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R Nallakannu’s politics began with rivers. Long before environmentalism became a language of policy or climate summits, he understood something simple and elemental. When a river is wounded, the poor bleed first. Through decades of political life, he returned again and again to that truth, standing firmly against sand mining, resource plunder and projects that threatened fragile landscapes. With his passing at 101, Tamil Nadu loses not only a veteran communist leader but one of the last public figures who saw ecology as a moral question.
To many, he looked like a man from another century. White shirt, worn sandals, a walking stick, and a quiet presence that never demanded attention. Yet his gentleness hid a fierce resolve. He could disagree without shouting, oppose without spectacle, and hold his ground even when it meant discomfort within his own political home.
Born in 1925 in Srivaikuntam, in the fertile belt shaped by the Thamirabarani river, Nallakannu’s early life unfolded in an agrarian landscape where nature was not a concept but a daily reality. Farming, irrigation and seasonal rhythms shaped communities. The connection between people and rivers was immediate and visible.
As P Sainath recounts in his portrait of Nallakannu in the People’s Archive of Rural India, activism came early. Even as a young boy he stepped into public life, drawn to struggles that centred on dignity and survival. He joined the communist movement at a time when political commitment meant risk, not reward. Arrests and imprisonment followed, but he rarely spoke about personal sacrifice. For him, struggle was collective.
That grounding would later define his environmental politics. He did not approach ecology as a separate issue. For him, environment meant farmers, labourers, fisherfolk and villages whose lives depended on land and water.
If one image captures Nallakannu’s later years, it is that of an ageing leader standing near a riverbank, warning that extraction would destroy the future. His campaign against river sand mining became one of the defining chapters of his public life.
Tamil Nadu’s rivers were being stripped by mechanised mining. Riverbeds sank deeper, groundwater declined, agriculture suffered, and ecological balance began to collapse. Many leaders avoided the issue because of the powerful economic and political interests behind it. Nallakannu did not.
He spoke bluntly. Sand mining, he said, was organised plunder. Rivers were being treated as commodities rather than living systems. He joined protests, backed legal interventions, addressed meetings across the state, and insisted that development without ecological restraint would ultimately destroy livelihoods.
Even in advanced age, he travelled to affected areas, listening to villagers and activists. For younger environmental campaigners, his presence gave legitimacy and moral strength to their struggles. He framed the issue not as environmental romanticism but as social justice. When rivers disappear, he would say, the poorest lose first.
Nallakannu’s environmental vision extended beyond sand mining. He opposed unchecked extraction of natural resources wherever he saw communities being pushed aside. Mining, industrial pollution, destructive infrastructure and land grabs all drew his criticism.
He believed that development had to be accountable to people who lived closest to nature. This position often placed him at odds with dominant political narratives that equated growth with large-scale exploitation. But he remained consistent. Nature was not a warehouse for profit. It was a shared inheritance.
For many activists in Tamil Nadu, he became a rare bridge between ideological politics and grassroots environmental movements.
One of the most revealing aspects of his political life was his position on nuclear energy, especially around Kudankulam. While his party, the Communist Party of India, often carried an uncertain or evolving position on nuclear power, Nallakannu listened closely to local fears. Fisherfolk and coastal communities worried about ecological risk and displacement. He stood with them.
His opposition was never theatrical. He did not seek headlines or confrontation. Instead, he quietly articulated concerns about safety, livelihood and environmental impact, showing that dissent could be ethical and measured. In doing so, he demonstrated a rare independence of mind. Ideology mattered to him, but lived realities mattered more.
This ability to hold nuance, to question even when party lines were unclear, made him deeply respected across movements.
Stories about his simplicity have entered Tamil political folklore. When supporters gifted him a car, he returned it. When money was awarded to him, he redirected it to public causes. He lived without visible accumulation despite decades in politics.
P Sainath’s writing captures this quality vividly. Nallakannu was not a leader separated from ordinary people by distance or security. He travelled lightly, spoke softly, and listened with patience. There was no performance in his simplicity. It was simply how he lived.
In a time when politics increasingly became a display of power and wealth, his austerity felt almost radical.
Across one hundred years, he watched India change. He saw colonial rule, independence, ideological battles, agrarian movements, liberalisation and the rise of media-driven politics. Through all of it, he remained rooted in the ground realities of rural Tamil Nadu.
Even in his nineties, he attended protests and meetings, standing alongside younger activists rather than above them. To many, he was not just an elder but a reminder of an older ethic of politics where conviction mattered more than visibility.
His death brought tributes from across political lines. Chief Minister M K Stalin described him as a leader who devoted his entire life to the welfare of workers and the underprivileged, announcing full state honours and acknowledging his moral stature in Tamil public life.
Environmental activists remembered him as one of the few mainstream political figures who stood firmly against river destruction and resource exploitation. For many in people’s movements, his passing felt like the loss of a moral anchor, someone who could connect ideology with compassion.
He leaves behind no wealth, no dynasty, no monument. Only a moral memory. And rivers that still carry the echo of a comrade who refused to look away.