In Tamil Brahmin tradition, Devasam (also called Tithi or Shraddham) is an annual ritual performed to honor and remember deceased ancestors, usually on the lunar day (tithi) corresponding to their passing. The ceremony is conducted at home or at a sacred place by a qualified priest, where offerings such as cooked rice, vegetables, fruits, and water are made while Vedic mantras are chanted. A key part of Devasam is feeding Brahmins, symbolizing the ancestors receiving the offerings through them. The ritual reflects gratitude, respect for lineage, and the belief that honoring ancestors brings peace to their souls and well-being to the family.

A serious social problem has emerged around the Tamil Brahmin Devasam ritual, particularly in the practice of Brahmanartham, where the intent of reverence and simplicity is overshadowed by exploitation and waste. The people who attend to partake in the ritual meal are often elderly, many with health issues such as diabetes or tooth loss, yet large quantities of rich food are compulsorily prepared; some attendees even arrive after eating heavy breakfasts, leading to mounds of food being wasted. Instances of participants smoking before or after the ritual further erode its sanctity, while no younger generation is willing to step in, seeing the process as hollow and transactional. Financially, the burden on the family is steep: the main priest charges ₹8,000–₹10,000 for a three-hour ceremony, accompanying Brahmins demand ₹2,000 per person merely to eat, receive a dhoti as a “gift,” discard the food, and reportedly sell the dhoti immediately for cash. This raises an uncomfortable ethical question—when a ritual meant to honor ancestors turns into a system of coercion, profiteering, and waste, is it still dharma, or has it become a ritual sustained only by fear, social pressure, and misplaced tradition?

According to Prema Anandatheerthan, a catering contractor who regularly supplies food for these rituals, the commercialization of death in some Tamil Brahmin funerary practices has reached disturbing levels: she alleges that when a death occurs, certain priests “celebrate,” charging anywhere between ₹2–4 lakhs for the 13-day rituals alone. Beyond the fees, the chief priest is said to insist on a gold or diamond ring as daan, along with costly “gifts” such as silver plates, umbrellas, and footwear for Brahmins—items that are ostensibly donated but are later quietly returned to the main priest and stored in a godown for reuse when the next death occurs. If these claims are true, the ritual economy operates like a closed loop of extraction, where grief-stricken families are pressured into expensive, fear-driven compliance, and sacred acts are reduced to inventory management. The image of priests rejoicing at news of a death is deeply unsettling, forcing a hard ethical question: when mourning becomes a business opportunity and ritual objects circulate endlessly for profit, what remains of compassion, dharma, or spiritual integrity?

Thus, even as a family struggles to cope with grief and emotional loss, they are forced to shoulder an overwhelming financial burden and bargain for “better deals” with priests who often display what can only be described as vulture-like behavior. Instead of empathy, there is pressure, urgency, and calculated negotiation at a time of vulnerability. Adding to the moral distress are reports that some priests maintain WhatsApp groups where news of a death is circulated with cheerful emojis, treating bereavement as a business alert rather than a moment of solemnity. This stark contrast between the family’s sorrow and the celebratory, transactional response of those meant to guide them spiritually exposes a deep ethical erosion, where ritual authority appears detached from compassion and human dignity.

None of the seers have made a serious attempt to address these abuses, and Tamil Brahmin community bodies themselves seem unwilling to even acknowledge, let alone discuss, the problem. Ironically, many of the priests involved are trained in the Vedas, yet their real-world conduct appears deeply unethical: some, like Rajesh Vadhyar (not real name), reportedly have contractual arrangements with specific catering agencies, earning commissions of around 15% for referrals while coercing grieving families to order only from those contractors. Even more alarming is the erosion of priestly discipline itself—sons of certain priests have taken over after their fathers’ deaths without learning the Vedas, mechanically reciting mantras from smartphones during rituals. Disturbingly, some priests maintain regular contact with families having critically ill members under the guise of concern, only to be quietly preparing the ground for future funerary contracts. Such practices expose a grim reality where sacred knowledge is reduced to performance, grief becomes an opportunity, and spirituality is hollowed out by greed and predation—raising a profound question about accountability, ethics, and the future credibility of these traditions.

With no seer intervention, no community dialogue, and rituals increasingly hollowed out by greed, families are left asking uncomfortable questions: if Devasam has become a marketplace of fear and coercion, is blind adherence still dharma? Should one choose Hiranya Shrardham, where the process is simplified, or redirect the money saved to an old-age home or a cause that genuinely serves the living with compassion and dignity? Can honouring ancestors mean alleviating present suffering rather than feeding an exploitative system? Or will silence, social pressure, and inherited fear ensure that this cycle continues unchallenged—until someone dares to finally ask, what is the right way forward?