University taught me many things. "Caste is not just Institutional, It’s Interpersonal" was one of them
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As a young girl I believed in the power of education to change lives. I thought we are poor because my parents didn't study enough. I thought we are poor because my Amma didn't pass 10th standard, and my pappa didn't pass 12th. I thought I'll study hard, and drag ourselves out of poverty.
As a young girl, I believed in "merit" too, just like any other savarna kid out there. I thought being a class topper, engaging in extra curriculars, representating school in state level competitions, winning prizes, writing, reading is merit. But no one told me that it's hard to outrun a system with trophies, certificates, and degrees alone.
As a young girl, I believed caste doesn't exist, or it's a thing of the past. Just like any other Savarna out there, I shut my mind towards the atrocities and casual casteism. I consciously remembered to forget it, because acknowledging caste meant confronting a reality I wasn't ready to face. But caste doesn't care if you're ready or not, it just strikes.
I went to university for my master’s with one small backpack. It contained one pair of pants, three kurtis, one skirt (Everything was from 8th standard to 12th, because at that time, I didn’t grow a day from the age of 12, cough malnutrition cough) and a copy of "Glossary of Literary Terms". People often say our classmates know our caste because of reservation and fee concessions, but that’s an absolute lie. My class had 10 seats, with one reserved for SC students, but three Dalit students made it into the program. My Savarna classmates instinctively knew who was Dalit and who wasn’t without checking anyone's quota or ranklist. Some even asked me, "If X came through the SC seat, which seat did you get?" I told them, "General seat," with surprise. I didn’t understand the question or its significance at the time. I wasn’t familiar with the anti caste politics then, so I didn’t know why it slightly disturbed me. Now this isn’t to say that getting in through the general category proves anything or should be a point of pride, only that caste doesn’t need state categories to do its work. It’s read off our skin, our bodies, our clothes, the place we come from. Also, Dalit Christians in Kerala have only 1% reservation in state educational institutions, which can be in any program in a given university, not necessarily in the program we want. So availing that one reserved seat out of 100, spread across different programs, is harder and less probable than making it through the general category.
All my Savarna classmates, who had scored lower in the entrance test and had ranks beneath mine, pretended I was the one with the lower rank. Once, a classmate suggested choosing someone to represent the class for an intra university quiz, but everyone kept declining. So, they asked everyone for their ranks, hoping to pressure the person with the highest rank into volunteering. When the question came to me, and before I could answer, someone quickly “protected” me, saying, “What’s in a rank?” implying I had scored lower even though my score was higher than most of them. That was the moment my "concept of merit" shattered even though I didn’t fully grasp the weight of what had just happened.
The idea of merit had always seemed straightforward to me. I believed that if you worked hard enough, your achievements would speak for themselves, and you would be rewarded accordingly. But that moment revealed to me how flawed and biased the concept of merit is. Merit, as it is often defined, doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It’s shaped by structures of power, privilege, and caste. What we call "merit" often overlooks the barriers that people from marginalized communities have to fight just to be in the race.
Even when we manage to fit into their narrow concept of merit, by not relying on reservation, by scoring higher, by working harder than anyone else, our merit still won't be truly acknowledged. No matter how much we excel, the system is designed to dismiss our achievements or place limits on our success. It becomes clear that our merit isn't meant to merit. The more we conform to their standards, the more they redefine the rules to ensure we remain outsiders in a system that is not meant for us. Our hard work, despite being more than deserving, is still measured against the biases and prejudices that pervade their idea of what "real" merit looks like.
Another instance that stands out happened when we were applying for the NET exam. The fee structure was different depending on the category: General category students had to pay 1000, OBC students 500, and SC/ST students 250. As we were filling out the application forms together, one of my classmates casually commented, “Aleena has to pay only 250" with that historical tone of resentment. Without thinking much, I immediately corrected them, saying, “No, I can’t pay 250.” The comment caught everyone off guard, and they asked, “Aleena, isn’t SC?” To their surprise, I said, “No, I’m not.”
Their shocked and slightly embarrassed faces were funny to watch. Technically, Dalit Christians aren't SC, they're categorized as OBC, even though they're Dalit. My classmates thought Dalit = SC, so not being SC meant not being Dalit. Their shock came from the fact that my Dalit identity, to them, seemed obvious because it was something they thought they could see. But the reality was more complicated. I wasn’t what they expected, even though I am, and they struggled to reconcile the fact that my caste didn’t align with their assumptions.
Before all this, a senior of mine from undergrad, who was also my senior in university, once gave me a strange piece of advice. He said, “If people ask about your caste, just tell them you're OBC or something, never tell people you're Dalit.” Of course, neither of us could pass off as Savarnas, but even saying OBC instead of Dalit seemed to change people’s attitudes noticeably, according to him. I’m sure he meant it as a quirky, funny experiment or a prank to see people’s reactions and disbelief.
At the time, I didn’t fully understand why he said that. I didn’t realize the dangers of being Dalit in certain spaces and why people from oppressed communities might feel compelled to lie about their caste.To me, lying about your caste felt morally wrong. I couldn’t comprehend why anyone would pretend to be something they weren’t, especially when it came to something as deeply tied to identity as caste. I remember asking him, “What if I get 'caught'? What if someone finds out?” He just said, “Then ask them why it matters. What difference does it make whether I’m OBC or Dalit? Does it change anything about me?”
It wasn’t until the incident with the NET exam that I started to understand what he meant. The reactions I got from my classmates when they assumed I was SC and then learned I wasn’t proved my senior's point. Caste operates in subtle and insidious ways. It wasn’t just about the labels or categories, it was about how those categories shaped people's expectations, their assumptions, and their treatment of you.
Caste didn't just shout at me occasionally. Most of the time, it whispered, most of the time, it breathed down my neck. University taught me many things, but it also taught me that erasure doesn’t always look like violence. It taught me caste is not an incident; it’s a climate. It seeps into how people look at you, joke about you, think about you. It’s not just written in certificates or policies or sealed inside temples, it’s folded into friendships, smuggled into compliments, stitched into relationships. Caste taught me the difference between being seen and being surveilled, between being praised and being pitied. Caste taught me that even when I’m not talking abou
t it, it’s talking about me.