Are We Obsessed with Manusmriti, or Still Is It in Our Minds?

Why do leaders prefer to be identified with their Caste?

India is living through a remarkable contradiction. We are sending spacecraft into deep space, developing artificial intelligence, building global technology companies and dreaming of becoming a developed nation. Yet, beneath this modern technological surface, an older question continues to haunt us: who should beat the dappu (Drum), who should carry the bier, who should bring the funeral pot, who should wash clothes, who should cut hair, and who should make pots? If the answers to these questions are still determined by the caste into which a person is born, then we must ask ourselves whether caste has really disappeared from Indian society or whether it has simply changed its language.

This question becomes particularly relevant when political movements invoke traditional occupations as symbols of caste pride. Recently, in protest against alleged derogatory remarks directed at a Dalit legislator, Dalit leaders announced a protest involving a thousand dappus and a symbolic “death drum.” There is nothing wrong with protesting an insult against a Dalit leader. Every citizen, regardless of caste, has the right to demand dignity and respect. But another question deserves to be asked: why should those beating the dappu necessarily belong to the Dalit community? Why cannot an upper-caste leader beat the dappu? Why cannot a BC leader do it? Why cannot a Brahmin beat it? Why cannot a woman beat it? Why cannot anyone who believes in equality pick up the drum? If the objective is to challenge caste discrimination, should we not also challenge the assumption that a particular occupation belongs to a particular caste?

This is where genuine introspection must begin. The relationship between ancient Indian scriptures and the later caste system is far more complicated than either side of today's political debate often admits. The Purusha Sukta of the Rig Veda, particularly verse 10.90.12, famously describes the four social categories through the symbolic body of the cosmic being, associating the Brahmana with the mouth, the Rajanya or Kshatriya with the arms, the Vaishya with the thighs and the Shudra with the feet. This hymn has been interpreted in different ways over centuries. Some understand it as a symbolic representation of society as an interconnected organism, while others see in it an early religious formulation of social hierarchy. Modern scholarship also debates the dating of the hymn and the precise relationship between its formulation and the development of later caste institutions. It would therefore be historically simplistic to claim that the entire modern caste system was created by this single hymn. At the same time, it would be equally simplistic to deny that the verse became important in later interpretations of social hierarchy. Scriptures acquire social meaning through the ways in which societies interpret, institutionalise and transmit them.

The Bhagavad Gita introduces another important dimension to this discussion. In Chapter 4, Verse 13, Krishna says, “Chaturvarnyam maya srishtam guna-karma-vibhagashah,” describing the fourfold social order in terms of guna, or qualities and dispositions, and karma, meaning action, work or function. This verse has generated centuries of debate. Some interpretations emphasise that social function is connected to qualities and actions rather than simply biological birth, while other traditional interpretations have connected these categories to inherited social roles. Therefore, it is not intellectually responsible to quote this verse selectively and claim that it completely settles the historical question of caste. The more important question for a modern constitutional democracy is whether a person's occupation and social status should be predetermined by birth. Modern India has answered that question through constitutional equality, individual liberty and fundamental rights. A person born into a particular family cannot legitimately be denied the freedom to choose a profession simply because an ancient social classification associated that profession with his or her community.

The picture becomes even more complicated when we examine the later Dharmashastra tradition. The Manusmriti, particularly its tenth chapter, contains provisions assigning specific occupational roles to different social groups. Several verses prescribe service to other varnas as a livelihood for Shudras and place particular restrictions and expectations upon their economic and social position. Whatever one's religious or political view of the Manusmriti may be, these passages demonstrate that occupational and social hierarchy became embedded in important normative literature. But the intellectually honest position is neither to say that everything in Hindu scripture is an expression of caste oppression nor to argue that whatever the Manusmriti says must remain socially binding forever. Indian intellectual history contains both traditions that justified hierarchy and traditions that questioned it. The history of India is therefore not simply the history of one doctrine imposed upon society without resistance. It is also a history of argument, dissent, reform and reinterpretation.

The Vajrasuchi Upanishad is one particularly interesting example of an internal critique of birth-based identity. The text asks what actually makes someone a Brahmana. Is it birth? Is it the body? Is it knowledge alone? The text challenges the idea that spiritual status can simply be established through birth and refers to sages whose legendary origins did not conform neatly to conventional assumptions about caste. Whatever debates may exist regarding its date and textual development, the significance of the Vajrasuchi lies in the fact that the Indian philosophical tradition itself contains a text questioning the idea that spiritual worth can be reduced to birth. This is important because it reminds us that Indian civilisation has always contained internal debates about hierarchy, identity and human worth.

The Buddhist tradition offers another powerful example. In the Vasettha Sutta, the Buddha questions the idea that people can be divided into Brahmanas and others simply on the basis of birth or physical characteristics. The text describes people according to what they actually do, including farming, trade, crafts, service and other occupations, and challenges the claim that a person becomes a Brahmana merely because of birth. The philosophical implication is significant: human beings may perform different kinds of work, but occupation does not automatically establish spiritual superiority. This is highly relevant to the modern debate about caste occupations because it challenges the assumption that the work a person performs should determine the person's social worth.

Centuries later, the Virashaiva or Lingayat movement associated with Basavanna challenged inherited social distinctions through devotion, equality and the dignity of labour. Basavanna's vachanas criticised caste-based discrimination and emphasised direct devotion rather than birth-based religious privilege. The tradition associated with the Anubhava Mantapa is also remembered for providing space for people from different social backgrounds, including women, to participate in spiritual and intellectual discussions. Medieval India did not suddenly become caste-free because of such movements, but their importance lies elsewhere. They demonstrate that Indian society repeatedly produced reformers and intellectual traditions that challenged inherited hierarchy from within India's own religious and philosophical landscape.

The story of Nandanar in the Tamil Shaiva tradition provides another powerful illustration of the contradiction between spiritual devotion and social hierarchy. Nandanar is remembered as a devotee of Shiva from an oppressed caste community whose devotion became associated with his desire to enter the Chidambaram temple. The various literary and religious traditions surrounding Nandanar developed over centuries and have been interpreted differently, but the enduring power of the story lies in the contradiction it captures: a person could be regarded as deeply devoted to God and yet face social restrictions because of the community into which he was born. That contradiction was not merely religious. It was social, political and deeply human.

In nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Kerala, Sri Narayana Guru transformed the question of caste into a powerful programme of social reform. His famous principle, “One Caste, One Religion, One God for Man,” challenged caste hierarchy while drawing upon philosophical traditions within Hinduism. Narayana Guru's work connected spiritual thought with social advancement, education and human dignity. His legacy demonstrates another important distinction: preserving a community's cultural heritage is not the same thing as preserving the social restrictions historically imposed upon that community. A society can preserve its traditions while simultaneously rejecting the inequalities associated with them.

This brings us to Dr B.R. Ambedkar, whose analysis remains perhaps the most relevant to the question of hereditary occupations. Ambedkar rejected the argument that caste was merely a division of labour. His famous formulation was that caste was not simply a division of labour but a division of labourers. The distinction is fundamental. A modern society needs a division of labour. Doctors, engineers, farmers, teachers, sanitation workers, artisans, scientists, mechanics and entrepreneurs all perform different forms of work. But a modern society does not need a hereditary division of labour in which a person's occupation is determined before the individual has the opportunity to develop his or her abilities.

This is precisely where the question of the dappu becomes much larger than the dappu itself. The issue is not whether beating a drum is respectable. It absolutely is. The issue is whether a child born into a particular community should be told that this is his or her work because it was the work of their parents and grandparents. That is the difference between the dignity of labour and hereditary labour. Dignity means every form of honest work deserves respect. Hereditary compulsion means a person's birth determines which work society expects them to perform. The first is equality. The second is hierarchy.

There is also a danger in treating every traditional occupation as something that must be preserved exactly as it existed in the past. India should absolutely preserve the skills, music, crafts, weaving traditions, pottery, fishing practices, folk arts, leatherwork, metalwork and other knowledge systems developed by communities over generations. These are valuable parts of India's cultural heritage. But preservation should mean education, technology, access to markets, ownership, economic opportunity and dignity. It should not mean telling the children of those communities that they must inherit the same occupation.

A potter's child should be free to become a scientist. A scientist's child should be free to become a potter. A barber's daughter should be free to become an engineer. An engineer's son should be free to learn traditional weaving. A Brahmin should be free to beat the dappu. A Dalit should be free to become a professor, entrepreneur, engineer, artist or priest. A BC youth should be free to enter any profession. An Adivasi child should be free to embrace his or her cultural heritage without being forced to inherit poverty in the name of cultural authenticity. Heritage should be a choice, not a sentence.

This is where contemporary caste politics also needs serious introspection. Political representation is important. Reservations are important. Legal protection against caste discrimination is essential. But representation alone cannot be the final destination of social justice. The real questions are whether children have access to quality schools, whether teachers are available, whether higher education is accessible, whether young people acquire modern technological skills, whether communities own productive assets, whether they have access to capital, whether they can start businesses and whether they have the genuine freedom to choose occupations outside their traditional caste roles.

Reservation can open doors, but it cannot by itself transform every aspect of social life. Education, economic independence, property ownership, professional skills, employment opportunities, entrepreneurship and self-respect are equally important components of social empowerment. The ultimate objective should not be to create permanent political identities based on caste. It should be to ensure that caste no longer determines a person's destiny.

This is also where the broader ideas of Karl Marx and the Frankfurt School can offer a useful analytical lens. Marx's emphasis on economic relations and material power reminds us that social hierarchy cannot be understood independently of ownership, wealth and access to economic resources. Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer, through their concept of the “culture industry,” examined how culture could participate in reproducing existing power structures. Their argument cannot simply be transplanted onto caste society without qualification, but the broader insight is useful: an old inequality does not become equality merely because it is wrapped in the language of culture.

Calling an occupation “traditional” does not answer the question of whether the person performing it has a genuine choice. Calling a caste occupation “cultural pride” does not automatically make hereditary occupational restrictions just. A community can celebrate the skills of its ancestors while demanding that its children have more choices than previous generations had. That is not an attack on culture. It is the natural evolution of culture.

The same principle applies to political protest. If a Dalit community chooses to use the dappu as a symbol of resistance, that cultural expression deserves respect. But there is nothing inherently progressive about saying that only Dalits should beat the dappu. The most powerful symbol of anti-caste politics may actually be one in which people from every caste stand together and beat the same drum. The dappu can then cease to represent hereditary occupation and become a symbol of collective resistance.

The person carrying a bier should not be determined by caste. The person making a clay pot does not have to be born into a potter community. The person washing clothes does not have to belong to a traditional washerman community. The person cutting hair does not have to come from a barber caste. The person catching fish does not have to belong to a particular fishing community. The person weaving handloom cloth does not have to be born into the community historically associated with weaving. These occupations can survive, flourish and even become modern industries without remaining hereditary obligations.

The real distinction, therefore, is between preserving an occupation and preserving occupational compulsion. India should preserve the dappu, but not the idea that only one caste should play it. India should preserve pottery, but not the belief that only one community should make pots. India should preserve handloom weaving, but not the assumption that a weaver's child must become a weaver. India should celebrate every form of labour while simultaneously defending every individual's right to choose a different path.

Ambedkar's larger challenge was not simply to change the names attached to caste. It was to challenge the social system in which caste determined a person's opportunities. His vision therefore remains relevant far beyond political slogans. If caste is used only as a political identity while hereditary expectations remain intact, then the deepest problem has not been solved.

A society cannot claim to have abolished caste merely because it has stopped openly insulting certain communities. It must also eliminate the invisible expectations attached to birth. It must ensure that no child grows up believing that a profession is his or her destiny simply because of caste. It must create conditions in which a person's abilities, interests and choices determine the course of life.

India may be technologically living in the twenty-first century. We may be sending rockets into space, building artificial intelligence systems and competing globally in science and technology. But technological progress alone does not make a society modern. A society becomes modern when a child can determine his or her future without the shadow of birth standing behind every choice.

That is why today's youth should not merely ask, “What is my caste?” They should ask a much more fundamental question: “Why should my caste determine my life?”

And there is an even more difficult question that every generation must ask itself: If I oppose caste discrimination when it harms me, am I also willing to reject caste-based privilege and caste-based expectations when they benefit me?

That is where genuine social reform begins.

Not with the destruction of someone's culture. Not with the glorification of someone's caste. Not with replacing one hierarchy with another. But with a simple principle: every human being should have the freedom to choose his or her own work, education, profession and future.

Let every child study what they want. Let every individual enter any profession. Let every community preserve its heritage without imprisoning its children inside it. Let dignity belong to the human being, not to the caste attached to the human being.

So the question is no longer simply, “Who should beat the dappu?”

The real question is:

Why should caste decide who is allowed to hold the drum?

That is the question India must answer if it truly wants to move from a caste-based society toward a constitutional society - from inherited identity toward individual freedom, and from hereditary occupation toward genuine human dignity.