Ram Narayan Baghel, 31, was a migrant wage worker from Chhattisgarh who had travelled to Kerala in search of livelihood. Like millions of people from marginalised communities—particularly Dalits—he moved across states for work because opportunities at home are limited. On December 17, in Walayar village of Palakkad district, Kerala, Ram Narayan was surrounded by a group of people, subjected to interrogation, and brutally assaulted. He later died from the injuries inflicted on him.
The mob reportedly suspected him of being a “Bangladeshi”. Acting on this presumption, they took the law into their own hands. Post-mortem findings reportedly indicate that he was tortured before his death. The incident did not receive immediate media attention but has since come to light. Allegations have emerged that the accused were linked to Hindutva groups, though attributing blame to any single organisation should not distract from the deeper and more pervasive mindset of suspicion and violence that now cuts across communities and regions.
Ram Narayan is survived by two children, aged eight and ten, who live with their mother in Sakti, Chhattisgarh. He had gone to Kerala simply to earn a living. Instead, he was lynched after being questioned about his identity, despite repeatedly asserting who he was.
This incident raises uncomfortable questions. Kerala is often perceived as being insulated from mob violence, unlike states such as Uttar Pradesh or Bihar. It is also widely regarded as a highly educated state, supposedly beyond the reach of majoritarian politics. These assumptions now appear deeply flawed. Electoral outcomes alone do not determine whether divisive ideologies will gain ground. Political movements driven by identity and exclusion do not retreat simply because they lose elections.
At the heart of this tragedy lies a dangerous narrative: that every Bengali-speaking person is a Bangladeshi. This assumption has been repeatedly normalised outside West Bengal and has now acquired lethal consequences. Even if a person were a foreign national residing illegally, the question remains—what is the lawful response? Is it to assault and kill, or to inform the police and allow due process to take its course?
The answer is obvious, yet mob violence continues. This reflects not only individual prejudice but also institutional failure. Political rhetoric that thrives on distortion and fear has created an atmosphere where suspicion becomes justification for violence. While Hindutva politics has played a prominent role in promoting such narratives in India, this phenomenon is not confined to one ideology, one party, or even one country
Mob lynching is ultimately the act of crowds that seek to silence difference and dissent. Societies across South Asia are increasingly slipping into majoritarian hegemonies that marginalise minorities. The killing of Deep Chandra Das in Bangladesh illustrates this grim reality. A factory worker, he was handed over by his employer to a violent crowd and burnt alive because he was a Hindu in a Muslim-majority setting. His fate mirrors that of innocent Muslims facing violence in Hindu-majority areas in India. The victims differ, but the logic of hate is the same.
India was not always like this. Despite its many shortcomings—caste hierarchies, feudal practices, and inequality—it retained space for coexistence and democratic contestation. That space is rapidly shrinking.
Addressing mob violence requires urgent institutional intervention. Parliament must enact comprehensive legislation against lynching, and the Supreme Court must issue enforceable guidelines. Accountability should extend beyond perpetrators to political leaders whose rhetoric enables such crimes. The withdrawal of cases, such as that relating to the killing of Mohammad Akhlaq in Dadri, Uttar Pradesh, sends a dangerous message of impunity.
Mob lynching represents a failure of all three pillars of democracy. Political actors exploit division for electoral gain. Administrative machinery often fails to act swiftly or impartially. The judiciary has yet to ensure stringent, time-bound accountability. A review of mob lynching cases over the past decade—examining charge sheets and conviction rates—would be a sobering exercise.
Blame games serve little purpose when the social fabric is visibly fraying. Those calling for blood in Bangladesh and those branding every Bengali-speaking worker in India as a criminal are driven by the same impulses. South Asia’s future cannot be built on hatred and prejudice. India, Bangladesh, Pakistan, and Nepal share histories of coexistence; their societies need forces that bring people together, not tear them apart.
The most basic principle must be restored: no individual has the right to act as judge, jury, and executioner. Suspected wrongdoing must be reported to the authorities, not settled by violence. Respect for constitutional values and the rule of law is non-negotiable.
The tragedies of Deep Chandra Das and Ram Narayan Baghel are strikingly similar. Both belonged to the most marginalised sections of society. Both were killed because of their identity. Both were poor workers seeking livelihood. Their deaths should compel serious reflection on the politics of hate and growing intolerance. Failure to confront this reality risks destroying the very foundations of our societies.
---
*Human rights defender
Comments