On a sweltering afternoon drive from Kochi to Thrissur, the conversation turns, inevitably, to politics. Shaji, the taxi driver at the wheel, does not hesitate.
"He is arrogant, and that's not an attitude a Chief Minister should have," he says, eyes fixed on the highway. "I would expect the head of the government to behave like Oommen Chandy did. What we are seeing now is 'Pinarayism'."
Hours later, at a tea stall not far from the rally grounds, Krishnan, an autodriver and a committed Left supporter, offers a counterpoint just as sharp. "Can you name any former Chief Minister who has done this kind of development?" he asks. "You need determination and strong resolve for that."
As Kerala heads into the April 9 Assembly polls, the election has effectively become a referendum on one man. Not the party. Not ideology. Not even governance in abstraction.
Pinarayi Vijayan himself.
For the CPI(M), he is both its most formidable asset and its greatest vulnerability. His towering presence defines the campaign—and, perhaps, its risks. His supporters see decisiveness, discipline, and delivery. His critics see rigidity, centralisation, and arrogance.
"He controlled Kerala for the last 25 years—first as party secretary and then as CM," says PA Mathew, an educationist from Punalur. "In a way, he is similar to Modi. A master politician who understands the pulse of his cadres."
Then comes the sharper critique: "He diluted Marxism. Today, there is little difference between Congress and CPI(M) in terms of appeasing powerful business groups."
Yet even critics concede his administrative impact. "Credit to him for start-up growth, highways, and maintaining communal harmony," Mathew adds.
That contradiction—admiration wrapped in criticism—defines the Pinarayi phenomenon.
The campaign machine
At 81, Vijayan is running a campaign that would exhaust politicians half his age.
Since the Election Commission announced the polls on March 15, his schedule has been relentless. From March 18, when he landed in Kannur to a rousing reception, to filing his nomination in Dharmadam the next day—his political home turf where victory is almost assured—the campaign has been a test of endurance.
What followed was a political marathon.
Over the next two-and-a-half days, he sat through nearly 20 interviews—national newspapers, English television channels, Malayalam news platforms, and digital media outlets. There was little pause between them. From 10:30 in the morning to early afternoon, and then again from late afternoon into the evening, he moved from one conversation to the next, answering questions on governance, controversy, and politics with a steady, unflinching composure.
Among these appearances were conversations with popular digital creators—Sujith Bhakthan, who commands a subscriber base of over 2.32 million, and Shariq Shamsuddin, followed by around 1.62 million viewers.
These were not accidental choices. Vijayan's team understands that the political conversation is no longer confined to television studios or newspaper columns. It now lives on YouTube channels, Instagram clips, and podcast platforms consumed by younger audiences.
His strategists, clearly attuned to the pulse of Gen Z, have recalibrated the campaign to meet them where they are—online, informal, and interactive. The outreach signals a shift: even a leader as old-school as Vijayan is adapting to a new political grammar.
There was also a widely discussed interaction with actor Mohanlal, where Vijayan allowed a glimpse into a more personal side—speaking about his fondness for Rajinikanth films and recalling how reading helped him overcome childhood fears of ghosts and demons.
From the media blitz, he moved straight to the campaign trail.
The hill district of Pathanamthitta was the starting point. Then came Idukki, with its winding roads and difficult terrain. Kottayam followed, then Ernakulam, Thrissur, and Palakkad. Each day unfolded in a relentless rhythm—morning press interactions, followed by multiple public rallies across constituencies in that district, and long hours of travel in between.
It is at these rallies that Vijayan returns, again and again, to a tightly constructed message—one that has now become the backbone of his campaign.
He speaks of development, pointing to highways, bridges, and infrastructure projects that have altered Kerala's landscape. He speaks of digitised panchayat and village offices, and streses on welfare, reminding voters of expanded pensions and housing schemes that, he says, have touched millions of lives. And he speaks of secularism, positioning the Left as the only force capable of shielding the state from communal polarisation.
The repetition is deliberate. The messaging, disciplined.
But it is when he shifts from listing achievements to framing the choice ahead that his speeches sharpen.
"Do you want Kerala to move forward," he asks, pausing between sips of water, "reaping the benefits of the last ten years? Or do you want to go backwards?"
The contrast is unmistakable. A vote for the Left, he suggests, is a vote for continuity and progress. A return of the Congress-led UDF, he argues, would undo the gains—pulling the state back into a cycle of stalled development and financial strain.
The crowd, often packed with party workers and sympathisers, responds with applause. Yet beyond the applause lies the larger question—how this message lands with voters who are less certain, less committed, and more quietly observant.
Behind the scenes, the campaign has been anything but organic.
Despite assertions from supporters that Vijayan needs no public relations machinery, the visual landscape of Kerala tells a different story. Full-page newspaper advertisements have highlighted infrastructure projects funded through KIIFB. Massive billboards—hundreds of them—line highways and junctions, featuring a composed, smiling Vijayan alongside the slogan, "Mattarundu LDF allathe?"—Who else but the LDF?
Shrikumar VA, managing director of Push 360, explains the strategy: "We had to shift the narrative to development, especially when KIIFB was under attack. The campaign worked."
The logic is simple: Development needs a face. "That face is Pinarayi Vijayan," says Shrikumar.
The intention is clear: to anchor development in a single, recognisable face.
It is a strategy that amplifies both his strength and his vulnerability. By making himself the centrepiece of the campaign, Vijayan ensures that credit—and blame—flow in equal measure toward him.
The man behind this carefully constructed image has a story that is both familiar and formative.
Born in 1944 in Kannur's Pinarayi village, he grew up in poverty, losing his father at a young age. He worked as a handloom weaver before continuing his education at Brennen College. Politics came early—through student movements, youth organisations, and eventually the CPI(M).
His rise was steady and calculated. From student politics to the state leadership, from ministerial roles to party secretary, and finally to chief minister in 2016, Vijayan built not just a career but a system of control and influence.
That control has defined his leadership style—admired by supporters as firm and decisive, criticised by opponents as centralised and unyielding.
At a rally in Pathanamthitta, a moment briefly broke the rhythm of his campaign. A man in the audience asked if he could pose a question. "You can go and ask it at your home," Vijayan replied.
The remark travelled quickly, sparking debate. Critics saw arrogance. Supporters saw discipline. Vijayan later defended the response, saying public rallies are not meant for such exchanges.
Yet the incident lingered, because it captured something essential about him—his unwillingness to bend the format, even momentarily. "Can you expect such a response from Oommen Chandy?" Shaji, the taxi driver, asks later, as we head back after attending three rallies in Thrissur.
It is a question that echoes across the state.
Few leaders in Kerala have inspired such sharply divided perceptions. Vijayan is seen, simultaneously, as a crisis manager who steered the state through floods and a pandemic, and as a leader whose style leaves little room for dissent. He is credited with infrastructure growth and welfare expansion, yet accused of centralising power and reshaping the party in his own image.
This is not a division that runs along simple political lines. It cuts across communities, professions, and even households.
Kerala is not just divided. It is divided vertically—on the question of Pinarayi Vijayan.
As the campaign enters its final stretch, Vijayan's journey arcs back toward Kannur—on April 3. From the hills of Pathanamthitta and Idukki to the plains of Thrissur and Palakkad, he moves through the state with the same measured pace, carrying not just his own ambition, but the weight of his party’s future.
In Dharmadam, his victory may be assured. But beyond that constituency lies a larger, more uncertain verdict.
As vehicles speed along the national highway, his image appears again and again on towering billboards—calm, composed, unblinking.
Watching. Waiting.
This election, more than any in recent memory, is about a single question. Not just who will govern Kerala—but what Kerala makes of Pinarayi Vijayan.
On May 4, the state will deliver its answer.
Until then, Pinarayi Vijayan remains what he has made himself—
the axis of Kerala's politics, the bearer of the Left's fortunes, and a leader the state cannot stop arguing about.
