India is not just a geographical entity. It is a living landscape of emotions, diversities, struggles, and consciousness. Every river’s stream, every mountain’s shadow, every village’s soil holds a story. And the finest and deepest line that connects all these stories is caste.
The word caste appears simple, but its web is deeply complex. It clings to a person’s name—sometimes before it, sometimes after—but never apart from them. It determines what one eats, wears, speaks, how one walks or sits, and even the right to dream. So, to say that India does not need a caste census is like closing your eyes and denying the sun exists.
The idea of caste-based counting is not new. The last comprehensive caste census in British India was conducted in 1931. Since then, India became independent, adopted a Constitution, and embraced democracy. But caste never vanished—it remained embedded in our social behavior, sometimes confined to someone’s doorstep, and other times, becoming a ceiling over their dreams.
When we speak of a caste census, we are not merely talking about numbers. We are talking about the stories behind those numbers—stories of deprivation, pain of neglect, and flames of struggle. Isn’t it necessary to know which communities still remain incomplete, who are still begging for opportunities with a begging bowl in hand? The Constitution promised equal opportunity for all. But without knowing where each group stands, this promise becomes nothing more than a poem—beautiful, but unreachable.
A caste census could have been the first step in turning that poem into prose. Unless we know how many people belong to which caste, their economic conditions, and their access to education, how can we solve their problems? Imagine a village with five castes—one dominant and privileged for generations, and four others who have lived like shadows. If policies are distributed equally among all, is that truly justice?
Caste census gives us the lens to make our policies precise instead of shooting arrows in the dark. Indian democracy is no stranger to caste. Every election, every ticket, every slogan is tangled in caste arithmetic. When political parties talk of Bahujan Hitaya (for the welfare of the majority), their calculations are based on assumptions, not solid data. A caste census would replace guesswork with knowledge. It would reveal which communities still lack representation, who have been repeatedly included in power, and who have been used merely as slogans. This awareness is essential.
When Bihar conducted its caste-based survey in 2023, it revealed that 84% of its population belongs to OBC, EBC, SC, or ST categories. It was as if society finally saw itself in a mirror. Such a mirror could have been held up to the whole nation had a national caste census taken place.
Some argue that a caste census would create division and reinforce caste identities. At first glance, this argument may sound appealing. But look deeper, and it’s like saying that diagnosing an illness makes it worse. The truth is, it’s the silent presence of caste that gives birth to injustice. As long as caste remains uncounted, caste-based exploitation stays hidden. A caste census would expose this hidden injustice and guide us toward real solutions.
India is a confluence of castes. Some are mighty rivers, some are dry canals, some deep as oceans, and some calm as lakes. But there is life in every flow, and a right in every drop. A caste census was a way to measure that life, to recognize that right. It was not just about statistics—it was about self-acceptance. It was about acknowledging that our diversity is our strength and that every community, no matter how backward, is a part of India’s dignity.
A caste census would have been a mirror for India—one that shows us our true face. Some faces may be dusty, others wounded. But only by seeing them can we wash the dust and heal the wounds. That is why a caste census was necessary for India—just like a deep breath is essential for a soul to understand its own existence.
