It was about narcotic drugs. Seated in the back row, he listened half-heartedly as an excise official warned about narcotics seeping into Kerala. He found the idea laughable. His neighbourhood was one of slow, predictable life, untouched by chaos.
“I joked with my friends afterward, ‘These are problems in distant cities you see in movies—not here,’” he recalls, speaking anonymously. Or, so he thought. Soon after the seminar, his friends told him: just days earlier, the village temple’s young priest had been arrested, caught with MDMA, or methylenedioxymethamphetamine, a psychedelic drug.
Such jolting contrasts are now routine across Kerala. Anti-drug seminars saturate every corner— from seniorfilled community libraries to fifthgrade classrooms. The crisis, especially of synthetic drugs, has grown so severe that the Kerala assembly recently paused all other business for an entire day, devoting a special session to the surging drug menace.
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Campaigns bearing names like “No to Drugs” and “Life is Beautiful”—a nod to the Malayali’s cinematic flair even in crisis—are everywhere. The Kerala Police, working overtime to spread the word on social media, even borrowed a punchline from a hit Mohanlal film, declaring, “Narcotics is a dirty business.”
Vigilante committees have sprung up across districts, often dispensing swift, brutal street justice to suspected drug peddlers. One panchayat in Malappuram has even promised a reward of `10,000 for whistleblowers.
Alarmed by public anger, the state government has formed a special antinarcotics task force, appointing a senior officer, ADGP Manoj Abraham, to lead the fight.
Worrying numbers
Kerala, long celebrated as India’s laid-back and literate paradise, now simmers anxiously over drugs—a crisis growing so rapidly that it has eclipsed, at least in numbers, Punjab, once considered India’s drug epicentre. In 2024, Kerala recorded 27,701 cases under the Narcotic Drugs and Psychotropic Substances (NDPS) Act— more than three times Punjab’s 9,025 cases, according to the Union Home Ministry.
The state government has repeatedly claimed a high conviction rate—reportedly 98%—in NDPS cases, which appears at odds with the central government’s data presented in the Rajya Sabha on March 12, according to which only two convictions were recorded in Kerala between 2022 and 2024 by the drug law enforcement agencies and the Narcotics Control Bureau (NCB). When contacted for clarification, Kerala Excise Minister MB Rajesh said he was travelling and could not immediately offer an explanation for the discrepancy.
Over the past four years, Kerala has registered 87,101 drug-related cases, a more than 130% increase over the previous four-year period’s 37,228 cases, according to the state government. While these figures partly reflect Kerala’s intensified law enforcement and vigilant policing, they also highlight a growing drug crisis quietly sweeping across India’s smaller towns and rural areas.
Neighbouring Tamil Nadu has seen similar tensions escalate into political fights, most notably between the government and the governor as they publicly clashed over the efficacy of the state’s crackdown on narcotics. Beyond the numbers, the human toll is evident in Kerala. Nearly half—30 out of 63—of all murders committed in the state in the first two months of this year were drug-related, according to a police study.
Two teenagers, aged 14 and 16, are accused of killing a 30-year-old man in Thrissur on New Year’s Eve, after he confronted them over using drugs in public. A 25-year-old in Kozhikode, P Ashiq Ashraf, has been charged with murdering his mother after he returned home from a de-addiction centre in January.
In March, a 28-year-old man swallowed two packets of MDMA while fleeing from the police in Kozhikode and died from an overdose. The crisis has sparked an unprecedented social response. Anti-drug pledges are saturating schools, political rallies and community gatherings.
Frantic parents are buying drug-testing kits in bulk and discreetly screening their children behind closed doors. Despite relentless crackdowns and fervent campaigns, the drugs keep flowing. In just one week, between February 22 and March 1, the special task force made 2,762 drug busts, arresting 2,854 suspects.
Each arrest, rather than signalling a victory, only revealed a vast, unseen drug network beneath the surface. In a dramatic raid at a college hostel in Ernakulam, police arrested four students with nearly 2 kg of cannabis, an electronic scale and a WhatsApp group buzzing with orders for Holi celebrations.
Hyperlocal trade
Kerala’s drug trade is both structured and efficient, with trafficking routes spanning land and sea. Bengaluru has emerged as a major transit point. Meanwhile, the state’s 600 km coastline is guarded by just one Coast Guard ship. The top anti-drug investigator, NCB, once seized drugs in mere grams in Kochi.
Now, it intercepts entire ships. In 2019, total synthetic drug seizures in Kochi amounted to just 2.49 kg. In 2023, a single haul netted 2,525 kg of methamphetamine or meth—an astronomical leap. Ernakulam, the district that has become a hotbed of drugs in Kerala, recorded 8,567 NDPS cases from January 2023 to June 2024—nearly matching Punjab’s total of 9,025 cases for all of 2024.
That a single district in Kerala is catching up with an entire state infamous for drug crisis signals a staggering shift in the narcotics landscape. Unlike traditional forms of trafficking, where substances were smuggled via large networks, today’s drug trade is hyperlocal, operating through a network of informal contacts rather than conventional supply chains.
It is not sold in shops but passed hand-to-hand through trusted intermediaries. A 40-year-old, who is a domestic worker near Kochi’s IT hub Infopark, explains the process. Once struggling with depression due to personal issues, she was introduced to MDMA by her brother, a bus driver. Initially, she was unaware of what she was consuming, believing it was merely a stimulant.
She later realised its effects and stopped using it, but the distribution network fascinated her. “People don’t buy entire packets,” she says. “A packet costing `1,500 can be split into 8-12 lines, making it affordable to share. That is why even students can access it.” There is a language to this trade: “Nug” means nugget or g r a m . “ Kallu ” (stone) refers to crystal meth.
Those in the trade communicate in code. Transactions often occur through bus drivers, small shop owners and college students, who act as intermediaries to earn commissions.
Many enter the business for financial gain but eventually get addicted, often accepting drugs as payment instead of cash. A college student, requesting anonymity, describes the profit margins: “A gram of meth costs twice in Kerala’s local markets than it does in big cities like Kochi or Bengaluru. That price gap is pure profit for anyone willing to take the risk.” Even the locations of deals are strategic.
Electric poles have become key drop points for synthetic drugs, alongside cars, shops and even buses. Dealers expertly evade detection, using short-lived WhatsApp groups and encrypted messaging apps to coordinate sales.
Social settings— music festivals, hostel parties—are prime distribution hubs. Meanwhile, Instagram is filled with accounts discussing drugs in coded language, unreadable to the untrained eye—with seemingly harmless emojis like butterflies referencing specific substances such as ecstasy (MDMA).
Children in rehabs
Twenty kilometres from the heart of Thiruvananthapuram stands Dale View, a de-addiction centre founded almost half a century ago by a devout Christian family. It has become an unwitting chronicler of Kerala’s shifting relationship with addiction. “We’ve lost the next 50 years,” says CEO Dr Shaiju Alfi.
“And I’m not exaggerating.” Once focused on treating middle-aged alcoholics, Dale View now faces a starkly different reality. Half of its patients are now below 25 years of age, says Alfi.
“Today, our typical patient is a 12- to 14-year-old child with a drug problem that started two years ago,” he says. “We receive 150-300 cases every month, and more than 80% are drug-related. By the time the youngsters reach us, their addiction has already taken a deep hold, and they experience severe withdrawal symptoms.”
“They want to break free from drugs, and there’s a chance—but no certainty,” says Alfi. “Even if they recover, by then they will be middle-aged, their best years lost. That’s why I said we have lost the next 50 years.”
The crisis has forced Dale View to evolve. No longer solely reliant on government funding, the centre has expanded into new buildings, grown into a private venture, and even offers airconditioned stays. Its 100 beds are perpetually occupied, with new admissions arriving daily. The counsellors at Dale View have witnessed the catastrophic consequences when drugs take hold of developing minds.
Alfi recounts the case of a Class XII student whose parents had committed suicide: “He was brought here by his relatives. The truth that emerged during counselling was horrifying: under the influence of drugs, he had brutally attacked his mother, tied to a bed, for two weeks. He invited friends to participate in the assault . Unable to bear the trauma, she took her own life, followed by her husband, who had been working abroad.”
Alfi points to several such shocking incidents—a nine-year-old getting pregnant, a fifteen-year-old killing his parents. Such extreme cases underscore the devastating impact of prolonged drug use on young brains. The Kerala Police seized `544 crore worth of drugs in the past decade, with cannabis (23,000 kg) making up the bulk. Officials admit this is only a fraction of what circulates in the market.
Meanwhile, seizures of psychotropic substances like LSD (103 kg), meth (29 kg), MDMA (19 kg) and cocaine (12 g) have surged. These substances disrupt brain function, often leading to severe disorders, though the effects vary from person to person. “Sixteen- to twenty-year-olds aren’t beginners— they are addicts,” warns Alfi.
The journey parents take with their children to Dale View is often one of confusion and desperation. “Fifteen years ago, they sent kids addicted to alcohol or cigarettes,” he says. “Now, they don’t even know what their children have taken.”
The drug crisis in Kerala has its own calendar, going by Dale View’s admission records. “After Christmas and New Year, there is a flood of patients,” says a counsellor specialising in synthetic drug cases.
“Many relapse during festival parties,” he says, pointing to a growing social culture where celebrations and s u b s t a n c e abuse go hand in hand. Dale View is only a drop in an ocean. Luxury rehab centres in other cities now charge over `1 lakh per month. Yet, for most, the first stop is government-run facilities. Until recently, Kerala had almost no public de-addiction centres.
Now, at least half the state’s 14 districts have one, offering free treatment under experienced doctors— quietly becoming the frontline in this battle.
Hidden reasons
A first-year engineering student lay motionless in Thiruvananthapuram’s Government Medical College, his vacant eyes fixed on the ceiling. His body was rigid, refusing food. His parents struggled to reconcile this hollow shell with the brilliant boy who was a topper in an entrance exam just months earlier. Dr Arun B Nair, professor of psychiatry at the hospital, remembers the case vividly. Raised under an authoritarian father who demanded academic excellence and forbade social interaction, the student tasted freedom for the first time in college.
He couldn’t get enough. Cannabis became his daily escape—it spiralled into addiction, academic failure, violence and, eventually, psychosis. By the time he was hospitalised, he was catatonic—motionless, unresponsive and terrified.
“In high school, it’s cannabis. In college, it’s synthetic drugs,” says Nair. This case, he adds, reflects a deeper crisis beyond just drug use. Kerala’s addiction problem isn’t simply about availability or curiosity— it’s rooted in how children are raised, the pressures they face and the emotional disconnect that pushes them toward substance abuse.
The crisis has been brewing for decades, shaped by a generational shift in parenting and social expectations. Many parents today—born in the 1970s and ’80s—grew up in a rapidly changing India, raised by parents who lived through the Emergency and then struggled to adapt to the economic liberalisation of the 1990s. This era, marked by financial uncertainty and social upheaval, created what Nair calls aspirational disillusionment—a state where parents, having navigated unpredictable economic transitions, carried deep anxieties about stability.
The world they prepared for was already vanishing by the time they settled down. This disillusionment often played out in family dynamics. Fathers who ran small businesses saw their livelihoods threatened by malls and supermarkets; middle-class professionals who once had stable government jobs now feared corporate restructuring. Frustration built up, and in many homes, it was the children who bore the brunt.
Discipline blurred into punishment. The lesson drilled into them was simple: success meant security, and failure was catastrophic. Many parents took this anxiety into their own parenting styles, demanding perfection, suppressing emotions and insisting on absolute obedience— strategies that made sense in their own childhoods but proved disastrous in today’s world.
These parents now face a generation they cannot handle. Their children, raised in a vastly different landscape of digital distractions, global exposure and evolving social norms, are rebelling in ways the parents never anticipated.
The strict, authoritarian approach— where questioning was met with force— clashes with an era where autonomy is everything. “Parents expect absolute obedience until 18 and, then, over night, children get independence,” says Nair. “But independence should be a g radual shift. Authoritative parenting , not authoritarian, is needed.”
The emotional disconnect is stark. Many parents assume that providing financial security is enough, unaware that their children are growing up without emotional anchors. Isolation, stress and lack of support push many adolescents toward drugs—not just out of curiosity, but as a coping mechanism. Some use substances to fit into peer groups; others selfmedicate to deal with anxiety and stress.
A famous Malayalam filmmaker was so hooked up with drugs out of depression during the Covid period that his friends had to forcefully take him to a de-addiction centre, confides a leading script writer, requesting anonymity. The social media, which portrays substance use as glamorous or fuelling creativity, amplifies the crisis.
“Thirty years ago, happiness meant connecting with friends. Today, it’s instant gratification through a screen. There’s no time to process emotions, leading to impulsive, erratic responses,” says Nair.
Kerala’s unique developmental trajectory adds another layer to this crisis. Once celebrated for its social indicators and welfare policies, the state now struggles with the contradictions of rapid economic change.
“We are a semiwesternised society,” says Nair. “We want the freedoms of developed nations, but we have a fiercely competitive culture where parents push relentless comparisons and academic success on kids.” This pressure creates a generation seeking escape.
An increasing culture of affluence without effort has further complicated the issue. Many young people grow up in relative comfort, displaying wealth and status symbols they haven’t earned. The pressure to keep up appearances drives some toward drug-dealing as a way to sustain their lifestyle. “They want to display affluence, but they don’t want to work for it,” says Nair.
Even those who seek rehabilitation often do so only in moments of crisis. “They want intervention, not a lifestyle change,” he observes. “They drop out of follow-ups because addiction has become a way of life.”
Many only seek help when their health, relationships, or careers are at risk— often too late. Yet, there are exceptions. Nair recalls a talented young footballer from a poor background who turned violent after using MDMA intravenously. His alcoholic father and helpless mother had left him feeling unloved. “He thought, ‘My father earns money but drinks it away— that’s why we are poor,’” recalls Nair.
The turning point came when treatment addressed not just the boy’s addiction but the family dynamic.
“Only when the father quit drinking did the son finally complete his rehabilitation.” Nair himself is buckling under the crisis. His outpatient department, which saw 50-60 patients a day in 2012, now handles 150-200, with a third of all cases now substance-related.
The relentless workload has forced him to seek conversations beyond his professional circle. “Otherwise, I’ll start looking for a drug problem in everyone I meet,” he admits. Given the numbers, he just might.
The writer is a Kerala-based journalist.
