Noelnadesan's Blog

“Is it true TELO killed Kavaloor Jeganathan?”

“Yes.”

That brief exchange came recently; from a message I received on Facebook.

Years ago, I began writing about incidents from the time I worked with the Tamil Medical Centre (MUST) in Chennai. But I stopped, uncertain. I feared that putting these memories into words might hurt people still carrying the scars of those days.

Then, not long ago, a Facebook post by another friend stunned me. It opened a window onto a mystery that had long haunted me. I won’t name him here, but I’m grateful to him. His words offered a missing piece.

It was sometime in 1985. Evening was settling over Chennai. Streetlights flickered on. I had just walked from the EPIC office—the Eelam People’s Information Centre run by the EPRLF in Choolaimedu—to my own office at the Tamil Medical Centre, a five-minute walk away.

EPIC regularly received the Makkal Kural, the evening newspaper. I often stopped by to read war updates from Sri Lanka before heading home. The place was familiar. There were always comrades inside, always conversation.

That evening, as I neared the two-storey EPIC building, I saw a woman standing in the shadows. She was holding a child tightly against her chest. The child looked far too old to be carried like that, and the strain showed on her face. As I came closer, she gave me a faint, tired smile.

Her face looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her.

“You are…?” I asked hesitantly.

“I’m Jeganathan’s wife. You’ve been to our house.”

Of course. That was it.

“Ah, that’s why you looked familiar. I’m sorry—I’ve only met you once.”

Jeganathan—better known as Kavaloor Jeganathan—had been my hostel-mate at Jaffna Hindu College. He was a year ahead of me, but our beds in the Old Boarding hostel were side by side, separated only by a small wooden cupboard. For nearly two years, we woke to each other’s faces every morning.

Later, when my family moved from Eluvaitivu to Jaffna town, I left the hostel, and we lost touch.

Years passed. I was studying veterinary science at the University of Peradeniya when I saw him again. My then-girlfriend (now my wife) and I were walking near Peradeniya Junction when a man in a dhoti approached us, smiling broadly. It was Jeganathan.

The dhoti stood out—no one wore one casually in Peradeniya unless heading to a temple.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

He pointed toward the Agriculture Department. “I work there,” he said.

That was the last time I saw him—until many years later.

I was living in Kodambakkam then, near Liberty Theatre. One day, as I was crossing Nungambakkam Road, someone suddenly grabbed my hand. I turned—it was him. Same smile, same dhoti.

He pulled me into an auto and insisted I come to his house. It wasn’t far. We rode through a few intersections to a modest home. He introduced me to his wife and child and served me lunch. It was a simple, warm reunion.

Not long after that, I saw his wife again—this time outside the EPIC office.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“I haven’t seen him in two days,” she said. “So, I came to ask.”

“Who are you trying to meet?”

“Leader Padmanabha.”

“I’ll take you,” I said, and led her upstairs.

“Can we meet Comrade Ranjan?” I asked one of the cadres. (Padmanabha was commonly known as Ranjan.)

“He’s inside.”

I knocked.

“Comrade Nadesan?” he called from inside.

“Yes. I’ve brought a guest.”

“Who?”

“Jeganathan’s wife. She’s outside, with their child.”

He placed a hand on his head. “We don’t know anything about this,” he said.

“If you don’t, then who should I ask? Jeganathan was my schoolmate.”

He hesitated. Then: “Ask Balakumar. Tell him I sent you.”

I returned to her. “They said they don’t know. But they asked you to speak with EROS leader Balakumar. If they were involved, I don’t think they would’ve sent us elsewhere.”

We took an auto to Balakumar’s office, somewhere near Vadapalani.

When we arrived, he was standing upstairs.

“What brings you here?” he asked.

“Jeganathan’s wife came to EPIC looking for her husband. Padmanabha sent us to you.”

“We don’t know anything,” he said flatly.

“If both of you say the same thing, what are we supposed to do?” I’m telling you the truth—we don’t know,” he said, and walked inside.

His tone made me suspicious—and angry. With Jeganathan’s wife in tears, I had no answers. I could do nothing but take her home.

At the time, I was secretary of the Tamil Medical Centre. I had links to all the militant groups and still believed in the armed struggle. But I didn’t know how to pursue the matter further. I never followed up with her.

Later, I heard the news: Jeganathan had been killed.

I was devastated.

Many theories surfaced—some said he was suspected of being a Sri Lankan agent; others claimed it was over money, or a personal grudge. But his murder remained unresolved.

Before I left for Australia, an Indian intelligence officer told me that EROS had carried out four assassinations in India, including one in Madurai. But they weren’t alone. TELO, LTTE, and PLOTE had all committed killings on Indian soil. The Tamil Nadu and Indian police didn’t stop them, but they kept detailed records. Only some murders at sea may have gone undocumented.

Jeganathan’s death haunted me for years.

In 2009, I became close friends with his younger brother, Kuhanathan of Dan TV. I asked him many times if he had discovered anything new. He hadn’t.

Then, just recently, I came across a post from a former TELO member. He revealed that it wasn’t EROS but TELO who had killed Jeganathan, suspecting him of being a Sri Lankan spy.

Srisabaratnam, TELO’s leader at the time, is no longer alive. But many of those senior figures remain in politics today, speaking about state atrocities. They raise their voices about Mullivaikkal, about Tamil political prisoners, about recent events in Jaffna. But they remain silent on the killings committed by their own hands.

More than 25 years have passed. One truth remains: Tamils killed Tamils.

Intoxicated by revolution, every movement crossed moral boundaries. That history—bloodstained and shameful—cannot be erased. Until 1990, almost every group had turned on its own.

Today, many leaders issue statements condemning Sri Lanka’s brutality. But they glorify their pasts, their movements, without confronting their crimes.

They must go further.

They must speak about the mothers and fathers whose sons were killed not by the Sri Lankan state, but by Tamil hands. They must speak of those who disappeared into the night, never to return—not at the hands of the army, but of their comrades.

I exclude the LTTE from this comparison. Like a rabid dog, they killed all who opposed them—Tamil, Sinhalese, Muslim, Indian—regardless of race or reason. That madness destroyed them in just fifteen days.

But the other groups are no less culpable. Except perhaps those aligned with the Tamil Arasu Party, none have fully reckoned with their history. They, too, spilled blood—not just in Sri Lanka, but in exile.

Many were executed on mere suspicion: as informers, spies, traitors. Later, the LTTE would use the same accusations to murder these very groups’ leaders.

What does that say?

Every movement, when it tasted power, became what it once condemned. And today, LTTE sympathisers use those same slurs to discredit their former comrades.

I’m not calling for punishment.

But our community—and the families of the slain—deserve answers.

Who gave the order? Why?

At the very least, the truth must be spoken.

Only by stepping off their pedestals and admitting their mistakes can these leaders reclaim even a shred of public trust. That would be their moral and spiritual redemption