Computation, Temple, Cinema: A Neurological History of Tamil Political Belief
J.P. Rajendran, May 2026
Primer
This article should be taken solely as a theoretical exercise.
It attempts to understand the rise of Tamilaga Vettri Kazhagam (TVK) in the 2026 Tamil Nadu Legislative Assembly elections, using the Free Energy Principle developed by neuroscientist Karl Friston of University College London as a lens. The journey in this article is linear — beginning with how the human brain generates predictions, passing through temple structures, the Dravidian movement, Tamil cinema, and the rise of TVK, and ending with the question of what democratic maturity means.
Before reading this article, I must clarify three things.
First — this is not an article supporting TVK or Vijay. Nor is it an article opposing any political party. The analysis here proceeds not from political intent but from a neuroscientific perspective. Periyar, the Dravidian movement, cinema, TVK — all are viewed through a theoretical framework. The historical perspectives that appear here are not value judgements — they are explanations only.
Second — this article does not fully endorse Friston's theory. It is used only as a lens. At the end of the article, it honestly addresses that lens's limitations. This journey proceeds with the philosophy of science's warning in mind: "A theory that explains everything may ultimately explain nothing."
Third — this is written as an accessible article. No prior knowledge of neuroscience or philosophy is required. An interest in Tamil political history alone suffices. English technical terms are provided with Tamil explanations in brackets. I have written it as if speaking to a friend — read it that way.
Disclaimer
The historical references, cultural descriptions, and political views in this article are the products of the author's own theoretical analysis. They do not represent the official position of any political party.
Descriptions of Periyar, M.G.R., Vijay, and other individuals are not historical or political evaluations — they are theoretical descriptions conducted through the lens of neurological theory. The analogies and examples used here are employed for illustrative purposes only.
This article does not address the medical welfare of any individual patient or community group. It is a public science-culture essay only.
Descriptions of Karl Friston's Free Energy Principle have been simplified to explain the foundational theory of neuroscience in accessible terms. For nuanced technical details, please refer to Friston's original research papers.
I. Introduction — The Experience of Stepping Down in the Dark
Have you ever walked down the stairs of your own home with the lights off at night? Steps you have descended a thousand times. Even if your eyes cannot see, your feet know — which step, where to turn, where the floor comes. The brain has long since prepared that map. You descend with confidence. Just as you expect the last step to arrive, your foot lands on the floor — one step earlier than expected. In that single moment, something dissolves in your stomach. A tremor runs through your spine. What is that?
It is not pain. It is not fear. It is the sensation that something unknown happened in a known place — a sudden rupture.
In neuroscience, this sensation has a name: prediction error. The brain held a prediction — there is one more step. Reality was different — the floor had already arrived. This gap is that tremor. A small event, a small error. But hidden within this one experience is the most fundamental operation of the human brain.
My friend Alex Hemming is collaborating with Karl Friston, a professor at University College London, on several research projects — when he shared with me his excitement about research on active inference and the formation of political beliefs, a thought occurred to me: why not try applying this theory to understanding political belief systems in Tamil Nadu? This article is the product of that attempt.
The Free Energy Principle that Friston developed does not only explain that staircase experience. It also explains how an individual forms beliefs, how a culture constructs political loyalties, and why people vote in that particular way in an election, he argues.
This may sound like a lot when you first hear it. Does a single theory explain both a staircase tremor and an election result? But wait. This article does not fully accept that theory — it uses it only as a lens. What will be viewed through that lens is the rise of Tamilaga Vettri Kazhagam (TVK) in the 2026 Tamil Nadu Legislative Assembly elections.
But before TVK arrives, we must understand that staircase tremor a little more deeply. Because in that single moment — in the moment the foot lands on the floor — the entire history of the human brain resides.
II. Friston's Theory — The Brain as a Prediction Machine
If you ask what the brain does, most people say this: it sees, hears, thinks, feels. When the world touches us, we respond. But Friston says something different. The brain does not receive the world — the brain predicts the world. It continuously, without interruption, every single moment, tells itself in advance what the world is about to say. Only when that prediction fails — like the staircase floor arriving early — does it suddenly wake up.
This understanding may seem like a small difference. But it changes everything.
The brain is not a passive receiver. It is a continuous prediction machine. Before we open our eyes, before sound enters our ears, the brain is already in a state of readiness — a map (generative model) runs inside the mind about what will come now, what will happen the next moment, what this person will say.
Where did this map come from? From every experience of life. Beginning from the day of birth — every time fire burned, every time a mother called, every time a situation resolved in a particular way — all of these have accumulated into a subtle inner map. This map runs continuously, predicts continuously.
Now, in the language of information theory — when a prediction is for something very unlikely to happen, it generates surprise. Here, surprise does not carry its everyday meaning — it is not sudden joy. In information theory, surprise is the failure of a prediction — the gap between "what was expected" and "what happened." The larger that gap, the greater the surprise.
Friston says this: living organisms — from a single-celled organism to a culture — continuously try to minimise this surprise. Because surprise cannot be measured directly, the brain uses an alternative calculation — what he calls free energy. This is an upper bound measurement of surprise. When the foot expecting a step unexpectedly lands on the floor, free energy suddenly rises. The brain immediately sends a signal — the prediction was wrong, something is not right, pay attention.
Now an important question arises. If free energy rises — if a prediction error occurs — how is it corrected? Friston says: there are only two ways. No other way exists.
The first way — change the map inside. Accept new information, understand it, update oneself. This is what we call learning. If the floor comes early on the stairs, next time we descend a little more carefully — the map has been updated.
The second way — change the world itself. Rather than making the map false, change the world to fit the map. This is what we call action.
Let me give a simple example. Say you feel thirsty. A sensation of reduced water in the body comes. You can deny this sensation — tell yourself internally, "No, I am well-hydrated, everything is fine with me." But that inference does not match with other signals — the mouth is dry, the throat burns, the body says otherwise. This gap is called prediction error. As a result, free energy rises.
Now what will happen? I can change my inferential map — accept that I am a drying-up person and sit quietly. But that contradicts the survival map. So what happens? I get up, go to the kitchen, drink water. I change what was accumulating as a disruption through an action — the body's water level increases through this action, this matches what the map said, prediction error disappears, free energy falls.
All of life moves between these two actions. Change the map, or change the world? Learning or action? Every moment this negotiation happens — in nerves, in emotions, in decisions, in relationships.
Friston calls this active inference. This process does not happen only in a single nerve — it happens in a family, in a culture, in a nation too. A society also holds its own map. When that map fails, that society also trembles — like the staircase tremor. A society that cannot bear that tremor does one thing — it searches for a new map.
This is the deep story of Tamil Nadu politics.
III. The Temple System — A Tool for Minimising Entropy
Imagine an ordinary farmer living in Tamil Nadu centuries ago. When he wakes in the morning and looks at the sky, he doesn't know if rain will come. He has sown seeds in the field — he doesn't know if they will sprout. His child has a fever — he doesn't know if it will break. He knows how much land his caste receives, how many rights it does not — but he doesn't know why. Life is an accumulation of uncertainties.
In Friston's language — that person's brain is continuously in a state of high entropy. Prediction errors pile one upon another. Free energy increases to unbearable levels. If this state continues, the human mind will break. That is a biological truth — no nervous system has the capacity to sustain perpetual surprise.
So what happened? The temple came.
I am not conducting a theological debate here. Whether God exists in the temple or not is not the question of this article. What I am about to examine is different — what the temple system did in an old agricultural society. Viewed from a neuroscientific perspective, the temple system functioned as a highly efficient surprise-minimising tool.
Let us see how.
If it didn't rain — prediction error, free energy rises, anxiety comes. But the temple system had an answer ready. God is angry, a specific ritual was not performed. If that ritual is done, rain will come. Now look at what happened — the prediction error has been explained. The map matched. Free energy fell.
If the child fell ill — it is the consequence of karma from a previous birth, there is a dosha, do this remedy. Explanation ready. Map matched.
If you ask why that person must sleep on the floor while another lives in a mansion — such is dharma, such is caste, such is birth. Explanation ready. Map matched.
The most important quality of this map was that it rejected no data. No event became evidence against it. If rain came — God showed grace. If rain did not come — we were not devout enough. If the child recovered — the ritual worked. If the child did not recover — there was too much karma. Every answer fitted inside the map.
This can be called logically wrong. But neurologically this is very efficient design. When a model (model) remains unshattered in any circumstance, the free energy of the person holding that model will always be low. He will be mentally peaceful. He will act. He will run a family. Society will function as one.
In this sense the temple system functioned as a collective generative model. Just as a map exists in an individual brain, this map existed in the collective mind of an entire society. Because everyone shared the same map — the same explanations, the same rituals, the same structure — society functioned together in a state of low entropy. Friston would call this high-precision predictions — predictions that everyone believes, everyone follows, no one questions.
What has been said so far is a dry, theoretical description. But think carefully — at what price this map reduced surprise. A man accepted sleeping on the floor as his dharma. A woman bowed her head and accepted injustice as her birth. A society quietly bore its oppression as God's will. Free energy was low, yes. But that lowness did not come from genuine justice — it came from a clever map that made oppression invisible.
In a single phrase — the temple system was thermodynamically efficient oppression. It kept people peaceful, obedient, faithful — because their brains received answers without having to ask questions.
But someone came to shatter this map that had operated for centuries. He did not come out of love — out of anger. Not out of compassion — out of calculation. The questions he asked were not small ones. They shook the very foundations of the temple system.
That was Periyar.
IV. Periyar's Entropy
One can describe Periyar in many ways in political history. Social reformer, atheist, father of the Dravidian movement. All of these are correct. But viewed from Friston's perspective, he appears as something else — someone who deliberately, systematically increased the collective free energy that had remained low for centuries.
I say this as an achievement, not a crime.
What Periyar did was this — he stood the map that had operated for centuries face to face and showed that "this map does not tell the truth." Every speech, every protest, every act of breaking an idol functioned as a prediction error signal. He continuously sent a single message into the minds of the oppressed — "the map you have been given is wrong, do not believe it."
Do you remember the questions he asked? Whose goods fill the large cupboard? Who sleeps on the floor? Why do they call it dharma?
These questions are not mere political questions. They are neurological strikes. When a person lives trusting his map and someone says "your map is deceiving you," it gives a deep tremor to his brain. A tremor many times deeper than the staircase tremor — because what is failing here is not one step, but an entire system believed throughout one's life.
What he directly did in his speeches was this. He showed the suffering given to people back to themselves. He said "this is not your fate, this is a system created by human beings." In that one sentence, the free energy that had remained low for a thousand years suddenly rose. The old map no longer fitted. A new map was not yet ready. In that gap, a collective awakening happened.
This was necessary. Very necessary.
Imagine a house. From outside it looks beautiful. The doors are solid. A family lives inside. But at the foundation, termites are boring away. The walls are crumbling from within. Those living in the house do not know — because everything looks fine from the outside.
Periyar was the one who came to demolish that house. It will hurt. It will be frightening. The feeling of losing one's home will come. But it is more necessary than continuing to live in a termite-eaten house.
But here an important question arises. The house was demolished. The termites fled. But the family now stands in the open. Rain falls. Cold bites. In hand is a good blueprint — the blueprint of reason, the blueprint of equality. But right now there is no roof overhead.
In this state, what will the human brain do?
It will panic. Because standing in the open is a state of high entropy. Getting wet in rain is a prediction error. Shivering in cold is a rise in free energy. The brain will biologically search for a new roof — as quickly as possible.
This is the thermodynamic incompleteness of pure rationalism.
Periyar's rationalist movement acted with surgical precision in destroying the old map. It logically toppled every pillar of the temple system. It showed there is no God. It proved caste was created by human beings. It clearly stated that the old map was false.
But in a neurological sense, one important thing did not happen — nothing replaced the emotional warmth that the old map provided.
Think about what the temple system gave. Even if rain did not come — the feeling that someone cares, God exists, if the ritual is done it will be alright. Even if disease came — the feeling that I know why this is happening, I know what must be done. Even if death came — the feeling that this is part of a larger plan. The feeling that there is a cosmic meaning in everything.
These feelings can be called false. But the high-precision predictions they gave the brain — someone is watching over everything, everything is in control, there is meaning — rationalism alone was not sufficient to replace those predictions.
Logic is a cold, dry tool. It will tell the truth. It will point out error. But when a person trembles alone at night, what he needs is not only logic — he also needs warmth, he also needs meaning, he also needs the feeling that tomorrow will be alright.
Saying that Periyar did not fill this gap is not to criticise him. For one person to simultaneously attempt to demolish an old building and build a new one is an impossible task. The destruction he carried out was necessary, historically significant. But after that destruction, the brains of the people who stood in the open searched for a new roof — that was natural, that was unavoidable.
That search found a dark cinema hall.
V. Cinema — The Temple of a New Generative Model
Think about what happened in Tamil Nadu in the 1950s. Periyar's movement had dismantled the old map. Many people knew that caste dharma was not God's will. Faith in the temple system — at least faith in its social authority — had shattered. But the human brain was still the same brain. A generative map to reduce surprise is needed. Meaning is needed. A hero is needed. Belief is needed.
That need was not left unfulfilled.
The cinema hall lights went off. The screen brightened. M.G.R. walked in.
Now pause for a moment. Comparing Tamil cinema with actor-politician phenomena elsewhere is not appropriate. In America, Ronald Reagan came from acting into politics. In Ukraine, Zelensky went from comedian to President. Those are stories of a famous face entering public life. But what happened in Tamil Nadu was fundamentally different — a structural transformation, not merely an individual change.
In Friston's language — Tamil cinema operated within Dravidian priors, but functioned with the complete emotional architecture of the temple system. This is a very important understanding. Content changed — the story no longer has God, it has a corrupt officer, it has caste atrocity, a poor farmer demands justice. But the architecture remained the same — the same emotional patterns that existed in the temple continued on screen.
Look at what patterns these were.
In the temple there was a pure, uncorrupted divine power — on screen it became an incorruptible hero. In the temple miracles occurred — on screen one man felling fifty people single-handedly became the miracle. In the temple the divine bore the devotee's suffering — on screen the hero sacrificing his own happiness and suffering for society became that suffering servant. In the temple there was a promise of collective redemption — dharma will triumph, adharma will be destroyed — on screen when the villain falls in the last scene, peace returns to the village, people smile, that same redemption happened.
This is not coincidence. This is a deep, intuitive transformation — the new text of Dravidian ideology sung to the old music of the ancient temple feeling.
Now think neurologically about what happened in the cinema hall. A person comes to the cinema hall with the prediction errors of his daily life — unemployment, injustice, poverty, humiliation. Look at what happens on screen for two or three hours. First the same injustice of his life appears on screen — prediction error is introduced, free energy rises. Then the hero accurately identifies it. Then the hero acts. Finally the injustice is resolved, free energy falls, and the brains of a hundred people in the cinema hall simultaneously feel a satisfaction.
This works like therapy — in a controlled environment, prediction error is introduced, resolved, and the brain walks out with a satisfied map.
But here one very important thing happens — this therapy does not happen once, twice only. Beginning from age ten, once a week, twice a month, several times a year, it happens again and again. A hundred films, five hundred films, a thousand hours. The brain's neural pathways are conditioned by this repeated experience. A deep, high-precision prediction slowly forms — if an uncorrupted, sacrificial, honest hero comes, injustice will be resolved. It is certain. It is sure.
Now I ask an important question.
How is the brain of a young man who goes to vote for the first time at age eighteen?
He is not simply going to evaluate a new political party. His brain has already been conditioned. Even without knowing the policy, it has seeped in — a hero will look like this, will speak like this, will act like this. The polling booth does not give him a new choice. It gives him a path to confirm an already-formed high-precision prediction.
The election did not create the belief. It expresses already-formed belief.
In this one sentence lies the full secret of TVK's rise. But to fully understand that secret, one must listen to what Vijay says standing on the platform. The way he chooses his words, the way he speaks — these are not accidental. They are keys that open three different rooms of the brain through three different doors.
Let us now look at those keys.
VI. Three Speech Registers — Three Doors of the Brain
When we listen to a political speech, what do we think we are hearing? We think: policies, promises, plans. We think a rational evaluation is happening — is what this person says correct, can I trust him, will his plan work? But when you look at what the brain is actually doing, something different appears.
The brain processes a speech at three different levels simultaneously. One level is logic — is what this person says economically correct? The second level is emotion — does this person understand me? The third level, the deepest level — who is this person, what relationship does he hold with me, can I trust him? This third level mostly operates below words, below conscious awareness.
Vijay's speeches activate these three levels separately, simultaneously. Let us see how.
The First Door — Intimate Familial Register
Vijay stands on the platform. Hundreds of thousands of people before him. He begins to speak. "Dear mothers, dear elder sisters..." "Dear elder brothers, dear younger brothers, dear maternal uncles..."
This may sound ordinary when heard. You might think politicians always speak this way. Think about why these words work.
Do you know which neural connections are most deeply, most anciently encoded in the human brain through evolution? Kinship predictions. The prediction that mother will protect me. The prediction that elder brother will stand with me. These predictions are not mere cultural inventions — they are neurological structures that ensured survival for hundreds of thousands of years. For the man who lived in the forest, knowing mother is there meant knowing protection exists. Knowing elder brother is there meant knowing help will come in danger. These predictions reside in the deepest, most ancient layers of the brain. They operate below conscious awareness. They cannot easily be changed by logic.
What happens when Vijay says "dear elder brothers"? He is not extending an invitation to rational evaluation. He is directly touching those ancient, deep kinship neural connections. The brain immediately categorises — this person is not a politician, this person is a relative. Relatives can be trusted. A relative will not abandon you. You can listen to what a relative says.
This transformation — from politician to relative — happens in a moment. Below conscious awareness. Without anyone noticing.
There is a specific sentence for this. "My name may not be on your ration card. But we are all one."
Think about what is happening in this sentence. The ration card is a document of the state — a document by which the government defines who is your family, who lives in your house. Vijay directly points to it and says "our relationship is greater than what that paper says." He crosses the boundaries the state has defined and establishes a direct kinship structure between himself and the listener. This is trust built on a pre-political neurological foundation. Breaking this through policy debate is very difficult.
The Second Door — Prophetic Register
Have you noticed that Vijay does not speak in promises?
Most politicians say something like this — "If we come to power we will do this," "we will try," "we have planned." This language is the language of promise. A promise is neurologically a low-precision prediction — because the possibility that a promise may fail always exists. The brain, when it hears this, holds a backup prediction ready — what to do if it doesn't happen. That keeps a certain level of free energy continuously elevated.
But Vijay speaks differently. "TVK government will come. DMK will go home. This will happen." No condition. No doubt. No "we will try." He speaks as if the future has already happened.
This is the language of prophecy.
Look at how prophecy differs from a promise. A promise invites accountability. It gives room to say "you said this, but you did not do it." But prophecy invites only belief. It leaves no room for doubt. Someone is announcing what is going to happen — the listener must simply accept it or reject it.
Neurologically, prophecy creates a very high-precision prediction. The brain, when it hears it, experiences falling free energy — because the future is known, uncertainty does not exist, there is a feeling of being in control.
This language is not new to Tamil people. This is what was heard in temples for a thousand years — God does not give a promise, God announces. What is going to happen will happen, it is certain. Tamil people's collective mental architecture has recognised this language pattern for a thousand years, believed it, followed it.
Vijay brings that ancient language pattern from the cinema screen to the platform. The listeners' brains recognise it — this is a language I have already known, this is a voice I have already trusted.
The Third Door — Seeds Parable
Have you noticed that at the end of Vijay's speeches a story always comes? A folk tale, a parable, a proverb. This is not accidental. This is the key that opens the brain's third door.
There is a story he often tells — the seeds parable.
There is an old king. He needs to choose a new general for his army. He calls ten qualified warriors. He gives each one a handful of seeds. "Take this home, plant it and tend it, whoever grows the most beautiful plant will be my general," he says.
But the king has secretly done one thing — he has boiled all the seeds. Boiled seeds will not sprout. This is a test — not to measure agricultural skill, but to measure honesty.
Weeks pass. Nine people see that nothing is sprouting in their pots. Anxiety comes. They think they cannot stand before the king with an empty pot. Finally they buy other seeds and grow blooming plants.
Only one person stands before the king with an empty pot — with only bare soil. He bows his head and says — "Your Majesty, I watered it every day, gave it sunlight, did everything. But nothing sprouted. I have come with an empty pot."
The king immediately turns toward him and says — "You are my general."
After Vijay finishes telling this story, he pauses for a moment. Then he turns toward the people and says — "I am that empty pot."
Let us look at this sentence in Friston's language.
What did the nine people do? They refused to test their generative model against reality. In order for the generative model of "I am a successful warrior" to continue to fit, they changed the world — they brought false plants. They concealed the prediction error. But the concealed prediction error did not disappear — it accumulated inside.
What did the tenth warrior do? He tested his generative model against reality. He accepted the prediction error that the seeds had not sprouted. He allowed that pain and shame. Then he announced that reality honestly — before the king, in public.
When Vijay says "I am that empty pot," what he is saying to people is — all other politicians bring falsely blooming plants. They are hiding prediction errors — corruption, poverty, broken systems. Only I acknowledge the reality. I call the soil, soil. It is painful, but it is the truth.
This sentence gives a deep relief to the brains of the people. Because the prediction errors of their lives — unemployment, corruption, broken roads, unfulfilled promises — no one has honestly acknowledged until now. Now someone is acknowledging them. The prediction error is not denied, not concealed — it is accepted. In that one acknowledgement, a great free energy is released.
Now step back for a moment.
The familial register touches kinship neural connections coming from the depth of evolution. The prophetic register activates the language pattern heard in temples, believed for a thousand years. The seeds parable summons the folk moral tradition lineage coming from the Sangam era.
These three are powerful even individually. But think about what happens when they all operate in the same direction, at the same moment, on the same platform, in the same speech. Three different layers of the brain — the deep layer of evolutionary time, the middle layer of cultural history, the upper layer of feeling for an individual — simultaneously tilt in the same direction. This can be called integrated precision.
When this integrated precision forms, a generative model becomes nearly impenetrable. It cannot be broken by policy debates. It cannot be shaken by opposition criticism. Because that generative model was not built at the level of logic — it was built at the level of emotion, relationship, history.
Understanding this makes it possible to understand why TVK left analysts and media stunned. They evaluated the policy. The people confirmed the map. These are different things.
Let us now look at how that map manifested at the polling booth.
VII. TVK's Rise — A Fristonian Reading
When TVK was announced, a curious thing happened. No one in Vijay's fan associations was surprised.
This may seem like a small thing. But think — when a new political party, a new leader, a new direction is announced, what normally happens? People ask questions. They think about what the policies are, how the organisation will be structured, who will join. There is a certain degree of uncertainty, a certain amount of free energy rises.
But when the TVK announcement came, that uncertainty was absent. Fans already knew — Vijay would come to politics. That he had not come was the question, not that he came.
Recall what Friston says — the sign of a well-fitted generative model is the absence of surprise. The absence of surprise in the TVK announcement is a very important neurological signal. The people's generative model had already incorporated this event. TVK's arrival did not break the generative model — it completed it.
Think even more deeply. What did Vijay do on screen for twenty years? He saw injustice, identified it, acted, resolved it. Again and again, film after film, this cycle happened. Each time a prediction deepened in the brain — this person will act, this person will resolve, this person will not stop.
But as long as he hadn't stepped outside the screen, an accumulated free energy existed. The prediction error that the person who resolves injustice on screen is quiet in the real world. That gap — the hero who acts on screen, the man who doesn't speak in reality — created a continuous emotional pressure.
The TVK announcement released that pressure in a single moment. The action loop was completed. Free energy fell. The generative model was fulfilled.
Understanding this, what happened at election rallies becomes visible differently.
What did the media see? Very large crowds, enthusiastic fans, people who came to watch a film — they dismissed this: "This is just fan emotion, it won't hold at the polling booth." Even experienced political analysts made this same mistake. They hesitated to predict TVK would win.
Why did they fail?
Because they asked the wrong question. They asked "are these people evaluating Vijay as a politician?" But the real question was different — "what is Vijay already in the generative model of these people?"
The people who came to the rally did not come looking for new information. They came to confirm an already-existing generative model. They did not need policy details — they needed that one feeling, that the hero has come, the action has begun.
Here look at an elderly woman of 60 or 70 years. She stands at the rally. Tears in her eyes. She says "our village's son." The media dismissed this as tearful emotion. But what does Friston's language reveal?
The familial register has been successfully imprinted in that grandmother's brain. "Our village's son" is not merely a warm phrase — it is the expression of a very high-precision prediction. Vijay has been placed in the deepest neurological categorisation of kinship relationship. The prediction that he will not abandon the family — it carries very high precision, it is very difficult to change.
At the same time, look at young people in small districts like Ariyalur and Perambalur. Many of them cannot describe TVK's policy document. If asked what TVK's economic plan is, they cannot say clearly. The media called this political ignorance.
But this is not ignorance. This is a different kind of knowledge.
In those young people's brains there is a very clear, very high-precision generative model — this person is honest, this person understands us, this person will act. That generative model did not come from a policy document — it came from a thousand hours of cinema, from platform speeches, from the feeling of "our village's son."
They did not evaluate the policy — that is true. But they confirmed the generative model — that is the brain's fundamental operation.
Now an important question — when this generative model is this powerful, why did not only the analysts but also the opposition parties fail?
Because they fought on the wrong battlefield. They challenged Vijay at the level of logic — he has no experience, the party has no structure, the policy lacks clarity. All these criticisms may have been logically correct. But they work at the level of logic. The people's generative model was not built at the level of logic — it was built at the level of emotion, relationship, history.
Imagine hitting a stone with water. Water flows around the stone, the stone doesn't move. This is what happens when logical criticism meets a high-precision generative model — the criticism flows around, the generative model doesn't move.
But the generative model will not remain unmoved forever. Because executing on screen what happens in the cinema hall in the real world is a different matter. In cinema, injustice is resolved in two hours. In real governance, five years may not be enough to resolve that same injustice. What will happen in that gap?
The answer to that is very important — and very concerning.
VIII. A Father in Perambulur Town— The Permanence of High-Precision Priors
In Perambalur, there is a young man. Educated, knows how to think. He said something — with regret, with a little anger.
"My father got a government job during a particular party's rule. From that day to this day, he votes for that party. However much corruption happens, however much failure comes, whoever says what — he will not change. What meaning does this have?"
That young man struggled, unable to understand this. To him it looked like ignorance, like blind faith, even like stupidity.
But viewed in Friston's language — that father is not stupid. His brain is doing exactly what it should.
Think about what happened.
Decades earlier, that man lived in a severe state of uncertainty. No job. No way to run the family. No position in society. His brain was in a state of high entropy. Prediction errors piled one upon another — I don't know what will happen tomorrow, I don't know what I will give my children, I don't know where my life is going.
In that state — in a moment of the deepest vulnerability — a party gave him a government job.
Look at what happened in a single moment. Got a job — economic uncertainty resolved. Family was saved — survival was secured. Got a position in society — identity was formed. The most enormous, most cruel prediction errors were resolved in a single blow. Free energy suddenly fell.
What did that moment do in his brain?
The brain learned a deep, very high-precision lesson — if this party exists, I have safety. This party saved my family. This party brought light in the darkest moment of my life.
This prediction is not merely a political opinion. This is a survival memory. Something embedded in the deepest layer of the brain — connected with the fundamental feeling of "if this exists I will live, if this goes I don't know what will become of me."
Now an important thing becomes clear. Changing high-precision priors is very difficult — because they are not ordinary opinions. They are memories connected to survival. The brain experiences changing them as a threat. Saying "this party is doing wrong" is not a logical opinion — it triggers a neurological alarm of "we are questioning my safety."
So what happens? New information comes — corruption occurred, the party was defeated, promises were not fulfilled. This information is prediction errors. In normal circumstances, information that would change the generative model. But when a high-precision prior exists, what happens? The brain discounts that information. Or finds an explanation — even if the party was defeated, my leader is a good person, the situation was difficult, the enemies conspired. To protect the generative model, reality is denied.
I say again this is not stupidity. This is the brain's self-protection operation. The brain preserves, protects, refuses to give up a generative model that once successfully reduced surprise — because giving it up makes it feel the danger of returning to that dark moment.
This Perambalur father's story applies to TVK fans too — but in the exact opposite direction.
The father's high-precision prior is old, decades old, formed from a specific successful experience. TVK fans' high-precision prior is new, but built by a thousand hours of cinema, confirmed by platform speeches. Both are manifestations of the same neurological process — experience formed the generative model, the generative model gained high precision, high-precision generative model protects itself.
But there is an important difference between these two generative models.
The father's generative model has an already-happened event as its base — a real experience of getting a job, of the family being saved. That generative model can be called wrong, can be called outdated — but its foundation is a real event.
TVK fans' generative model has a yet-to-happen promise as its base — the expectation that if Vijay comes to power, injustice will be resolved. The more profound that expectation, the more high-precision it is — the more what actually happens in governance matters.
Because real governance is not a cinema hall.
In the cinema hall, prediction errors are always resolved — in two hours, in three hours. But in the real world, some prediction errors may remain unresolved. Some promises may remain unfulfilled. Some injustices may continue.
Then what will happen?
There are two paths. Both are dangerous.
IX. Two Dangers — Denial and Collapse
Say governance has begun. The first year passed. The second year passed. The complications of the real world pile one upon another. A promise was not fulfilled — even possibly for legitimate reasons. A junior officer committed corruption. A scheme was delayed. A demand was ignored.
Small incidents. Unavoidable in real governance.
But the people's generative model is not small. It is very high-precision — conditioned deeply by a thousand hours, again and again. When that high-precision generative model and real governance's small failure meet, the brain feels a prediction error. How the brain decides what to do with that error — there are only two paths.
First Danger — Denial
The first way — refusing to accept the prediction error.
We saw how this happens in the seeds parable — nine warriors covered the empty pot with other seeds. They knew a prediction error had occurred, but the mind refuses to acknowledge it. Because there is a deep fear that if acknowledged, the entire generative model will break.
How will this manifest in TVK governance?
If a junior officer commits corruption — "he deceived the leader, the leader doesn't know," they will say. If a scheme fails — "the opposition parties conspired, the central government blocked it," they will say. If a promise is not fulfilled — "the time will come, patience is needed, everything will happen," they will say.
I am not saying these explanations are wrong. They may sometimes even be true. But in Friston's language, look at what they are doing — without acknowledging that a prediction error occurred, without changing the generative model, they temporarily reduce free energy by making it seem as if the world has been changed. The error is concealed — not resolved.
If this continues, what will happen?
Concealed errors will accumulate. Each time "that is his fault, not the leader's fault" is said, the gap between generative model and reality will slightly increase. People will gradually begin to drift from reality, repeatedly changing and viewing reality to protect their generative model.
Do you know what the result of this is? This is democratic failure. Because for democracy to function, people must evaluate their leaders from a realistic perspective. Voters must be ready to accept prediction errors and update their generative models. But the process of denial blunts that very capacity.
In that state, the leader is pushed into an unaccountable position — even if he makes errors, supporters will protect him. This is harmful to the leader, harmful to society. A cult politics forms — where criticism looks like betrayal, where asking questions looks like opposition.
Do you remember what the nine warriors did in the seeds parable? To hide their failure they brought false plants. Supporters in a state of denial are doing the same thing — bringing explanations to cover governance's failures. They themselves end up worse — because they reach a state where they can no longer see the prediction errors of their own lives realistically.
Second Danger — Catastrophic Collapse
The second path gives more pain than denial.
At some point, prediction errors become too numerous. Reality becomes too clear. Denial is no longer possible — the corruption is too large, the failure is too clear, life is too difficult.
In that moment, what happens?
The very high-precision prior — built by a thousand hours of cinema, confirmed by platform speeches, soaked by the love of "our village's son" — suddenly breaks. That collapse is not ordinary political disappointment. It is a neurological event.
Let me give an analogy. Say a dam is being built. For many years water accumulates. There is faith that the dam is strong. Suddenly a crack appears. That crack rapidly widens. The accumulated water bursts out with an explosion. Everything below the dam is swept away.
This is how it is when a high-precision generative model breaks. The accumulated free energy is released all at once. It hurts — deeply, severely. Because what broke was not merely an opinion — what was believed as mother, what was believed as elder brother, what was believed as divine hero, has broken.
This pain does not emerge only as political criticism. It comes as anger. Deep, burning anger. Because here a cultural principle is operating — nandri kadan (debt of gratitude).
In Tamil society, nandri kadan is not like the English "debt of gratitude." In Western culture, a debt of gratitude is a social obligation — you helped me, I will help you. A calculation, a transaction.
But in Tamil society, nandri kadan is deeper than that. It is a moral ledger — handed down through generations, something soaked in cultural current. When someone helps you — particularly when they help you in a very difficult moment — a deep debt of gratitude forms toward them. Repaying that debt is a moral obligation. Not repaying it — particularly forgetting it deliberately — is a profound moral transgression.
What did Vijay receive from the people? Their complete trust. Their kinship love. Their heart that says "our village's son." When speaking in the familial register, when announcing in the prophetic language — he unknowingly accepted a very great nandri kadan. One who said "I am your elder brother, I will protect you" — in the people's language — has become indebted to them.
What will happen if that debt is not repaid?
When a politician fails, people can simply forget him, go to another party. If only that happens, it is normal democratic functioning. But if the person believed as "our village's son" is known to have abandoned them — that is not political disappointment. That is familial betrayal. The pain that elder brother has abandoned us, the pain that mother has forgotten — that level of deep, that level of burning pain.
That pain will turn into anger. That anger will not merely throw out the government — it will try to destroy it.
Look at Tamil Nadu's electoral history. Parties in power have repeatedly faced massive landslide defeats. This is not merely a swing vote — this is an explosion. The intensity of expectation determines the intensity of rejection. Rejecting an ordinary politician is one thing. Rejecting an elder brother believed and then abandoned is entirely different — it is a neurological release, the moment when all accumulated free energy releases.
In Friston's language — the higher the precision of expectation, the greater the energetic release of collapse. The mathematics is clear. The people's feeling is clear.
So denial is not a solution, and collapse is not a solution. Neither answers the fundamental question — what is good governance, how should people evaluate their leaders? The answer to that question lies elsewhere.
It lies at the Perambalur bus stand.
X. The Stench of the Bus Stand — The Measure of Reality
There is a bus stand in Perambalur.
It is small. The roof is stained. Rubbish has accumulated in the corners. There is a toilet — the door doesn't close properly, the stench will come outside. In the mornings, people going to work wait there. Students wait. Elderly women with bundles wait. The sun beats down. There is not enough shade. The stench hits.
This may seem like a small thing. One bus stand, one stench — you might wonder why I am mentioning this in an article.
Because this bus stand is a measuring instrument. A very precise, very honest measuring instrument. An instrument that cannot be changed by logic. An instrument that cannot be concealed by platform speeches. An instrument that cannot be avoided by the familial register.
Whether the stench hits or not — the nose knows. That is all.
Think about what happens in the cinema hall. On screen there is a corruption-ridden district officer. The village's bus stand is dilapidated, rubbish has accumulated, people are suffering. The hero comes. A fight happens. In two hours the corrupt officer falls. In the final scene the bus stand is clean, people smile, music comes.
The brains of a hundred people in the cinema hall simultaneously feel satisfaction. Free energy falls. They come outside — with a light feeling, with hope.
But coming out of the cinema hall and going to the bus stand, the stench is still there. In the morning it was there, in the evening it is there. Yesterday it was there, today it is there.
This gap — between the prediction error resolved on screen and the prediction error that continues in reality — is the real test of political promise.
Cinema is a controlled environment. There, prediction errors are always resolved — because the screenwriter wrote it that way. But in real governance, no one writes the screenplay. The central government goes one way. The courts go another way. An economic crisis comes suddenly. What happens in other states affects Tamil Nadu. Natural calamities come. In the real world there will always be unresolved prediction errors.
How a leader handles this reality — there are two approaches.
The first approach — the cinema hall mentality. He hides problems, gives explanations, drowns everything in words of hope. He distorts reality to protect people's generative model. Free energy will fall in the short term — but accumulated errors will explode one day.
The second approach — the empty pot mentality. He says the stench of the bus stand is a stench. "This problem exists, we are going to solve it this way, it will take time," he says honestly. He slowly, gradually moves people's generative model closer to reality — without suddenly shattering it, gently renewing it.
The second approach is difficult. Because honesty will hurt in the short term. When "it's not done yet" is said, people will be angry. The generative model will feel a prediction error. Free energy will temporarily rise.
But that pain is necessary pain. Because it moves the generative model closer to reality. When that closeness happens, people's expectations slowly become realistic. They begin to see small victories as large ones. They begin to accept failures. They begin to value gradual progress rather than expecting complete redemption.
This is a difficult, long journey. But this is the only sustainable journey.
Because if the stench of the bus stand has not gone — if even after five years the stench still hits — the people's noses will know. Their brains will know. The prediction error will return. Free energy will rise.
In that moment the people will make a decision. It will manifest at the polling booth — quietly, but firmly.
An actor cleaning a bus stand on screen is easy. A leader actually cleaning a bus stand in reality is a different matter. On screen, two minutes suffice. In reality — officers must be corrected, funds must be allocated, monitoring must happen, again and again it must be followed up. That takes days, months, sometimes years.
What a leader does in those years is the question. Is he in the cinema hall mentality — covering the stench with words of hope? Or is he in the empty pot mentality — acknowledging the stench exists, slowly, day by day, resolving it?
In the answer to this question lies the great story of democratic maturity.
Let us now look at that story.
XI. Democratic Maturity — The Long Journey of Collective Therapy
In psychiatry, there is a fundamental truth. Say a patient comes to me. There is deep pain in his life. There are old wounds. There are some distorted generative models about the world — "no one will trust me," "I can't succeed at anything," "everything is my fault."
These generative models are giving him pain. They don't match reality — but to his brain they are very high-precision, very real predictions. They cannot be changed in a single day. If you suddenly say "your generative model is wrong," what will happen? He will become even more rigid. Free energy will suddenly rise. Defence mechanisms will strengthen.
Good therapy does not happen that way.
Good therapy is this — slowly, patiently, very carefully moving the generative model closer to reality. Introducing a small prediction error in each session — very small, at a level the structure can bear. "That one person in this one situation trusted you — what do you think of that?" He processes that small prediction error. The generative model shifts slightly. Free energy rises only to a manageable level — without exploding.
This process will take months. Sometimes years. Gradually, repeatedly, with trust. Each time the generative model is updated little by little. Each time it moves a little closer to reality. One day — one cannot say which day, it comes gradually — that person begins to see the world a little differently. With a little more flexibility. With a little more reality. With a little more strength.
We call this therapy.
Now look at a nation. Look at an entire society.
The people of Tamil Nadu have lived for a thousand years with a collective generative model — temple systems, the Dravidian movement, cinema — generative models handed down through generations. These generative models gave them meaning, gave them a feeling of security, reduced surprise. But sometimes these generative models deviated from reality — leaders became gods, promises became prophecies, expectations grew sky-high.
In that gap — between generative model and reality — governments broke, people were disappointed, the cycle turned.
In Friston's language — a society also operates like a patient. That society's collective generative model must also slowly, gradually approach reality. That process will happen in very painful moments. It will hurt when problems are acknowledged. It will hurt when promises remain unfulfilled. It will hurt when leaders appear as human beings.
But that pain is necessary. Because in that pain the generative model is updated. The ability to see leaders as human beings comes. The maturity to distinguish victories as victories and failures as failures comes.
We call this process therapy — at the individual level. For the same process at the collective political level, we use a different name.
Democratic maturity.
Democratic maturity is not merely conducting elections. Not merely voting. Democratic maturity is a society subjecting its collective generative model to the continuous testing of reality — without sudden explosions, with gradual renewal, without destroying hope and without concealing reality.
This demands three things.
First, from the people. The expectation of seeing a leader as a divine being must be given up. He must be accepted as a human being — he will make mistakes, sometimes he will fail, he cannot resolve everything. This acceptance will hurt. But without it, democracy will remain merely a cinema hall — only emotion will exist, reality will not.
Second, from leaders. Remember what the tenth warrior in the seeds parable did — he stood with an empty pot. Courage is needed to say that the stinking bus stand stinks. Giving the promise "in five years everything will be alright" is easy. Saying honestly "this problem is difficult, we are trying this way, it will take time" is hard — but that alone will slowly move the people's generative model closer to reality.
Third, from institutions. Courts, media, civil society — do you know what they do in a healthy society? They communicate prediction errors at the right time, in the right measure. They announce small errors before they explode into very large errors. They create the environment for the generative model to be updated gradually rather than suddenly shattering.
When these three combine — people with realistic expectations, honest leaders, strong institutions — a society gradually learns. It bears failures. It celebrates victories. It tries again.
In that process the accumulated free energy releases slowly without exploding. The cycle of massive landslide defeats slowly makes room. A stable, resilient political culture forms.
This is not a dream. This is neuroscience's prediction. When generative models gradually align with reality, structures stabilise. This is true for an individual brain, and true for a collective society.
But in this long journey there is a warning. The lens we used — Friston's theory — is very powerful. But every lens has limitations. This article cannot end without honestly looking at that limitation.
XII. Scientific Warning — The Lens and the Eye
While reading this article, a feeling may come. The feeling that everything has become clear. Now I understand why the temple system functioned this way. Now I understand why Periyar was necessary. Now I understand how cinema filled the gap. Now I understand why Vijay won. There is an answer for everything, one theory explains everything.
When that feeling comes — stop.
In the philosophy of science there is a very important warning. A theory that explains everything may ultimately explain nothing. This can be called overfitting — when a theory becomes too flexible, when it fits too many things, its explanatory power gradually weakens.
This criticism is very applicable to Friston's Free Energy Principle.
It explains a single-celled organism moving toward nutrients. It explains a child moving away from pain. It explains an individual forming political beliefs. It explains an entire society choosing a leader. It explains a hundred years of history of a billion people.
One calculation. One answer for everything.
Whether this is possible — theoretically, one must honestly say, I don't know.
In science, the mark of a good theory is that it must be falsifiable — it must be possible to say "in this circumstance this theory will be proven wrong." Only when that can be said is it truly a testable theory. But how does one prove "everything is free energy minimisation" to be wrong? Whatever happens, it can be called free energy minimisation — getting married is free energy minimisation, getting divorced is free energy minimisation, voting and not voting are both free energy minimisation.
A theory that explains everything may become a theory that predicts nothing.
This is not said to criticise Karl Friston. His contribution to neuroscience is very significant — particularly regarding how the brain forms predictions and processes errors. In that narrow, specific scope his theory is very powerful, supported by a great deal of empirical evidence.
But when extending that specific theory to the entire political history of a nation — from the temple to TVK, from Periyar to the Perambalur bus stand — we are walking beyond the boundaries of the theory.
Acknowledging that is honest.
Throughout this article, what I tried to say is a simple thing — this theory is a lens, not the complete eye.
What does a lens do? It shows things at a particular distance clearly. Things at other distances may appear blurry or may not appear at all. When the person wearing the lens believes that the lens is his eye — when he believes that only things clearly visible through the lens are reality — the lens becomes a constraint.
Friston's lens gave this article one important journey. It helped to string together into one continuous thread from the temple to TVK, from an individual brain to a collective society, from a staircase tremor to democratic maturity.
That journey is ending. The lens can be set down.
But one question continues.
Final Words
Entropy will rise again.
This is not only Friston's prediction — this is physics' fundamental law. The organised room will become disordered again. The built house will deteriorate again. The built generative model will be tested again.
TVK's governance has begun. There is the excitement of the first day. There is hope. There is a very high-precision generative model — built by a thousand hours of cinema, confirmed by platform speeches, soaked by the love of "our village's son."
What happens between that generative model and reality will become clear in the coming years.
The Perambalur bus stand still exists. The stench still exists. The people who wake up in the morning don't know if it will go. But they know — whether the stench is there or not.
The nose knows. The brain knows. The generative model will be tested.
The reality that tests it — the ability to acknowledge failure before that reality, to slowly renew — we call democratic maturity. That maturity will not come in a day. Will not come in one election. Will not come from one leader alone.
It comes from the people. It comes from the leaders. It comes from the institutions. Above all — it comes from the courage to say that the stinking bus stand stinks. It comes from the honesty of standing holding an empty pot.
That courage — in the ruler and in the people — when it exists, democracy is not merely a voting machine. It is a collective therapy — a long journey where a society walks slowly, with pain, with hope, toward reality.
Entropy will rise again. It always will.
That is not the question.
The question is — when entropy rises, what will Tamil Nadu's politics do? Will it retreat into the cinema hall — or stand in the open field holding an empty pot?
That answer will be written in the coming years. It is not the hero who writes it — it is the people.
It is always the people.
J.P. Rajendran — Consultant Psychiatrist — May 2026
Acknowledgements
Two important people have contributed to the formation of this article.
Alex Hemming, Computational Neuroscientist — deep gratitude for introducing me to Karl Friston's theories and for sharing his research enthusiasm about active inference with me.
M.D. Muthukumaraswamy (MDM) — writer and folklore researcher — special thanks for sharing his invaluable perspectives on speech registers, narrative positions, and folk traditions.
