I’ve been staring at this blank document for hours now, trying to find the right words to begin with. How do you start talking about something you’ve tried not to talk about for most of your life?
Yet here I am, after spending years trying to make myself smaller, tastier, and more invisible.
The Burden of Silence: Navigating Caste in Early Life
I come from a small rural town in Kerala. But for most of my life, until my college days, I grew up in the state of Goa. Childhood for me, as for most of us, was a time when I was still trying to understand the intricacies of my identity. Geographical displacement had temporarily, but not completely, insulated me from the realities of caste. At home, caste was a topic that rarely came up in dinner conversations, except when the marriage prospects of some distant relatives needed to be discussed.
My parents never explicitly told me to hide who I was, but there were times when I had to grapple with that aspect of my identity. “We are simple people; “Never forget that,” was the advice my father gave me when I left for college. When I told my mother about my dream of becoming an engineer, her response was, “The child of a Padiyan shouldn’t dream so much.”
For a long time I thought my parents were incapable of understanding me and my dreams. But now, after years of introspection, learning and unlearning, I understand where those words came from. I now know that centuries of casteism and generational trauma can manifest itself as a tendency for Dalits to accept or rationalize their social position and sometimes even see it as fate and their fair share of life. This form of mental enslavement is passed down through generations like an heirloom.
The reservation question: caste in school
“One of the first institutions in India to silence the stories of the Dalit community is the school,” said Yogesh Maitreya in his memoir “Water In A Broken Pot.” For me, the school was also the first institution that silenced my voice as a member of the Dalit community. I was one of the few Dalit students in my class. When my friends found out about my caste, I vividly remember the subtle but obvious change in tone.
My entire circle of friends consisted of students from Savarna. And for them, reservations were the biggest obstacle to an advanced India. Throughout my schooling, I was so adamant about fitting in with these kids that I tried to hide my caste and sometimes even went to the extent of joining them as they blamed reservations for everything that was happening in the country.
I led a double life for a long time. Subconsciously, I was aware of the position I occupied within this social structure. I was an outsider who tried hard to fit in. Every time I joined my colleagues in blaming the reservation system, I felt a deep pain in my heart. Yogesh Maitreya spoke about this dichotomy when he said, “For a Dalit, his identity is always in flux when he leaves his home.”
At the crossroads of identity and political awakening
My reason for anonymity started at a young age. It was the subtle otherness of my identity that my school and my peers exposed me to that deeply rooted this fear within me. Even when I was dealing with my supposed political awakening as a left-leaning person, I rarely spoke about issues that involved caste. I was a vocal supporter of communist ideology and posted extensively on social media about the right-wing government’s Islamophobic and anti-Muslim stance.
But when it came to caste issues, I was always a bit hesitant. I found it easier to talk and argue about topics that didn’t directly affect me or my identity. But when I needed to talk about issues that were at the core of my existence, I was hesitant to create that space for myself.
Caste is so bad that the oppressed are ashamed to even demand equality and a right to life. I was determined to distance myself from the oppressed.
Standing on the Shoulders of Giants: Discovering Anti-Caste Literature
College brought a different understanding of caste into my life. I moved back to my hometown to study. Here I was confronted with the more extreme side of caste and how deeply rooted it was in our social fabric. In college, I met numerous others on my campus who belonged to the Dalit community. Being around people of my same identity gave me a sense of safety and security that I had rarely felt before as a teenager. Conversations about caste, although rare, still existed.
It is quite ironic that my acquaintance with the father of caste liberation came through the works of a Savarna writer. In the initial months of my college days, I was obsessed with Arundhati Roy and her works. As I was looking through her many books and essay collections, I came across The Doctor and the Saint. The book was widely criticized for its presentation officer. But it was through this book that I read about the Khairlanji massacre, in which a Dalit family – the Bhotmanges – was brutally attacked, resulting in the murder of four family members. I don’t want to go into the deep details of the abuse and violence here. But as I read more about the massacre and numerous other such massacres, I felt a sense of degradation as I read the story of what Dalits had been through as a community.
The most transformative moment came when I finally read: “Annihilation of caste” in its entirety. His words: “I was born a Hindu, but I will not die a Hindu” touched me with the power of a revelation. Here was a man who understood that identity could be both inherited and chosen, both a burden and a power. It helped me understand my own journey – how my urban upbringing had distanced me from my identity.
When I read contemporary Dalit authors such as Meena Kandasamy, Suraj Yengde, Namdheo Dhasal and Yogesh Maitreya, I observe how they build on Ambedkar’s foundation while forging their own paths of resistance. Their works, along with those of Ambedkar, taught me that accepting one’s identity is not about wearing it as a badge or hiding it out of shame – it is about understanding one’s place in the larger struggle for human dignity.
From anonymity to acceptance
As I spent more time in my hometown, I witnessed forms of casteism permeating the social landscape of rural areas in Kerala. My aunt, who worked as a domestic servant in various households, was proud that she only sat on the floor in front of the “big people” with whom she went to work. My cousins recalled incidents from their childhood when they were going to school and some old man remarked, “The smell of books will never cover the smell of a padiyan.”
I owe an apology for my anonymity. It was part of cultivating my mind, a temporary refuge while I learn to own my truth.
For years I was shielded from the explicit caste politics of my rural hometown. But even then, caste had found its way into my life. It was there in the shame I harbored about my identity. This was the case in the political conversations I had with my friends, when we consciously avoided issues of caste atrocities. It was because of the reticence I have while sharing an anti-caste post on my social media. Caste is the reason I chose to remain anonymous while writing this article. I understand that this shame, reluctance and invisibility is a result of the generations of casteism my people have faced.
I owe an apology for my anonymity. It was part of cultivating my mind, a temporary refuge while I learn to own my truth. It is the result of the shame I harbor about my identity. If I learn to accept and wear my identity with pride, perhaps my journey from anonymity to acceptance will evolve naturally.
Maybe one day I’ll be ready to remove this veil of anonymity. Until then, I take comfort in knowing that even Ambedkar’s journey from Mhow to Maharashtra, from Colombia to the Constitution was gradual. In my case, anonymity may be an act of cowardice, but it is a necessary act that is ultimately a consequence of the pervasive caste system. Maybe one day I will learn to get rid of it and understand my place in this social structure.