Introduction: The Campus as Double Stage

The University Grants Commission, on January 13, 2026, notified the Promotion of Equity in Higher Education Institutions Regulations, a broad set of rules intended to counter caste discrimination in Indian universities. Within two weeks, the Supreme Court stayed the regulations, observing that they showed “complete vagueness” and might have “dangerous impacts” to “divide society.” In the meantime, and in the weeks that followed, Indian universities, particularly Delhi University, witnessed protests and counter-protests, violence, allegations of assault, cross-FIRs and, subsequently, a month-long ban on all demonstrations. SabrangIndia’s detailed story on the nationwide protests may be read here and here.

This debate goes beyond a simple policy debate. It is a point at which the underlying contradictions of caste in contemporary India have come face-to-face with the national arena. In my previous work, I introduced the concept of “schizophrenic modernity”, a condition in which a public official theatre of constitutional equality coexists with a dynamic social obscenity, wherein the hierarchy of caste is reinscribed through intimate sociability, bodily practices and moments of violence. The UGC controversy makes this schizophrenia explicit.

To gain a full understanding of the stakes, it is imperative to consult two scholars whose work helps to illuminate the underlying structure of this dispute. Anand Teltumbde’s work on the “camouflaged” presence of caste provides a framework for understanding how caste functions within modern institutions as a hidden system of social capital and exclusion, rather than as a visible ritualized hierarchy. Gopal Guru’s work on the scene/obscene dialectic of knowledge production, along with his imperative to theorize from the location of the obscene, supplies the methodological key to centering the Dalit experience in this argument. Together, they enrich and expand my Foucauldian-Gramscian framework, locating it within the particular intellectual traditions of Dalit Studies.

The article uses the framework to provide a thorough argument about the controversy. Part I will evaluate the rules as a scene of extending the constitutional scene into the obscene. Part II will locates the upper-caste reaction as a manifestation of “camouflaged” caste, as well as Gopal Guru’s reading of hegemonic denial. Part III will discuss the role of the Supreme Court as a moment of definitional politics. Part IV will analyse campus violence as a manifestation of obscene eruption, according to Teltumbde’s framework. Part V will evaluate the schizophrenic stance of the state. Part VI will explore Dalit counter-mobilizations as a moment of forcing the obscene back into the scene, according to Guru’s imperative to theorise from the location of the obscene. The conclusion will consider what this controversy tells us about the underlying architecture of caste power.

I. The Regulations: Extending the Scene into the Obscene

The UGC Equity Regulations 2026 have their roots in a specific set of events: a petition to the Supreme Court jointly filed by the mothers of Rohith Vemula and Payal Tadvi, both of whom took their own lives in the aftermath of alleged caste-based harassment on their respective college campuses. Vemula, a Dalit PhD scholar at the University of Hyderabad, died in 2016; Tadvi, a tribal medical student in Mumbai, died in 2019. Their deaths have been seen as symptomatic of the failure of institutional mechanisms to protect marginalised students.

Statistics shown by the UGC to a parliamentary committee show a 118.4% increase in reported cases of caste-based harassment over five years, from 173 in 2019-20 to 378 in 2023-24. Journalist Anil Chamadia said that this increase “is not merely about numbers; it is directly linked to growing awareness among marginalised students and the protection given to dominant caste ideologies.” When first-generation Dalit students enter universities in greater numbers, the dominant castes may resent their presence, leading to increased harassment.

The regulations created a complex administrative machinery for equity. They mandated that every higher education institution set up an Equal Opportunity Centre (EOC) to monitor policies for the disadvantaged. Equity Committees, mandated to include representatives from Scheduled Castes (SC), Scheduled Tribes (ST), Other Backward Classes (OBC), women and persons with disabilities, were tasked with complaints. Institutions were mandated to set up “equity squads” for constant surveillance, establish 24/7 hotlines and ensure time-bound redressal of grievances, committees were to meet within 24 hours of a complaint and submit a report within 15 days. Failure to comply would invite severe punishment, including withdrawal of UGC funding, exclusion from schemes, or suspension of degree programs.

Notably, the regulations introduced protection for the first time for OBCs, besides SC/ST students, faculty and staff. The concept of “caste-based discrimination” in Clause 3(c) was articulated as discrimination “only on the basis of caste or tribe against the members of the Scheduled Castes (SC), Scheduled Tribes (ST) and Other Backwards Classes (OBC).”

Based on the current framework, the regulations can be understood as an effort to operationalize the constitutional ban on caste discrimination as a pervasive social order. While the Constitution bans caste discrimination at the level of abstract jurisprudence, the regulations aimed to create capillary structures—committees, squads, helplines—that would penetrate the intimate spaces of caste discrimination: the classroom, the hostel, the mentor-mentee relationship and social networks. They aimed to make visible the everyday humiliations, exclusions and violence against Dalit students, which the “obscene” had hitherto made invisible.

As a UGC functionary explained, “The regulations aimed to institutionalize anti-discrimination policies rather than have a piecemeal approach and thus provide ‘marginalised students with an official platform to raise their concerns, which was often lacking before.’” This is the role of the scene: to make grievances speakable, visible, and actionable. The obscene, on the other hand, is that which is unspeakable, the casteist remark that is reduced to “just a joke,” the exclusion that is reduced to “personal preference,” the hostility that is reduced to “academic rigor.”

II. The Upper-Caste Backlash: Camouflaged Caste and the Hegemony of Denial

The regulations didn’t just face criticism; they walked into a firestorm. Upper-caste students, faculty and a chorus of social media voices came out swinging almost immediately. Protests erupted at Delhi University, Lucknow University and right outside the UGC office. But if you listen closely to what the protesters are actually saying, something interesting emerges. Their words reveal how privilege dresses itself up as fairness when its back is against the wall. To really understand what’s happening here, we need two thinkers: Anand Teltumbde and his idea of “camouflaged” caste, and Gopal Guru with his insights about who gets to theorise and whose experience counts as real.

Teltumbde: When Caste Puts on a New Suit

In The Persistence of Caste (2010), Teltumbde makes a deceptively simple argument that cuts through a lot of confusion. Caste hasn’t disappeared in modern India; it’s just changed its clothes. It no longer marches around in religious robes, declaring Brahmins superior and Dalits polluted. Instead, it’s dressed itself in the respectable attire of modernity. It speaks the language of merit, efficiency and professionalism, all while quietly reproducing hierarchy through who knows whom, who gets recommended for jobs, who feels comfortable in academic spaces.

This is exactly what we’re seeing in the UGC controversy. The upper-caste protesters aren’t defending traditional caste ideology. You won’t hear them argue that Brahmins are naturally smarter or that untouchability was ordained by the gods. That would be too obvious, too easy to counter. Instead, they’ve wrapped themselves in the language of universalism, due process, and merit. They’re not defending privilege, they’re defending fairness. Or so they claim. This is caste in camouflage, operating through the very discourses that supposedly left it behind.

Teltumbde argues this camouflage isn’t accidental. It’s caste’s survival strategy, its “genius,” he calls it, though he means it darkly. Caste is plastic. It can take any form religious, secular, modern, global while never losing its core purpose: maintaining graded inequality. If you go looking for caste in its traditional avatar, you’ll declare it dead. You’ll miss its vibrant new incarnations entirely.

The protesters who warn of “complete chaos” and insist that “victim can be anyone on campus” aren’t defending old caste. They’re defending its new form as common sense, as the natural order of things, as what any reasonable person would think. They are, in Teltumbde’s framework, caste’s latest incarnation.

Guru: Why the Obscene Matters

Gopal Guru gives us the other lens we need. In The Cracked Mirror (2012), written with Sundar Sarukkai, Guru makes a provocative argument about how knowledge itself is structured by caste. Upper-caste “theorists,” he argues, have historically occupied what he calls the “scene”, the privileged space of abstraction, theory and universal claims. Dalit-Bahujan thinkers, meanwhile, have been confined to the “obscene”, the messy, particular, experiential realm that supposedly isn’t fit for theory. Guru calls for “epistemic humility”, a willingness to theorize from the site of the obscene, to take seriously the knowledge that comes from lived experience of caste.

The UGC controversy plays out this dynamic in real time. The upper-caste protesters occupy the scene. They speak the language of due process, safeguards against false accusations, and the danger of dividing society. Their discourse presents itself as neutral, rational, concerned with everyone’s good. And the Dalit experience that made these regulations necessary in the first place, the 115 suicides, the daily humiliations, the systematic exclusion gets pushed into the obscene. It becomes merely anecdotal, particular and insufficiently theoretical.

When protesters claim that “victim can be anyone,” they’re not just describing reality. They’re prescribing how reality should be seen. They’re demanding that the scene remain blind to the actual direction of caste violence. The universal category of “anyone” erases the particular vulnerability of Dalit students. The scene refuses to see what the obscene knows.

The Hegemony of Denial in Action

Listen to Alokit Tripathi, a DU PhD student who told PTI the rules would create “complete chaos.” His concern? The burden of proof would shift to the accused, with “no safeguards for those wrongly accused.” And then this: “The definition of victim is already predetermined. Victim can be anyone on campus.”

This is Teltumbde’s camouflaged caste, speaking in perfect accent. The historically privileged group positions itself as potential victim. The structural violence documented in the 2007 Thorat Committee report on AIIMS, where Dalit students faced “avoidance, non-cooperation and discouragement” from faculty and peers simply vanishes. The actual power relations on campus, where faculty and administration remain overwhelmingly upper-caste, where informal networks quietly reproduce privilege all of it erased from the frame.

And its Guru’s hegemonic denial too. The universal “anyone” neutralizes the particular. The scene refuses to see.

The Myth That Won’t Die

Then there’s the false complaint narrative. It came up everywhere. Petitioners told the Supreme Court that without a provision penalizing malicious complaints, grievance mechanisms would become weapons. One counsel painted a vivid hypothetical: imagine a fresher who resists ragging from a Scheduled Caste senior. The senior files a false caste discrimination complaint. The fresher, without anticipatory bail under the SC/ST Act, could be imprisoned, his career ending on his “first day, first month and first year.”

As a Feminism in India analysis pointed out, this script is borrowed straight from Men’s Rights Activists. When women get legal protection, men declare the laws will be misused for petty revenge. When Dalits get protection, savarnas shout exactly the same thing. These narratives do something specific: they drag remedial measures from the societal and historical to the personal. They diminish systemic violence by obsessing over hypothetical misuse.

Now, to be clear: no legal mechanism is immune to misuse. But the exclusive focus on this possibility, without a whisper of concern for the actual violence Dalit students face daily, reveals what the narrative is really doing. It positions the upper-caste subject as the true victim, the one most at risk from a system supposedly designed to protect the vulnerable. This is Gramsci’s “common sense” at work. The dominant group’s experience gets naturalized as universal. The subordinate group’s experience becomes questionable, particular and obscene.

The Battle over Naming

The fiercest fight was over words. Clause 3(c) defined caste-based discrimination specifically as discrimination against SC/ST/OBC communities. Petitioners called this “completely exclusive.” It created, they argued, a “hierarchy of protection.” They pointed to Clause 3(e), a broader provision prohibiting discrimination on grounds of “religion, race, caste, gender, place of birth, disability, or any of them.” Why have both? Why was 3(c) necessary if 3(e) already existed?

The answer cuts to the heart of the matter. Clause 3(e) gives you formal equality, discrimination is wrong, period, and whosoever does it to whomever. Clause 3(c) recognizes substantive equality, the understanding that caste violence in India has direction. It flows historically and structurally from dominant castes to oppressed castes. As the Supreme Court observed in the Sukanya Shantha case, the Constitution itself is “the greatest testament against historical injustices done against the marginalised castes.” Substantive equality requires that “the law must endeavour to correct historical injustices.”

To refuse this naming, to insist on a “neutral” definition that ignores historical directionality is to push the actual structure of caste violence into the obscene. It is to demand that the scene remain blind to what it doesn’t want to see. The petitioners’ call for an “inclusionary” definition is, from this perspective, a demand for comfort. A demand that the scene not be forced to confront the asymmetrical reality it obscures.

III. The Supreme Court: Definitional Politics on the Scene

The Supreme Court’s interim stay of the regulations on January 29, 2026, did more than halt a policy. It laid bare what’s really at stake in this battle over the scene and the obscene. The Court’s questions, its concerns, even its well-intentioned interventions, all of them reveal how difficult it is for institutions to see what they’ve trained themselves not to see.

What Troubled the Court

The bench, led by Chief Justice Surya Kant, was genuinely worried. They weren’t wrong to be, regulations with “very sweeping consequences” deserve scrutiny. After 75 years of trying to build a caste-less society, the Chief Justice observed, policy that appeared “regressive” and might “divide society” gave him pause. You can hear the sincere concern in his words: after all this time, after everything we’ve tried, are we moving backwards?

Justice Bagchi focused on Clause 3 (c). Wasn’t it redundant alongside Clause 3(e)? Shouldn’t we measure these definitions against the constitutional vision of Article 15, the promise that the state shall not discriminate against any citizen? There was also worry about ragging, which one counsel described as the most common form of discrimination on campus. Why didn’t the regulations address that?

Then came the question that revealed everything. The Chief Justice asked whether the regulations covered caste-based discrimination “by reserved categories that are better situated than other reserved groups.” When counsel confirmed there was no such protection, the Chief pressed further: “Has anybody examined this aspect?”

Why the Scene Can’t See

From where we’re sitting, with Teltumbde and Guru as our guides, this question is illuminating. Not because it’s wrong to ask, in the abstract, it’s perfectly reasonable. But because of what it reveals about how the scene sees the world?

The question assumes symmetry. It imagines a level playing field where power flows in multiple directions, where a student from a “better situated” reserved category might discriminate against someone from a “lesser situated” one. And yes, theoretically, this could happen. Caste is complicated. Graded inequality means there are hierarchies among oppressed castes too, some OBCs are better positioned than some SCs, some SCs than some STs.

But here’s the thing about forests and trees. To focus on this internal hierarchy while ignoring the fundamental asymmetry between oppressed castes as a whole and the dominant castes that have historically controlled every institution—that’s not nuance. That’s blindness. The question “what about discrimination by reserved categories” sounds sophisticated. It sounds like careful, balanced thinking. But its function is to distract, to make the scene appear complex while actually preserving its refusal to see the main structure of violence.

The Court’s concern about “dividing society” works similarly. It assumes a unity that the regulations would disrupt. But as the Feminism in India analysis put it, “Their remark that the regulations might ‘divide society’ are a stark reminder of how those in privilege view the world around them. The fractures already exist, they have been put in place to sustain those at the top of the food chain.” The regulations didn’t create division. They simply named it. And naming division, for those who benefit from not seeing it, always feels like violence.

Jaising’s Attempt

Senior Advocate Indira Jaising tried to bridge this gap. Appearing for the petitioners in the original Vemula-Tadvi case, the case that had made these regulations necessary in the first place, she argued that the Court couldn’t consider this matter in isolation. There were directions in the Abeda Salim Tadvi proceedings that had to be honoured. The regulations, she insisted, existed “to create an inclusive society.” She tried to show how Clause 3(c) and Clause 3(e) worked together, not against each other. But opposing counsel kept interrupting. The connections she tried to draw kept getting lost.

Jaising reminded the Bench that the 2012 Regulations had been repealed. If the Court stayed the new ones, there would be nothing. A vacuum. The Court heard her and used its powers under Article 142 to direct that the 2012 Regulations continue in force until further orders. A practical solution, perhaps. But also a telling one: better the old framework, however inadequate, than the new one that actually named names.

The Warning

The Chief Justice ended with a warning to the petitioners: don’t turn this “into a political issue.” The instruction itself is revealing. It positions the Court as a neutral arbiter standing above politics, while the petitioners’ mobilization, their insistence that caste violence is real and must be addressed is framed as potentially illegitimate, as dragging law into the muck of politics.

But here’s what this framing misses: the Court’s own observations were deeply political. The question about reverse discrimination. The concern for the general category. The worry about dividing society. These aren’t neutral positions. They’re the scene’s attempt to manage the boundary between what can be seen and what must remain invisible, what can be spoken and what must stay unspeakable. They’re the scene’s way of preserving existing power relations while sincerely believing it’s just being reasonable.

The scene doesn’t see itself as political. That’s its power. It experiences its own perspective as simply how any reasonable person would see things. The obscene, by contrast, is always marked, always particular, always suspect. The Court’s warning not to make it political is, from this perspective, the most political gesture of all. It’s the scene telling the obscene: stay in your place. Let us decide what counts as real.

IV. The Campus: Violence and Its Representation

The confrontation at Delhi University on February 13, 2026 and its aftermath, brought something into sharp focus that the legal arguments had kept at a distance. The campus became a stage where the obscene, the violence that usually stays in the shadows, whispered about in hostels, experienced in everyday humiliations erupted into plain sight. And then, just as quickly, the scene moved to push it back into invisibility.

What Happened at Arts Faculty

The day started as a demonstration in support of the UGC regulations, organized by the All India Forum for Equity and backed by AISA, the left-wing students’ association. But by the time it ended, the Arts Faculty had become a battleground. Members of the ABVP, the RSS-affiliated student organization, were there too. The two sides faced off, and things turned ugly.

A YouTuber who identifies as a Brahmin journalist came forward with a harrowing account. She claimed she was assaulted and subjected to rape threats by what she described as “a mob of nearly 500 people.” According to her, the crowd turned on her after asking about her caste. She recounted: “The girls around me whispered rape threats in my ears just because I am a Brahmin; ‘aaj tu chal, tera nanga parade niklega,’ is what they said.”

But that’s not the only version of events. AISA activists and another journalist on the scene offered a different picture. They said the woman had made casteist remarks, had shoved another woman to the ground, had provoked the crowd. The Delhi Police, as they often do in such situations, registered cross-FIRs at the Maurice Nagar police station. Both sides got to file complaints. Both sides got to be victims. Sections related to molestation, assault and criminal intimidation were invoked. The official record would show that something happened, but not what, or why, or who bore responsibility.

When the Obscene Surfaces

This is exactly the kind of moment Teltumbde writes about in The Persistence of Caste. In his analysis of the Khairlanji massacre, he argues that violence against Dalits in contemporary India isn’t some leftover from a premodern past. It’s a modern phenomenon, the obscene erupting into visibility when the established order faces a genuine challenge.

Think about what happened at the Arts Faculty. The rape threats, whether whispered or shouted. The casteist remarks, whoever initiated them. The physical confrontation. None of this looks like the old spectacles of sovereign power, where kings or landlords publicly punished those who transgressed. This is different. This is clandestine, community-sanctioned violence, emerging in the chaos of a protest, later revealed through competing media narratives and activist accounts. It’s an attempt to violently reassert a crumbling local hegemony to remind certain people of their place.

Teltumbde puts it plainly: “The violence against Dalits is not a relic of the past but a contemporary phenomenon, rooted in the challenge that Dalit assertion poses to the social order. When Dalits refuse to accept their subordinate position—when they own land, seek education, assert their rights—the dominant castes respond with violence to restore the ‘common sense’ of hierarchy.”

This is what the UGC regulations represented: a challenge to the campus’s caste order. And the violence at Arts Faculty regardless of which account you believe, regardless of who struck first was the obscene striking back. It was an attempt to restore common sense, to remind everyone that some things don’t change.

The Ban

Four days later, on February 17, Delhi University imposed a month-long ban on all public meetings, processions and demonstrations. The official reason cited “information received indicating that unrestricted public gatherings… may lead to obstruction of traffic, threats to human life, and disturbance of public peace.” The order prohibited assemblies of five or more people, the shouting of slogans and the carrying of hazardous materials.

The vice-chancellor made a public appeal. He urged teachers and students to “maintain trust in the judicial process.” He emphasised that “social harmony is the greatest thing.”

On the surface, this is reasonable. After violence, a cooling-off period. After confrontation, a return to order. The university administration performs its proper role: neutral arbiter, guardian of peace, defender of harmony.

But as Mithuraj Dhusiya, an associate professor at Hansraj College, pointed out, the ban may be using “traffic concerns as a pretext to curb mobilisations over issues such as appointments… and the recent suspensions of teachers.” In other words, the official scene of administrative order becomes a mechanism for silencing the obscene eruption into visibility. Don’t protest. Don’t gather. Don’t shout. Trust the process. Have faith in the institutions.

The Double Stage

What the campus revealed in these weeks was its nature as a double stage. On the visible scene, everything is proper. The university issues statements. The police file cross-complaints. The vice-chancellor appeals for harmony. The ban is justified by traffic concerns and public safety. The official discourse is one of neutrality, balance, procedural correctness.

But beneath this scene, operating in the shadows, is the obscene of caste violence and its contestation. The whispered rape threats. The casteist remarks shouted in the heat of confrontation. The student organizations mobilizing along caste lines. The informal networks through which ABVP coordinates its response. The everyday humiliations that never make it into police reports. All of this operates off-stage, invisible to the official record, yet determining everything that happens on it.

The university, like the state more broadly, manages the boundary between scene and obscene. It decides what becomes visible and what remains hidden. It frames some things as political and therefore suspect, other things as administrative and therefore neutral. It preserves existing power relations while sincerely believing it’s just keeping the peace.

The obscene erupted at Arts Faculty on February 13. For a moment, it was visible. Then the scene moved quickly to push it back into invisibility. The ban. The appeal for harmony. The trust in the judicial process. All the familiar mechanisms for managing the boundary, for ensuring that what must not be seen stays unseen.

V. The State: Schizophrenia Institutionalized

The ruling BJP’s response to the controversy reveals something deeper than political calculation, though calculation is certainly part of it. What we see is the Indian state caught in a contradiction it cannot resolve, speaking out of both sides of its mouth because it is itself split down the middle. Anand Teltumbde has spent years analysing this condition, and his framework helps us understand what’s really going on.

The State’s Caste Character

In Republic of Caste: Thinking Equality in the Time of Neoliberal Hindutva (2018), Teltumbde makes an argument that should be obvious but somehow still needs saying. The Indian state is not some neutral arbiter floating above society, untouched by caste. It is itself constituted by caste relations. Its institutions, its personnel, its everyday practices all are shaped by the caste order. This is why the state can simultaneously enact progressive laws and fail to implement them. This is why it can speak the language of equality while quietly reproducing hierarchy.

The UGC controversy is a perfect illustration. Through the University Grants Commission, the state produced genuinely progressive regulations aimed at protecting Dalit, Tribal, and OBC students from the violence they face on campus. This was the state acting in its constitutional identity, the identity that promises substantive equality, that acknowledges historical injustice, that tries to make things right.

But then the Supreme Court stayed those regulations and the political leadership welcomed the stay. The same state that created the protections now celebrated their suspension. Two voices, coming from the same body. This is not hypocrisy in the simple sense. This is a deeper split—between what the state formally commits to and what it actually is.

The Forward-Backward Dilemma

The Indian Express captured this dilemma well in its reporting. The BJP, over the last decade, has worked hard to expand its base beyond the upper castes that traditionally supported it. Since the 1990s, upper-caste communities in northern, western and central India have preferred the BJP, while OBCs, SCs, and STs tended toward Congress or regional parties. But under Narendra Modi, the party has made serious inroads into these communities, through higher representation in candidate lists and ministerial positions, through appointing Dalits and Tribals to top constitutional posts like President and Vice-President, through linking Hindutva issues to caste optics.

As Seshadri Chari, former editor of the RSS-linked magazine The Organiser, put it: “The BJP’s Ram Temple, Article 370 and other issues were basically an expression of cultural nationalism… However, the Opposition continued to come out with strategies to counter it. The Congress has recently decided to counter the BJP’s Hindutva cultural nationalism by playing on the caste fault line. The BJP has answered this by putting its core agendas within a caste framework.”

This is the context in which the UGC regulations landed. They put the government in a genuine quandary. An ABVP insider noted that even some pro-Hindutva influencers—like author Anand Ranganathan—have been critical of the BJP on this count. “The Congress’s criticism does not matter that much,” the insider said, “but such voices are taken seriously by common middle-class supporters of the BJP and the Sangh.”

The dilemma is real. If the government supports the regulations, it risks alienating the upper-caste base that still forms the core of its support. If it opposes them, it undermines its carefully cultivated image as a party that cares about OBC and Dalit interests. There is no clean solution, only management of the contradiction.

Two Voices, One State

Watch how the state speaks in this controversy. Union Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan offered what was described as a “blanket assurance”, the regulations would not be misused, and no one would face harassment. This is the constitutional voice, affirming protection, promising fairness, addressing the scene.

But simultaneously, the government welcomed the Supreme Court stay that suspended the regulations. The ABVP national organizing secretary, Ashish Chauhan, explained that the organization had welcomed the stay because “some words were unclear,” adding that “the groups to be protected need protection” while “other groups should not fear any misuse.”

This is the political voice, addressing the obscene. It acknowledges the anxieties simmering among the upper-caste base. It reassures them that their fears are heard. It frames the stay not as a defeat for equality but as a clarification, a fine-tuning, a protection against misuse.

Two voices, speaking from the same state, to different audiences, about the same regulations. They cannot be reconciled because the state itself cannot be reconciled, split between its constitutional identity and its actual embeddedness in caste society. This is what Teltumbde means when he says the state is not above caste but constituted by it. It cannot simply decide to be neutral. It speaks out of both sides of its mouth because it has two mouths.

The Ambedkar Parallel

Outlook India drew a parallel that’s worth sitting with. When B.R. Ambedkar proposed the Hindu Code Bill in parliament, he faced “aggressive resistance” that reflected, in the magazine’s words, “an attempt to preserve a conservative social order rather than uphold constitutional values.” When Jawaharlal Nehru eventually withdrew the bill, the mouthpiece of the Arya Mahila Hitkarini Mahaparishad celebrated it as the “victory of divine forces over demonic forces.”

Then as now, reforms aimed at addressing structural inequality were framed as attacks on tradition. Then as now, they were called divisive, threatening to social harmony. Then as now, the state retreated in the face of upper-caste mobilization.

The parallel is instructive because it shows how little has changed. The specific issues are different—the Hindu Code Bill addressed women’s rights within family law, the UGC regulations address caste discrimination in higher education. But the underlying dynamic is the same. The constitutional promise of equality collides with the social reality of hierarchy. And when that collision happens, the state, constituted as it is by that hierarchy finds ways to manage the collision without resolving it.

Nehru withdrew the bill. The Supreme Court stayed the regulations. Different times, different institutions, same outcome. The state speaks its two voices, and the obscene continues its work, mostly unseen.

VI. Dalit Counter-Mobilisation: Forcing the Obscene into Visibility

Against all of this, the Court’s blindness, the state’s split voice, the violence on campus, the ban on protest, Dalit students, activists and their allies keep organising. They keep forcing the obscene into visibility. This is not just activism. It is, in Guru’s terms, theorizing from below. In Teltumbde’s, it is counter-hegemonic assertion.

Guru: Knowledge from the Obscene

In The Cracked Mirror, Guru makes a claim that cuts deep. Dalit experience is not raw material waiting to be processed by upper-caste theorists into proper knowledge. It is itself a site of knowledge production. The people who have been pushed into the obscene see things that the people on the scene cannot. Not because they’re smarter, but because of where they stand.

“The experience of humiliation is not just an object of analysis but a source of critical insight,” Guru writes. “Those who have been pushed into the obscene have a perspective on the scene that those who occupy it cannot access. Theorizing from the obscene is not a supplement to mainstream theory but a challenge to its very foundations.”

Think about what this means. The mothers’ petition. The Dalit student protests. The work of scholars like Anil Chamadia. These are not just people demanding things. They are producing knowledge. They are refusing to let Dalit experience be dismissed as anecdotal, as merely personal, as insufficiently theoretical. They are insisting that the scene confront what it has worked so hard to exclude.

The Mothers who wouldn’t disappear

The UGC regulations exist because of this struggle. They exist because Radhika Vemula and Abeda Tadvi, mothers of Rohith Vemula and Payal Tadvi, filed a joint petition in the Supreme Court. They didn’t have to do that. They could have grieved privately, quietly, the way the scene prefers. Instead, they dragged the reality of campus discrimination into the national eyes cape.

Their lawyers submitted a number: 115 students took their own lives between 2004 and 2024. Many of them Dalit. The UGC itself filed an affidavit in October 2023 admitting that caste discrimination against Dalit students was not some “unfounded presumption” but an actual, documented reality.

The mothers’ petition made visible what the obscene had rendered invisible. The suicides. The daily humiliations. The institutional failures that everyone knew about but no one named. The regulations were the state’s response, inadequate, contested, and now stayed, but a response nonetheless. Forced visibility produces results, even if those results are then rolled back.

Refusing to Disappear Again

The Supreme Court stayed the regulations. DU banned protests. The scene did what it always does: tried to push the obscene back into invisibility. But organizations like AISA keep mobilizing. Students keep protesting. They refuse to let the obscene return to comfortable darkness.

Feminism in India put it plainly: “The decision to halt the regulations is just another attempt at denying basic dignity to Dalits and keeping the caste system in place.” The counter-protests are an answer to this. They say: we saw what you tried to hide. We’re not going to un-see it just because you’re uncomfortable.

Teltumbde: Why Mobilisation Matters

Teltumbde, writing about the protests after the Khairlanji massacre, captures what’s at stake in this kind of mobilization. He says the protests weren’t really about getting justice for one family, though that mattered too. They were about something bigger: forcing the state and society to confront the reality of caste violence that the official scene works so hard to deny. They were an attempt to shatter the hegemony of denial, to make the obscene visible.

The same is true here. The mobilizations around the UGC regulations are not just about supporting a particular policy. They’re about the fundamental question of whether caste will be permitted to continue its hidden work, or whether it will be forced into visibility and thereby into contestation.

What the Numbers Mean

Anil Chamadia pointed to something striking: reported discrimination cases went up by 118.4%. The scene might look at this and see a problem, too many complaints, too much disruption. But Chamadia sees it differently. The increase, he says, is “directly linked to growing awareness among marginalised students.”

When Dalit students enter universities in larger numbers. When they refuse to accept humiliation silently. When they organise and protest and demand accountability. The obscene gets forced into visibility. The numbers go up. And then the backlash comes, the violence, the protests bans, and the Supreme Court stays. This is the dynamic Teltumbde describes. Dalit assertion provokes upper-caste violence, which provokes further Dalit mobilization. The boundary between scene and obscene becomes a site of continuous struggle.

The Intellectual Work

None of this happens in a vacuum. The “growing awareness” Chamadia talks about is produced, in part, by the intellectual work of scholars like Guru and Teltumbde themselves. They have given language to experiences that were previously suffered in silence. They have provided theoretical frameworks, like the scene/obscene dialectic that help people understand their situation and act upon it.

This is what Guru means by theorising from the obscene. Not just describing oppression. Producing the conceptual tools for overcoming it. Dalit students now have a vocabulary for naming what they experience. They have legal categories, “caste discrimination,” “hostile environment,” “institutional failure” that were forged through decades of struggle. They have frameworks that help them see that their individual humiliation is not just personal bad luck but structural violence.

The UGC controversy is, in part, a testament to the success of this intellectual project. The backlash is real, the violence is real, the stay is real. But so is the visibility. So is the mobilisation. So is the refusal to disappear.

The obscene keeps erupting. The scene keeps trying to push it back. That struggle—unequal, ongoing, with no guaranteed outcome—is where we are.

VII. Theoretical Synthesis: The Controversy as Exemplar of Caste’s Schizophrenic Modernity

The UGC controversy illustrates every dimension of our theoretical framework, now enriched by the insights of Teltumbde and Guru:

The controversy reveals that caste’s modernity is not defined by its disappearance but by its strategic disaggregation. Power flows by maintaining the split between a disavowing public scene and a vibrant private obscene. The UGC regulations attempted to extend the scene’s reach into the obscene, to make the state’s power felt in the intimate spaces where caste actually lives. The backlash was the obscene defending itself, refusing to be illuminated.

The Supreme Court’s intervention, staying the regulations, questioning their definitional logic suspended the outcome. But the dialectic continues. Every protest, every counter-protest, every legal argument, every editorial, is a skirmish on the boundary between scene and obscene. And as our framework teaches us, that boundary is where power does its most important work.

Conclusion: The Dialectic’s Latest Act

The UGC controversy is not an isolated policy dispute. It never was. It is the latest act in the long drama of caste’s schizophrenic modernity—the permanent, unresolved tension between a constitutional scene that promises equality and a social obscene that quietly, persistently reproduces hierarchy.

The regulations did not emerge from nowhere. They came from a specific genealogy of struggle. The mothers of Rohith Vemula and Payal Tadvi, who could have grieved in private and instead filed a joint petition in the Supreme Court. The 115 student suicides between 2004 and 2024, many of them Dalit, each one a story the scene preferred not to see. The 118 percent increase in reported discrimination, which the scene reads as disruption but which really measures growing awareness, growing refusal to suffer in silence. The regulations were an attempt to create mechanisms that would penetrate the obscene, that would make visible what the scene had rendered invisible. They were an attempt—flawed, contested, but genuine—to fulfil the constitutional promise of substantive equality.

The backlash revealed the power of the obscene. It was not organized in any formal sense, not announced in advance, not easy to document. That is precisely its strength. Upper-caste students mobilized through informal networks, through what Teltumbde calls “social capital”, the connections that operate off-stage, invisible to the official record. They framed themselves as victims, as the truly vulnerable ones. And they succeeded. They convinced the Supreme Court that regulations designed to protect Dalit students actually threatened “social harmony.” The narrative of false complaints, of reverse discrimination, of the general category as the real victim—this is the hegemony of denial operating at full capacity. This is what Teltumbde means by “camouflaged” caste, what Guru analyses as the scene’s epistemic violence. It does not need to defend hierarchy openly. It only needs to make hierarchy invisible, to make the structures that produce vulnerability disappear, to make the vulnerable look like the powerful.

The state, caught between its constitutional obligations and its political base, did what it always does in such moments. It spoke with two voices. One voice assured the constitutional audience that protections would remain, that no one would be harassed. The other voice, quieter but more decisive, welcomed the judicial stay that rescued the government from its dilemma. Two voices, same state. The schizophrenia is not a bug; it is the feature.

The campus revealed itself as a double stage. On the visible scene, the university administration performed neutrality, issuing statements, filing cross-FIRs, appealing for harmony, banning protests in the name of traffic. Beneath this scene, the obscene did its work: the confrontation at Arts Faculty, the whispered rape threats, the casteist remarks, the informal mobilization along caste lines. And when the obscene erupted into visibility on February 13, the scene moved quickly to push it back. The protest ban was not about traffic. It was about management. It was about re-establishing the boundary.

And throughout, Dalit students, activists, and intellectuals continued the work of forcing the obscene into visibility. They organized, protested, theorised and refused to let the moment pass. This is what Guru calls “theorizing from the obscene”, not supplementing mainstream theory but challenging its foundations. This is what Teltumbde analyses as counter-hegemonic assertion and not just demanding inclusion but shattering the terms of exclusion. It is the work of breaking the double stage.

The Supreme Court will hear the matter again in March 2026. Whatever it decides, the controversy has already revealed something fundamental about the architecture of caste power in contemporary India. It has shown that the boundary between “scene” and “obscene” is not natural. It is political. It is constantly contested, constantly renegotiated. It has shown that the struggle for caste equality is, at its heart, a struggle over visibility. Over what can be seen, what can be spoken, what can be named. Over who gets to define reality.

As long as the schism persists, as long as the official scene disavows what the social obscene reproduces, caste will endure in its schizophrenic modern form. It will adapt, mutate, camouflage itself. It will learn new languages, wear new clothes, inhabit new institutions. But its very adaptability is also its vulnerability. Each time it is forced into visibility, each time the obscene is dragged into the scene, the possibility of transformation opens. Each eruption is also an opportunity.

The project of annihilation, as Ambedkar envisioned it, requires nothing less than the demolition of the double stage. Not just reforming the scene. Not just documenting the obscene. But destroying the architecture that keeps them separate. The UGC controversy is one battle in that long war. Not the first, not the last. But a battle nonetheless.

Teltumbde writes that “caste’s genius lies in its plasticity.” He is right. But plasticity cuts both ways. What can adapt can also be broken. What can mutate can also be killed. Each moment of forced visibility is a wound. The question is whether enough wounds can be inflicted, enough times, in enough places, to bring the whole structure down?

Guru teaches us that this struggle must be waged not only on the streets and in the courts but in the realm of theory itself. Theorising from the obscene, centering Dalit experience, refusing the scene’s abstractions, insisting on the specificity of caste violence is not a supplement to political work. It is political work. It is the work of producing the conceptual tools that make visible what the scene works so hard to hide. This article has attempted to contribute to that project, using the tools of Foucault and Gramsci while remaining grounded in the intellectual traditions of Dalit Studies. The scene/obscene dialectic, enriched by Teltumbde’s analysis of camouflage and Guru’s insistence on theorizing from below, offers a framework for understanding not only this controversy but the broader condition of caste in contemporary India.

The double stage still stands. Its foundations hold, for now. But they are cracking. Every protest, every petition, every act of theorising from below is another crack. The question is not whether the structure will fall—all structures fall, eventually. The question is whether we will be the ones to bring it down, and what we will build in its place.

(The author teaches history at Shivaji College, University of Delhi. He can be reached at skandpriya@shivaji.du.ac.in)

References

Chamadia, Anil. Interview with University World News, 2026.

Feminism in India. “What The 2026 UGC Regulations Revealed About Caste, Merit and Savarna Victimhood.” February 9, 2026.

Guru, Gopal, and Sundar Sarukkai. The Cracked Mirror: An Indian Debate on Experience and Theory. Oxford University Press, 2012.

The Hindu. “As SC stays UGC equity rules, protection to marginalised castes came from a Constitutional promise to end ‘historical oppression’.” January 30, 2026.

Hindustan Times. “Protests, counter-FIRs, now a ban at DU: Campus on the boil over UGC rules against caste discrimination | Explained.” February 16, 2026.

India Today. “Travesty of UGC Campus Rules 2026: They turn a protective shield into a deadly sword.” January 29, 2026.

The Indian Express. “As UGC row simmers, why BJP dilemma over ‘forward vs backward’ has deepened.” February 18, 2026.

Outlook India. “The Socio-Cultural Debate Over the UGC’s Equity Regulations.” February 16, 2026.

Supreme Court Observer. “Supreme Court stays 2026 UGC equity regulations.” January 29, 2026.

Teltumbde, Anand. The Persistence of Caste: The Khairlanji Murders and India’s Hidden Apartheid. Zed Books, 2010.

Teltumbde, Anand. Dalits: Past, Present and Future. Routledge, 2016.

Teltumbde, Anand. Republic of Caste: Thinking Equality in the Time of Neoliberal Hindutva. Navayana, 2018.

Thorat Committee Report on AIIMS Discrimination, 2007.

University World News. “New rules aim to tackle campus-based caste discrimination.” January 20, 2026.

University Grants Commission (Promotion of Equity in Higher Education Institutions) Regulations, 2026. The Gazette of India.

Zee News. “Delhi University enforces 30-day curbs on protests after UGC unrest.” February 17, 2026.

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The post The Double Stage on Campus: Caste, crisis & UGC equity regulations (2026) controversy appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Methodological Prologue: Theory as Lens, not Template

To be able to think caste within the same analytical field of reference as Michel Foucault and Antonio Gramsci— two intellectual giants who have left an indelible impression upon his generation—whose long shadows loom large over the landscape of modern Europe, demands a first-order methodological clarification. It is an undeniable premise that caste is uniquely South Asian, a totalising social system with a distinct ontology around indigenous cosmologies of purity, pollution and hierarchal interdependency. Its thinking, its historical trajectory and the experience it embodies can be only partially understood through terms drawn from European history such as class or feudalism or racism, as people like Gopal Guru, Sundar Sarukkai and Dalit Studies thinkers have never tired of insisting. To apply these categories would amount to an act of epistemic violence, the imposition of an artificial reality onto a queasy and never quite-fitting architecture that illuminates nothing but dims what appears from Indian soil, reiterating the colonial knowledge systems that sought once to solidify and regulate caste under alien rubrics. Such as it is, the critique of Eurocentrism isn’t merely an afterthought but a disciplinary sensibility tout court.

So, I provide an inversion in this engagement with Foucault and Gramsci. I am not trying to “apply” their theories to the Indian “case” (as if it were a case of universal concern) in order to fit caste into the Procrustean bed of their local historical referents (the clinic, the prison, the European factory or the making of the Italian nation-state). Rather, I seize their essential methodological insights as adaptable analytical heuristics for shedding light on an essentially novel object. Foucault’s dialectic of the scene and the obscene is indispensable if not as an explanation of European épistémès, at least for its sophisticate analytic tool for understanding how power arranges seeing and saying, produces zones of authorized words and tactical silence, articulates a frontier between what is audible and inaudible. And, once again, Gramsci’s idea of hegemony is not used as a theory of European class making but as a dynamic way to grasp the securing of domination through the construction of “common sense” and the combined action between coercion and consent. Within such a machine, theory is no longer a master narrative so much as an array of precision tools. I do this by deploying these instruments to dismantle the historically specific materiality of caste from its sacred roots to its colonial codification and postcolonial mutations making it possible for the specificity of the phenomenon itself to interrogate and remould the theoretical tools. This essay is then a thought experiment of a critical, situated translation. It deploys Foucauldian and Gramscian optics in order to illumine caste’s internal architecture, its historical transmogrification, while insisting that the image at which one arrives is thoroughly, irreducibly Indian and needs also to conjure up its own vocabulary even as it speaks a global language of power. 

Introduction: The Architectonics of Invisibility

One of the most enduring and complex systems of social stratification in the world—India’s caste system (varna-jati)—is found in the Indian subcontinent. Its analysis requires tools that can penetrate not only its economic or political aspects, but its deep entrenchment in the spheres of knowledge production, body and space. Michel Foucault’s conceptually rich dyad of the “scene”, (what is made visible, sayable and governable) and the “obscene” (that structurally figured beyond but which in its beyond-ness constitutes the scene) provides a powerful prism. When coupled with Antonio Gramsci’s concept of hegemony, the means by which ruling groups achieve consent via an ideological “common sense”, this set-up reveals how power functions not just through suppression but through careful organization of social reality itself.

This paper opines that the history of caste has to be considered as a history involving managing (or mismanagement) of this scene/obscene border. The shift from premodern India to modern makes for a seismic change in such tactics of management: from an integral sacral-political scene to a fragmented modern settlement, where the official defacement of caste on real constitutional law and its attendant discourse on the public scene is the very condition for its raucous (albeit often underhand) existence in that social obscene. In it, the dominant scientific and technological discourses on which the ‘normalisation’ of modern society is based cohabits uneasily with remnants of an archaic and pre-modern social universe intricately woven into a powerful hegemonic discourse that systematically normalizes denial akin to what we have called here the hermeneutics of caste. The analysis draws from, among others, works by Nicholas Dirks (2001), Anand Teltumbde (2014) and Gopal Guru (2016) to map this transition showing that contemporary caste should be best understood as a sort of social schizophrenia driven by imaginative acts whereby power perpetuates itself through a convoluted hermetic legitimising act in India.

I. The Integrated Premodern Scene: Inscription, Spectacle and Sacral Hegemony

The caste hierarchy was a relatively coherent and explicit “scene” in the precolonial and early colonial environment. Its effectiveness was based on its thoroughgoing visibility and its cosmological basis. This can be felt clearly through the texts and inscriptions of medieval India.

Case of the Chola Temple Inscriptions and the Smritichandrika: The walls of the temples in Chola period (approx. 9th-13th centuries) are not just structural, but are public records of the social scenario. That act of reciprocation is documented in countless inscriptions which record the details of gifts but also control in great detail the spatial and ritual order: which castes could offer which kinds of gift, how close they might reside to the temple, and what the penal fines would be if they broke faith. At the same time, codified legal digests such as Devanna Bhatta’s 13th-century Smritichandrika continued to systematise dharma for a wide range of varnas and jatis, dictating clothing and ornaments suitable for narrow groups and stipulating edible diets or respectable partners in marriage.

They are performances of sovereign power. The law was not concealed in statute books but carved onto the holiest public edifices. That made the caste system, already a great monument to human pettiness and pride, permanently, monstrously visible. The elaborately clothed body of the Brahmin (instituted with the sacred thread, instringent in particular fabrics) contrasted with the regulated “nakedness” or coarse apparel of those belonging to “lower castes” was a wearable map of social arrangement- status could be read at once on bodies. “Conjugable” was not private, but public, scripture-regulated machinery for the perpetuation of biology and society.

This was an order that was not only maintained through coercion. It was the centre of agrarian economic and ritual life. Writing caste duties on the walls, the ruling powers (the Chola king, Brahmin sabha) attached social status to divine will and royal command. What it did was not to punish, but explain, rationalise and naturalise. It was polished over by embedding caste inside a sanctified “common sense” in which following one’s svadharma was identified with piety, social tranquillity and karmic reward. Consent was produced by the reaffirmation of ritual incorporation and cosmological tale.

An opulent calligraphy of gleaming inscriptions is what this glittering scene silences. The manual, waste-dirty work of temple purification, cleaning, and waste management, labour assigned to the lower (in caste hierarchy) communities, was the necessary but repelled root. There they were a required obscenity, consigned to literal geographical peripheries (the cheri outside the village) in order to keep unsullied, the jatra’s pure centre. The violence required to maintain this order, whenever necessary, was a public spectacle in its own right, a Foucauldian “scene” of sovereign punishment that reaffirmed the parameters of the permissible.

The coherence of this “scene” can be better appreciated, and the premodern character of it more clearly identified, by consideration to a ritual control of everyday practices that makes hierarchy in large measure visible and ever self-evident. The very access to water for instance worked as a micro-theatre of caste power. Shudras and untouchables were forbidden to draw water from a common source that the Savarna castes drank. The prohibition was not just economical or hygienic, it was dramaturgical. The distance at which awaiting castes waited to receive water from above the threshold through a high-caste intermediary enacted hierarchy as embodied choreography. Here, power did its work not by abstract law alone, but through disciplined gestures and spatial distance and the policing of touch. The practice of pollution was practised time and again on the body, making domination a matter of course.

Temple Restrictions of Entry Again, temple entry restrictions circumscribe how the holy solidified the sightedness of the field. As a condensation of the cosmic arena for legitimacy, these were the gatekeepers to those who could and could not come near divinity itself but whose mere presence would cause ritual chaos. Therefore, being kept out of temple space was not just  marginalisation but rather the ontological disqualification from the moral order which organized village life. The untouchable body was constitutively “ob-scene”, that which was vulgar so as to be excluded from the sacred frame, and thus a figure of purity in the visible scene. But this exclusion, counter-intuitively, verified centrality: the system needed what it banished. Carcass removal, tanning and sanitation-labour were materially integral to the agricultural way of life, and that the obscene was not external to power but its hidden basis.

This paradox has the kind of echo that Foucault will say later, that power creates what it seemingly excludes. The untouchable was, then, not simply oppressed but discursively produced as pollutant, essential to the symbolic unity of Brahmanical purity. Visibility and invisibility therefore comprised one and the same machine. Although his labour was required to be concealed in the sacred space of ritual, it was common for punitive violence against him to become hyper-visible. Public flogging, forced parade or head-shaving was used as exemplary scenes; measures which were not so much punishments for the individual violator but white lines re-drawn in the scene for all its observers. Acts of sovereign violence, in this respect, reconfigured ritual order by sporadic eruption into theatrical display.

But coercion alone cannot account for the endurance of this structure. Hegemony in Gramsci’s sense explains how domination hardened into “common sense.” The karmic reading of suffering converted structural inequality into a moral story: One’s birth deserved, one’s duty redemptive. Most importantly, this imagination was not the prerogative solely of the dominant castes. The participation of the subalterns in ritual hierarchies, through service function in festivals, acceding to hereditary occupation or practicing endogamy indicates to what extent voluntary and coercive approaches were complementary. This was not passive belief, but lived practice that was realised through kinship, worship and toil.

At the same time, however, that premodern scene was never perfectly sealed. Bhakti movements in various regions periodically disrupted the ritual hierarchy by emphasising devotional equality and vernacular expression. Literary figures like Ravidas or Nandanar made religious claims that transcended caste lines, briefly disturbing the visibility of the status quo. Even these challenges, however, were frequently absorbed (or re-absorbed), their radical potential domesticated within particularities of tradition. This ability to absorb demonstrates the strength of hegemonic formations: protest could be recognised symbolically without altering the material basis of hierarchy.

Here, the premodern caste order is not merely a system of hardened stratification but a staged totality through which space, body, work, force and belief converged aesthetically. The Foucauldian pairing of scene and obscene demonstrates the need for purity to be premised upon exclusion, as well as how visibility became a mode of discipline, while the Gramscian lens helps us understand that the long half-life was driven by moral internalization and quotidian consent. Together they reveal a system whose stability was founded on portraying hierarchy as both sacred and natural, a portrayal that subsequent historical developments would gradually start to undo, but not without enormous effort.

II. The Colonial Interregnum: Re-Scenography, Biopower and Taxonomic Hegemony

With the beginning of colonial governance, a significant change occurred. The British colonial state, a modern bureaucratic state at work, wanted to know, categorise and govern its subjects, effectively transforming the performance of caste.

Case of the 1901 Census and Risley’s Anthropometry: The Census, especially under Superintendent Herbert Risley, turned into one of the effective colonising projects. Risley tried to confer a “scientific” legitimacy on caste hierarchy through the use of anthropometry (the measuring of nasal indexes, skull shapes and other bodily features) to construct a racial taxonomy of Indian castes. This information was then used to generate all-India rankings for caste status. This was biopolitics in the pure, administrative state. Power worked in the colonial state by treating the Indian as an object to know, measure, and categorize. The caste became a fixed category rather than the fluid groups of jati relations that it had been, as well as an enumerated and pan-Indian taxonomy, a trope of colonial “governmentality” (Dirks 2001). The muddled local logic of purity/pollution was transformed into a clean, bureaucratic chart. This gave rise to a new all-India “scene” for caste: the statistical report, the ethnographic survey, the gazetteer. The ritual body became a racialised or datafied body.

This scene of bureaucracy had far-reaching hegemonic implications. In cataloguing (and ranking) castes so consistently, the Census rendered new identities that groups came to accept even as they fought them. It laid the groundwork for caste-based political organisation, as represented in the Non-Brahmin Manifesto of Madras (1916) or in the demands for separate electorates. The strategy of the colonial state was one of “divide and rule,” but it did so by offering the vocabulary, among the enumerated caste identity, through which political claims could be made. It fragmented older, more local solidarities and forced a re-configuration of the political terrain along these freshly rigidified lines.

In fact, this act of scientific observation ushered in an obscene that was entirely new. The native logic of purity/pollution, the “scene” which could be publicly declared is now called by the colonial “civilising” eye primitive, irrational and obscene to modernity. The colonial state could thus present itself as a modernising referee, underling proving to the world that it was not some backward social order the British had themselves rendered calcified. The “native obscenity” of caste practices became the rationale for the colonial mission, just as the colonial economy frequently solidified caste-based divisions of labour.

Colonial rule did not just “disperse” (de Kiewiet’s word) the prehistoric caste “scene”; it re-staged its appearance through its interventions in western technology of knowledge, and techniques of administration and surveillance. If the previous order was premised on ritual spectacle and cosmological legitimacy, colonial modernity made caste legible as an object of bureaucratic reason. Authority was transformed from the dramatic practice of impurity to its less conspicuous, but more far-reaching, work of sorting and classifying. In Foucauldian terms, there was a substitution of sovereignty for governmentality: the village stage of hierarchy was slowly but never entirely replaced by that of archive, census table and legal code.

And enumeration was central to this transformation. Colonial census, from the end of the 19th century onwards, attempted to freeze caste identities into universal pan-Indian categories. What had been a locally contingent and regionally flexible hierarchy became interpretable to the state through lists, schedules and ethnographic description. This act of naming was not neutral. In forcing the community to map onto certain fixed classificatory grids, the colonial state both reinforced and naturalised caste. The scene was not just spatial and ritual; it had turned statistical. From the village square, visibility moved onto the bureaucratic paper. The hidden ‘obscene’ here was not just secret labour, but the insecurity and indeterminacy of everyday caste relations, just what enumeration aspired to hide.

The law additionally re-fashioned the grammar of hierarchy. Colonial law did not assimilate such norms of Dhar­mashastras to create “Hindu Law” but the principles selectively codified in colonial jurisprudence and statutes, transformed Brahmanical textual traditions into enforceable legal standards. But this juridification introduced an unintended ambivalence. On the one hand, it consolidated some structures of endogamy or patrimonial inheritance and, on the other hand, made possible certain space for contestation. Instead, pursuing cases in court and challenging bureaucratic rulings or attempting legal reform created new sites for subordinated groups to express grievance. Power was less visibly violent, but more extensively inscribed in institutional procedure. Foucauldian discipline supplanted sovereign terror, at the same time as older types of social coercion remained a reality.

Meanwhile, colonial political economy transformed the economic basis of caste. Monetisation, commercialisation of agriculture and a new exposure to labour mobility disrupted hereditary occupations to an extent. Emigration to plantations, railways or cities created scenarios in which ritual oversight was diluted and anonymity expanded. These spaces didn’t eliminate caste, but they broke the hermetic unity of the premodern set. Hierarchy had to be re-made in unfamiliar landscapes, creating new solidarities along with new exclusions. The obscene, once exiled from the village borders, began to seep back in through developing public forms, often in submerged or indirect ways.

Gramscian hegemony likewise underwent mutation. The karmic “common sense” which previously helped to naturalize hierarchy faced rival ideological formations: missionary critiques, liberal ideas of equality, print-mediated reform movements and pre-modern anti-caste intellectual traditions. Cosmology alone could no longer determine consent, it had to be negotiated in the languages of rights, representation and progress. But hegemony did not disappear; it was transformed. Domination groups re-articulated caste privilege through discourses of tradition, community autonomy or social order that translated ritual authority into cultural capital in the colonial public- sphere. What emerged was not rupture but re-arrangement: An older hierarchy learned to speak new idioms.

More importantly, the colonial moment created conditions for a systematic anti-caste politics. Access to education, print circulation and associational life facilitated figures like Jotirao Phule and later B.R. Ambedkar to unveil the hidden underpinning of social order. Their criticisms made visible that which had been structurally hidden for so long, the historical making of caste inequality. In Foucauldian terms, new counter-discourses challenged the regime of truth supporting hierarchy; in Gramscian terms, subaltern groups revolted for moral-intellectual hegemony. The very scene itself became a battleground not one that was divinely settled.

Colonial modernity then should be neither mistaken for sheer continuity nor for simple break. It eclipsed spectacle with surveillance, ritual fixity with bureaucratic classification and karmic inevitability with ideological contest. But that dialectic of inside-outside, the mobile frontier between scene and obscene endured in the new guise. Caste lived by infiltrating modern institutions, even as the very same institutions nurtured the forces that would eventually question its legitimacy. The oneness of the pre-modern theatre was broken, and what followed was a much more complex and unstable stage for caste drama to develop.

III. The Postcolonial Modern: Schizophrenia, Eruptions and the Hegemony of Denial

The founding of the Indian republic was a script most thrillingly re-written of the scene/obscene dialectic. Inspired by liberal democracy and led by a modernising elite, this new nation-state wanted to make a complete break with the past. And India’s public, legal “scene” was dramatically re-scripted. The framework of the Constitution, authored under B.R. Ambedkar, a Dalit jurist deeply critical of caste, effectively banished it as obscene to the political-juridical order. Articles 15, 17 (which destroyed untouchability) and the guarantee of equality before the law erected a new platform that transformed individuals into citizen, rather than caste subject. The reservation policies (Articles 15(4), 16(4)) became a temporary, exceptional instrument in this stage, as corrective historical justice until achieving the final goal of “Join Casteless India”. The rhetoric of secular nationalism and, later, that of neoliberal meritocracy helped create a public sphere in which caste was meant to be sloughed off in the interests of national or consumer identity.

Caste, however, did not vanish. It had strategically migrated from the public-sacral scene to the privatised, affective, and social “obscene.” This obscene is no negative empty but a powerfully busy shadow stage. Endogamy would still be the strongest fortress. As sociologist G. Shah (2002) and others have shown, the “c­onjugable/u­nc­onjugable” binary flourishes in the private domain of family alliances, matrimonial ads, and community networks concealed from the law’s scrutiny. Purity/pollution practices can draw back into the private and daily life, who in principle may enter the kitchen, share a water glass, sit as an equal at a meal. These are not officially recorded, but they are vital to social reproduction. In contemporary institutions, the corporate office, the university, elite social clubs, caste operates as though it’s based on race and class, if by its own ecosystem of social capital and unspoken biases. The Dalit expert may be officially welcome on the corporate stage, but exclusion thrives in the obscene of informal circuits and cultural codes (such as hearing a last name). Anand Teltumbde (2010) calls this the “persistence of caste” in new, “camouflaged” versions in hitherto seemingly-casteless modern sites. Lynchings, social humiliations and caste-based rapes are not vestiges of a pre-modern past. They are modern obscene eruptions, as scholars such as Kalpana Kannabiran contend. They are frequently sparked, as others have also noted, by a perception of Dalits “overstepping” their bounds, owning land, riding horseback, sporting a moustache or falling in love across castes. Recorded on cell phones and disseminated through the social media, this violence is at once secret in its execution and hyper-visible in its sharing, revealing the brutal truth that the official scene seeks to deny.

The dominant casts in modern India have had a project: to naturalise the split. The new “common sense” is an aggressive discourse of the successful erasure of caste: “Caste doesn’t matter anymore,” “We are all casteless now,” “Only the backward castes talk about caste.” To talk about pervasive caste discrimination is characterised as “playing the caste card”, an obscene game of etching a primitive poison into the modern body politic. This is the hegemony that allows dominant caste persons to populate public spaces as generalised liberal individuals, free from caste bias while their social and intimate worlds are structured through caste power. It vulgarises the systemic character of caste to analysis, when it is reduced into ‘incidents’ alone or individual prejudices.

Case 1: The Khairlanji Massacre (2006): At Khairlanji town of Maharashtra wherein a Dalit family- the Bhotmanges—was lynched and women were sexually violated before they were murdered. The flash point was their testimony in a police case and the perceived social disobedience of owning property and being educated. Khairlanji is not a remnant of the archaic: it is a contemporary obscene explosion. The violence was not a spectacle of sovereign power but a secret, community-approved atrocity, later brought to light through the media and activism. It was a bid to violently re-assert a weakening local hegemony. By using the tools of modernity (courts, education, land titles), the Bhotmanges broke the “common sense” of Dalit acceptance by demanding subordination. The massacre was a demonstration to force a restoration of that “common sense.” The State’s initial reticence in using the PoA Act[1] was very much present. An alternate dialectic reveals: the progressive law (integral to constitutional scene) was subverted by the police, who were seeing it as a local arm of an obscene social order. The massive Dalit protests that followed were a counter-hegemonic gesture, dragging the obscene out of the closet and into the national eye-scape, compelling the official scene to abandon its hollow bromides and reckon with the violence it had rendered invisible.

Case 2: Corporate India and Duality of the Sabhya-Gavva: In the glass-and-steel offices of Bangalore or Gurgaon, it’s a different story. The office is a place of casteless modernity, it is run by HR (human resource) manuals and meritocratic ideology and professional dress codes. Here, caste is officially obscene; to mention it is a breach of professional etiquette. But it flourishes in the obscene of social capital (Teltumbde, 2010): weekend resorts gupshup, references and mentor chains; and crucially, ‘off-siting’ matrimonial alliances. Attempts to bring the Dalit professional into the elite corporate fold abound but they are not part of these obscene networks driving genuine career mobility and cultural identity. The hegemonic “common sense” is strong: “We don’t see caste here.” Such is the hegemony of caste, the many-layered monopoly by which privilege functions when you are a dominant caste, that it can reproduce itself updated to the gilled hilt with practised ease like no other marauding bandit – and all Dalit assertion of identity or complaint about bias can be counterpoised not as an obscenity but even better – since there’s always a reason why an obscenity cannot be effective enough in its monstrosity: casted as something that comes from ob-scoot-ated couches. This is the crowning achievement of modern caste schizophrenia: an absolute disconnection between the formal scene of liberal equality and the informal obscene of caste-reinforcing sociability.

Independence and the acceptance of a new constitution did not so much lead to the death of caste as to a transformation in the means adopted by it. If colonial modernity banished ritual spectacle in favour of bureaucratic classification, the postcolonial state ushered in a new grammar of visibility mediated by democracy, rights and representation. Caste was no longer publicly exalted in the form of sacred hierarchy; it now existed in the juridical idiom of egalitarianism and administrative calculus of reservations. The stage went from the village square and census archive to the courtroom, legislature, and electoral arena. But this transformation did not erase the old boundary of scene and obscene, it transformed it.

The explicit abjuration of untouchability and fundamental rights in the Constitution was a symbolic break with Brahmanical social ontology. In other Foucauldian terms, a new regime of truth was articulated: caste discrimination became something that it is illegal to speak about, but something that persists. That created a paradox of democratic visibility. Dalit presence in educational institutions, government bureaucracy, Parliament indicated an entry into the national scene, but leaves a lot of mediation through categories of injury, backwardness and compensatory justice. The reservation system, which is and was both re-distributive and emancipatory of caste identity, necessitated –for its operation– ongoing administrative naming of caste identity. By this, the very mechanism proposed to erode hierarchy itself re-inscribed caste within state knowledge. Visibility (to use the title of a good read) became two-edged: recognition and regulation.

This ambivalence is indicative of the larger movement from sovereign or disciplinary power toward what Foucault named bio-political administration. The post-colonial state manages its populations through welfare, quotas, development programmes and statistical surveillance. Caste in these instances is neither simply ritual nor only juridical, but becomes a demographic for techniques of governance. The obscene is no longer the occult labour that sustains ritual purity, but the residue of structural degradation that survives beneath the language of formal equality. Day-to-day violence—social boycott, atrocities, denial of access to housing or marriage networks—is frequented in a domain beyond the spectacular optics of national democracy, where it appears as exception rather than rule. What cannot be incorporated into this story of progress is relegated to the fringe of visibility.

Hegemony, as in Gramsci, thereby assumes a new form. The national promise of unity, development and democratic citizenship generates a strong ‘common sense’ that situates caste as a left-over social problem being slowly dissolved by the process of modernisation. This story line allows for some reform but overcomes more radical change. Dominant castes adjust by converting historical privilege into educational capital, bureaucratic power and management of local political establishments. Hegemony now moves away from ritual superiority to meritocratic language; inequality is no longer described using karma, but as the result of competition, culture, or efficiency. You win consent not so much by theology as by the aspirational rhetoric of the nation-state.

But the post-colonial picture is also one of an un-anticipated countervailing assertion. Dalit protests, Ambedkarite politics, literary publics and mass mobilizations turn humiliation into a collective critique. Public conversion ceremonies, acts of remembrance and symbolic appropriations of public space such as university campuses or spaces of atrocity re-perform the terrain from which Dalits were once confined. In Foucaldian parlance, subjugated knowledge systems explode into discourse questioning the neutrality of law and development. In Gramscian terms, these struggles are driven not only to inclusion but to moral-intellectual leadership capable of redefining the very order. Democracy doubles as instrument of regulation and terrain of insurgency.

This visibility is also complicated by both media and modern popular culture. Caste now whirls through television debates, digital activism, electoral rhetoric and bureaucratic documentation. The scene widens to a national and ever more virtual canvas. But growth is not the same as change. This is the realm of spectacular, and sometimes scripted, moments of outrage which can be simultaneous with banal indifference, giving rise to what could be termed a politics of intermittent visibility- caste appears dramatically in crisis and disappears back into normalcy. The obscene endures right in this several back and forth.

The postcolonial condition, then, is to be understood as a dynamic antagonism [rather than resolution]. Inherited hierarchy is contested by constitutional morality, but is also constantly re-articulated through social practice. Caste becomes subject to critique under democratic inclusion, even as administrative governance secures its categories. Power works less by oppressive and direct prohibition than by selective recognition; hegemony less by naturalised order than by promised development. It is not the distinction between scene and obscene that disappears, but rather becomes mobile, contested and historically contingent.

On this slippery ground, caste endures not as immobile tradition but as malleable entity materialised in modern institutions. Its strength is its adaptability; its weakness, the very visibility that democracy requires. The postcolonial stage then sets the stage for the contemporary moment, where neoliberal recalibration, digital moderation and new identity politics will once again realign what is visible, sayable and contestable in caste’s name.

IV. The Contemporary Neoliberal-Digital Scene: Circulation, Concealment, and Algorithmic Power

The late modern and early postmodern era represents another re-organization of caste’s scene of action, one related to neoliberal financialization, ever-faster urban transformation and digital communication. If the postcolonial constitutional order made caste visible in the languages of rights and welfare, neoliberal modernity deflects attention to markets, mobility, and privatised aspiration. Power increasingly functions by means of circulation rather than repression: capitalist, informational or affective flows transform social existence. In this terrain, caste does not vanish; it mutates, finding solace in infrastructures that seemingly are formal and neutral. The scene becomes diffuse, meshed and not entirely transparent.

Urban anonymity at first appeared to hold the promise of eroding inherited hierarchy. This was a society of skill, and with the migration to metropolitan labour markets, service economies now expanding, and meritocratic competition as the order of the business day it was implied a world governed by skill rather than by birth. But a closer look shows that caste does indeed change in response to these conditions through more subtle forms of recognition and exclusion. The segregation of housing in both the formal and informal real-estate markets, matrimonial advertisements coded by surnames and community markers, professional networks organized around kinship: All are reminders of how caste survives beneath the surface equality of contract. Free choice is, quite often, the cover for inherited social capital. In the Foucauldian sense, discipline becomes internalized as self-improvement: people structure their education, language and behaviour to mimic upper-caste cultural models. Power functions through aspiration.

This paradox of visibility and obscurity is only magnified by digital media. Social media, internet archives and digital journalism created, and continues to create, new Dalit self-presentation, memory-making and political mobilization. Stories of discrimination spread quickly and turn localised instances of pain into national or global conversations. Hashtag activism, digital memorialisation and virtual community building generate new counter-publics that challenge hegemonic narratives of caste vanishing. Subaltern knowledges gain a technological magnification, attempting to recall Foucaultian perceptions of the growth of discourse as a place for resistance.

Yet it is precisely these digital infrastructures that produce new forms of obscuration. Algorithmic sorting, datagov and platform economies all function through categories that look caste-blind even though they frequently reproduce historical inequality. Bandwidth access, linguistic capital, digital literacy, and social networks are variously unevenly distributed such that who can speak and what differences ultimately get heard is formed accordingly. Online anonymity can obscure caste identity, but it also opens the doors to a revival of abuse, harassment and symbolic violence stripped from responsibility. And so once more the obscene moves: not invisible work outside the ritual space, nor systematic humiliation under constitutional equality, but coded replication of hierarchy within seemingly neutral technological systems.

Neoliberal political economy also recasts Gramscian hegemony. Developmental nationalism is displaced by entrepreneurial individualism, with success recast in terms of personal realization rather than collective redistribution. This is an ideological shift that pulls the rug from under solidarity-based politics, while eclipsing structural constraint. Dominant caste privilege is reformulated as excellence, professionalism or global-competitiveness. Today, it is not through moral doctrine (as ideology) that hegemony functions but through desire: the desire for upward mobility within market society. Consent is obtained by promising the irrelevance of caste when in fact, material divisions remain.

Simultaneously, counter-hegemonic energies take on new shapes. Dalit entrepreneurship, trans-national mobilization, inter-sectional alliances, and cultural production in literature, film, and digital art re-invent dignity beyond the abjection of victimhood or what Geisser calls state-replaced recognition. Memory turns into political technology: archives of atrocity, commemoration of historical resistance, re-imagining Ambedkarite thought travel across geographies to confront neoliberal amnesia. These operations are not content with coming in from the outside: they want to redraw the lines of its deck, show us the hidden continuities between ritualized past and digital present.

The result is that the present period is one not of stability but rather of heightened contradiction. Caste is there and it is not; submerged in words while floating above them, crushed and dispersed in the personal but ominous in its structural totality, sundered across experience but knit tightly through data. The Foucauldian analysis shows that there is a move towards power as dispersed and infrastructural – algorithmic, not spectacular – while the Gramscian emphasises a hegemonic order built on aspiration, consumption and selective memory. The line between scene and obscene is constantly reconfigured by media circulation and political contestation.

In this neoliberal-digital formation, caste continues because it is able to occupy invisibility and exploit visibility: become visible when mobilised, disappear when asked. Its fate will rest on whether emerging counter-publics are able to change technological exposure into structure-changing possibilities, converting sporadic oppositional outcry’s to new moral-intellectual leadership. The drama of caste, far from being over, therefore moves on to a stage where power itself is more and more ethereal, and the fight to make inequality observable becomes the primary political act.

Anand Teltumbde’s analysis of caste’s “camouflaged” persistence provides a powerful lens for understanding the modern obscene. As he argues, “caste today is not what it appears to be. It has shed its religious garb and put on the secular attire of modernity” (Teltumbde 2010, 23). This insight resonates deeply with the Foucauldian scene/obscene dialectic: caste thrives precisely because it has migrated from the visible ritual scene to the hidden networks of social capital, professional networking, and matrimonial alliance. The corporate office that publicly celebrates meritocracy while privately excluding Dalits from informal mentorship networks exemplifies this schizophrenic condition. Yet Teltumbde’s Marxist commitments also remind us that this is not merely a matter of discourse or visibility: caste’s persistence is ultimately rooted in material control over land, capital, and labour. The scene/obscene dialectic, therefore, must be understood not as an alternative to materialist analysis but as a framework that reveals how power organises the visibility and invisibility of material exploitation itself.

V. Dalit Politics: Shattering the Proscenium Arch

It is possible to see the history of anti-caste resistance, from Jyotirao Phule’s radical philosophy through Ambedkarian revolutionary constitutionalism to today’s post-bahujan (radical) politics, as a prolonged struggle against this forced dialectic.

It may be noted that Dr. Ambedkar’s public burning of Manusmriti in 1927 was an archetypal act of shattering the sacred instrumentality constitutive of the old stage in scene making. In drafting the Constitution, he was seeking to reconstruct a new, fair scene from below. Dalit political and cultural assertion is, at bottom, a way of calling the obscene into the eye of the scene. The Bahujan political parties (such as the BSP party) emerging to prominence have put caste identity, previously considered a shame marker, on the national stage of the electoral politics for a source of pride and community mobilization. The taking of public space, a public scene which performs the exhibitionism of “dalitness” could be interpreted by authorities as a sign that dalits are trying to create some kind of counter-­public space. The “cattle meet festival” is striking in this regard, by publicly eating the meat deemed most polluting within Brahminical norms, activists force the unspeakable into public space, undermining the grammar of purity/pollution itself.

Dalit Studies, as it is being launched by veteran scholars such as Gopal Guru and others, does this important labour of theorising from the site of the obscene. It confronts the hegemonic “common sense” with a systematic recording and analysis of the lived experience of caste, not leaving it as anecdotal or passé.

VI. Synthesis and Conclusion: The Dialectic’s Enduring Grip and Its Cracks

The Foucauldian Gramscian analysis discovers that caste-modernity is not to be located in its end, but rather its strategic disintegration. Power circulates by keeping intact the gap between disavowing public scene and luminous private torque. The state’s role turns Janus-faced: progressive legislation that has made lives more livable and breathable in some ways, but that has also all too frequently, through institutional bias and political compromise, proved itself powerless to prevent obscene eruptions of violence.

This arrangement suits liberal democracy down to the ground, for it provides protection for the “private” sphere as an area beyond state interference and lets caste flourish there behind a screen of personal choice and cultural preference. It is also conducive to global capitalism, which can use caste-based social networks to control labour even as it floats a veneer of meritocratic neutrality.

But the dialectic is also an inherently unstable one. Every Khairlanji that turns into an issue of national interest, every corporate diversity report that whispers exclusion, every inter-caste marriage that invites ridicule is also a moment of rupture. In its varied avatars, it is Dalit politics that remains the sustained force challenging this division. The last struggle, as Ambedkar hoped, is not one for entry into the existing scene so much as to destroy the double stage itself, to establish a social order where the caste-based history and present are not some dirty secrets but an openly avowed basis for a common sense that is genuinely universalist and egalitarian. So long as that dialectic exists, caste in its morphed and schizophrenic form continues to survive.

(Note-An earlier version of this paper has appeared on SSRN E-Library, Elsevier.)

(The author teaches history at Shivaji College, University of Delhi. He can be reached at skandpriya@shivaji.du.ac.in)

References

Cohn, Bernard S. Colonialism and Its Forms of Knowledge. Princeton University Press, 1996.

Dirks, Nicholas B. Castes of Mind: Colonialism and the Making of Modern India. Princeton University Press, 2001.

Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Vintage, 1977.

Gramsci, Antonio. Selections from the Prison Notebooks. International Publishers, 1971.

Guru, Gopal. Humiliation: Claims and Context. Oxford University Press, 2009.

Guru, Gopal, and Sundar Sarukkai. The Cracked Mirror: An Indian Debate on Experience and Theory. Oxford University Press, 2012.

Pandian, M.S.S. Brahmin & Non-Brahmin: Genealogies of the Tamil Political Present. Permanent Black, 2007.

Rao, Anupama. The Caste Question: Dalits and the Politics of Modern India. University of California Press, 2009.

Rege, Sharmila. Writing Caste/Writing Gender: Narrating Dalit Women’s Testimonios. Zubaan, 2006.

Risley, H.H. (Sir). Census of India, 1901. Vol. I, India. Part I, Report. Calcutta: Office of the Superintendent of Government Printing, India, 1903.

Teltumbde, Anand. The Persistence of Caste: The Khairlanji Murders and India’s Hidden Apartheid. Zed Books, 2010.

The Smritichandrika of Devanna Bhatta (Trans. J.R. Gharpure). 1948.

South Indian Inscriptions (Vol. III, Chola Inscriptions). Archaeological Survey of India.

[1] Prevention of Atrocities Act (1989)

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The BSP, SP and RLD pre election alliance in UP was formed keeping in view the percentage numbers that these parties had secured in the previous general elections of 2014. The combined vote share of these parties was nearly 42 percent then and it was anticipated that they would be able to secure their shares in this election too and the candidates of the alliance will be in winning positions in nearly all the seats in UP. But things did not go as they expected, BJP again has been able to get 62 seats in UP and its vote percentage has also increased. As was in 2014, in this election too SP could get 5 seats only and RLD has not been able to open its account, on the other hand BSP has been able to increase its number from 0 to 10. To some the alliance may seem a complete failure and for others it may look like a beneficial prospect for the BSP, but a close analysis of the post 1980s politics of the state enables us to understand the nuances through which the caste based identity politics has been shaping the contours of the political arena of the state. The percentage of vote that the BSP has got in 2019 is 19.3 and it is nearly the same as that of 2014 which was 19.6. Also in the state assembly elections of 2012 and 2017 its vote share has remained between 25 to 22 percentages. My intention in giving so many numbers here is only to show that though the number of seats of the BSP has been varying, its vote share has been remaining more or less the same. It only shows that whether Mayawati and her party has been doing good or bad for its core voters or even if she is remaining indifferent towards them, the voters of the BSP had kept on voting for her. And these are the inevitable repercussions of the identity politics. The percentage numbers of the allied parties was expected to club to bring the number of seats but it did not and on the other hand the percentage number of the allied remained nearly intact. Interestingly, though the numbers play a big role in identity politics, but it did not bring the colours in case of the alliance. I will trace here some of the key feature of identity politics in UP especially in the context of politics of the BSP and will try to delineate how this caste based politics has been like a pitfall for the dalits of UP.

The alliance and BSP
The present alliance was actually in alignment with the idea which founder of BSP, Kanshi Ram was propagating right from the inception of the party. Though Kanshi Ram used to talk about bringing all the SC, ST, OBC and minorities under one umbrella of Bahujan, here in this alliance the more prominent parts of the Bahujan, i.e. Dalits(specially Jatavas), Yadavas and Jats were the players and they did vote for their party. But the baggage of the caste based identity politics simply did not allow the Jatavas to vote for SP and RLD in most of the cases. And so was true for the Yadavas and the Jats. This specific voting preference of these castes has to be located in the context of the demography and changing politico-economic conditions of the state in the post independence period. Certain intermediary castes which were big in numbers and also who also got good control over land recourses after the zamindari abolition became dominant castes. Yadavas, Jats, thakurs and Kurmis were the prominent among them. And thus Yadavas and Jats among others as dominant castes have been the immediate oppressors of the dalits. So Kanshi Ram’s idea of bringing together all the non savarana caste hindus, and making a grand coalition against Brahmanical hegemony could not work for this simple reason. And even among dalits the caste Jatav is most numerous, i.e. 57 percent and they have been most ardent followers of Ambedkar. In this practical sense any attempt of bringing together these castes would be a difficult task.

In the 1980s, the period when lower castes were seeking assertion through identity politics, the BSP and its Dalit constituency employed three strategies to achieve its objective. The first was to publicly showcase Dalit caste identities with great pride. The second strategy was that of adopting individual caste titles to their proper names. The third and final strategy was of puncturing upper-caste pride through the Dalit adoption of the former’s caste titles, supposed to be the exclusive preserve of the caste Hindus. The presence of Ambedkar’s statues in the Dalit localities motivated and shaped the contours of their politically charged identities. In UP and adjoining areas of Bihar and Madhya Pradesh where the BSP gained most of its success, the pattern of relationship between the Dalits and Shudra castes are not much different from the cases mentioned above. Dalits in UP constitute 21.1% of the total population in the state and among them only single Dalit Chamar-Jatavhas 57% of the total Dalit population followed by Pasis who are 16% and then comes the Dhobi, Kori and Valmiki. Because of this unique distribution of Dalit castes in UP, there is no significant competition and rivalry between these Dalit castes and they can be politically united with a common community interest. Unlike the Dalits of other states, Jatav-Chamar has been financially well and politically more organized since the days of BabasahebAmbedkar.  These factors concerning the economic and political condition of Dalits in UP has brought them in constant opposition and tussle with other social groups of the state. Apart from Brahmin, Kshatriya (among them Thakur and Rajput) and Vaishya castes, the post-independence period is marked by the economic and political assertion of the Shudra castes that constitute nearly 45% of the total population and among them especially the Yadavas, Lodh, Pal-Baghel, Kurmi and Jats are very well-off.

These demographic conditions in UP has kept the Dalits and Shudras in constant rivalry and this rivalry has actually increased after the 1980s with the growth of identity politics in the state. STs constitute a small section in the state and the religious minorities have always remained in dilemma on the question of which party is of their own. In this sense Bahujan as a category based upon the alliance between dalits, shudras and minorities had the lacunae of cohesive and organic unity. Though the Shudra and Dalits identified themselves as politically allied upon the call of their leaders, Shudra would not have been ready to form a Bahujan front under the leadership of the Dalits. In 1993 with the BSP and SP alliance, slogans like Mile MulayamKanshiram, Hawa me Udgaye Jai shri Ram (With the alliance of Mulayam Singh Yadav And Kanshiram, Ram (Temple) got blew away in the air) were in the political air but, this alliance was possible against a common oppressor Brahmanism and only under the leadership of both.

Consolidation of votes and Opportunist Alliances
Thus in spite of having bahujan at its core, the BSP could only consolidate the dalit votes in general, and the chamar (jatav) votes in particular. After contesting the Lok Sabha and Assembly elections for nearly 10 years, the Party in 1996 Lok Sabha elections could secure 3% of upper caste votes, 4.3 per cent of yadava votes, between 15 and 20 per cent of the peasant, artisan and other backward castes votes, nearly 25 per cent of koeri votes but, it got 45.7 per cent of pasi vote and a very high 73.8 per cent of the chamar votes in UP. Thus, except the koeris, no other backward castes had any particular closeness to the BSP. In the next elections to come after 1996, BSP could see tiny decrease in its votes among non jatav, non pasidalits, who eventually inclined towards The BJP but, the BSP actually started gaining among the upper castes. While only 3.6 per cent of the BSP’s voters in 1996 came from upper castes, this percentage went up to 10.2 in 1998. There is a possibility of lower class upper caste voters getting influenced by the schemes for thepoor that Mayawati launched when she was in power earlier though for a brief period. Even in the next UP assembly polls in 2002, this trend of consolidation of Dalit votes together with upper caste alliance especially the Brahmins became much clearer.  In 2002 the BSP got 67% of dalit votes with that of Brahmins’ increased to 6%. Muslims by now have been voting largely for SP and rest were with Congress and BSP. By then it was very clear that the core voter of BSP is only dalits and among them especially Chamar-Jatav and possibility of an opportunistic alliance with the upper castes led by Brahmin were becoming tangible.

In fact making and availing the opportunistic alliances was never a new thing for Kanshiram and Mayawati both. The initial alliance with the SP in 1993 was formed considering the two competing mobilisational strategies of caste and communalism. While the Hindu caste cleavages arising from the Mandal reservation policy attracted BJP, the BSP moved closer to the SP representing the backwards. It contained the Hindutva of BJP and constructed a “Bahujan Samaj” based upon dalits, backwards and tribals drawing inspiration from Ambedkar’s conception of an autonomous Dalit Movement with a constantly attempted alliance of dalits and shudras. This strategy proved successful in the 1993 elections and was perceived as the victory of the secular forces and lower orders against entrenched upper caste rule. The fall of the SP-BSP coalition in June 1995 inaugurated a post- Bahujan phase when BSP formed three coalition governments with the BJP in 1995, 1997 and 2002 and an electoral alliance with Congress. In 2002 Mayawati formed a coalition government with the BJP despite the ill-fated previous alliances and In return she extended support to the BJP in the Loksabha. The government lasted for 16 months. It was a tactical shift for attaining political power by any mean.

This desperation of Kanshiram to form the governments by any means was actually the manifestation of his pragmatic implementation of Ambedkar’s motto that political power was the master key for dalit liberation and that acquiring this masker key should be the prime dalit strategy. It was through the policies of these initial coalition governments that the BSP was successful in consolidating its vote bank. Apart from symbolic transformation of the landscape of UP like changes of names of places and erection of Ambedkar’s statues, policies related to health, education, housing, employment and social welfare, targeting Dalits resulted into near exclusive appropriation and then consolidation of dalits as core voters of the BSP.

Even later on with the party’s emphasis on sarvajan hitaya policy and their preparation for a long period, in UP assembly elections of 2007 the party garnered 30.46% votes with 206 seats which were enough for a full majority government. This victory was seen by political analysts as a victory of the social engineering method, based upon dalit-brahmin alliance of the sarvajan policy adopted by Mayawati. Scholars like Vivek Kumar, on the contrary argue that the dalit-brahmin alliance in UP was not part of any social engineering process but a pure political adjustment. Whatever explanations one come across, the fact remains that it was the success of Mayawati’s bargaining with the non-dalit social groups of the state, whose leaders she later awarded with high positions in the upcoming government. More interestingly, as BSP secured 77% of dalit votes, it was the victory of mayawati’s politics vis-à-vis dalits; they stood by her rock like and won her unencumbered power. Skepticisms were there that the Sarvajan strategy during the process of adding upper caste votes to the BSP may lead to danger of alienating some of the Jatava/chamars, who constituted her core constituency, but not only just then, even in the upcoming elections, the dalits in UP chose Mayawati over all the other competitive. Be it in the state assembly elections of 2012 and 2017 or in the parliamentary elections of 2009, 2014 and 2019, the percentage of Jatava/chamar votes that the party garnered remained more or less the same. On the other hand the lucrative savarna vote, which made the BSP shift its policy towards SarvajanHitaya, has been constantly moving away from the party,  bringing it on its electoral margins.

The inexorable treachery of Identity Politics
Even after BSP took the road toward decline since 2009, Mayawati has kept on saying that her vote bank has remained intact and the core voter of the BSP still has faith in the Party. And she is quite correct in this, as the core voter of the party has been the Dalits of UP and among them especially the Chamar-Jatav, who has been voting for the BSP since its inception and till today consider it as the only party representing and working for the interests of the Dalits. Despite various measures undertaken by Mayawati which stood in complete opposition with the ideals and aims of the party founder Kanshiram, Dalits in UP has always remained with the party and they do not seem to disassociate themselves from the BSP in the near future to come. One can mention here the 2007 policy of Sarvajan Hitaya Sarvajan Sukhaya, when Mayawati in her effort of establishing an alliance with all the castes of society including the Savarna, completely sidelined the ideal of Bahujan for the interest of which Kanshiram always strove. The policy of Sarvajan Hitaya off course brought huge success for the Party in 2007 assembly elections and made Mayawati the chief of a full majority government. Dalits of UP saw it as an opportunity and envisaged thatMayawati can also become the prime minister of India by continuing on this path of Sarvajana. She gave the call for social engineering for the next general elections and Dalits started their mission 2009.

Things did not happen as they expected, the BSP could secure 21 seats in the 2009 general elections and its vote share also came down. The hopes of Dalits of UP to see their Behenji as the prime minister were lost, but their confidence in Mayawati as the savior of Dalits and in the BSP has remained as strong as it has always been. Since then the party has not seen any significant elevation and on the contrary things have come to such an extent that by now the party has only 10 members in Loksabha and Just 19 members in the UP state assembly and that is all that the BSP can boast about.

What happened exactly that the Party which once became the third largest party at the national level very swiftly after its inception is seeing such worst days? Various Dalit intellectuals and ex-members of the party who even have been long time companions of Kanshiram see this condition of the BSP as the result of deviation from the mission of Kanshiram which happened because of over ambitions and selfish nature of Mayawati. These veterans consider Mayawati’s Sarvajan policy as a breach from the missionary path of Kanshiram and held her over ambitious nature, responsible for the failure of the mission. Keeping in mind the time, energy and resources that most of these sidelined veterans have given for nourishing and developing the party, their anger against Mayawati is justifiable, but their explanation for the demise of the BSP to be only the policies and character of Mayawati is problematic. Since these causative factors fail to explain why the Dalits in UP are still intact with the BSP and why they still have all the trust and hopes in Mayawati and her symbols, one is coerced to critically look at the identity politics that the BSP has been doing right from its beginning. For understanding this complex phenomena one needs to look deeply at the process through which the Dalits in UP started identifying themselves with the symbols which the politics of BSP has created. This method also explains why the BSP when in power could not do significantly for the materialistic development of the Dalits, though Kanshiram always talked political power to be the master key which would bring all-round benefits for the Dalits.

What identity politics actually does is that it tries to bring together members of caste/castes for political assertion. The unification process generally takes place through the means of certain symbols. The politically charged identities once created, becomes indelible and in the long run the assertion does not happen materially. The Jatavas of UP are actually witness to the same process of creation of politically charged identities and in such a politics they have reached a juncture where there assertion seems a chimera. The politics of BSP can be seen as non Ambedkarite in the sense that instead of annihilating caste in consolidates it through identity politics for political gains.

Skand Priya, Assistant Professor, Shivaji College, DU

Courtesy: Counter Current

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