Ponnivalavan's bellowing voice belies his modest stature as it reverberates throughout the vehicle he guides across Thiruvallur's rugged countryside. Educated till the eighth standard, Ponni is the gregarious personal assistant to VCK General Secretary D. Ravikumar during his 2014 parliamentary bid. While the candidate campaigns in an open-air jeep flanked by DMK district leaders and a bevy of coalition allies, Ponni tails them as closely as possible. He juggles three cell phones throughout the day while frequently running between vehicles at intermittent stops to ferry water, information, and campaign supplies to the party brass. Initially cheerful, Ponni becomes increasingly riled as the campaign progresses. Despite being Ravikumar's personal assistant, his car is frequently pressed to the tail end of the convoy. He chastises the cavalier demeanor of DMK bigwigs, whose new polished Toyota SUVs blaze past the candidate's aged Mahindra Scorpio, mimicking their penchant for waxing poetic about Ravikumar. One day, Ponni turns to me with a smug grin and states: “Michael, you should ask them: You are always introducing Ravikumar as the ‘DMK coalition candidate’ and declaring publicly: ‘He is [DMK Chairman] Kalaignar's candidate! He is [DMK Treasurer] Stalin's candidate!’ If he really is your candidate, why have you only given [figure redacted] rupees? You should give more [money]!” Visibly entertained by this proposition, Ponni cackles aloud and repeats the joke for emphasis.

When the campaign vehicle's PA system dies just before noon, the convoy stops at a nearby hotel for an early lunch, allowing time for technicians to acquire parts and resolve the glitch. While party workers eat rice meals in the attached restaurant, Ponni leads me to an air-conditioned room where DMK district leaders, eager to make up for lost time, discuss changes to the day's itinerary. Once the logistics were settled, they turned to me to inquire about my impressions of the campaign and underscore the generosity of their party executive for giving two seats to a “small, Dalit party.” Abruptly, an elbow begins to needle my ribs and Ponni mutters under his breath: “Ask them, Michael!” When I fail to act on his cue, Ponni broaches the subject himself.

In the early evening of April 14, 1990, the Dalit Panthers convened a public ceremony in K. Pudur, a large Dalit colony in northeast Madurai, to unveil their new movement flag. Photographs of the event depict activists seated on metal folding chairs behind a wooden table. A portrait of Ambedkar adorns the thatched hut behind them. Beneath the portrait, a hand-drawn banner reads: “Liberation is attained through war. New horizons are borne through blood.” As was typical of DPI events, this was a family affair. Children milled about the speakers’ table as activists explained the design features of their flag. Its background, composed of broad red and blue stripes, symbolized their commitment to revolutionary politics and Ambedkarite principles, while the five-pointed star at its center signified their primary objectives, namely to annihilate caste, dismantle the class structure, attain women's rights, foster Tamil nationalism, and vehemently resist imperialism. To achieve these goals, they pledged to upend “the parliamentary democratic system,” which they insisted had hitherto failed to emancipate Dalits and, instead, reduced their community to “listless puppets that raise their hands and nod their heads” at the time of elections. DPI leaders reaffirmed their commitment to boycott elections and pledged to follow an extra-electoral path to promote Dalit development and realize their democratic rights. As exemplified by the snarling cat at the center of the white star, they vowed to pursue these objectives with “the fury of a panther.”

From the early 1990s, DPI leaders embraced bellicose rhetoric and cultivated a militant public disposition. They saw a revolutionary potential in Dalit politics and sought to transform Dalit into a radical political subjectivity.

One evening against the backdrop of a parliamentary campaign, D. Ravikumar elaborated on an enduring friction between minority representation and electoral reservations, and how they relate to a political constituency. Although electoral reservations were first conceived on the basis of community to ensure the presence of specific groups in elected bodies, elections are conducted on the basis of territory, in a geographically demarcated, socially segregated joint electorate, where Dalit voters are insufficient in number to elect their preferred candidates. As Ravikumar asserts, these representatives are rarely selected by Dalits—the presumed beneficiaries of reservation—but, instead, by an upper caste majority that often prefers Dalit candidates who will, to quote another longtime VCK leader, “take a soft corner on Dalit issues.”2 Ravikumar questions whether electoral reservations produce “genuine” representatives of Dalit communities or, alternatively, if these figures are simply individuals from Dalit communities, emphasizing that these classifications are not always mutually inclusive. Elections in a joint electorate generate contradictory pressures for Dalit politicians, who are expected to champion their community's interests despite their reliance on higher castes that may not share Dalit priorities. Stressing the longevity of this dilemma, Ravikumar guides our conversation to B. R. Ambedkar's well-documented concerns on how the institutional design of electoral reservations would impact the character of minority representation.

In his writings and speeches, Ambedkar grappled with electoral reservation at both theoretical and practical levels, deliberating over how to best ensure democratic institutions support substantive minority representation. Anticipating that caste would shape voting behavior, he predicted that Dalits, a permanent minority, would fail to garner sufficient imperative in joint electorates where representatives are elected by popular vote. Although Dalits, if politically consolidated, may possess the clout to impact election outcomes, they nonetheless lack the capability to select their own representatives. In his view, Dalits elected in a joint electorate would be accountable to a caste majority that selected them and, therefore, only “nominal” representatives of their community. Ambedkar anticipated that the mere presence of Dalits in elected bodies would be insufficient to ameliorate their condition. He argued that a handful of legislative seats would not suffice for India's Dalits because, he cynically asserted, “a legislative Council is not an old curiosity shop” but, instead, an institution that holds “the powers to make or mar the fortunes of society.”

On August 15, 1997, India celebrated its golden jubilee of Independence. In the capital city of New Delhi, organizers prepared lavish ceremonies to commemorate the occasion, beginning with a midnight program broadcast from the Central Hall of Parliament that reenacted prominent scenes from the freedom struggle and featured A-list vocals from Lata Mangeshkar and Bhimsen Joshi alongside audio recordings of founding figures such as M. K. Gandhi, Jawaharlal Nehru, and Subhas Chandra Bose. In the afternoon, tens of thousands of spectators thronging the city's broad avenues near the historic Red Fort were treated to a flyover by the Indian Air Force that showcased its newly acquired Russian Sukhoi Su-30 fighter jets streaking across the sky with tri-colored contrails matching the Indian national flag streaming in their wake. Shortly thereafter, Prime Minister I. K. Gujral addressed the nation. His speech paid tribute to India's diverse mosaic of languages and cultures, extolled its commitment to secular values, and pledged to uphold its democratic traditions. As dusk fell, fireworks lit up the night sky as patriotic hymns hummed from loudspeakers late into the evening.

In the southernmost state of Tamil Nadu, Dalit activists sought to capture national attention with a radically different program. In the preceding weeks, Thol. Thirumavalavan, the firebrand leader of the state's largest Dalit movement, the Viduthalai Chiruthaigal (Liberation Panthers)—also known as the Dalit Panther Iyakkam (DPI; Dalit Panther Movement)—dispatched postcards to his deputies that praised their “successful uprising” in Chennai the previous week. On July 23rd, the DPI had conducted a massive procession that brought traffic in the state capital to a standstill.

Amidst the 2014 general election, VCK parliamentary candidate D. Ravikumar stands in an open-air jeep as it barrels down the pothole-stricken roads stitching together remote villages across Tiruvallur district, northern Tamil Nadu. Today, a sizeable entourage has amassed behind his campaign vehicle. It includes some twenty-odd SUVs followed by a sea of motorcycles with monitors from the ECI nipping at their heels. Unbeknownst to the campaign team, the caravan went off route when a wrong turn ushered the convoy into the neighboring state of Andhra Pradesh. This mistake becomes apparent only after a polite bystander informs the candidate's driver that he is no longer in Tamil Nadu. This news quickly travels up the chain of command, prompting the candidate's microphone to be cut mid-speech as campaign leaders are apprised of their blunder. In quick succession, the navigator is cursed, engines roar to life, and the convoy swiftly lurches back toward Tamil Nadu. Today, there is a palpable anxiety in the air due to the sheer number of far-flung villages left to visit before ECI monitors bring the day's activities to an abrupt halt at 10:00 pm. If a village is omitted, campaign organizers fear that their local workers, who have assembled their community and are waiting impatiently with firecrackers and decorative shawls to welcome the caravan, may interpret their absence as a personal slight, leaving them more susceptible to “influence money” doled out by rival party operatives.

Presently immersed in a two-week blitz across Tiruvallur district, the motley convoy of jeeps, SUVs, motorcycles, and auto-rickshaws—the vehicles vary by day depending on the local terrain—traverses half of a legislative assembly constituency each day. As parliamentary districts typically consist of six legislative constituencies, this involves twelve days of grueling dawn-till-dusk electioneering in which the candidate interacts with voters throughout the region. While preparations begin well before sunrise, electioneering kicks off by 9 a.m. and concludes abruptly at 10 p.m., if election monitors are present A festive atmosphere greets the candidate and his entourage at each stop as they race across the constituency at breakneck speed. First, firecrackers announce their imminent arrival.

On September 18–19, 1982, the Dalit Panther Iyakkam (DPI; Dalit Panther Movement) convened its inaugural symposium in Madurai. In preparation, DPI chairman A. Malaichamy, a spindly twenty-eight-year-old law student, publicized the meeting among Dalit public sector employees, educators, lawyers, students, and activists, addressing them as “the spark that will ignite tomorrow's fire.” On a printed invitation circulated ahead of the symposium, he bemoaned that despite thirty-five years of independence, Dalit socio-economic development remained stagnant and the community languished as an exploited “toiling class.” Pledging that Dalits would no longer be offered up as a “ritual sacrifice” to the economy, he characterized their plight as a betrayal of India's democracy and disparaged politicians for capitalizing on their misery for electoral gains. In particular, Malaichamy charged the state government with undermining Dalit development by seeking to fob off their community with piecemeal concessions instead of enforcing existing laws and upholding their democratic rights. He declared: “Rather than providing a means for us to live in this country, they are offering us percentage-wise quotas. Our rights are being refused in the name of concessions. This is detrimental to our economic condition.” Although Malaichamy described the DPI as a “revolutionary organization,” he promised to act “on a legal basis” to pressure state authorities to enforce existing laws and fulfill their commitments to Dalit citizens.

This vignette from the archives of DPI politics contrasts with conventional accounts of lower caste assertion, which frequently depict collective forms of protest that, by design, generate a visible, and often disruptive, public presence.

Just prior to the 2014 general election, I interviewed VCK Deputy General Secretary J. Gowtham Sannah in a shared law office at Madras High Court. Casually perched on a rolling chair behind a cluttered desk, his silhouette was set against a towering bookshelf featuring an archive of legal volumes intermixed with the conspicuous thick blue tomes of B. R. Ambedkar's collected life works. I posed what I had intended to be a straightforward question about his party's present challenges and its prospects for continued growth. I asked Sannah to discuss the difficulties of merging the VCK, which is often described in popular media as a “Dalit party,” with the “political mainstream” as a “common party.” Sannah's posture immediately stiffened as he shot a wry glance in my direction. Muttering under his breath, he was visibly cross at my choice of the terms “common” and “mainstream,” both of which are often used by political commentators and VCK organizers alike.

Following a protracted silence, Sannah rattled off a barrage of questions. Referring to parties that are widely reputed to draw support from and cater to the interests of particular caste constituencies, he inquired: “Is the Pattali Makkal Katchi (PMK) a common party? And, moreover, tell me, do you think the Marumaralarchi Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (MDMK) is a common party? What about the Desiya Murpokku Dravida Kazhagam (DMDK)? Was the Dravidian movement a common movement?” “Of course not!” he underscored, “they were established on the foundations of specific groups pursuing a greater share of resources. But these parties feel that they alone—as caste Hindus—can raise their voice in the name of what is ‘common’.”

On the morning of November 4, 2013, a puttering auto-rickshaw dropped me off at the Liberation Panthers's headquarters nestled in a former elementary school building in Velachery, south Chennai. On my arrival, a handful of party cadre accustomed to my presence welcomed me with a cup of hot tea. We retrieved several chairs from a former classroom and spoke informally as I waited to interview Thirumavalavan, whom they called talaivar (the leader). As the hours passed, a crowd of visitors swelled around us on the shaded, open-air veranda, each awaiting their turn for a meeting with the party president. At the time, Thirumavalavan was the acting MP from Chidambaram, yet Dalits traveled from across the state to see him because he was widely regarded as a surrogate representative for all Dalits. Some visitors came to appeal for his intervention in personal matters. Others came to request a signed document on his parliamentary letterhead that directed a government bureaucrat to remedy a grievance. While most visitors arrived with specific requests, a handful came bearing ornate marriage invitations, hopeful to confirm his attendance and schedule the ceremony accordingly. No appointment was necessary, only patience.

After attending to a flurry of requests, Thirumavalavan emerged from his office and gestured for me to accompany his entourage as they set off for their afternoon meetings. Taking his cue, I squeezed into an overflowing SUV. Thirumavalavan sat in the front passenger seat while his secretaries positioned themselves at my sides and additional cadre piled into the back. Seemingly without pause, his assistants vetted incoming calls throughout the trip, carefully noting the caller's name and nature of inquiry before deciding whether to pass the phone to their talaivar.

In 2015, nearly a full year ahead of the state assembly polls, the VCK co-founded the Makkal Nala Kūttani (PWF; People's Welfare Front), a motley alliance of the communist parties (CPI[M] and CPI) and the Marumalarchi Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (MDMK; Renaissance Dravidian Progressive Federation) led by ex-DMK firebrand Vaiko. From the start, the PWF billed itself as “a policy-based alternative” to Dravidian coalitions. Moreover, PWF leaders critiqued the conventional model of coalition politics in Tamil Nadu, where Dravidian parties formed coalitions with allied parties to face the polls and then proceeded to keep their allies at arm's length once the next administration was formed. In an evident departure, the PWF demanded pre-poll guarantees for a share (pangu) of political power as a precondition for its support. Censuring the uninterrupted reign of Dravidian parties in the state, VCK organizers panned Dravidian rule as oru katci ātchi, or single-party rule, which they alleged amounted to edēccādikāram (despotism). In contrast, the PWF advanced a pioneering demand for “coalition government.” Touting a broad-based platform of popular issues, PWF leaders traversed the state and conducted public rallies that addressed the rights of unorganized workers, regularization of labor contracts in the public sector, and a wide breadth of other topics including education, police reform, healthcare, and environmental conservation. As the polls drew near, VCK leaders reverted to an old playbook and ramped up a caustic critique of their Dravidian rivals.

Initially, the DMK and the AIADMK were largely unphased, auguring that these “opportunists” would almost certainly “disintegrate” before the next election, chalking up the coalition to a publicity stunt before the polls. They predicted that its leaders would invariably come groveling back seeking an alliance with a Dravidian patron in the coming months. Then, as elections drew near, the PWF released a “Common Minimum Program”—a shared political agenda that represented a consensus among its members and would act as a policy blueprint for coalition governance. According to preliminary media reports, the public response was initially positive and, as 2015 rounded into 2016, prominent outlets aired footage of massive PWF rallies across the state.

In the early morning hours of Saturday, February 12, 1994, Liberation Panthers activists gatecrashed the Madurai Junction railway station. Waving colorful movement flags and hand-painted placards bearing political demands, they congregated on the tracks of the Chennai-bound Vaigai Express. As police constables struggled to detain this initial group of activists, dragging them off the tracks one by one and back atop the platform, a second squad of DPI cadre stormed the station and picketed the tracks of the Kanyakumari Express, delaying its departure by more than an hour. Soon thereafter, the railway junction descended into chaos when two more batches of activists swarmed the station, attempting to force their way onto the premises to disrupt the Pandian Express and Tirupathi Express. As additional waves of Dalit activists converged on the station, police constables summoned reinforcements, frantically locked the entrance gates, and improvised barricades to stall the advancing crowd, which the Indian Express estimated at an additional 200 persons.

DPI activists stood their ground and refused to withdraw from the station entrance, sparking a scuffle with the police. Amidst the ruckus, movement firebrand Arumugam “Theepori” Murugan seized a microphone and began chanting DPI slogans over the loudspeaker, exhorting activists to defy authorities: “Refuse to submit! Hit back!” Constables descended on the demonstrators, aggressively dispersing them with lathis (wooden batons). In retreat, Dalit activists defaced signboards as they were gradually beaten back from the station entrance, spurring nearby business owners to hastily shutter their storefronts as the mêlée spilled into the bustling West Velli Street, a major transit hub at the heart of Madurai's commercial center.