When the Non-Brahmin Manifesto was published on December 20, 1916, it was framed as a corrective—an attempt to address the perceived imbalance of Brahmin dominance in government jobs, educational institutions, and political representation in the Madras Presidency. But over the next century, the document mutated far beyond its original context. What began as a political negotiation with the British soon became the foundational myth of Dravidianist politics, providing the intellectual scaffolding for a sustained narrative of Brahmins as oppressors and non-Brahmins as victims. This framework has shaped the rhetoric, policies, cultural attitudes, and political posturing of the Justice Party, EVR’s Self-Respect Movement, the DK, the DMK, and much of Tamil Nadu’s contemporary political ecosystem.
This is the story of how a colonial-era pamphlet—grounded in selective grievance and sweeping generalisations—gradually evolved into the core doctrine of anti-Brahmin mobilisation that continues to influence identity politics in Tamil Nadu today.
A Document Built on Flawed Foundations
The Non-Brahmin Manifesto made one central claim: that Brahmins, despite being a small minority, had disproportionately benefited from English education and held a monopoly on administrative positions. Instead of viewing this phenomenon through the lens of access to early education, urban proximity, or colonial recruitment patterns, the manifesto chose a more emotionally compelling narrative—collective blame.
It flattened the diversity among Brahmins and reduced an entire community into a singular political enemy class. In doing so, the document created a simplistic binary:
Brahmins vs. Everyone Else
This framing was politically convenient but intellectually dishonest. It ignored:
Variation among Brahmin sub-sects (many of whom were poor, rural, and not literate).
The role of British favouritism in employment patterns.
Socioeconomic and geographic factors that influenced access to schools.
The fact that the majority of Brahmins were not elites but middle-class professionals or temple workers.
The manifesto thus began with a misdiagnosis: it treated outcomes as evidence of intentional oppression. This flawed premise would later be weaponised extensively.
The Justice Party: From Representation Demand to Identity Mobilisation
The Justice Party emerged as the political organ built upon the manifesto’s worldview. Its leaders positioned themselves as champions of “non-Brahmin” identity—a catch-all term that lumped together dozens of castes, communities, and social groups with nothing in common except their non-Brahmin status.
This political framing provided extraordinary utility:
It created a permanent villain (Brahmins).
It generated a stable political identity uniting disparate communities.
It allowed leaders to present themselves as liberators from “Brahmin domination.”
Even though the Justice Party struggled to build mass support and often depended on the British for power, it helped institutionalise the vocabulary of Brahmin culpability. Its newspapers, speeches, and propaganda reinforced a single idea: that Brahmins were historically responsible for the backwardness of all non-Brahmin groups.
The political problem was no longer governance; it was a community.
EVR: The Radical Amplification
Anti-Hindu bigot EV Ramasamy Naicker (hailed as ‘Periyar’ by his followers) did not merely inherit the Non-Brahmin Manifesto’s worldview—he amplified it into a full-blown ideological crusade. For EVR, Brahmins were no longer a privileged class needing checks; they became:
“snakes,”
“parasites,”
“thieves,”
“Aryan invaders,”
“enemies of Tamils,”
“the root of all social evil.”
He transformed administrative grievances into a racial theory, portraying Brahmins as outsiders who had colonised Tamil society. This rhetorical escalation had three lasting consequences:
1. It created a moral justification for hostility.
EVR reframed anti-Brahminism from political competition into moral duty. In his narrative, opposing Brahmins was synonymous with fighting injustice.
2. It turned social resentment into a political resource.
Vilifying a small, unorganised community gave him an endless supply of mobilisation energy.
3. It pushed Brahmins into socio-political invisibility.
By delegitimising their cultural role and demonising their identity, he ensured that Brahmins would become marginalised in public institutions for decades.
Importantly, EVR’s language—whether one frames it as “rationalism,” “anti-caste activism” or hatred—embodied the exact spirit of hostility that the Non-Brahmin Manifesto had implicitly planted.
The manifesto lit the spark. EVR created the wildfire.
DMK and the Institutionalisation of Anti-Brahmin Politics
If EVR weaponised anti-Brahminism, the DMK institutionalised it. The party absorbed EVR’s worldview but repackaged it in a more politically palatable form.
1. Cinema as a vehicle of prejudice
DMK scriptwriters—Karunanidhi, Anna, Murasoli Maran—used Tamil cinema to encode anti-Brahmin stereotypes:
the manipulative priest,
the scheming pundit,
the crooked Acharya,
the cowardly, effeminate Brahmin villain.
What EVR said on stage, the DMK broadcast on screen to millions.
2. Cultural narratives were rewritten
The DMK expanded the manifesto’s administrative grievances into cultural resentment. Anything associated with Brahmin identity—Sanskrit, temples, rituals, traditional dress—was reframed as oppressive, “Aryan,” or anti-Tamil.
3. Policies reinforced the narrative
Over decades, DMK governments embedded a system of:
extreme caste-based reservations,
suppression of Sanskrit learning,
exclusion of Brahmins from temple administration,
marginalisation in education and employment.
While these policies were defended as “social justice,” they were rooted in the same foundational narrative:
Brahmins must be kept away from positions of influence.
Thus, the Non-Brahmin Manifesto’s political agenda became the official doctrine of state power.
The Creation of a Permanent Grievance Economy
One of the unintended outcomes of the manifesto was that it created a permanent grievance economy—a political ecosystem that needed a villain to survive. A narrative built on historic injustice cannot self-correct. It must continuously produce:
new grievances,
new enemies,
new proof of oppression.
Even after:
Brahmins lost educational dominance,
lost government representation,
migrated out of the state,
became one of the least empowered castes in Tamil Nadu,
the rhetoric did not change.
Why?
Because the political architecture designed around the manifesto cannot function without a villain. Without the imagery of Brahmin domination, the ideological purpose of Dravidianism collapses.
Thus, anti-Brahminism became not just historical rhetoric but a sustained source of political identity.
Modern Tamil Nadu: Prejudice Normalised
Today, Tamil Nadu exhibits a paradox. It is celebrated as a progressive state with high literacy and social development, yet it harbours some of the most normalised ethnic stereotyping in India—directed almost exclusively at Brahmins.
On social media, Brahmin identity is mockingly reduced to:
“Paapaattis,”
“Parpan,”
“Panju Gandhi,”
“Iyer/Iyengar privilege,”
“Aryan invaders.”
In popular culture, Brahmins are routinely portrayed as:
villains,
hypocrites,
manipulators,
elitists,
anti-Tamil conspirators.
Offline, Brahmin priests have been attacked in temples; Brahmin students face casual harassment in colleges; Brahmin cuisine and rituals are mocked publicly.
All of this is justified under the umbrella of “historic correction,” but the intellectual root of this prejudice lies in that early narrative that:
Brahmins were the cause of everyone else’s suffering.
The Non-Brahmin Manifesto did not explicitly call for hatred. But it laid the foundation for a worldview where Brahmins were not seen as individuals, but as a collective historical wrong.
Once that idea became normalised, prejudice could flourish without guilt.
An Inherited Mythology, Not History
The modern Dravidianist stance on Brahmins is not based on contemporary reality but on a mythology inherited from 1916:
that Brahmins have power (they don’t),
that they dominate administration (they don’t),
that they suppress Tamil culture (they can’t),
that they are Aryan outsiders (a pseudo-anthropological myth).
This manufactured history allows present-day Dravidian parties to justify:
outdated policies,
extreme rhetoric,
divisive identity politics,
and the continued exclusion of a small minority from public platforms.
The manifesto’s original errors—morally ambiguous then—have become damaging now.
A Document that Outlived Its Purpose and Legitimised Prejudice
The Non-Brahmin Manifesto belongs to a time when political discourse was defined by colonial structures and social upheaval. But the tragedy of Tamil Nadu is that instead of outgrowing its rhetoric, the state doubled down on it.
The document transformed from:
a political petition
into
a worldview
and finally
a dogma.
Its legacy is not merely academic. It shaped:
the speeches of EVR,
the films of the DMK,
the policies of successive governments,
the identity politics of the state,
and the cultural hostility that persists today.
If social justice was the intention, the result has too often been social hostility.
If representation was the goal, the outcome has been retribution.
If equality was the aspiration, the legacy has been division.
The Non-Brahmin Manifesto may have sought fairness, but what it ultimately produced was a political apparatus that thrived by keeping a century-old resentment alive and turning a community into a perpetual symbol of villainy.
Until Tamil Nadu finally moves beyond the ghost of 1916, it will remain trapped in the politics of grievance rather than the politics of growth.
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