This piece is part of our series on Dalit History Month, chronicling the experiences of people from the Dalit Bahujan Adivasi Community in Law School. The author has chosen to be anonymous and the illustration is by Nysa Kadam (B.A. LL.B. Batch of 2027)
It was the summer of 2013.
My sister and I were engrossed in a serious discussion seated on the kitchen floor. The air smelled of sweet groundnut chutney — my grandmother's special. I asked my sister to tell me a story. I always did, every time she visited. I loved listening to her and her little anecdotes— however, this time, she chose to tell me something more serious.
“Baam! And Thud! They flung open the doors, and everyone was screaming!”, she exclaimed, taking a bite of her Roti. I listened with my eyes fixed on her, as she gave a thrilling account of the Sri Lankan civil war.
Meanwhile, a little voice in my head responded, “But I wasn't taught about this in school!”
When I look back at my childhood, I was no different from the clichéd nerdy school kid. My father bought home a PC when I was around 10 years old. For me, it was like a gateway to another dimension. I had started to spend most of my free time on the Internet. I was fascinated. Any time I got a break from school, I would sneak into my father’s room to use the laptop when he wasn't around.
I followed my sister out of the kitchen, bombarding her with questions to know more. We sat on the sofa. My sister’s eyes were glued to the television as she responded with tepid answers, given I was interrupting her program. I was finally done with my questioning, but I would not stop talking just yet. I told my sister about how I’d find certain things on the internet during my surf sessions, things no one talks to me about, things not taught in school.
Funny how my expansion of knowledge and venture into the unknown started with my K-pop obsession. I’m still slightly proud of the fact that I used to listen to these upbeat Korean songs way before they became a global phenomenon.
During one of these internet cruising sessions, I stumbled upon something rather disturbing. It was a documentary on the dark side of the vibrant Korean music industry. I clicked immediately and thus began my process of discovery and epiphanies.
Internet addiction is increasingly problematic, to say the least, but for this eleven-year-old, middle-class, introverted, naïve little Dalit girl, the internet was everything and more.
I continued talking even though I presumed my sister was paying scant attention to me. That's when I had a little tingle in my adolescent brain. Maybe I should change the subject so she’d pay attention to me. “Akka, listen! Do you know I learned something new!?” Without a pause, I proceeded to explain my understanding of the rather brief paragraph about the caste system in my 6th-grade social studies textbook.
I was entirely oblivious to caste; I knew nothing about its functioning in our society. Maybe that is the reason why this short introduction to caste intrigued me so much.
She smiled as she picked up the remote to reduce the volume.
“Ahh, finally!” I thought to myself.
She turned towards me, took a deep breath, and says, “Your teacher was talking about us.”
“I don’t understand Akka.”
“I don't want to tell you a lot about this, you are still a kid after all.”
I used to hate it when people would refuse to tell me things because they thought I was “too young”. I was not going to stop now.
“No! What is it?”
I reached for her arm, held it, and moved closer to her. I looked straight into her eyes, hoping she'd answer.
Taking a deep breath she said, “Your teacher was talking about us, and our people, the ones she called oppressed.”
“What!? Are you sure?”, I asked confused and fazed. “Mhmm.” She nodded her head.
Suddenly I had no follow-up questions. I sat quietly with my hands on my knees, the muffled noises of MTV reality stars playing in the background. As I sat there contemplating, my mind racing with thoughts, there was one persistent feeling I had. I was mad. Why didn't Amma tell me? Was this meant to be a secret? Was this something I would have figured out eventually?
Now, as an adult, I think I might have come to understand the reason behind my family hiding our identity. It was not their fault. I was probably being shielded from an ugly reality — the reality of being Dalit in a Metropolitan, predominantly Savarna setting. My parents, after having moved to the city were desperately trying to fit in. No one spoke about caste. It was almost like my family had convinced themselves that we were actually like the “others”. My parents were college graduates, they spoke English, they were financially stable with a house in the suburbs — they completed the average Savarna family checklist.
I had a relatively normal childhood. I grew up as an average city kid. There were times when I would find certain beliefs and practices of my neighbours, friends, and schoolmates alien to me. But I almost always brushed it off — “My family is just different, I guess.”
This moment in my life was a watershed. My perspective of almost every single aspect of my reality started to change from this point on. I was not a “god-fearing” child growing up. I was more of a “what will be the consequence if I do not do as told”- fearing child. Nevertheless, what little faith I had in the almighty quickly dissolved into nothingness. I started to view everything with increased scepticism. Politics, something that I assumed to be the basis of all boring adult conversations, was suddenly my seeking.
Gradually all my John Green and Veronica Roth novels were replaced by Ambedkar, Davis, and Iliah.
I never spoke of this, never voiced my opinions. I had grown to believe that my beliefs and views were “unconventional,” and so the people around me might not react to them favourably. I used to read, reflect, heave a sigh of contentment and go back to being a good school kid who never questioned anything or anyone.
My mother, quite a religious woman I'd say, wanted a nice traditional Gruhapravesha for our new home. I heard my parents arguing one night just days before we were set to move to our new residence.
“There’s no need to pay some priest for a puja! Why can’t we keep it simple?”
“This is our dream home, and I want things to be done a certain way!”, my mother retorted.
“But, why is Appa objecting?” I thought to myself as I pretended to be working on my homework. I listened to the whole ordeal, nodding my head in agreement with whatever Appa said. I discovered that day that my father and I were not so different after all.
The fumes from the havan had engulfed the entire living room. Amma sat with a stern face adjacent to the priest. Fully engrossed in the ritual, she seemed to have forgotten everything else. I was bored to death; I decided to defy my parents’ only rule on my baby sister and me — Do not go outside the house!
I grabbed my dupatta and walked straight out. I found a dirty plastic chair to sit on. My legs were dangling from the chair, I didn’t have my growth spurt yet. Puberty was eight months from now.
In the periphery of my eyes, someone in a pale gold lungi approached me. My father grabbed another dirty chair and sat next to me.
“Bored? hungry?”
“Both”, I replied.
He wasn’t mad at me for storming out. He didn’t ask me what I was doing outside.
“I stole the Prasada when your mom wasn’t watching.” He placed a bright orange Laddoo on my lap.
I started to giggle. He smiled at me.
“Appa, you haven’t told me many things,” I said with my mouth full of the Prasada.
I look at him with puppy eyes in hopes that he’d answer. He was a very busy man. A very private one too. I desperately hoped he wouldn’t get a call from the office at this moment. I wanted him to stay. I wanted him to give me answers.
“What haven’t I told you?” he looked perplexed. I immediately proceeded to narrate the incident with my sister.
It is always at the most unexpected of moments that I find myself being vulnerable.
I can’t say my father and I have a very close bond. He still is a very busy and very private man. But I believe this conversation brought us closer.
Soon it was Masala Dosa and politics on the dining table. Amma never liked it. My dad and I debated. My baby sister listened curiously. The dinner table conversations were a stark reminder that even in the comfort of our own home, we couldn't escape the pervasive influence of caste in our lives.
My curiosity about learning more about caste only increased as I grew older, I guess in some ways I was still mad at everyone for not educating me about something so integral to my identity. Reading about caste led me to educate myself on a vast array of things, I was learning about evolution, religion, gender, sexuality and of course oppression.
This might be very cliché but it was my passion for social justice that drew me to law school; please don’t assume that I am taking a moral high ground but the fact that being a lawyer is a “lucrative” career option wasn’t my primary reason to choose law. I did not care much about the big law bucks I could make in the future, I was here to learn, as unbelievable as it sounds, it's true.
But I can’t say the same now.
In my first year, I was so excited about law school that I just did not think about the possible negative things it could throw at me. I was the first in my family to make it to an “elite” university. I was proud of myself, I was hopeful, I wanted university to be a space where I grow intellectually and I was so ready for it.
One week into law school and everything came crashing down. I remember the one recurring thought I had throughout the first year is how much I do not belong in this place. Imposter syndrome 2.0. I thought I was simply not good enough and that getting an admission into NLS was just a fluke, luck by chance. The other Savarna kids from these fancy schools seem to have it all together, their conversations, their participation, and their achievements were all a painful reminder of the things I didn’t even know I lacked.
For someone from my caste group, I am in fact incredibly privileged. And that is why I assumed that despite my caste background, I would not have much difficulty in settling into law school because I too, growing up, had a fairly similar life as my Savarna peers. And while that is true, I am privileged but not Savarna privileged. It was frustrating to see how effortlessly my Savarna peers navigate through life, while I had to constantly prove myself.
It is a constant reminder that my caste identity will always be a part of me, even in spaces where I am supposed to be equal.
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