The Superior Nothingness: Caste, Fantasy and the Shudra Delusion in Kerala
In one of the riotously funny scenes from Cobra, the ever-iconic Salim Kumar – a national award winner and arguably one of Indian cinema’s most philosophically ridiculous comedians – delivers a backstory that could outdo any soap opera in both drama and absurdity.
Explaining the tragic origins of his current, less-than-glamorous complexion to a friend, he declares with deadpan conviction: he was born fair, glowing, and adorably plump. But fate had other plans. The nurse who bathed him post-birth, struck by greed, sold him off to a billionaire and swapped in the tycoon’s dark-skinned baby instead.
And then comes the punchline, delivered with his signature style: "This guy sitting here? This isn't the real me. The real me is out there somewhere… living it up as a handsome fellow in the billionaire’s house.”
It’s a moment of pure comedic gold — part fable, part farce, and entirely Salim Kumar.
On the surface, it’s an absurdly funny line. But scratch the surface – as Malayalam cinema sometimes lets us do – and it captures something far more disturbing and real: the ambiguous, fractured existence of the Malayali Shudra under the ever-mutating shadow of Manuvada.
The Thampuran fantasy: A Shudra delusion
When Manuvada stumbles in Kerala – when its moral spine shows fractures – a section of the Shudra leaps up, foot soldier-ready, to defend it. They cosplay as Thampurans (Lords) and Thampurattis (and now, Empuraans), perform their way into the Hindu Rashtra pantheon, and declare with tragic sincerity: “This Shudra life isn’t mine. The real me is out there – fairer, richer, Brahmin-adjacent, a Thampuran.”
The scene slips effortlessly into a Lacanian frame, where fantasy operates not as revelation but as refuge – a psychic screen that stages a lost, ideal self to mask the deeper wound of social irrelevance in a world that is, however haltingly, beginning to speak Ambedkar more fluently than Manu.
After all, fantasy, for Lacan, is not about revealing the truth –it is about sustaining the subject in their psychic relation to lack, to desire, and to the impossibility of full jouissance.
This Shudra script – of performing power to mask absence – has a long rehearsal. They’ve often played at being Thampurans, when all they really were was cannon fodder for Hindutva.
From Shannar revolt to Sabarimala
It played during the Shannar revolt, when Nadar women in Travancore fought for the right to wear upper cloths. The backlash came not just from Brahmins, but from Shudra castes desperate to preserve a hierarchy they could never truly inherit.
It reappeared when Ayyankali rode a bullock cart or walked a Pulaya girl into school. The mobs that attacked him? Mostly Nairs.
It thundered during the Guruvayoor Satyagraha. When the legendary communist leader P. Krishna Pillai struck the temple bell to become the first non-Brahmin to do so. Even then, it wasn’t Brahmins who beat him up, it was fellow Nairs. His response cut like a scalpel: “The Nair with guts will ring the bell; the Nair who licks leftovers will beat him up.” Loyalty, performed through violence against those below.
Mannathu Padmanabhan, founder of the Nair Service Society, praised the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) as the cure for the “cowardice and wretched state of our Hindu race.” In that moment, the fantasy of Brahmanical succession replaced any real idea of liberation.
During the Vimochana Samaram, cries for “liberation” echoed across Kerala, not as hymns for justice, but as howls of panic from those watching their landholdings and school boards slip through their fingers.
What began as a movement against “communist tyranny” quickly revealed itself as a caste-class coalition desperate to derail land reform and democratised education
When Mannathu Padmanabhan and bishops held hands in protest, it wasn’t exactly a revolution – it was a reunion of the old ruling class, terrified of redistribution, masquerading as rebellion.
Even when the Supreme Court pried open the gates of Sabarimala, Shudra women queued up – not to enter, but to defend the right to exclusion, declaring they were “ready to wait” until menopause, draping ritual obedience over caste loyalty. It wasn’t an uprising for faith—it was a submission to hierarchy, with bhakti as camouflage.
The ever-incisive Sunny M. Kapikkad called it what it truly was: a Shudra mutiny – but one aimed downward. It was not a rebellion against Brahmanism, but a ritual performance of fidelity against the Dalits, the Adivasis, the Avarnas, who dared to believe the Constitution applied to them and women from other castes.
Caste power as spectacle
This time, it’s Suresh Gopi – a minister without a clue about the Constitution, or portfolios in general, calling voters prajas – declaring he wants to be reborn not as a better human, but as a Brahmin, as though Brahminhood were a UPSC posting with lifetime benefits.
Then comes his genius proposal: the Ministry for Tribal Affairs, he suggests, should be run by upper-caste saviours – because who better to "uplift" Adivasis than those who’ve historically pushed them down?
And in a final flourish of equality-flavoured farce, he proposes that “the portfolio for the welfare of forward castes” (a ministry that exists only in the fever dreams of Manuvadis) be handed to Tribals – for balance, of course. Symmetry, not justice. Fantasy, not policy. And Manu, as always, smiling in the background – job secured, caste intact.
Even Shashi Tharoor, the Congress party’s resident liberal aristocrat and post-ideology mascot, moonwalks in on cue. Each time Hindutva stumbles, Tharoor doesn’t confront it, he offers it a monocle and a quote from the classics
From backing the privatisation of Thiruvananthapuram airport to praising Operation Sindoor, he’s turned ideological freelancing into a full-time aesthetic
While the Congress party fumbles for relevance, while the house is on fire, he polishes the brass, camouflaging majoritarian policy in cosmopolitan diction. A domesticated Thampuran in a Nehru jacket, fluent in both Churchillian eloquence and Savarna subtext.
The Thampuran fantasy is echoed across media, WhatsApp and newsrooms. Some wear the Shudra badge, others parade caste-neutral civility, but the script is familiar: “I am not a BJP member, but…”— followed by a defence of the might over the right. The goal: to be seen as reasonable in Manu’s house, even when that house is built on their exclusion.
Vedan, the hunter becomes the hunted
And now, the fury has been directed towards Vedan – a Dalit rapper who refuses the script.
Once again, the Shudra order rises to defend a caste structure that was never built for them, chanting Manu’s hymns in Ambedkar’s century. Their delusion: that their performance gives them a seat at the table. Vedan reminds them they’re just background dancers.
His words aren’t even that incendiary. He says:
“I am not Panan, nor Paryan, nor a Pulayan.
Nor are you a Thampuran.
Even if you are – I don’t give a damn.”
Now, a halfway literate Hindutva ideologue – if such a creature exists – might’ve paused here and seen potential. With a little Advaita-flavoured gaslighting, they could’ve claimed Vedan was simply echoing the Upanishads – negating multiplicities, dissolving social identities in the oneness of Brahman. Voilà! A non-dualist Unionist in rapper’s clothing. A perfect candidate for appropriation.
But no. That would require thought. Instead, they holler “caste terrorism” – as if equality were a pipe bomb.
Oddly enough, most of Kerala’s Brahmins don’t seem too bothered. Perhaps because they were sufficiently de-Thampuranised a century ago when V.T. Bhattathiripad, the Malayali Brahmin with revolutionary fervour, made it his life’s mission to produce — not a revolutionary — but simply a human out of a Namboodiri.
Many of them, to their credit, took the hint that their scriptural baggage had rendered them less than fully human. Some even began the long, painful work of catching up with the species. Today, you don’t see too many Brahmins in Kerala larping as Thampurans.
Among the Shudras, too, some refuse the mask – those who live in the world of reality and reason, not feudal costume dramas. They inherit the spirit of Krishna Pillai, who dared to ring the temple bell, break the script and walk into modernity with his eyes open.
And then there are the monarchists of the mind — Brahmin-bhakts with symmetry quotes on their sleeves and Manu in their hearts. Deep-down Dalit-haters moonlighting as equality radicals. Crown-polishers. Members of the Thampuran cosplay club.
For this caste-fragment of the Shudra order, Vedan’s lines aren’t just provocative — they’re an existential rupture. He doesn’t just insult their status; he laughs at the delusion that they ever had any.
Also read: Shailaja Paik and the Question of Why a Dalit Woman Doesn't Deserve Her Success
In other words, he doesn’t strike at their actual power (there isn’t much of that). He strikes at their fantasy – the delusion of dominion. And that – as any Freud-reading fascist will tell you – is what hurts the most.
After his arrest and release, Vedan’s words echoed across Kerala like a siren. And the Thampurans panicked.
So they did the only thing they knew: start a manhunt, which is invariably a Manu-sanctioned hunt. The irony? Vedan means “hunter” in Malayalam. But here, the one hunting the caste got hunted by the caste.
The Vedan hunt was led by a lady from the Hindu Aikyavedi — the kind who wears piety like perfume and spits venom, equal parts bhakti and bile. With full civilisational swagger, she dismissed Vedan and his kind as kanchavolikal — a crude Malayalam portmanteau splicing together “ganja” and “motherfucker
Then, with that familiar air of Manuvada arrogance, she asks: “Is rap music the unique art form of the Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes here? What all unique art forms do they have? Is that tribal culture? Is that how they should declare their identity? When a programme is organised using the funds of the Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes Department, should rap music, which has no connection with them, be included?”
Tremendous questions. The Thampuran cosplay club rises in applause. Poor woman. She stumbled straight into the first page of Dalit consciousness. That question — “What’s Dalit about this?” — is the eternal gatekeeping refrain. It’s the casteist shibboleth whispered through gritted teeth whenever a Dalit dares to create, speak, write, or even breathe in public.
Vedan didn’t flinch. He answered quietly but precisely: “These reactions stem from fear of the politics I present. I am simply doing my job. They say my music is filled with caste hatred. Their question about why I am doing rap is undemocratic. Some have even said that casteism began only after Vetrimaaran and Pa. Ranjith started making films. Their claim is that rap has no connection with Dalits. However, in reality, there is absolutely no connection between democracy and extreme Hindutva politics. If there was, I might as well have been singing ghazals.”
‘What’s Dalit about this?’ is a question that I’ve heard too. Usually, from the well-meaning types, the ones who read my poetry collection and lean in, confused: “But... What's Dalit about this?"
I usually smile, shrug, and let them stew in their own ignorance. I owe them no syllabus. My ancestors already did the explaining – with their hands, their backs and their broken bodies. They built lives for people who never once asked what was human about exploitation. And now, those same people want me to work for them, make them comfortable, to explain myself in palatable prose. No. If they want answers, they can start doing the work.
But the younger generation of Dalits isn’t anything like this weary, middle-aged man who’s done with explaining. These kids? They’re not offering syllabi — they’re running full diploma courses with no refund policy. And their first lesson is loud and clear: Who the hell are you to ask that question? Who the hell are you to decide what counts as Dalit and what doesn’t?
We’ve seen that book before. It’s called the Manusmriti. That’s why Ambedkar didn’t file a critique — he burned the whole thing, stock and barrel. We’re not here to be pinned down, fossilised and declared Sanatan by your thought process or your priestly imagination or praxis. No, thanks.
Let the Shudra, if they so wish, continue to fantasise about the lost glory of the Thampuran. Let the upwardly mobile among Adivasis, Dalits, and backwards communities audition for the role of neo-Shudras in the eternal drama called Hinduism. As for us? We’re not interested in being absorbed, upgraded, or re-baptised into any goddamn gotra.
Any sensible human would’ve called it a day. But alas, we’re not dealing with sensible humans. We’re dealing with the Thampuran Avengers. Supermen and superwomen with masks but no brains. That’s a deadly combination. For them, a full stop is not punctuation, it’s provocation. An irresistible cue to escalate the drama.
Enter stage right: a councillor from Palakkad municipality — who also, by divine coincidence, happens to be the wife of the Bharatiya Janata Party’s (BJP’s) last Lok Sabha candidate from the same place. She did what every upstanding citizen does in a moral emergency: she ran straight to the NIA.
The crisis? A few lines from a song Vedan wrote years ago:
The fake nationalist
In the land
Caste and religion, the infection
The ruler, indifferent
For roaming around, your tax money
Half the nation is ruled
By the One who took the sword
The one who took the wordA traitor, a terrorist.
Most people heard that and nodded. She read between the lines and had a divine revelation: the fake nationalist with the sword? That’s our Prime Minister! And suddenly, Vedan wasn’t just spitting bars – he was, in her eyes, committing national blasphemy.
So now, according to her spiritual algebra, calling out casteism and authoritarianism in a song is an NIA-level offence. Some people find God in poetry. She found sedition.
Soon enough, she realised that filing a complaint and debating on a public platform are two different sports. The former requires outrage; the latter requires answers. And when she stepped onto television to declare, with great civilisational confidence, that there is no caste in Kerala, social activist of Dalit origin Dhanya Raman didn’t waste time on niceties. She went straight for the jugular:
“Who are you to make that declaration? Did you marry outside your caste? Planning to marry off your kids to Dalits and Adivasis anytime soon?” Clinical. Precise
Because here’s the uncomfortable truth: the most progressive state in India still runs matrimonial ads that look for progressive, inter-caste marriages in royal style, “Looking for matches from all castes — except SCs and STs.” The progressive state also wants domestic employees from all castes except SCs and STs.
A ritualistic exclusion, repeated week after week, decade after decade, in newspapers run by editors who swear by the Constitution, right after they pass over that line without a blink.
The self-styled meritocratic IAS officers who didn’t need reservation, upper-caste intellectuals who quote Ambedkar at seminars, and politicians who drape Vedan-like alliances over their shoulders with a smile – none of them ever thought this was a constitutional crisis. They are, after all, die-hard Constitutionalists. Just not the kind who read the footnotes.
The crematorium and the caste shed
And then came the scene-stealer: Dhanya, again. This time, she dragged out a gem straight from the graveyards of Palakkad. Quite literally.
Turns out, in Mattumantha, in the public crematorium run by the very same BJP-ruled Palakkad municipality — where our honourable councillor reigns — a 20-cent plot had been officially allotted to the Nair Service Society
The NSS was erecting boundary walls. In a public crematorium. Caste, it seems, follows you even after death. Some get a pyre. Others get a plot with concrete fencing. But the real comedy was still waiting backstage.
The very next day, the chairperson of the municipality emerged for damage control. With an unflinching logic, she declared: “The land given to the NSS is not exclusively for Nairs. Others can use it too, irrespective of caste! That is just for erecting a shed.”
And, for good measure, added: “This isn’t new — we’ve already given lands to Brahmins and Nedungadis. If the SNDP (that is, the organisation of the backward caste of the Ezhava) demands it, we may give it.” The idea is noble. The shed is for all, they say. But the legs are mine, and the wall and the gate will eventually decide who gets in.
Bless her. She had no idea she’d just given us a crash course in Manusmriti zoning.
Cremation rights, in caste order: Brahmins first, then the next-in-line Savarnas, and somewhere down the line, the Shudras. If there's space left, the Avarnas can join, that too, in the caste order, first the Ezhava, then probably the Viswakarma, and finally the untouchable Cheramars. You couldn’t write satire this good.
Blessed are the rain-soaked dead
Was Edward Thomas thinking prophetically – or biblically – when he wrote, “The blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon”?
At Mattumantha, those words take on a cruel clarity. There, in a public crematorium, not all dead are equal beneath the rain. For some, a shelter stands — a shed built for final rites, a roof against the sky. But it is not the rain they are shielded from; it is the weight of caste pride that holds those walls in place.
Raised by a community on public land, the shed becomes more than a shelter. It becomes a symbol of who gets dignity in death and who does not. The others, the Dalits, the Adivasis, the working poor, remain outside the caste perimeter, waiting their turn under open skies. No walls rise for them. No sanctioned shed consecrates their grief. Only the rain bears witness.
But maybe that, too, is a form of blessing. As another poet once said, “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” That rain-soaked outside may be the earth, the only patch without caste they’ll ever be allowed to rest in. And the rain, falling without permission, may still know where justice lies – and where it refuses to be buried.
The clueless Thampuran mindset
Many have started asking the obvious: if the BJP can pull off this Manu act in a single Municipality, what might they do if we hand them the entire state?
But the real tragedy? The Thampuran gang still hasn’t got a clue. Like Tharoor, they’re educated. And like Tharoor, they’ve weaponised that education into a fine-tuned cluelessness. Fluent in English and the scriptures, clueless about deeper wounds. They can quote Mills and Boon and the Bhagavad Gita in one breath, but ask them about caste and they’ll give you a TED Talk on temple architecture.
They genuinely can’t see what’s wrong with declaring “there’s no caste in Kerala” while good-heartedly handing over public land — in a crematorium, no less — to caste-based organisations.
Their line of defence reminds me of an old courtroom joke: An advocate defending a man accused of printing counterfeit currency insists, “The notes printed by my guy, they are not fake notes, Your Honour — they’re genuine notes!”
The casteism they practice, they swear, isn’t really casteism. That’s castelessness at its purest
The superior nothingness
Slavoj Žižek retells a joke that lands harder than most manifestos: In a synagogue, a rabbi stands and cries out, “O God, I am nothing!” A rich Jewish businessman rises next: “O God, I too am nothing – despite my wealth and status!” Then a poor Jew stands up: “O God, I am nothing.” The businessman elbows the rabbi and mutters: “Look at this guy—who does he think he is to claim he’s nothing?”
To declare yourself nothing, you have to be something already. And that’s exactly what the Shudra Manuvadis are raging about today. Vedan drops a mic and says, “I am not Panan, not Parayan, not Pulayan. I’m nothing you want me to be. I don’t care if you’re Thampuran.” And suddenly, the Thampuran cosplay club loses it.
“Who does this fellow think he is – to be nothing? How can a nobody claim that he is nothing? Only we, the Thampuran-somebody, can claim true nothingness. Ours is the superior nothingness of ritual humility, caste-denial, and Savarna liberalism. His nothingness is offensive!
The world should be casteless, no doubt. But that’s our line, not his. And our right to that line is ordained in the scriptures! So, they chase him, hunt him, file charges, fence off crematoriums, and scream at TV debates. Welcome to Kerala, where nothingness is a monopoly and caste, its silent shareholder.
Anilkumar Payyappilly Vijayan is a Professor of English at Government Arts and Science College, Pathiripala, Palakkad. Under the name a/nil, he is the author of The Absent Color: Poems. A/nil’s book, Is There a Dalit Way of Thinking?, is forthcoming from Navayana.
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