece that Hollywood action stars sought him out, he carried himself with the quiet assurance of authenticity.He knew that true power never needs to announce itself — it simply is.
The kitchen cabinet (literally)
There were evenings when he’d stroll into the kitchen, declaring, “Aaj main kuch banata hoon.”
The cooks would panic; we’d all gather to watch. Somehow, the results were always edible — often delicious. That was his leadership style too — hands-on, unafraid to get involved, willing to experiment. He never stood apart giving instructions; he rolled up his sleeves and got to work. Whether it was national reform or family dinner, he led from the front.
The Birthday Socialist
He never missed our birthdays. No matter how busy, he’d show up, laughing louder than the kids, distributing cake like he was running a mini-parliament of fairness. Everyone got equal portions — socialism even in frosting! For him, equality wasn’t a policy. It was instinct.
Whether among the powerful or the powerless, he believed every human being deserved dignity, a voice, and a slice of the cake.
The lion and the laugh
Even today, when I think of Chacha, I remember that booming laughter, that larger-than-life spirit.
He was the Lion of Ballia — fierce, fearless, and uncompromising when it came to the truth. But at home, he was just my Chacha — warm, witty, and endlessly kind. He showed me that integrity isn’t a speech; it’s how you live. That humor isn’t frivolous; it’s how you stay human. And that leadership isn’t about titles — it’s about touching lives.
His roar changed politics. His smile changed hearts. And in every chai stall, every child’s laughter, every act of courage — I still hear both.
Author is the niece of the late PM Chandrashekhar and an Independent Consultant.; views are personal
