My culture and dietary choices are defined by my ancestors who dwelled in this part of the world — not by any North Indian, politically motivated Sanatani.
It needs to be said, clearly and unapologetically.
I come from a land where tradition was not written in books, but lived in everyday acts. Where faith wasn’t a weapon, but a whisper to the wind, the rain, the sea, and the soil. Where gods had local names, local rituals, and local tongues — and were worshipped in songs passed down by grandmothers, not Sanskrit verses shouted into microphones.
My food is not yours to police. My ancestors ate what grew around them — what the forests gave, what the coast offered, what the seasons allowed. They didn’t need permission from a North Indian priest or a WhatsApp forward to decide what was pure and what was impure. They had no concept of “cow worship” clashing with survival, no guilt attached to fish curry, no shame in offering meat to a fierce village goddess.
To impose a homogenized idea of “Sanatana Dharma” — shaped by upper-caste North Indian lens, polished by colonial guilt, and weaponized by political ambition — is to erase the diverse, layered, lived realities of millions like me.
I do not reject Sanatana Dharma. I reject your version of it — one that edits out my ancestors, silences my gods, and sanitizes my rituals.
Let me say it louder:
I do not need saving.
I do not need correcting.
I do not need cleansing.
My identity is rooted in a lineage that walked these lands long before “Hindutva” became a slogan and long before vegetarianism became a litmus test for righteousness.
Real Sanatana is eternal.
Real tradition breathes.
And mine breathes through toddy trees, through drum beats of Theyyam, through fiery offerings to Mariamman, through Pongal pots, and through memories cooked in earthen vessels.
If your idea of Dharma excludes me, erases me, or demands I change — then it was never Dharma to begin with.
It was just power in disguise.