In the misty heights of the Eastern Ghats, at over 3,000 feet above sea level, lies a cluster of villages situated on the Andhra–Odisha border, between Salur Mandal of the erstwhile Vizianagaram district (Andhra Pradesh) and Pottangi block of Koraput district (Odisha), caught in a political tug-of-war.
This is Kotia, a group of 28 villages perched on the fault line between Andhra Pradesh and Odisha—an administrative rift that has widened over nearly a century. What began as an obscure border disagreement has today become a symbol of neglect, identity confusion, and state rivalry, impacting the lives of some of India’s most marginalized people—the Kandi tribal community.
Long before India became a republic, the seeds of this conflict were sown. As per the claim of the Odisha government, before April 1, 1936, the Kotia villages were part of the Jeypore Estate. With the creation of the Odisha Province that year, a gazette notification transferred parts of the Vizagapatnam district—including some villages from the Jeypore Estate—to the new state. However, 21 of these 28 Kotia villages were never properly surveyed. Neither Andhra Pradesh nor Odisha rectified the oversight. When Andhra Pradesh was carved out in 1955, the villages were again overlooked—until minerals like bauxite and graphite were discovered beneath the hills. That changed everything.
The Andhra Pradesh Government claims the disputed Kotia villages on the grounds that, as per British-era notifications (1920, 1923, and 1927), 115 villages—including those now under dispute—were transferred from Pottangi taluk of Koraput subdivision (now in Odisha) to Salur taluk of Parvathipuram subdivision (now in Andhra Pradesh). A 1927 notification explicitly constituted these as a separate Salur Agency, which was later amended in 1928. Furthermore, as per the Gilby Report (1943), a map prepared by Gilby, an official from the Survey and Land Records Department, delineated the boundary between the Madras and Orissa provinces. This demarcation, accepted and ratified by both provinces and the Governor General in Council, placed the disputed villages within the jurisdiction of Andhra Pradesh.
However, in 1968, the state of Odisha filed a suit in the Supreme Court (Original Suit No. 10 of 1968), demanding exclusive control over the villages and accusing Andhra Pradesh of intrusion. The apex court, however, declined to rule on the case, citing Article 131 of the Constitution, which excludes it from adjudicating inter-state boundary disputes. Instead, the Court imposed a status quo and left it to Parliament to decide—a decision that has left the matter in limbo for nearly six decades.
In Kotia, governance is not a right but a tug-of-war. The villagers vote in elections in both states—twice for Parliament and twice for Assembly. They hold ration cards and receive welfare benefits from both Andhra Pradesh and Odisha. On the surface, it may seem like a windfall, but the truth is starkly different. The dual identity has made the villagers invisible in both states, with neither fully investing in development. There are no proper roads, health centers are sparse, and education remains an afterthought.
The fragile peace shattered during the 2021 local body elections. Odisha attempted to block Gram Panchayat elections in the disputed villages, even appealing to the Supreme Court. But the court refused to halt the elections, and Andhra Pradesh went ahead with the polls. Tensions rose when Odisha police physically prevented AP officials and voters from accessing polling stations, citing COVID-19 restrictions. Even so, villagers in Nereduvalasa defied the pressure—223 of them cast their votes for AP’s Zilla Parishad Territorial Constituency (ZPTC) and Mandal Parishad Territorial Constituency (MPTC) elections.
As political visits escalated, both states began laying claims not just through the courts but through concrete action. Odisha’s Collector tried to install a makeshift Jagannath temple in Nereduvalasa. Andhra Pradesh officials countered by promising infrastructure, laying foundation stones for schools, community halls, and health centers. The visits of Andhra Pradesh’s ITDA officials and the then MLA Rajanna Dora reassured some, while incensing Odisha’s leaders.
On August 15, 2021, as the nation celebrated its 75th Independence Day, Kotia felt like two separate countries. Odisha deployed 200 armed police and volunteer forces to prevent AP's celebrations and developmental programs in Pattu-Chennuru. Rajanna Dora was advised to call off his program for safety. Meanwhile, Odisha officials hoisted flags, distributed sweets, and inaugurated facilities—an aggressive assertion of their claim.
In the months that followed, both states launched a development race. AP distributed forest right pattas under the Forest Rights Act 2006 to tribal farmers, conducted welfare outreach, and laid foundation stones for critical buildings. Odisha, meanwhile, continued building roads, distributing house pattas, and holding political meetings. But beneath the competitive development lay deeper fractures. Andhra officials were blocked, slogans of “Go back” echoed, and tribals were caught in the storm of state nationalism.
A poignant moment came when a group of tribals laid a road to Kodama village using funds from the Odisha government. Andhra’s Forest Department stopped them, citing lack of clearance. The same people who had been neglected for years were now being pulled in two directions, their needs weaponized by both governments.
In a rare moment of national introspection, Union Minister Dharmendra Pradhan earlier urged both states to resolve the dispute amicably. He proposed setting up a Joint Working Committee and withdrawing police and political interference—an idea still awaiting political will.
Kotia’s story is not just about disputed land; it is about forgotten people. It is a microcosm of how bureaucratic oversights and political opportunism can steal decades from a community’s future. While Andhra and Odisha continue their contest, the tribals of Kotia remain suspended in uncertainty—governed by none, claimed by all. They ask for nothing more than clarity, dignity, and a place to finally call home. Until then, Kotia remains a land between lines on a map—and a mirror reflecting the cost of unresolved history.
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