Dr. Shashi Tharoor often states [in his book: Why I am a Hindu, New Delhi, Aleph Book Company, 2018 and also in several videos] that he grew up without any awareness of caste or even religion. He recalls realizing these aspects of identity much later in life. Even as a Member of Parliament, he claims that he never inquired about the caste of his staff, whether in his office or at home. This, of course, is admirable.
But what is truly more challenging? For example, I was born a Brahmin. Yet, I have lived and interacted closely with people from all backgrounds, including Harijans and even scavengers—groups historically marginalized in society. I have visited their homes, shared meals with them while adhering to my vegetarianism, and treated them as equals. And I did so fully aware of their backgrounds, knowing that such interactions would have been impossible in the past.
So, which is more significant? To mingle freely with people without ever knowing or caring about their caste, as Tharoor claims? Or to consciously break social barriers, knowing full well the history of discrimination and choosing to bridge that gap in the present?
It is good not to interact with others only after knowing their caste. But it is nobler to break all barriers and mingle with them despite the artificial social differences we have inherited over time—differences that, even if we wish, cannot be dismantled overnight. Now, caste and untouchability are not merely social issues but political tools, used by various groups for their own agendas.
Some might still read a condescending tone in this, as if I am claiming to “accept” others from a position of superiority with a patronising spirit. But those who know me well understand my stand. This approach did not come naturally to me—I learned it through circumstances.
When we were growing up in Vriddhachalam, our house was near the river, tucked into a corner near the old bus stand, with the scavengers’ street just behind us. We couldn’t afford to rent a house in the Agraharam where most Brahmins lived, and so, by circumstance, we lived outside that social enclave. As a result, we grew up without absorbing any strong caste prejudices. Though we didn’t have much social interaction with our neighbors from the scavenger community, we were not completely cut off from them either.
Throughout my life, I have never practiced caste discrimination. I have shared meals with others, provided the food was vegetarian, and I have never distanced myself from people of other faiths. In fact, I have had close friends from different religious backgrounds. I can recount numerous incidents from my own life, as well as from the lives of family members and others, which show how strict caste taboos are rapidly disappearing in India. [See Appendix]. In most households today, children grow up without being taught about their caste or religious identity—these distinctions only become apparent to them later in life.
Of course, caste restrictions were once strictly observed—not only by the so-called high castes, particularly Brahmins, who wished to maintain ritual purity by insulating themselves from others—but also by people from other castes, each for their own reasons. I recall a vivid example from my childhood in Vriddhachalam. To reach a deeper part of the river quickly, I would sometimes walk through the scavengers’ street. But when I did so, some elders sitting outside would scold me, warning me not to take that path for fear that some misfortune might befall upon them. The following scholarly perspectives help illustrate and validate these lived experiences:
“It is interesting that the Pariahs also have a notion of power that is dangerous to them. Dr. K.K.A. Vendatachari tells me that when he attempted to enter the huts of some Harijans in his village, they begged him not to because, being a Brahmin, he would cause their houses to burn down or bring some other misfortune upon them.” See Edgar T. Thurston, Castes and Tribes of Southern India (Madras, 1909), VI:88 ff. “Because dangerous power has erroneously been called ‘pollution’ by most students of caste, it has been assumed that caste is imposed from the top downward, and that if one understands the attitudes of the higher castes, one can understand the caste system. I feel that the opposite is true. Caste is a social institution necessitated by the need to insulate oneself from dangerous power. Those who perform the task of insulating are the Harijans. Hence, to understand caste, one must understand the culture and ethos of the Harijans, something no one has done to my knowledge.” — George L. Hart III, The Theory of Reincarnation among the Tamils, in Wendy Doniger O’Flaherty, Karma and Rebirth in Classical Indian Traditions, Motilal Banarsidass Publishers, Delhi (1983), Notes 12, p. 126
Looking back, as Prof. P.V. Kane points out, there were situations where strict caste boundaries were relaxed: “…There is a verse of Bṛhaspati: ‘At holy places, in marriages, during a religious festival (or procession), in battle, during an invasion of the country, and when a town or village is on fire, no blame attaches on the ground of incurring contact with untouchable persons or things.’” — P.V. Kane, History of Dharmasastra, Pune, Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute, Vol. IV, Ch. XI, p. 570.
Of course all the caste taboos and restrictions that once practiced in public are now mostly disappearing, though still remain in pockets, particularly in rural areas, with several people continuing to implement them in the home. But those living in urban areas find it difficult to adhere to such taboos as they completely depend upon domestic helpers who have to go through every room, including the kitchen, where there might be the family shrine where they cannot afford a separate puja room.
This experience reinforced my belief that social and religious barriers can be consciously overcome—not by ignoring them, but by acknowledging their presence and choosing to bridge them with genuine respect and understanding.
Though I appreciate Dr. Tharoor’s perspective, I see no harm in knowing someone’s caste as long as it does not shape how we treat them. Prejudice is not in knowing, but in acting upon that knowledge. In a recent talk to postgraduate students in the Department of Social Science, on February 24th, 2025, at Banaras Hindu University, I told them—while sitting beside a professor who had invited me, himself a Harijan—”Say proudly if you are a Harijan. There is nothing to be ashamed of.” The head of the department, a Brahmin, nodded in agreement.
Today, caste is no longer just a marker of discrimination; it has become a political tool, wielded by all—politicians and others—as socio-political capital for personal gain. Whether one ignores caste entirely, as Tharoor does, or actively breaks social barriers, as I have done, the real challenge is not just in how we see caste, but in how we navigate its legacy in a society where it still holds power.
This is where India’s unique tradition of Change and Continuity becomes evident. While much has changed, certain elements persist. Historically, the caste system imposed rigid social hierarchies, shaping complex interactions between different communities. In some cases, Dalit communities were apprehensive about allowing Brahmins into their homes due to deeply ingrained beliefs about purity and potential misfortune. Anthropologist M. N. Srinivas noted that higher castes typically avoided entering Harijan wards, reinforcing these social boundaries. As Srinivas further observes in Collected Essays, caste hierarchy is so deeply entrenched that even marginalized communities maintain distinctions among themselves:
“…each caste, including the Harijan, is able to point to another as its inferior. Thus the Harijan Holeyas are able to point to the Smiths as their inferiors, and as ‘evidence’ of their superiority they do not accept food and drinking-water from the Smiths. They would also point to the Smiths being included in the ‘left-hand’ castes while they themselves were included among the ‘right-hand’ castes. Again, traditionally the Smiths were not allowed to perform weddings within the village and were subjected to certain other disabilities. On their side, the Smiths would dismiss the Harijan claim as absurd, and point to their Sanskritized style of life, and to their not accepting food cooked by any except Brahmins and Lingayats as evidence of their high status…” (M. N. Srinivas, Collected Essays, New Delhi, Oxford University Press, (2002) Paperbacks 2004, p. 29).
Additionally, studies on Dalit communities across India have revealed an internal caste hierarchy, with certain sub-castes considering others as untouchable. This internal stratification further complicates social interactions and perceptions of purity within marginalized groups. These examples illustrate the nuanced nature of caste dynamics in India, where notions of purity, pollution, and hierarchy shape interactions not only between different castes but also within Dalit communities themselves.
While these historical patterns still have echoes today, they are increasingly being challenged by individuals and communities who prioritize humanity over hierarchy. Whether through personal interactions, shared meals, or friendships that transcend caste and religion, change is happening—not through force, but through lived experience.
Ashram, 4-4-2025
Appendix
Childhood life
When my father moved to Vriddhachalam after incurring heavy business losses in Trichy around 1954 or 1955, we spent nearly a month living in a choultry (sathram) before managing to lease a small piece of temple land (for five rupees a month) near the river. He built a simple thatched-roof house for us there, without even a proper gate—just a bamboo gate. My mother would often sing a line from a Tamil film song: “Kattu Rani kottayile; kadavuhal illai; ingu kaval kaakka kadavulai andri, evarume illai,” which means, “In the castle of the forest queen, there is no door, and none but God stands guard.” We had no immediate neighbors except for a street behind our house, where about 15 to 20 scavenger families lived. Opposite our house was the bus stand, with various shops beyond it. Only much later did a businessman move in across the street when he opened a shop. For years, we had no real neighborhood around us.
As we could not afford a rental house in town—especially in the agraharam, where Brahmins had exclusively lived in the past—my siblings and I grew up without any caste prejudice, simply because we had no reason to think about it. Of course, there was little social interaction in daily life, but when my mother went into labor with my second sister, it was an elderly woman from that community who came to help. The same happened during my mother’s next delivery, though that child did not survive. Even then, I recall no rituals being performed to “purify” our house afterward.
Another memory stands out. In front of our house, steps led down to the river, where we bathed, washed clothes, and even attended to nature’s calls, as we had no toilet at home—something common for many in town at the time. Behind our house, at the end of the scavenger street, there was another spot where the water was deeper, making it perfect for jumping and swimming.
Sometimes, my friends took the main road and entered the river from the temple side, as it was a shortcut from other parts of town. Wanting to join them quickly, I occasionally took the shortest route—through the scavenger street, which I could cross in just two or three minutes.
Whenever I did, some elderly people sitting outside would rebuke me, telling me not to pass through their street. Their concern wasn’t that I, a Brahmin, would feel “polluted” by proximity to them. Rather, they feared that my presence—too close to their homes—might bring misfortune upon them, perhaps even a fire accident. This wasn’t an unfounded fear, as the following scholarly excerpt illustrates. But I would simply smile and run past, knowing they wouldn’t physically stop me. On this further see: The Theory of Reincarnation among the Tamils, George L. Hart III, in Wendy Doniger O’Flaherty, Karma and Rebirth in Classical Indian Traditions, Motilal Banarsidass Publishers, Delhi (1983), Notes 12, p. 126 and Kane in the article.
My brother:
Of course, such strict restrictions on mutual interactions among various caste groups have largely faded in India. People no longer ask about caste as frequently, and many do not mind such distinctions anymore. However, in some families, certain traditional practices, like restricting entry into the house or specific areas, are still observed. An interesting incident highlights this shift.
Once, my orthodox brother asked our mother to prepare her special dish, Vattakkuzhambu, as he had invited a colleague for a meal. His colleague, a Dalit, had shared that during his school days, he used to enjoy Vattakkuzhambu from his Brahmin friends’ lunchboxes during meal breaks. Though he had tasted versions of it in various hotels and other places, he still longed for the homemade one. Hearing this, my brother invited him over.
I happened to be visiting my parents at the time. My brother mentioned his colleague’s caste to our mother, perhaps expecting some hesitation. But she simply responded, “What is caste in all this? First, he is a human being, and it is our responsibility to serve what he likes from us.” Not only did she prepare a wonderful Vattakkuzhambu, but she also made her unique rasam.
When serving the meal, my brother set the dining table in the dining hall. His colleague, aware of traditional taboos, took the banana leaf on which the food was served and disposed of it himself before washing his hands. In our home, as per custom, guests are always served on banana leaves since individual plates are not shared, even among family members. Each of us had our own designated plates, which were not allowed inside the kitchen.
Even today, in many hotels where food is served on banana leaves, customers are expected to remove their own leaves before washing their hands. This practice remains consistent, regardless of who runs the establishment. The persistence of such customs is evident in many other settings as well.
Ashram:
For instance, when nearby villagers visited the ashram, they would insist on washing their own tea cups, a practice rooted in long-standing social norms. A similar experience occurred when I visited a rural area in the North. A local zamindar, whose family once held royal status and still owns significant land, came to see me. After being served tea, he took his own glass, washed it, and placed it back. Despite his high social standing, he followed the local custom because I was staying with my shishya, a Brahmin. In such settings, it is understood that even well-respected guests should not expect their hosts, especially Brahmins, to wash their utensils.
Example from North
These traditions are not just limited to caste-based norms but extend to broader social customs. Behind my host’s house in the North was a colony where tribal workers lived. The water from their hand pump was sweeter and less salty than the well water in my host’s house. I preferred drinking from that source, and my shishya would bring the water for me. However, neither he nor his family members would drink it themselves. When I asked why, they explained, “As a visiting sannyasi, you are not bound by local taboos, but since we live here, we must follow these traditions, regardless of our personal views.” Their response illustrated how deeply embedded social customs influence behavior, even when individuals personally question them.
The reason I share this is that even within my own family, I was considered rebellious—always questioning religious traditions. My mother often rebuked me, calling me a “Buddha” because I constantly challenged many family customs. My interaction was not limited to Hindus of different castes but extended to people of other faiths as well.
My Muslim Neighbor
When we lived in a small town, our neighbors included a Muslim family—Abdulla and his children—with whom we had a warm relationship. Unlike the rigid social divisions that often kept communities apart, we frequently interacted with them.
Once a year, they held a special celebration, and I alone, among the Hindu neighbors, was invited. Throughout the day, many Muslims from their community came to partake in the meal prepared for the occasion. When I curiously asked why they didn’t invite our other Hindu neighbors, they explained, “This is exclusively for our sect and community. Others are not allowed to participate. But since you are a Sannyasi and we know you well, we extend this invitation to you.” Even the visiting Molvi from Bangalore would engage in conversations with me and, at the end, would offer a prayer for me in Urdu.
Though the venue was beautifully decorated with flowers and lights and an elaborate feast was arranged, they never insisted that I partake in their meal, knowing that traditionally, we wouldn’t eat in their homes. Instead, they would bring me a plate of fruits. Our mutual respect transcended such customs—when we celebrated Hindu festivals, I would share food with them, and they would happily accept. Similarly, during Ramzan, they would bring fruits as gifts to us. I even had a young Muslim boy as my shishya (disciple), along with others from their community. It is important to note that, no matter how friendly they may be, they do not allow non-Muslims to participate in prayers inside the masjid.
The following information was accessed by ChatGPT on April 4, 2025.
Non-Muslims are generally not allowed to participate in namaz (Islamic prayer) inside mosques, even though they may be permitted to visit or observe respectfully. This restriction is based on the belief that salat is a sacred act of worship that requires specific theological and ritual conditions, such as:
- Faith in Islam (iman)
- Ritual purity (wudu)
- Proper intention and orientation (toward the qibla)
While non-Muslims may be welcomed during interfaith events or mosque visits, joining the actual prayer is not permitted.
This practice is affirmed by:
- Islamic scholars and authorities (e.g., Al-Azhar University, Islamic Fiqh Councils)
- Historical precedent: The Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) allowed non-Muslim visitors (e.g., Najran Christians) to visit the mosque but not participate in prayer.
The refusal to allow participation is usually conveyed gently and respectfully, without offending the visitor.
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