“Lust has no caste”
Epigraph
“Caste is not a physical object like a wall of bricks. It is a notion, a state of mind.” — B.R. Ambedkar
I. The Veins of Caste
Sahab, let’s not pretend. We live in a land where paak and najaiz are not just words — they are verdicts. A drop of water can be polluted by a touch, a kitchen can be defiled by a shadow, and yet a body — the same body that bears the stamp of “low caste” — becomes acceptable when the lights are off and the doors are closed. We wash our hands after shaking hands with a Dalit, but not after using the bodies of Dalit women. We speak of maryada and sanskriti, while every field, every basti, every haveli knows the truth: the lines of caste disappear only on the beds of power. Caste runs in our veins like blood. It pulses even in our silences — in who we marry, who we eat with, who we bury beside. But there is one place where caste trembles and collapses — the najaiz relationship. That forbidden space where the priest, the landlord, the reformer, all become one. Desire becomes democracy, but a cruel one, because even there, it is not equality — it is exploitation.
II. The Politics of Purity
Caste purity, Sahab, was never about holiness. It was about hierarchy. The Brahmin’s paak food, the Dalit’s najais shadow, the untouchable woman’s body — all were inventions to keep the edifice standing. History hides a thousand such stories — of women from so-called “low” castes offered to priests and patrons, of kings who claimed to be protectors of dharma but treated shudra women as expendable. Manusmriti wrote it into law: the woman, the servant, and the Shudra — all to be controlled. It is no surprise, then, that even today, when a Dalit woman is violated, the village says, “She crossed her line.” The upper-caste man’s morality ends where his power begins.
III. Women as the Bridge of Power
Let’s walk, Sahab, through the corridors of history — polished with stories of honour and empire. Look closely, and you will see that women were often the bridges between enemies, the currency of peace. Take the Mughals and the Rajputs. Akbar, the emperor who unified Hindustan, married Harkha Bai of Amer — remembered as Jodha Bai — not out of love alone, but out of politics. Through her, he won the loyalty of Rajputana, sealed with a nikaah, sanctified by both sharia and shastra. Jahangir followed the same path — he took Jagat Gosain of Jodhpur as his consort, and she bore Khurram, later Shah Jahan. These marriages were not harmony but hegemony. The Rajput kings offered their daughters not because they believed in equality, but because they knew survival meant surrender. And the Mughal emperors accepted them not because they saw them as equals, but because a woman’s body was the most peaceful battlefield.
IV. The New Moral Police
Fast forward to the present, Sahab. The thrones have changed, the swords replaced by microphones, but the game remains the same. The rulers now wear khadi instead of silk, and their wars are fought in television studios. They speak of love jihad, of purity of blood, of protecting daughters — but quietly attend interfaith weddings in five-star hotels. Those who shout “Muslim ladke Hindu ladkiyon ko bhaga le ja rahe hain” are the same ones whose own children marry across faiths and oceans. In villages, the khap panchayat kills couples for marrying outside caste. In cities, the elite call it “intercultural love” and post pictures with hashtags. The poor pay with their blood for what the rich call freedom. Caste and religion, Sahab, are not walls — they are curtains. They part easily for those in power and close harshly for those below.
V. The Naked Truth
Let’s be honest, Sahab — untouchability never left. It just changed clothes. You might not refuse water today, but you still refuse marriage. You might invite your Dalit colleague for tea, but not for your daughter’s wedding. We may chant “Bharat Mata ki Jai,” but in our hearts, Bharat Mata still has a caste. Every era finds its scapegoat — the Dalit woman, the Muslim girl, the tribal child — all standing at the intersection of lust and loathing. They are desired and despised, elevated and erased. The real impurity, Sahab, was never in anyone’s blood. It was in our gaze.
VI. Conclusion: Breaking the Vein
So what now, Sahab? Shall we keep pretending that purity is our pride? We have worshipped goddesses and violated women. We have abolished untouchability in law but not in love. We call inter-caste marriage “modern,” but still ask the surname before the bride’s name. To break caste is not to break tradition — it is to break deceit. The deceit that tells a man he is holy because of birth, that tells a woman her body is a burden of honour. Every time a politician cries “Bharatiya sanskriti” while his own family breaks its boundaries — the old ghosts of caste laugh. The only relationship, Sahab, where caste and creed do not matter, is still called najaiz. And that is our tragedy — that equality exists only in sin, not in sanctity. One day, perhaps, we will learn to love openly what we now do secretly. Till then, caste will keep running in our veins, and hypocrisy will keep pumping the heart of our society. Sahab, let’s not pretend.
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