“Not a leader. Not a hero. Just a man who set fire to everything you were told to worship.” This was Periyar. The man who confused everyone by asking one simple question: Why are you afraid of something that ain't real?

E.V. Ramasamy (Periyar) was born in 1879, into a relatively wealthy family in Erode, Tamil Nadu. Privileged in material terms, but he quickly saw that money could not buy freedom from social chains. From a young age, he questioned the rules, the gods, and the people who claimed the right to control others. Education gave him tools, but his anger at injustice gave him purpose. He wanted to change what we saw.

He saw society’s chains clearly: caste, ritual, superstition, and fear. To him, they were not sacred. They were lies that kept people small, told them where to sit, whom to serve, and how to live. He wore the black shirt like a statement. Not for fashion. Not for the ceremony. Every button, every dark thread carried a warning: do not bow. Do not kneel. Do not obey blindly.

Here are five times Periyar acted and Tamil Nadu was never the same. Welcome to the Voice of Voiceless.

The Street Is Ours Too:

In 1924, the Vaikom streets in Kerala were segregated by fear and caste. Some roads off temples were off-limits to low-caste individuals; even walking by them was a crime. For generations, they had been instructed to kneel, to remain small, to take humiliation as fate. It was a place where rules became law and law became ritual, and the powerless did not belong. Local leaders in Kerala had initiated the satyagraha against the caste prohibition on roads near the temple. Volunteers from throughout the South volunteered, but the protest was tenuous, police arrests and intimidation dissuaded many. It was then that the Congress leaders in Kerala turned to E.V. Ramasamy. Periyar, already an emerging force within the Congress, came over from Tamil Nadu when the cry for assistance was raised. He did not stand at the peripheries as a sympathizer; he dove headlong into the core of the fight. He marched freely on the "forbidden" paths with those labeled untouchable, breaking centuries of silence that fear had created. Because of this, he was arrested not once, but twice, each arrest making him a louder voice of rebellion. But prison never deterred him; if anything, it clarified his mind. His presence inspired others who had been afraid, demonstrating that even a privileged man was willing to risk his freedom for their honor. It was this bold act of sharing risk, of going where people were told

they could not, that galvanized the Vaikom Satyagraha and thrust it onto the national agenda.

“If one man cannot walk in the road, then none of us have the right to walk free."

Newspapers took to following him, and his words traveled far beyond Vaikom. Crowds became more assertive, the movement tougher to quash. Before long, the people of Kerala bestowed upon him a title that would remain with him for all eternity: "Vaikom Veeran," Vaikom Hero. He took those lessons with him back to Tamil Nadu, sharper, angrier, more committed. The roads of Vaikom had taught him one thing: once human beings taste dignity, they will never bow again in the same manner.

A Step Beyond Politics:

In 1925, Periyar made a decision that would change the course of Tamil politics: he resigned from the Indian National Congress. For years, he had worked within the party, pushing for reforms that went beyond the demand for freedom from British rule. He argued that caste discrimination had to be abolished, that education and employment opportunities had to be shared fairly across communities, and that equality had to be at the heart of any future India.

But inside the Congress, dominated largely by upper-caste leaders, these demands were met with silence or outright rejection. The leadership was comfortable talking about independence, but unwilling to confront the social hierarchies that shaped daily life. The breaking point came when Periyar’s resolution for communal representation, an idea that education and government jobs should reflect the diversity of society, was repeatedly blocked. To him, this was proof that the Congress wanted political power without social change.

“The first step to freedom is refusing to bow before inequality.”

Periyar’s resignation was not a retreat, but a revolt. He understood that real freedom could not simply mean replacing British rulers with Indian elites. It had to mean dignity for all, especially those who had been denied it for centuries. His exit cleared the way for a new vision, one that placed equality before nationalism. That step

marked the birth of the Self-Respect Movement and the Dravidian path, a path that ensured Tamil Nadu’s politics would never again mirror the rest of India’s.

Think. Refuse. Rise.

It was the late 1920s, and Tamil society was still bound by rigid hierarchies, blind rituals, and unquestioned authority. People bowed, not out of belief, but because society had trained them to obey. Marriage customs, temple practices, social etiquette - everything whispered the same message: know your place.

Periyar refused. He believed dignity could not wait for laws or kings; it had to be claimed. In 1925, he launched the Self-Respect Movement, a call to challenge everything that made people small. It was not just political; it was personal, spiritual, and social. He spoke of equality, women’s rights, rational thinking, and the courage to question gods, rituals, and oppressive traditions. He urged people to think for themselves: Why follow rules that degrade you? Why worship fear disguised as holiness? His words were sharp, unsettling, and electrifying, making ordinary people see their own lives in a new light.

The movement spread rapidly, starting with small gatherings and discussions, then marches, publications, and debates across Tamil Nadu. Black shirts became symbols not just of rebellion, but of thought. People began questioning, not blindly accepting, the customs that had dictated their lives. The Self-Respect Movement did not just create noise; it planted seeds. Seeds that would grow into ideas challenging caste, patriarchy, and blind faith. Every meeting, every speech, every pamphlet carried the message: you are not bound by what society tells you to be.

Even decades later, the echoes of the Self-Respect Movement resonate in Tamil Nadu. It taught that true change starts not with power or titles, but with the courage to question, to refuse, and to claim your dignity.

Breaking Chains at Home:

In a time when women were told their world began in the kitchen and ended at the doorstep, Periyar asked the question no one dared: “Why should half of humanity live as slaves to the other half?” To him, freedom meant nothing if women were left in chains.

Periyar began to question why these rules existed in the first place. Through his speeches and writings, he argued passionately that marriage without consent was a form of slavery, education was as much a woman’s right as a man’s, and that widowhood should not be a life sentence. He spoke out against dowry and insisted that women be recognized as individuals with their own choices, rather than as property to be exchanged.

In his speeches, Periyar often pointed out how women were treated not as persons, but as property: “Man treats woman as his own property … They both have equal status.” He argued that marriage should be a partnership, not a chain, saying, “The terms ‘Husband’ and ‘Wife’ are inappropriate … One does not slave for the other.” Many called his views dangerous, accusing him of tearing apart family life. But he refused to soften his words. To him, the fight for equality made no sense if half the population remained bound by old codes of obedience. He pushed the idea of “self-respect marriages,” ceremonies stripped of priests and rituals, where a man and woman simply declared their union as equals. For many, it was scandalous; for others, it was the first time marriage looked like a choice instead of a cage.

His interventions did not overturn society overnight, but they planted questions that refused to die. By the 1940s, his advocacy began to ripple into legal reforms: widow remarriage, property rights, and eventually equal rights in marriage law. While not all were his victories alone, his relentless push had made them unavoidable. Even today, when Tamil women step into classrooms, choose their partners, or inherit property, the echo of that black-shirted rebel can still be heard.

The Black Shirt’s Echo:

Periyar never sought applause, statues, or garlands. What he wanted was a society that questioned, a people who refused to bow, and a Tamil Nadu that could see beyond fear, ritual, and inherited chains. The movements he led—the Vaikom Satyagraha, Self-Respect, women’s emancipation, and countless challenges to caste and superstition - were never ends in themselves. They were sparks, meant to ignite thought and action in those who followed. His words traveled faster than his feet ever could.

Through Kudi Arasu, Viduthalai, and countless speeches, he planted seeds of questions that refused to fade. Questions about equality, dignity, and freedom

continue to resonate in Tamil society today. The roads, classrooms, courts, and public spaces that now echo these discussions are his true legacy.

Generations later, the Tamil mind continues to carry the imprint of his fire. Women step into classrooms once closed to them; caste hierarchies are challenged more openly; traditions and rituals are no longer unquestioned. The black shirt wasn’t fashion, it was a statement. And the statement hasn’t faded. Periyar is gone, but the echo remains. And sometimes, if you listen closely in the streets, in conversations, in quiet acts of defiance, you can still hear it: a warning, a challenge, a reminder.

Do not bow. Do not kneel. Think. Question. Rise.

Written By Abithavasiyan M