Imagine Kerala’s long coastline. The waves come and go, sometimes calm, sometimes rough.
For years, the BJP’s political tide barely touched this shore. Just a splash here and there.
In all these years, just one MLA. One MP.
But lately, the waves have begun to change direction.
There’s no storm or flood, but a steady shift in currents.
Kerala is often held up as an example for its secular model.
It’s a state where communities have lived side by side for centuries and where secular values are woven into everyday life.
Religion is part of daily life here, but it's rarely expressed through aggressive political mobilisation.
And for decades, that unique culture kept the BJP at arm’s length.
But it’s changing.
While the BJP’s seat count has stayed close to zero, its vote share has been rising.
We saw it in 2024 in Thrissur, where actor-politician Suresh Gopi won.
We saw it in Thiruvananthapuram and Alappuzha, where the BJP’s vote share climbed significantly.
These aren’t giant waves, but they’re unmistakable ripples.
And it’s being shaped by many factors — national politics, local grievances, economic pressures, and identity anxieties.
And finally, the layered, patient work of the Sangh Parivar.
So what made Kerala different?
And what’s changing now?
Let me explain.
Election coverage today is a spectator sport, centred on who is winning, who is losing, and a stream of shallow polls and loud debates. “Ground reports” often stop at quick voter reactions, while politicians get space to repeat scripted promises. Much of it mirrors party narratives. It is PR, not journalism.
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To understand the Sangh’s strategy in Kerala, you have to start with something simple.
The BJP may think in elections, but the RSS thinks in decades.
Their organisational work in Kerala began in the 1940s, around the same time the Communist movement took shape here.
Though definitely not as successful as the communists, the Sangh built density, with shakhas, student groups, temple committees, volunteer networks, and social service units.
There’s a popular myth that Kerala has the highest number of RSS shakhas in India.
Ullekh NP, a journalist who has studied the organisation closely, says that’s not accurate.
The RSS defines a state, Kshetra, differently — there are a total of 52 kshetras according to the RSS. So while bigger states like UP, Gujarat are split into multiple states, Kerala is seen as one Kshetra.
But Kerala does have a high density of shakhas relative to its size, and that density gives disproportionate influence. Not in votes, but in daily presence.
And that’s the key. While the BJP struggles to win elections, the Sangh is building something slower and more subtle.
A cultural atmosphere. Or a “Hindu atmosphere,” as scholars Dayal Paleri and R Santhosh put it. Their argument is blunt, that this isn’t a side project. This cultural groundwork is the political project.
One way this unfolds is through festivals.
Take this case study we did from Ottapalam, a small town in Palakkad district.
Not long ago, it didn’t have grand public Ganesholsavams or Vinayaka Chaturthi celebrations.
Then, after a local incident that involved the police blocking a procession, RSS workers responded by organising the town’s first Ganesholsavam in 2012.
It began small, with 22 idols in 21 locations.
Today, it has 250 idols across 136 spots, DJ processions, film stars, speeches on “Hindu pride,” and large crowds.
The Ottapalam Ganesholsavam Committee is entirely run by the RSS.
But the event is branded as a “cultural” festival. Appears apolitical, but it’s really the place for consolidation.
And this is only one layer of the Sangh’s work.
Another layer is the slow entry into spaces that shape daily life, through cooperative societies, local unions, temple boards, and neighbourhood committees.
These organisations aren’t glamorous, but they control loans, charity, mediations, local development funds, and community legitimacy.
Ullekh points out that gaining a foothold in cooperatives has been one of the Sangh’s long-term goals in Kerala. Why? Because these institutions hold enormous soft power. The CPI(M) has had control over such banks for decades, the Sangh is going the same route.
And the transformation isn’t only happening in institutions. It’s happening inside communities.
Let’s imagine a big village fair.
In one lane, young boys love a flashy performer who talks about strength, pride, and bravery.
In another lane, people stand around complaining about how the local organiser messed up last year’s fair — their old grudges and frustrations colour everything they see.
And in some pockets, powerful community elders show up, and just a single comment from them changes the mood of entire groups.
So the fair doesn’t move in one direction.
Use this example for sangh.
Some young people are drawn to the ideas of masculinity, pride, and assertiveness
Local anger makes some drift towards the promises of the BJP.
And in some pockets, influential caste-based organisations like the NSS or the SNDP Yogam hold the sway.
Let’s take the example of Alappuzha.
My colleague Haritha John’s ground report there found traditional CPI(M) voters — many of them from the Ezhava community — felt ignored, humiliated, or frustrated with local leaders.
In the 2024 general election, BJP’s vote share there had jumped from 17% to 28%. In some panchayats, they overtook the CPI(M).
Of course, this was not a massive wave.
But the cracks in old loyalties are visible
The Christians in Kerala, who form around 18% of the population, are mostly driven by anxiety. Especially around interfaith relationships and the “love jihad” narrative.
This anxiety or even hatred against Muslims has been circulating for years through parish meetings, Christian TV channels, and increasingly hardline church statements.
TNM’s reporting from the settler belts of Kasaragod and Kannur shows how this gets politicised.
A Christian girl and a Muslim boy fall in love, and What might once have been a private family issue suddenly becomes a political event.
The BJP’s Minority Morcha arrives, right-wing Christian groups appear, WhatsApp forwards circulate, and parents feel cornered.
And many begin to feel that it’s only the BJP that “speaks openly” about these fears.
The party builds on this through initiatives like Sneha Yatra — house visits during Christmas and Easter — and Modi Mitra, which gives “soft supporters” a non-political entry point.
Influential Christian households receive home visits, polite conversations, and Christmas greetings.
People say: “We won’t vote for you… not yet… but thank you for coming.”
This may not be electoral conversion, it’s emotional alignment.
And then, there are flashpoint incidents that accelerate the shift.
Like what happened in Poonjar, where a group of Muslim schoolboys accidentally injured a vicar while driving through church grounds. The incident spiralled into a full-blown communal crisis.
Christian right-wing channels framed it as a “jihadi attack.”
This caused communal rhetoric to spread across parishes in Kottayam, Idukki, and Thrissur.
As Ullekh points out, polarisation is becoming cyclical.
But all of this brings us to the question that matters the most.
If the Sangh has been working in Kerala since the 1940s, if its networks are dense, and if its cultural presence has grown, why hasn’t this translated into votes?
Why does Kerala keep the BJP at arm’s distance?
The simplest answer is geographical.
Kerala is small but extremely dense, people live close, communities overlap.
Religious diversity isn’t abstract. It’s your neighbour, your colleague, your classmate, your bus conductor, and your local shopkeeper.
When identities intertwine at that level, polarisation becomes harder to sustain.
But the more important answer is political culture.
Kerala’s electorate doesn’t respond well to big emotional waves or majoritarian rhetoric.
It responds better to welfare delivery, organisational discipline, ideological clarity, and local leadership.
On all these fronts, the Left and the Congress, despite their flaws, still have deeper roots than the BJP.
The CPI(M), especially, is not like its Bengal counterpart.
As Ullekh explains, the CPI(M) in Bengal decayed from within with corruption, defection, and the collapse of cadre systems.
Mamata Banerjee and the Trinamool Congress stepped in, pushed the Congress aside, and quickly became the main rival to the Left. This created a bitter two-way fight, and once the Congress was pushed to the margins, the BJP found an opening.
Kerala did not offer anything similar. The state does not carry those historic communal wounds, and its two main coalitions remained strong and competitive.
Even student politics showed this balance, with groups like SFI, KSU, and various Muslim student organisations all holding their own spaces.
And most importantly, Kerala’s CPI(M) hasn’t collapsed like in Bengal.
Its structure remains intact, and it acts like a firewall.
Other than the CPI(M) and Congress, many other political parties function largely as their satellites.
The Congress in Kerala has often sided with soft Hindutva, keeping the BJP in the margins.
So for those tired with the CPI(M), there is always the Congress — a natural, familiar alternative.
And then there’s literacy. Not as a boast or a moral claim, but as a lived habit.
Kerala’s voters are known to read newspapers across political lines.
Many of them debate and cross-check, and fact-check TV anchors in real time.
This doesn’t mean people don’t hold prejudices.
We’ve seen Islamophobia grow and communal rhetoric seep into all kinds of spaces
But Kerala’s voters still don’t automatically convert cultural anxieties into votes for the BJP.
They compartmentalise.
They may agree with a bishop on “love jihad,” or admire a BJP leader’s personal style, or feel frustrated with the Left on pensions or governance, but still go into the polling booth and vote the way they always have.
Add to this the BJP’s local leadership remains fragmented, with no deep bench like they have in Karnataka or Uttar Pradesh.
Many leaders are parachuted, many lack on-ground legitimacy, many are celebrities and not organisers.
The party’s ideological messaging often clashes with Kerala’s everyday lived secularism.
And that’s why the Sangh, not the BJP, is driving the Kerala project.
Because the Sangh understands that electoral change will not come quickly in a state like Kerala, where caste and religion don’t map neatly onto party lines, and minorities form nearly half the population.
Which is why, as scholars Dayal Paleri and R Santhosh argue, they are willing to put elections on the backburner and focus on cultural work — that long, patient effort to build a “Hindu atmosphere.”
An atmosphere that will eventually make electoral victories possible.
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Producer: Megha Mukundan,
Script: Lakshmi Priya,
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