Erode Venkata Ramasamy, affectionately called Periyar, was not just a political figure—he was a revolutionary who dared to shake the very foundations of caste, religion, and linguistic dominance in Tamil society. Yet, today, his name is often dragged into political debates by those who either misunderstand or intentionally distort his legacy for their own gains. The recent remarks by BJP leader Nirmala Sitharaman, questioning why the DMK reveres Periyar despite his alleged criticism of Tamil, reek of political opportunism rather than a genuine engagement with his philosophy. The claim that Periyar dismissed Tamil as a “barbaric language” is not only taken out of context but is also an attempt to divide people by reviving old wounds. The DMK, despite being the torchbearer of Dravidian politics, often finds itself caught in this web of contradictions, struggling to balance its political compulsions with the radical ideals Periyar stood for.

The controversy surrounding Periyar has resurfaced at a time when Tamil Nadu’s educational future is being fiercely debated under the National Education Policy (NEP). The BJP accuses the DMK of misleading students, but isn’t it ironic that the party in power at the Centre, which talks of unity in diversity, cannot accept the existence of an independent, proud linguistic identity in Tamil Nadu? Meanwhile, Naam Tamilar Katchi’s leader, Seeman, has now turned Periyar into a punching bag, cherry-picking old statements to brand him “anti-Tamil.” It is both amusing and tragic to see people conveniently forgetting the broader context of Periyar’s statements while weaponising his words for their own political ends.

For over half a century, Tamil Nadu has been shaped by Dravidian politics, with the DMK and AIADMK ruling supreme. Both owe their ideological roots to Periyar’s Dravidar Kazhagam (DK), the movement that sought to dismantle Brahminical supremacy and push back against the forced imposition of Hindi. But let’s be honest—after decades of Dravidian rule, how much of Periyar’s vision has actually materialised? Caste-based discrimination still persists. The Self-Respect Movement successfully encouraged people to drop caste-based surnames, but has Tamil society truly rid itself of caste hierarchies? Have we truly embraced Periyar’s radical call for social equality, or has his ideology been reduced to convenient political rhetoric?

Uncomfortable questions need to be asked. Did Periyar target Brahmins just to empower Other Backward Classes (OBCs) while neglecting Dalits? Was his Dravidian ideology inclusive enough? Did he, in his fight against Aryan cultural hegemony, compromise Tamil identity? These are questions often raised by Dalit intellectuals and Tamil nationalists who are now reevaluating his contributions and shortcomings. The AIADMK, once a powerful offshoot of Periyar’s anti-Brahmin movement, is now a shadow of its former self. The chaos following Jayalalithaa’s demise has left the party leaderless, with factional fights stripping it of its ideological backbone. Tamil Nadu’s political future seems uncertain, and Periyar’s grand vision of social justice and rationalism feels more like an abandoned dream than a living reality.

To truly understand Periyar, one must go beyond the political posturing and historical revisions. Born in 1879 in Erode, he was a man ahead of his time—speaking Tamil, Telugu, and Kannada fluently, renouncing his caste surname in 1929, and earning the title ‘Periyar’ (the revered one) for his fearless social reform. He wasn’t just against Brahmin domination—he was against any form of oppression, be it based on caste, gender, or religion. His Self-Respect Movement, launched in 1925, was radical because it encouraged people to question everything—tradition, faith, power structures. To him, blind faith was enslavement, and reason was the only path to true freedom.

Periyar’s defiance extended to religion and patriarchy. He openly criticised the Sanskritization of Tamil culture, questioning why wedding ceremonies had to be conducted in a language foreign to the masses. He pushed for women’s rights, advocating for birth control, widow remarriage, and gender equality—ideas that were almost unthinkable at the time. His demand for an independent Dravida Nadu, though unrealised, was less about separatism and more about resisting North Indian hegemony.

His political journey saw him joining the Indian National Congress in 1919, only to walk away in 1925 when he realised that it largely served Brahmin interests. His participation in the Vaikom Satyagraha, where he was imprisoned for opposing caste-based discrimination, showed his unwavering commitment to social justice. His travels to Europe and the Soviet Union from 1929 to 1932 influenced his socialist leanings, shaping his call for a casteless, rationalist society. Taking over the Justice Party in 1939 and later forming Dravidar Kazhagam in 1944, he laid the foundation for what would eventually become the DMK under C.N. Annadurai in 1949.

Periyar wasn’t just a politician—he was a force of nature. He challenged the very structures that dictated social hierarchy. His call for self-respect wasn’t just about caste—it was about liberating oneself from irrational traditions and oppressive power dynamics. Yet, today, his legacy is being selectively interpreted, often by the very political forces that claim to uphold his values.

To his detractors, he is seen as a divisive figure, a separatist, an opponent of Hinduism. But let’s set the record straight—Periyar’s critique wasn’t about faith itself but about how religion was used to maintain social hierarchies. He didn’t reject Tamil identity—he wanted it free from the shackles of Brahminical dominance and cultural imposition. The fact that Tamil Nadu celebrates his birth anniversary as ‘Social Justice Day’ speaks volumes about his enduring influence.

Yet, as much as Tamil Nadu takes pride in Periyar, the reality is that caste oppression continues in new forms, and political parties have turned his ideology into a mere campaign slogan. Has the Dravidian movement truly honoured Periyar’s vision, or has it simply used his name for electoral gains? The stark inequalities that still plague Tamil society, the dilution of his rationalist ideals, and the moral bankruptcy of today’s Dravidian politics suggest that his work remains far from finished.

Periyar’s legacy is not just a historical memory—it is a challenge to the present. His ideas on rationalism, self-respect, and social justice are still relevant, perhaps now more than ever. The question is, will Tamil Nadu rise to meet his ideals, or will his name continue to be reduced to a tool for political manoeuvring? If we are to truly honour Periyar, we must go beyond statues and garlands and embody his vision in our actions. The fight against oppression, ignorance, and inequality must continue—not in his name, but in his spirit.