A Republic Under Siege?

The rise of Hindu Rashtra and the southern call for separation

 FOR many in India’s Bahujan communities—OBCs, Scheduled Castes, Scheduled Tribes and minorities—the idea of a Hindu Rashtra is no longer abstract speculation. It is a looming threat to the very foundation of the republic. The Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) and its affiliates have spent decades building an ideological infrastructure that, critics argue, seeks to replace the egalitarian promise of the 1950 Constitution with a hierarchical order rooted in Brahmanical tradition. In this vision, the Manusmriti—once publicly burned by B.R. Ambedkar as a symbol of caste oppression—would become the de facto social constitution, with Brahmins and upper castes at the apex and Bahujans reduced to a subordinate, servile status.

The fear is stark: if Hindutva forces succeed in consolidating a majoritarian state, the Constitution’s core principles—equality before the law, abolition of untouchability, affirmative action, and universal citizenship—will be hollowed out. Reservations, land reforms, welfare schemes and protections for linguistic and cultural minorities would be deprioritised or dismantled under the guise of “civilisational values” and “unity”. The result, many Bahujans warn, would not be a unified Hindu nation but a reassertion of caste supremacy under a religious banner, leaving the majority population politically disenfranchised, economically exploited and socially subordinated.

In this context, a radical counternarrative has begun to surface, particularly in the south. Rather than wait for the erosion of constitutional safeguards, some voices now argue that the only realistic defence is dismemberment: the separation of Peninsular India—especially Tamil Nadu, Kerala, Karnataka, Andhra Pradesh and Telangana—from the union. The reasoning is brutally simple: if the north is moving toward a Brahmanical Hindu Rashtra, the south must protect its Dravidian, anti-caste legacy by creating an independent, secular federation that preserves linguistic rights, social justice and federal autonomy.

This is not a new idea. It revives the Dravida Nadu demand of the 1950s, which sought a sovereign southern union to escape northern cultural and economic dominance. That movement collapsed after the States Reorganisation Act of 1956 granted linguistic states and the 16th Amendment (1963) outlawed secessionist advocacy. Yet today, as central laws on citizenship, agriculture and education are perceived as overriding southern interests, and as cultural campaigns (such as the push for a uniform “Hindu” ethos) gain ground, the old question resurfaces: can the south survive inside a majoritarian union?

The case for separation rests on three pillars. First, demographic and cultural reality: the south is home to over 250 million people with strong anti-caste traditions, high human-development indicators and a history of resisting Brahmanical hegemony. Second, economic viability: the region generates nearly 30% of India’s GDP and contributes disproportionately to tax revenues; an independent bloc could negotiate trade and investment on its own terms. Third, existential defence: if the Constitution is rendered toothless, Bahujans argue, the south’s progressive social gains—land reforms, reservations, gender equity and linguistic rights—will be the first casualties.

Yet the obstacles are formidable. Legally, secession remains unconstitutional and punishable under sedition laws. Politically, non-Tamil southern states show little appetite for separation; Kerala’s communists, Karnataka’s fractured parties and Andhra-Telangana’s development-focused politics prioritise local power over pan-Dravidian unity. Economically, the south remains deeply integrated with northern markets, supply chains and remittances. And strategically, fragmentation would invite central intervention, economic sanctions and diplomatic isolation.

The more pragmatic path, many Bahujan leaders contend, is not dismemberment but fierce defence of federalism. Southern states could demand greater fiscal devolution, stronger protections for linguistic and cultural rights, and a renewed commitment to constitutional values through coalitions, litigation and mass mobilisation. The south’s strength has always lain in its ability to assert regional autonomy within the union, not outside it.

Still, the whispers of separation are a warning. They reflect a deepening sense of alienation: the fear that the republic Ambedkar envisioned—a democracy that would bury caste hierarchy—is being replaced by a state that revives it. If the centre continues to centralise power and erode federal safeguards, the south’s frustration may grow beyond rhetoric.

For now, the choice remains stark. India can deepen its constitutional democracy, honouring the egalitarian vision that made it possible, or risk watching its southern flank drift toward the unthinkable. The republic’s survival depends on which path it chooses.