Having spent much of my time in seemingly progressive academic fields, I often wished that I was counted among the so-called “woke,” a curious pack that seemed to know and say all the right things. Masters theory, is quick to anger and deeply convinced of his own radicalism. Like many social packs, this one has membership requirements. The Savarna lineage helps, although it is not the only entry point. Others are also welcome, as long as they do not question the front runner. Often a feminist woman from Savarna, steeped in theory and confident that her experience of gender oppression qualifies her to speak for struggles she will never have to experience; or the performative radical man Revolution, carefully curated in his Instagram grid. In these spaces, what passes for politics often resembles a who-than-thou performance, where credibility is gained not through actions but through vocabulary and volume.
Coming from the hinterlands of Uttar Pradesh and from less glamorous academic institutions, I often felt that I was only offered a temporary affiliation despite my Savarna caste status. The pressure to be conscious and constantly sound correct eventually became overwhelming and I decided to step away.
This step back brought relief, but also discomfort. I had to confront why I wanted to belong in the first place. Having had limited access to elite academic and activist spaces, I have long admired the confidence, sophistication, and political sophistication of the people within them. Wanting her approval felt natural. But what I once admired began to exhaust me. Judgment was relentless, their perceived superiority was unmistakable, and disagreements often resulted in them being cut off mid-sentence.
When Savarnas woke up, we talked endlessly about injustice. Yet we spend remarkably little time examining our own Privileges or ask how we can deal with them more responsibly. All too often our politics stops short of naming oppression without questioning where we stand on it.
Resignation was only possible because of my caste, class and other privileges. These pillows gave me the confidence to let go and find my own support. However, many others do not have these fallbacks. If it took me this long to find this confidence within myself, I can only imagine how difficult it must be for others. It is from this perspective that I am writing this letter. Not as a moral superior, but as someone who is involved in the very structures I am criticizing, in the hope that these reflections might lead to an internal confrontation.
The work we avoid
When Savarnas woke up, we talked endlessly about injustice. Yet we spend remarkably little time examining our own Privileges or ask how we can deal with them more responsibly. All too often our politics stops short of naming oppression without questioning where we stand on it.
FII
In our passion for justice, we sometimes even get into the idea that we are the oppressed. A striking example of this came to light during a recent JNU Student Union presidential debate where a candidate from Savarna referred to the likes of Phoolan Devi and Nangeli as her “ancestors”. Not as inspirations or political foremothers, but as lineage. This act of appropriation was sharply criticized by Priyanshi Arya, a Dalit student leader, who asked a simple but troubling question: How can Savarna women claim Dalit women as ancestors without denying the very caste history that has oppressed them?
This impulse is no coincidence. It arises from a culture of achievement consciousness in which a person’s progress depends on how quickly and loudly they signal their outrage. We call out before we fully understand, turning outrage into identity. The louder we are, the more radical we feel and in the end we just become rebels without a cause.
Outside these performative spaces, my doctoral research on caste privilege revealed a quieter, more troubling reality. In interviewing nearly a hundred people from urban and wage-earning families who belonged to advantaged castes, I was struck by how many were genuinely convinced that caste no longer shaped their lives. They did not consciously plan to discriminate. They simply lived in worlds that had always worked for them, unaware of how much caste moderated their everyday decisions.
This ignorance does not absolve them. The consequences remain harmful. Nor does it mean that overt casteism has disappeared. But beyond conscious hostility, there is another form of caste power: subtle, normalized and therefore invisible to those who benefit from it. It is precisely this everyday forgetfulness that often draws our sharpest contempt. “How can they not know better?” “ we ask, directing our anger at individuals and not at the system that produced them.”
When someone suggests that unlearning takes time and that worldviews are shaped by social positions, we respond with a familiar refrain: “It is not the job of the oppressed to educate the privileged.” That’s true. But what we often forget is this: we are not the oppressed.
We come from the same social worlds as those we condemn. We speak the same languages and occupy the same spaces. So why do we reject even the work of engagement? Why leave it to those who already suffer from inequality?
Because outrage is easy. There is no accountability. Shouting feels powerful; Staying in conversation feels boring. But change doesn’t come from outrage alone. It comes from commitment.
When Savarnas engage other Savarnas, explain, argue and listen, it may not seem radical, but it is one of the few forms of solidarity that does not put us at the center while redistributing the work. It shifts the burden of explanation away from the marginalized. Rejecting this work does not make us radical; it only deepens polarization, and in a polarized world it is never the privileged who pay the higher price.
What emotional labor looks like
Emotional labor begins in ordinary places. We explain to our families why a box joke isn’t funny. helping a colleague understand how a “small” remark about “merit” can cause deep hurt; By acknowledging out loud that much of what has come our way is because of where we started, so that the myths surrounding merit and success can be dispelled and others won’t have to question the value of their own hard work.
It also means making room for mistakes and staying in the conversation long enough to learn something from it. It means choosing patience over ridicule and explanation over performance. This work is slow, lackluster, and rarely rewarded. Maybe that’s why we avoid it. It takes time to create something for ourselves – to write, to publish, to speak, to build a reputation. We like justice in theory, but not when it disrupts our momentum. We are exactly the ones best placed to do this work. If this work must be done, it should be done by those who can afford the cost.
The obsession with sounding right has become our generation’s soft power. As ironic as it may sound, even going against dominant power structures brings with it its own influence, from which we Savarnas can benefit without having to give up anything real because we are only indulging in talk and not action. This earns us plaudits in progressive circles, opens academic and activist doors, and helps us brand ourselves as “conscious.” But this consciousness is just another hierarchy.
The obsession with sounding right has become our generation’s soft power. As ironic as it may sound, even going against dominant power structures brings with it its own influence, from which we Savarnas can benefit without having to give up anything real because we are only indulging in talk and not action. This earns us plaudits in progressive circles, opens academic and activist doors, and helps us brand ourselves as “conscious.” But this consciousness is just another hierarchy. One that rewards the polished Savarna for his knowledge while excluding everyone else, even those Savarnas who have not had the opportunity to master the complex language of politics and, ironically, also the marginalized whose knowledge comes from life and not theory.
The inconvenient truth here is that many of us choose not to engage because nothing in our lives depends on this change. For the privileged, activism is often a choice that brings recognition. For the marginalized it is a necessity for survival. This asymmetry itself is a form of inequality.
What responsibility looks like
Albert Einstein once said: “The world will not be destroyed by those who do evil, but by those who stand idly by.” Well, it doesn’t help much if you limit yourself to throwing tantrums about everything that’s wrong with the world. We are often deeply unclear about what everyone else is doing and rarely ask ourselves what responsibilities are required of us. At best we offer admissions of guilt. But guilt doesn’t help anyone.
Responsibility begins with using our access wisely. Student unity “can” last for a long time, but only if we share our books, our notes, and our learning methods. When we come to group classes not only when we need them, but also to make sure that no one is struggling alone. If we don’t wait to be asked. If we don’t have gate keeper knowledge.
Yes, workers around the world “need” to band together, but first they need to pass on that job ad and pass on that contact without fear that one more person finding out about it will reduce their chances. If we truly value fairness, why should we fear a truly level playing field in which information is shared rather than hoarded?
It means informing ourselves about the burdens borne by our Dalit colleagues without demanding explanations from them. It means calling out ourselves before calling out others. It is about forming solidarities that are unbiased and unconditional, willing to persist even when our views are not shared or centered, and doing this work without applause.
Outrage is easy. The real test is to actively work to dismantle the very structures that maintain our own privileges. Until then, all our “Jai Bhim” and “Lal Salaam” will continue to ring hollow.
The world doesn’t need bright Savarnas. More responsible people are needed.
