As the ASI faces scrutiny over its handling of the Keezhadi excavation report, South First sat down with R Balakrishnan – retired IAS officer, cultural historian, and author of Journey of a Civilisation: Indus to Vaigai.
Published May 30, 2025 | 9:00 AM ⚊ Updated Jun 11, 2025 | 9:15 AM
With over four decades of administrative service across India, Balakrishnan is also known for his pioneering research that bridges archaeology, linguistics, and Tamil literature.
Synopsis: To unpack the controversy surrounding the Keezhadi excavation and its deeper implications, South First sat down with retired IAS officer, historian R Balakrishnan known for his pioneering research that bridges archaeology, linguistics, and Tamil literature.
The Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) has asked archaeologist K Amarnath Ramakrishna, who led the significant Keezhadi excavation nearby, to revise and resubmit his detailed report with necessary corrections on the ancient site.
This development comes over two years after Ramakrishna had submitted his comprehensive findings, raising questions about the chronology and documentation of one of Tamil Nadu’s most important archaeological discoveries.
Keezhadi, located near Madurai, is one of India’s most significant archaeological discoveries, with findings that suggest a sophisticated urban culture in South India dating back much earlier than previously believed.
As the ASI faces scrutiny over its handling of the Keezhadi excavation report, concerns about institutional bias, delayed recognition, and the historical significance of Tamil Nadu’s ancient past are gaining renewed urgency.
To unpack the controversy and its deeper implications, South First sat down with R Balakrishnan – retired IAS officer, cultural historian, and author of Journey of a Civilisation: Indus to Vaigai.
With over four decades of administrative service across India, Balakrishnan is also known for his pioneering research that bridges archaeology, linguistics, and Tamil literature. His work has contributed to reimagining the civilisational continuum between the Indus Valley and the Tamil South – challenging long-held assumptions about cultural and linguistic histories.
Edited excerpts follow.
Yes, I was a journalist. I’m the first graduate in my family. I hadn’t written any other exams or applied for any other jobs. After finishing my post-graduation, I became a journalist simply because that opportunity was offered to me by none other than A.N. Shivaraman, the well-known editor of Dinamani. I was posted in Madurai.
While working there, I began thinking about writing the Civil Services exam. Actually, much earlier – I’m from the 1984 batch, and the exam was in 1983 – but the seed was planted way back in 1973 when I was in the 10th standard. That year, I had the opportunity to travel with none other than K. Kamaraj, the former Chief Minister. In a midnight conversation, he asked me, “Why don’t you write the UPSC exam and become a collector?”
So perhaps the idea stayed at the back of my mind. But the immediate trigger was my time at Dinamani. I felt like giving it a shot. Then, in 1979, candidates were given permission to write the Civil Services exam in any one of the Indian languages. I seized that opportunity. Had that permission not been granted, I may not have attempted it at all.
Thankfully, I cleared it on my very first attempt.
That’s a very good and thought-provoking – even philosophical – question. When we talk about time, we’re always moving through the past, present, and future. Personally, I always prefer to live in the present, to deal with current challenges while keeping an eye on the future and how we are going to shape it.
But in order to understand the present and prepare for the future, the most crucial input comes from the past. If you don’t understand your past, you may not fully grasp your strengths, weaknesses, or priorities in the present.
So, how was our past? What shaped us? That’s where history becomes essential. People often speak about the importance of history, and I would go further to say that history is not just important – it’s inevitable and inescapable.
Even if you want to ignore or escape from history, you cannot, because as human beings, we are always carrying our past with us. It’s embedded in our lives, our culture, our thinking. So, a proper understanding of the past helps us understand the present better – and that, in turn, helps us plan meaningfully for the future.
In that sense, history isn’t just about what has happened – it’s about why we are the way we are today, and how we can move forward.
That’s a very important question. First, when we talk about literature, we need to understand what kind of literature we’re referring to. Literature comes in many forms – there’s classical literature like Tamil and Sanskrit texts, then epic literature like Silapathikaram, Manimegalai, and in North India, the Ramayana and Mahabharata. There’s also spiritual literature, rooted in religion, like the Bhakti literature of medieval Tamil Nadu. We also have prose, poetry, and modern forms of literary expression.
Among all these, Sangam literature stands apart. What makes it unique is that its central theme is life. It speaks about life in its full complexity – whether it’s personal life, like love, longing, and marriage (which we categorise as Agam), or public life, like heroism, war, governance, and generosity (Puram). These two dimensions – Agam and Puram – form the core of Sangam literature.
It’s a multilayered body of work, with texts like Kurunthogai, Natrinai, Akananuru, Purananuru and Aingurunuru. While you may find the earliest traces of religious sentiment in some verses, Sangam literature is overwhelmingly secular. And by secular, I don’t mean the absence of belief – they surely had belief systems – but religion was never the central theme. The focus was on human experience, emotion, and social life.
Take love poems for example – they never mention individual names. There’s no reference to a specific man or woman. Instead, they use generic characters – hero, heroine, hero’s friend, heroine’s mother, and so on. This anonymity lends a kind of universality and emotional truth to these poems. In Puram poems, yes, kings and heroes are mentioned, often eulogised with some exaggeration, but even there, we find valuable glimpses into the political and social structure of the time.
What’s most striking is how Sangam literature treats nature – it is incredibly topocentric, land-centric. The entire culture is woven around the natural environment – landscapes, rivers, trees, hills, animals, insects. The people who wrote these poems observed life very closely, and described it with great accuracy and sensitivity. That’s why I feel Sangam literature is closer to the earth, the sea, the heart – and therefore closer to truth.
When a literature is rooted in faith or mythology, like Bhakti or epic traditions, the content tends to revolve around ideals – invincible heroes, divine figures, miraculous events. But Sangam poetry is grounded in reality. It doesn’t glorify; it observes. That’s what makes it so valuable when we try to understand how people actually lived – what they valued, feared, celebrated, or mourned.
Let me give you a contrast. Take Kamba Ramayanam – a phenomenal work of poetry written in Tamil by Kamban, but it was composed in the medieval period. Does it reflect the real life of the people in Tamil Nadu at that time? Not necessarily. It’s a beautiful epic, but not a social document. Sangam literature, on the other hand, was much closer to the soil, the river, the tree, and even the insect.
So, when we look for our roots – cultural, social, emotional – Sangam literature gives us perhaps the most authentic glimpse into the ancient Tamil way of life. That’s why I value it so highly.
Q: Since you mentioned Rama or Ravana – whose children are we? There are so many narratives. What is your opinion?
We are human beings – that’s all. If you ask me, I would speak in terms of Homo sapiens or modern humans. I don’t identify myself with any single mythical or epic character. I am just human, and that’s the fundamental truth.
In fact, if you look at it scientifically, all humans are essentially migrants. Some people may not believe in evolution or how the Earth and species have evolved over time, but the evidence is clear. Even today, modern humans carry around two per cent of Neanderthal genes – from a species that no longer exists. Yet, some part of them lives in us. What does that tell us? That we are all part of a long and interconnected story.
All other labels – like Varna, caste, high or low – these are later social constructs. They were created much after humans evolved. At our core, we are simply human. So no, I don’t see myself as the child of A or B or anyone else. I belong to humans.
Actually, to be fair to everyone involved, we feel there’s a delay – but from their side, the ASI might consider it part of their usual timeline. That said, here’s how I see it:
The report in question pertains to the Keezhadi excavations carried out during 2014–15 and 2016 – essentially, Phase I and Phase II. These were conducted under the supervision of archaeologist Amarnath Ramakrishna. The third phase was also done by the ASI, but by then, Ramakrishna had been transferred out. His exit led to legal interventions, with people approaching the judiciary to ensure the work didn’t end abruptly.
Now, during those early phases, Ramakrishna gave the impression – through media statements and preliminary reports – that Keezhadi’s findings were significant. There was even speculation that some of the artefacts bore resemblance to those from the Harappan civilisation. This generated considerable excitement.
However, the third phase, carried out by another professional archaeologist from the ASI, seemed to downplay the findings. The tone of the reporting suggested there wasn’t much more to uncover. This discrepancy – between Ramakrishna’s enthusiastic claims and the more subdued official stance – led people to worry that the excavation was being deliberately slowed or even halted. A court order later ensured that the work would continue.
Following this, the Tamil Nadu government stepped in. Under the then-commissioner of the Tamil Nadu archaeology department, Mr Udhayachandran, the state took over the excavation from Phase IV onwards – all the way through to the tenth phase. These later excavations were conducted entirely by the Tamil Nadu State Department of Archaeology, and their findings were regularly shared with the public and the media.
We must also remember – this isn’t the 1900s anymore. We’re in 2025, living in the age of social media. Information travels instantly. People know what’s being unearthed almost in real time. Keezhadi, along with sites like Sivagalai, Vembakottai, Korkai, and Adichanallur, has sparked massive public interest. And in the case of Keezhadi, this interest even led to the creation of a site museum by the Tamil Nadu government.
So naturally, people are asking: if the later phases led to a museum and so much public awareness, what happened to the official ASI reports from the first and second phases? Why haven’t they been published yet?
From what I’ve read in the media, the report by Amarnath Ramakrishna was actually submitted two years ago. But now corrections were asked for. Apparently, he refused – he stood by his original submission, saying it was based entirely on the evidence he found, and didn’t need editing.
So that’s where things stand.
To our expectation, people who are interested in history and archaeology – we are actually wanting this to come under public scrutiny.
We need to keep one thing in mind: an archaeology report – recently also I read – how the archaeological evidence was handled in Ayodhya, and how it was handled in other places.
So people made comparative studies and argued, and asked why there are so many questions about this.
What is more important is not Amarnath Ramakrishna or Sathyamoorthy or A or B.
What is more important is: Why did the Adichanallur report get delayed for 15 years?
Why is the Keezhadi report getting delayed?
Is there anything in the larger picture?
That is more important to ponder over than individual questions.
For that, you need to first start with John Marshall – the very famous historian based in Delhi. Nayanjot Lahiri – she has written an excellent book about the forgotten cities, Indus towns and all the cities there.
She actually describes the mind of John Marshall as similar to Sherlock Holmes.
She says, “There is a Sherlock Holmes in him” – I mean, very detective-like, enthusiastic, very energetic – a Sherlock Holmes type of personality in John Marshall.
If such a personality – a 26-year-old – came to India, a young man with an open mind. More importantly, in some other interview I also said – fortunately for us, a person like John Marshall arrived in India with an open mind.
Very importantly, he was not a scholar in any of the Indian languages.
For that reason, probably, we had a different thing.
The people in the South – particularly in Tamil Nadu – had a grievance.
Sundaram Pillai writes a letter to Vincent Smith, asking why history always starts in the North – the Gangetic Valley, Chandragupta, Bimbisara, the Sunga dynasty, Harshavardhana, Pulikesin – and then as a subtext, South Indian history is treated like a footnote. If not for K.A. Nilakanta Sastri, people might not have even known much about it.
So Sundaram Pillai wrote a letter saying that history should start from the river Krishna or Kaveri – that kind of thing, he wrote in that letter.
At that time, however sympathetic Smith could have been, he said: “As things stand, we don’t have much evidence on hand to change the narrative.”
That’s what he mentioned sometime in early 1931.
But by 1924, John Marshall had already announced it.
I consider this significant. In the 1931 report, John Marshall gave an indication that the Indus Valley Civilisation is pre-Vedic and non-Vedic – probably Dravidian.
He used that terminology in 1931 when it came out as a book.
More importantly, immediately after the 1924 report, S.K. Chatterjee – I really adore him for a simple reason: he was a linguist, and from Bengal.
He had no personal emotional involvement with Tamil Nadu.
He studied all the material. He saw the Adichanallur findings. He knew Robert Caldwell’s Comparative Grammar of Dravidian Languages.
Having all this information, as a linguist, he said: “It is pre-Vedic, non-Vedic, not connected with Aryans – mostly Dravidian.” He said the Dravidian origins may also have some evidence in early Tamil texts.
All this, he said in 1924.
What we are talking about right now is only the same thing, but with more evidence.
That is what I can say. We have not discovered something entirely new.
Also, more importantly, next comes KN Dikshit. He made a statement in 1935 in Madras, saying that if you really do a proper excavation in Korkai – exactly Korkai, Tirunelveli area – you will find evidence that will take you closer to the Indus Valley Civilisation, or something later. He said this in 1935. We didn’t act on it. That shows a huge apathy – a kind of negligence, I must say.
Southern archaeology was not pursued properly. Even Sathyamoorthy’s report was delayed by 15 years. So to that extent, there is a kind of narrative – and the reason I am saying this is that history is nothing but a narrative. It is not rocket science – even science can be questioned.
So in that process, my take on history is: it should be as evidence-based as possible.
We should be in a position to defend what we write.
You must have read Journey of Civilisation. I subsequently translated it into Tamil.
If you read those books – it’s a huge one – but it is about putting new evidence before people who are well-read and asking them to take a call. In fact, having said everything, finally I say: “It seems, I propose…” Even then, I still call it a hypothesis.
I remember in 2018 when I gave the “Pot Route” talk at Roja Muthiah Library –
We were surprised by the presence of Iravatham Mahadevan. He was not well, but he made it. We were surprised.
When he entered the meeting hall, myself and Mr Sundar – the director of RMRL – received him. We had kept a small exhibition. He was actually asking me and Sundar,
“Having produced this much evidence, why do we still call it the ‘Dravidian hypothesis’ of the Indus Valley Civilisation? Why are we not saying that it is Dravidian?”
That was probably the last time we met him. That was the last public function he attended. And his last article before his death – there too he talks about my research and other things.
But still, we call it a hypothesis. It looks like that, because today what we consider a finding may undergo change tomorrow if new evidence comes. Even in science, there is no final kind of thing. You cannot use a definitive word and say it’s conclusive.
That is the reason we ought to put forward the evidence – at the same time, we ought to approach the past with a lot of humility, a lot of responsibility, and with care.
It’s like when you go to the airport and you’re carrying fragile material – it always says “Handle with care.” History is like that. I feel history belongs to the people.
It is a right. It needs to be handled with care.
It would be a bit unfair to Amarnath as well as to the ASI if I join in the middle of a conversation like this, where he has submitted a report and the ASI has also asked a few questions citing an external opinion. He has replied back saying that he stands by what he wrote. Basically, with this observation – though it is unprecedented – they are also entitled to make that remark.
As I said, he has submitted, they asked the question, he has given his answer, and now it has been put to the public. So people will read both the observations, and then informed scholars will come to their own conclusions. There are no individual decisions in such matters.
We have to think about it – before 1900, there was nothing very greatly permanent about any understanding. I have great faith in the fluid nature of information.
Did we know about the Indus Valley Civilisation before 1924? No. Nobody knew. We didn’t know Harappa, Mohenjodaro. Then, before Amarnath came and chose this place, did we know the importance of Keezhadi? Before Alexander Rea came and dug, did we know about Adichanallur?
So that means something may come tomorrow. In the process, it’s better that the concerned people handle it. But overall, our expectation would be that wherever it happens – whether something really verifiable comes from ‘A’ place or ‘B’ place – what’s more important, particularly in the context of identity, is what I’ve been talking about: the culture of politics and the politics of history. It is basically a kind of narrative built around it.
I believe in India’s plural narrative, because I’ve worked with the tribals of India – almost all. When you consider so many tribals, you understand their native intelligence, their important medicinal knowledge – every time I wonder. But then, in our history, they don’t even figure – their language doesn’t figure, their knowledge doesn’t figure.
So probably in a kind of history that is more inclusive, more accommodative, more plural, and more open-minded – that alone can take us forward. That alone can guarantee our future as well. That is the reason the past is important.
I’ve seen that report. It was shared with scholars and the public, and opinions were gathered. The samples were tested in different laboratories – Rajan and his team came out with that report. I’ve seen it, and it makes me happy to know that iron smelting and metallurgy flourished in Tamil Nadu long, long ago – much earlier than we previously expected.
But I’d like to strike a note here. When people ask me what implication this has for our understanding of the Indus Valley civilisation – especially its possible linguistic affiliation with the Dravidian family and its legacy in ancient Tamil texts – I say this: There is absolutely no change in my position. If anything, I feel more encouraged.
Sangam literature already celebrates metallurgy and technology – it talks in detail about how smelting takes place. It refers to blacksmiths, goldsmiths, and many kinds of artisans. And it highlights two major metals: copper-bronze and iron.
Now, if there’s one classical literature that discusses bronze in depth, it is the Sangam literature. At the same time, when it talks about iron – which is a hard, utilitarian metal – it consistently places it in three contexts: agriculture, warfare, and daily utility. You find references to tools like sickles, armory, even scissors. So it’s not just about the metal – it’s about its function and presence in everyday life.
Copper-bronze, on the other hand, being an alloy, requires raw materials that are more scarce. Copper is not as readily available in India as iron. So, in Sangam texts, copper and bronze appear more in urban and prestige contexts. For instance, there are poetic descriptions like “Sembu Punaindhanna Senjuvar” – walls as red as if they were made of copper – or “Sembu Punandhiyatriya Senerum Purisai” – referring to massive city walls resembling copper in their sturdiness and colour.
This imagery is consistent with what we see at sites like Mohenjo Daro and Harappa, where copper-bronze culture was prominent. So, in my view, the pride around both iron and copper-bronze found in Sangam texts strengthens our civilisational claims. It doesn’t undermine them.
The people who specialise in metallurgy will naturally focus on whichever material is available in their region. If iron is abundant, they’ll develop iron metallurgy. If copper is available, then copper metallurgy will flourish. In fact, many regions in the world transitioned directly into the Iron Age without a Bronze Age – so this has to be seen in a contextual manner.
All in all, it’s good news. It doesn’t alter our understanding – it enriches it.
Yes, absolutely. I find that very fascinating. But I would never claim that everything written in Sangam literature is an article of faith or gospel truth – no literature should be treated that way. There can be exaggerations, poetic expressions, or symbolic references.
However, Sangam texts often come remarkably close to the truth. When what is described in the literature is also found in archaeological evidence, that’s when it becomes truly significant. In such cases, archaeology validates the literature.
Earlier, if there was no archaeological evidence, people would dismiss it as just poetry or imagination. But when archaeological findings confirm a particular description or context from the texts, the credibility of that literature increases tremendously. In that sense, I believe the credibility of Sangam literature has been greatly enhanced by these recent archaeological discoveries.
I don’t think so. The Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) is a Union government organisation. Tamil Nadu has its own Directorate of Archaeology, and if the state department conducts an excavation, it will submit its own report. In this case, Amarnath Ramakrishna was working under the ASI, and the excavation was conducted by the ASI – so it’s their responsibility to publish the report. It has nothing to do with the Tamil Nadu government.
I believe this delay is likely a temporary phenomenon. I’m optimistic. The public today has a much greater awareness – people are actively talking about Keezhadi. I think it’s only a matter of time before everything comes out. So I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions just yet. I’m still hopeful.
No, you have to look at these things in a historical context – things keep changing. Even in the 1950s and ’60s, we’ve seen scholars change their views over time. In the early part of their careers, they might say one thing, and by the end, they may hold very different positions. That’s not unusual.
You’ll notice that in all my public statements, I always advocate for pluralism. I welcome any archaeological discovery, anywhere in India. I would, of course, be happier if the Keezhadi report is published.
For me, people like John Marshall are heroes. KN Dikshit, in my view, was one of the most honest Director Generals the ASI has had. He never approached a site with regional bias – whether it was Tamil Nadu or Gujarat, it didn’t matter to him. His approach was simple: if you think there’s evidence, dig and find it. That’s professionalism.
As for John Marshall, you might be surprised to know – when he made the historic announcement about Harappa and Mohenjo-daro, he hadn’t even visited the sites. The excavations were done by others – one team in Harappa, another in Mohenjo-daro, some 600 kilometres apart. Marshall gathered all the reports in Simla, studied the material, and concluded: this isn’t just a local culture, it’s a civilisation. That intuitive, sharp mind is what we celebrate.
That’s why Tamil Nadu is perhaps the only state in India to honour John Marshall with a life-size statue. And rightly so. People like Marshall, SK Chatterjee, KN Dikshit, Asko Parpola, and Iravatham Mahadevan – they aren’t isolated voices. They represent a broad scholarly consensus.
My aim has always been to present Sangam literature as a legacy holder – that is, as a carrier of collective memory across generations. One of the most significant findings in my research, published in 2012, was something my mentor Iravatham Mahadevan deeply appreciated. He even elaborated on it in what turned out to be his final article in 2018.
It concerns the concept of a “highest-lowest” dichotomy in town planning – something I term the Dravidian paradigm. Using linguistic methods, I attempted to reconstruct the mindset behind how directions were conceptualised in Dravidian languages. What I discovered was fascinating: the term for “west” also denoted “height,” whereas the word for “east” implied “low” or “lower.”
This indicates a topocentric worldview – a way of perceiving the landscape based on altitude. It reflects the perspective of people living in hilly terrain, where elevation was a constant point of reference. In contrast, Indo-Aryan languages such as Sanskrit follow what I call an “operocentric” model – where orientation is based on the sun’s position. A man facing the rising sun calls what is before him “east,” and what is behind him “west.”
From this, I reconstructed a pattern in ancient town planning: whenever a natural elevation existed, it was utilised. In places without natural mounds, platforms were constructed – crucially, the western platform was always higher than the eastern one. I believe this offers profound insight into the mindset of Indus Valley town planners.
Of course, there are many other pieces of evidence too – pottery motifs, Dravidian influences in Maharashtra and Gujarat, place names, the symbolism of the vanni tree, the story of Gangai Matha, and so on.
I was fortunate enough to travel extensively across the country to gather this evidence, and I have tried to synthesise it all in my books.
(Edited by Dese Gowda)
