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Which students have not yet submitted their caste certificates?

Which students have not yet submitted their caste certificates?

By Varsha Prakash

Disputing the Myth of Caste Eradication in Urban India - Insights from a Dalit Woman’s Educational Journey
Written by Varsha Prakash (originally published in Hindi by The Third Eye, Nirantar Trust: ("किस बच्चे ने कास्ट सर्टिफिकेट अभी तक जमा नहीं कराया है." - द थर्ड आई))
Sarojini Nagar is a neighbourhood in South Delhi, famous for its Market—acclaimed throughout Delhi as the premier shopping destination for fashionable and affordable clothing. Nearby are affluent areas like Safdarjung Enclave and South Extension. I was born a few kilometres away among the bustling rowhomes of Purani Dilli (Old Delhi). In my early childhood, my parents relocated to an urbanised village in South Delhi.
In 2007, I enrolled at the Government Girls’ Senior Secondary School of Sarojini Nagar in the 7th grade. Before this, I studied at a private school with my siblings. As our financial condition deteriorated, my sisters and I shifted to government schooling while our brother remained in private school. I was unperturbed, excited to learn about my new school, classmates, and teachers.
Soon, I befriended many classmates. We became Saheliyaan—gossiping, sharing tiffins, and playing together. One morning, a teacher entered and called out, “The children who have not yet submitted their caste certificates, raise your hands.” I was one of them. The teacher’s biting tone scared me. After a few others raised their hands, I did too.
Later, my friends asked, “You have got a certificate? Which caste do you come from? You are S.C., aren’t you?” At that point, I didn’t know my caste. I replied, “We are from Dilli.” But they insisted, “No, everyone has a caste. Ask your parents before coming tomorrow.”
This became routine. Every day, they asked about my caste. Their questions numbed me into silence. I started to avoid the corridors during lunch. Eventually, I asked my father, “Papa, who are we? What is our jaati (caste)? Is Dilli not my jaati?” He explained, “Yes, we also have a jaati. But we do not come from such an oonchi (upper) jaati. That is why, for our protection, Baba Sahab made our country’s constitution.”
I still didn’t understand much. After so many questions at school, I was fed up. Maybe it wasn’t easy for my father to answer either. According to him, the Constitution had answers to all such questions. Kash! (I wish!)
The next time I was asked, I told my Saheliyaan that my family were those for whom Ambedkar struggled. As soon as I mentioned ‘Ambedkar’, they started calling me names—“Chuhra, Chamar!” “People like you wash the toilets in our homes.” “They pick up the trash from our home.” “They sweep the streets.” Suddenly, I felt a distance growing. Yesterday, we were friends; today, caste divided us. My perception of myself started to collapse.

In order to dream, the sufferers must retain their hearts

My self-belief started eroding. Amidst this turmoil, a flame of creativity remained. I dreamt of playing guitar, dancing, singing, and modelling. Watching ‘Fashion TV’ was frowned upon, but I watched anyway. I mimicked models, used my mother’s lipstick, and enjoyed even the scolding. But I never knew this dream could not be accepted as a career. For my parents, it was disgraceful.
There is a myth in middle-class homes—the ‘tomboy’. Girls were made ‘tomboys’ not to make us confident, but to ensure we did not look ‘attractive’. Neighbours said, “She looks and behaves like a boy.” My parents were content that my femininity was hidden. But despite dressing like my brother, I didn’t have the same opportunities. These contradictions filled me with questions about my identity.
At least in my new school, I was excited to wear a skirt for a few hours! But my experience at school turned out to be uniquely crippling. My dark skin became another symptom of untouchability. Children teased me with names like kaali-kaluti. At school, girls called me ‘negro’—a word I could not even comprehend.
Teachers at my school did not hide their biases. They were more concerned about skirt lengths than anything else. They gossiped about the ‘most corrupted’ girl in each class, judging character by skirt length. School became a tapestry of society’s wrinkles. I realised that many girls’ silence started at home, especially in government schools where weaker sections are herded. Patriarchy was a coin with home and school as its two faces.
While patriarchy is born at home, school nurtures it. By the end of 12th grade, my inability to question my surroundings incubated a suffocating sense that compromised school as a ‘learning environment’.
For college, I got admission at Delhi University’s Mata Sundri College of Women for political science. My experiences drew me to the subject. I wanted to apply my education in daily life, not just pass exams. Political science seeded new questions in me, especially about the Constitution, rights, equality, and social justice.
My family wanted me to attend a college close to home, but I chose Mata Sundri College for its proximity to Ajmeri Gate, where I was born. The streets of Old Delhi are not just a location but a lifestyle for me.
As college approached, I worried about facing casteism again. At orientation, I stood at the back, nervous. A girl named Namrata complimented my notes, and we became friends. In college, we shared tiffins and opinions, and I finally felt comfortable in my identity. My wounds from school began to heal.
I became the college’s representative in the university’s sexual harassment committee and won the ‘Best Student Award’. A new confidence was born in me.

A route through the middle does not exist

There was never a route of compromise for me. The only way forward was courage. But challenges persisted. As I studied, I felt more isolated at home. I realised I needed financial independence. As I started working, I tasted it for the first time.
In work environments, I encountered new faces of caste. A government official once asked why I didn’t use a surname. I replied, “Sir, I do not use a surname, and we Dalits do not have surnames.” Such questions were no longer new, but I wondered, “Till when will I keep facing these questions?” Some say women are the ‘new Dalits’, but what about those who are both Dalit and female?
As my M.A. ended, I felt compelled to return to my roots—school. My parents wanted me to be a teacher. I wanted to ensure more children did not experience what I endured. I left my job and pursued B.Ed. and M.Ed., researching teacher education. As an education researcher, I finally returned to school, this time full of confidence.
But I kept wondering: What if, that day, my teacher had not so loudly asked us to submit our caste certificates? What if she had called us privately? Perhaps my experience of school would have been different. Perhaps those four walls would have felt like my own.

Varsha Prakash

This article is written by Varsha Prakash and translated into English by Arjun. Varsha is a Dalit Hindi writer, translator, and educator with an M.A. in Political Science from Jamia Millia Islamia and a Master's in Education from the University of Delhi. Her work focuses on Dalit discourse and history, intersectional gender sensitivity, and education. In 2024, she received the Laadli Media Award for Gender Sensitivity for her writing on the experiences of Dalit women in inter-caste relationships. Arjun is an engineer, technical artist, educator, and musician based in Stuttgart, Germany. He is a founding member of the emerging initiative Samaveshi Chaupal, and an aspiring writer and translator. His work is grounded in a commitment to social and climate justice, caste abolition, radical diversity, and ethical practices in STE(A)M fields.

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