Beyond Periyar’s Legacy: Honour Killings Betray Tamil Nadu’s Social Justice Promise

Another ‘honour’ killing has shaken Tamil Nadu—this time in Tirunelveli—where a software engineer from the Scheduled Caste community was hacked to death by the family of the girl he had loved since childhood. Kevin Selvaganesh, just 27, was once a brilliant student and had secured a job at Tata Consultancy Services. He was in a relationship with Subashini, his school-days girlfriend, and they had planned to marry. It appears that her family was aware of their relationship. Both of Subashini’s parents serve in the Tamil Nadu Police, and it seems a plan was hatched within the household to eliminate Kevin.

Subashini’s brother, Surjith, lured Kevin out under the pretext of resolving issues between the two. Trusting Surjith, Kevin went with him. But after a distance, Surjith stopped his scooter, verbally abused Kevin, and hacked him to death with a sickle he had carried. Thus, another promising young life was brutally cut short in Tamil Nadu—this time, in the name of false caste ‘honour’. These chilling crimes are no longer isolated incidents in the state.

Sadly, this is not unique to Tamil Nadu. We recently witnessed the case of Radhika Yadav in Gurugram, where a young girl was murdered by her own father. Although it wasn’t labelled as an honour killing, the elements were clear. Tamil Nadu, often held up as a model state by those who admire the legacy of the Dravidian movement and the contributions of Thanthai Periyar, seems to be grappling with a deep contradiction. While Periyar’s ideas of justice and dignity have inspired generations, the political parties claiming allegiance to his ideology have done little beyond ritualistic rhetoric on caste atrocities.

The anti-caste movement and philosophy cannot merely be an anti-brahmin movement. It must also embrace the individual’s right to choose, to love, to marry, and to live freely—values championed by both Baba Saheb Ambedkar and Thanthai Periyar.

A State of Social Contradictions

The rise in honour killings in Tamil Nadu reflects a deeper truth about Indian society—social reform is tolerated only as long as it doesn’t threaten the entrenched caste order. Despite Tamil Nadu’s impressive performance on many development indicators, it continues to be a deeply violent society when caste hierarchies are challenged, especially through inter-caste relationships.

Between 2018 and 2023, Tamil Nadu reportedly witnessed nearly 400 ‘dishonour’ crimes, including honour killings. Yet, the state officially recorded just 13 cases. Nationally, government data shows about 500 honour killings since 2014—mostly targeting women. Activists argue the real number is much higher due to rampant underreporting, and because many cases are disguised as suicides.

As Dr. Ambedkar said, India remains a society proud of its ‘graded inequality’. Here, individual rights are often crushed under the collective weight of caste identities. In such a system, murdering someone for love becomes permissible—so long as it restores the ‘honour’ of the caste group. Laws are rarely implemented sincerely, and political parties treat caste more as a vote-bank tool than a social issue to be addressed.

Brutalisation of Dalits and the Caste Order

Kevin’s and Subashini’s backgrounds reveal much. Kevin’s mother was a panchayat teacher and his father a farm worker. Kevin excelled academically, completed engineering, and joined TCS. Subashini had finished her Bachelor of Siddha Medicine and Surgery and was working at a private Siddha clinic. Her parents, both sub-inspectors in the Tamil Nadu Police, represent the state’s educated middle class. Yet, even education failed to break their caste mindset.

This shows how deeply embedded caste remains, despite education and upward mobility. All sociological theories aside, caste remains the central identity in Indian society. Every caste wants to preserve its distinction, claim purity, and glorify its history. And that’s the brutal reality.

Kevin belonged to the Devendra Kula Vellalar community, officially listed as a Scheduled Caste. Subashini was from the Maravar community, categorised as a Most Backward Community (MBC). Ironically, the Devendra Kula Vellalar—comprising seven sub-groups—has been campaigning for delisting from the SC category. Dr. K. Krishnasamy, leader of the Puthiya Tamilagam party, once inspired by the Bahujan Samaj Party’s rise in Uttar Pradesh, now champions this cause.

When I asked some in the community why they wished to disassociate from the SC category, they said they did not consider themselves ‘untouchables’ and wanted to escape the stigma. Yet, a young man from that very community is hacked to death for daring to love a woman from an MBC community—considered ‘superior’ in the caste hierarchy. That’s the bitter irony.

Dalits, especially when they assert themselves or cross caste boundaries through love and mobility, often become targets of such violence. Dominant caste groups like Thevars, Vanniyars, and Maravars lash out when their imagined purity is threatened. Even within OBC and MBC communities, inter-caste mobility invites similar brutality—as we saw in the 2020 killing of M. Sudhakar, an MBC youth, for marrying a Vanniyar woman.

No political party is interested in ending this. Caste is too powerful a tool for mobilisation. You don’t need to improve lives—just invoke historical pride, and thousands will rally behind you. Even those championing Hindutva are not free of caste—they too operate within its logic of purity and pollution.

The Constitution vs Caste: A Battle We Haven’t Fought

That Subashini’s parents are both police officers should shake us. What does it say about our society when even protectors of law participate in such violence? It reflects a painful truth: the Constitution is not a part of our social consciousness. We refer to it only when in trouble—otherwise, caste rules us.

Go to any Indian village, and you will hear caste names—never OBC, Dalit, or MBC. These administrative categories exist only for policy convenience; they have no bearing on people’s lived realities. As long as caste norms remain unchallenged, everything appears fine. But the moment someone marries outside their caste, the masks fall.

In political rallies, we shout slogans of Dalit-Bahujan unity. But in practice, every leader, every party, manipulates these identities for their own gain. Caste remains the most potent political currency—but one that can destroy lives when individuals dare to cross its lines.

The anti-caste movement today stands diluted. While we demand rights as communities, we’re hesitant to give up caste privileges. In cities and universities, Dalits, OBCs, and others face isolation and hostility. In villages, caste gives collective strength—until someone crosses the line of tradition.

Whether you marry within your caste or outside, the threat remains real. The moment love challenges the logic of caste, violence is almost inevitable.

Rethinking the Anti-Caste Movement

The anti-caste movement cannot survive if it fails to challenge all forms of caste violence. Today, political parties amplify caste pride for votes. Rarely do honour killings get reported honestly; most are recorded as simple murders and disappear after brief media attention. The mainstream media has little time for these stories—unless they can be spun for political benefit.

The silence of many ‘caste intellectuals’ and ‘social justice’ champions is telling. Just days ago, Radhika Yadav was murdered by her father in Gurugram—a clear case of honour killing. Yet, there was no outrage. The issue would only have become a ‘caste atrocity’ if someone from another caste had killed her. This selective outrage exposes the hypocrisy within the anti-caste discourse.

Tamil Nadu’s Dravidian movement, born of Periyar’s revolutionary ideas, sought to destroy caste hierarchies. Yet, the rise in honour killings reveals how far we are from that goal. The movement’s emphasis on self-respect marriages has faded. Today, caste pride is once again being weaponised for political mileage.

The absence of a dedicated national law against honour killings, and the weak application of existing legal provisions like the SC/ST (Prevention of Atrocities) Act, allow perpetrators to escape justice.

Kausalya’s Struggle: A Light in the Darkness

One cannot forget the case of Kausalya and Sankar in 2016. Kausalya, from the Thevar community, chose to marry Sankar, a Dalit. Her family brutally murdered him in broad daylight. But Kausalya did not surrender. She stayed with Sankar’s family, testified against her own parents, and fought for justice. A trial court sentenced six people, including her father, to death. But in 2020, the Madras High Court overturned most of the convictions. The case is now in the Supreme Court.

Kausalya continues her activism, refusing to be silenced. She remains a powerful symbol of resistance against caste-based violence in Tamil Nadu.

Kevin’s murder has now pushed the issue of caste violence back into focus. Will Subashini show the same courage as Kausalya? Will she stand up for Kevin, defy her family, and demand justice? Only time will tell.

But this much is clear: the Tamil Nadu government must act swiftly and decisively. A special court should be constituted. Justice must not be delayed, and the state must demonstrate that it will not tolerate caste killings—however they are justified.

Kevin Selvaganesh deserves justice. And so does every individual whose life is destroyed in the name of caste ‘honour’.