A month after the Karur stampede that took 41 lives, actor-politician Vijay finally met the grieving families. However, he didn’t go to Karur, where the tragedy unfolded. Instead, the families were brought to him, over 400 kilometres away, to a private seaside resort in Mamallapuram, just a short drive from his own home. It was, by all accounts, a meeting arranged on his terms, in his space, and at his convenience.

To the families who had lost their loved ones, this decision surely felt both puzzling and painful. What they needed was a leader’s shoulder to cry on, someone who could come to them, see their homes, share their pain, and perhaps offer a sense of closure. Instead, they were made to travel several hours to meet a man who, in their eyes, should have travelled to them.

Of course, not all 41 families went. Some initially refused, asking why they should travel to see Vijay when it should have been the other way around. After much persuasion by local Tamilaga Vettri Kazhagam (TVK) functionaries, 37 families eventually agreed to attend. However, the meeting itself must have disturbed them, both by the formality and distance of the event. And, the latest news is that one family, which had refused to attend the event, deeply hurt by what they saw as an insensitive gesture, even returned the Rs. 20 lakh solatium given earlier by Vijay’s party.

Inside the resort, the meeting was carefully choreographed. According to newspaper reports, Vijay met each family privately, one by one, behind a screen. He apologised for not visiting them earlier, handed over a framed photograph of their deceased relative and a health insurance policy, and promised to visit them in Karur “next time.” Breakfast and lunch were arranged, rooms were booked, and everything was smoothly managed. But the disturbing image that lingered was that of grieving families being transported to a leader’s doorstep to receive condolences.

To many political observers, this was not an act of leadership. It was a display of detachment. What makes this more telling is that Vijay has followed a similar pattern before. Whether it was distributing relief to flood victims or meeting conservancy workers, he has repeatedly chosen to summon people to his residence rather than stepping into their world. It may look efficient on paper – organised, safe, and convenient – but it strips away the raw human connection that politics thrives on.

Vijay’s decision reflects more than just poor political judgment

Politics, after all, is about proximity, about being there when it matters, not when it’s comfortable. Perhaps Vijay’s decision reflects more than just poor political judgment. It may also speak to his personality: one that seems naturally reticent, even diffident, and deeply private. Those who’ve observed him closely often describe him as soft-spoken, cautious, and emotionally reserved. He avoids confrontation, shies away from the press, and rarely interacts freely with his own party cadres. In films, that quietness translates into intensity and mystery. In politics, however, it becomes a liability.

Political leadership, on the other hand, demands courage of a different kind – not the heroic kind he’s used to enacting on screen, but the everyday courage to face criticism, to make spontaneous decisions, to be present amidst discomfort, and to listen even when the words sting. Vijay, so far, has shown little appetite for such exposure.

He appears to want to control every aspect of his public life, from the setting of a condolence meeting to the narrative around his actions, much like a film director ensuring no scene goes off-script. That instinct to control might work in cinema, but politics is chaos by design.

Sadly, the Karur tragedy exposed this side of him starkly. For nearly a month, both the public and the bereaved families waited for him to appear, to say something, to do something that would bring closure to the tragedy. When he finally did, it was on his terms. His explanation of “security concerns” and “logistical issues” may sound reasonable, but it doesn’t convince.

Even chief ministers visit riot sites, accident zones, and protest venues where tempers run high. Leadership, by its very nature, demands a willingness to take risks, both emotionally and physically, as well as politically.

In Vijay’s case, what seems to hold him back is hesitation, rather than arrogance per se. He seems caught between two selves: the beloved actor adored for his moral heroism, and the cautious, image-conscious man who fears missteps in the political arena. He still behaves like a star used to adulation, not like a politician who must earn it. To be fair, the TVK is still new, and its machinery inexperienced. There are no seasoned political hands to guide him, no mentors who can tell him that sympathy is not just expressed in words, but in where and how you show up.

As a result, the party’s decisions, such as this Mahabalipuram meeting, end up looking tone-deaf and poorly judged. Even within TVK, some insiders have privately admitted that the meeting “didn’t feel right.” They recognised how it looked: a leader insulated from public emotion, surrounded by handlers, avoiding scrutiny, and keeping the media out. One leader pointed out that by choosing such a format, Vijay might even have exposed himself to suspicion. With the Central Bureau of Investigation (CBI) investigating the stampede, critics could easily allege that the private meetings were an attempt to influence or silence the families.

The irony is hard to miss

The irony is hard to miss. A man who built his on-screen persona as a fearless champion of the poor now appears afraid of mingling with them. The man who once fought for justice in reel life now appears uncomfortable facing grief in real life. In a sense, Vijay’s struggle is psychological.

Fame often creates a bubble – a protective layer that shields the celebrity from direct confrontation with pain, failure, or anger. In that bubble, everything can be rehearsed and managed. Politics, on the other hand, constantly punctures that comfort zone. It demands vulnerability. It demands that a leader walk into chaos, not stage-manage it. Vijay, it seems, hasn’t yet learned how to live without a script.

And that, for me and many others, raises a larger question: does he genuinely want to be a politician, or does he merely want to become chief minister? The difference matters. The first requires immersion, humility, and hard work; the second can spring from personal ambition.

Many suspect that Vijay’s political drive is fuelled more by the latter, perhaps a desire to match or surpass Udhayanidhi Stalin’s ascent to Deputy CM. But political power achieved without conviction rarely lasts.

Vijay has a massive fan following, no doubt, and an immense goodwill, as well as a relatively clean public image – all enviable assets in politics. However, charisma can only carry one so far. What he needs now is the courage to leave behind the safety of his cinematic world and embrace the raw, unpredictable realities of public life.

The stampede in Karur was not just a tragedy for the victims’ families; it was also a moral test for Vijay; a chance to show the difference between a screen hero and a real one. Sadly, by choosing to hold court in Mamallapuram rather than walking the streets of Karur, he may have already failed that test.

Finally, I cannot help but say this. Having watched Vijay on screen for years (and I have truly enjoyed some of his films), and now observing him stumble through the early lessons of politics, I sense that his journey from reel to real politics is still very long and quite uncertain.

Until the time he learns that leadership is about earning trust, not commanding attention, about standing in the scene, not staging it, he will remain what he is today: an actor still rehearsing for a role that he hasn’t yet learned to live. And that would be really sad…for him and his followers.

P. John J. Kennedy is an educator and political analyst based in Bengaluru.

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