THE TRAGIC LIFE OF THE UPPER CASTE
- Madhukar Dama
- May 21
- 10 min read
When superiority became a slow death
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INTRODUCTION: PRIVILEGE IS NOT PEACE
The upper caste in India is widely seen as privileged — holders of land, literacy, rituals, institutions, and social status. But privilege without awareness becomes a burden wrapped in gold.
The tragedy of the upper caste is not just in what they did to others — but in what they unknowingly did to themselves.
They imprisoned their humanity in the name of tradition, image, and pride — and now they suffer silently in well-decorated cages.
This is not an attack.
This is a funeral for what could have been.
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PART 1: THE CULTURE OF EMOTIONAL STARVATION
1. Respectability is a cage.
Upper caste families enforce surface grace, inner suppression.
Children are praised for silence, not for truth.
2. Emotions are taboo.
Crying, hugging, doubting, or expressing pain is weakness.
Result: entire lineages of repressed, polite, disconnected humans.
3. Fear of being "less" haunts every choice.
You must always appear controlled, correct, composed — even when dying inside.
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PART 2: THE PRISON OF IMAGE AND TRADITION
4. Rituals replaced reflection.
Endless ceremonies with no soul.
They chant but don’t feel. They worship but don’t wonder.
5. Marriage became arrangement, not alignment.
Compatibility is ignored. Reputation is worshipped.
Divorce is rare — misery is common.
6. Children are trophies, not individuals.
They're expected to top exams, obey blindly, marry within, and "carry the name."
No one asks them what they feel.
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PART 3: SILENCE THAT KILLS
7. Pain is passed on through control.
The father who couldn’t cry becomes the one who silences his daughter.
The mother who was never hugged becomes the one who shames affection.
8. Addictions wear clean clothes.
Porn, liquor, gossip, overwork, rituals — all addictions masked as lifestyle.
No one calls it what it is: coping.
9. No one speaks of suffering — because they’re not allowed to suffer.
They have wealth. They have history.
So when they break, people say:
> “You have no right to complain.”
So they don’t complain. They quietly fall apart.
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PART 4: A SPIRITUAL VOID
10. They own temples, but lost faith.
The chants continue. But there's no reverence.
Only obligation. Performance. Noise.
11. They confuse status with worth.
Even their “spirituality” is compared, ranked, and displayed.
12. Humility — the root of real spiritual life — is absent.
And without humility, no god ever enters.
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PART 5: THE INNER COLLAPSE
13. The family looks perfect outside. But no one knows each other.
They eat together. Pose together.
But carry loneliness like an heirloom.
14. Children grow up intelligent but empty.
They know scriptures, science, English and Sanskrit —
but they don’t know how to process grief or speak love.
15. The identity they protect is the source of their destruction.
Their caste tells them they're superior.
But it also tells them:
Whom to marry
Whom to avoid
What not to question
What to suppress
What must never be said aloud
This is not tradition.
This is quiet decay.
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CONCLUSION: A CASTE THAT WROTE THE RULES, NOW RULED BY THEM
The upper caste does not lack money.
It lacks meaning.
It does not lack respect.
It lacks freedom to fall, cry, doubt, and rebuild.
They live in big houses with small hearts.
They protect family names, but lose the people behind them.
They pray in perfect Sanskrit, but forget to listen for silence.
This is their tragedy.
Not because they had too little.
But because they were never allowed to be human.
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“THE TRAGIC LIFE OF THE UPPER CASTE”
(you got everything except the permission to breathe)
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you were born clean.
your crib was carved.
your name was ancient.
your ancestors were worshipped.
your lineage was flawless.
and from that moment—
you were never allowed to fall.
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you learned not to laugh too loud.
not to cry in public.
not to question priests,
grandfathers,
or the mold on your temple walls.
you memorized slokas,
folded hands at statues,
and touched feet that never walked your path.
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your childhood was gold-plated.
but you were raised in a drought.
a drought of warmth.
of touch.
of real goddamn affection.
you never knew what it felt like
to be hugged after failing.
to be told,
> “you don’t need to be great to be loved.”
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you watched your father shave with silence.
you watched your mother serve with dead eyes.
you watched your cousins compete with gritted teeth.
you learned that everyone smiles
and no one speaks.
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you were given education,
but never freedom.
a career,
but never a soul.
a marriage,
but never a connection.
your wedding was perfect.
and loveless.
your child is a topper.
and hollow.
your home is big.
and empty.
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you wear your caste like a cologne.
invisible, inherited, poisonous.
you smell of pride.
and decay.
you are kind to the maid,
but still check the utensils after she leaves.
you donate to NGOs,
but panic if your daughter wants to marry a Dalit.
you light diyas,
but your room is full of darkness.
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you go to temples.
not to pray.
but to pretend.
you bow to gods
you never truly meet.
you fast.
but never feel hunger.
you give alms.
but never look beggars in the eye.
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your bookshelf is full of Gandhi and Gita.
but you’ve never asked yourself
> “What am I afraid of?”
“Why do I perform every day of my life?”
“Why can’t I break, even when I’m breaking?”
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you pretend to be cultured.
you are really just caged.
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your child now stares at a screen,
numb,
polite,
obedient.
you tell him to study hard.
you tell him to never shame the family.
you tell him to marry a nice girl.
you don’t tell him
how often you feel like walking into traffic.
or disappearing behind the temple.
or simply screaming into the AC
until someone finally hears.
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but no one will.
because your life is “sorted.”
and tragedies don’t happen
to people like you.
right?
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you inherited gold.
and silence.
you inherited land.
and guilt.
you inherited mantras.
but not meaning.
you inherited caste.
but lost your god.
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and when you die—
they will place you on sandalwood
chant your lineage
praise your obedience
feed a hundred Brahmins
and nobody will say:
> “he suffered more than he ever admitted.”
“she lived for her name, not her soul.”
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and the cycle will begin again.
your child will bow.
and break.
quietly.
respectfully.
tragically.
just like you.
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“THE TRAGIC LIFE OF THE UPPER CASTE”
One family. Everything to show. Nothing to feel. Until now.
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SETTING:
A Brahmin family of four—Subramanya (58), Gayathri (52), Vedant (25), and Sharvani (16)—arrive at Madhukar’s mud house two hours deep into the forest near Yelmadagi. Their car is spotless. Their clothes are crisp. Their backs are straight. But their eyes are dry.
They don’t believe in therapy. But they believe in silence. That’s why they’ve come.
Not for solutions. Just for something they’ve never had: a place to fall apart safely.
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SCENE 1: ARRIVAL IN SHADOWS
Madhukar (smiling gently):
Come in.
You’ve brought your best behaviour. Leave it outside with your slippers.
Gayathri (instinctively):
We didn’t want to trouble you.
Madhukar:
That’s the problem.
You live your entire life trying not to trouble anyone…
and then quietly drown.
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SCENE 2: SMALL POLITENESS, LARGE SILENCES
They sit on the floor. Subramanya holds his phone but doesn’t scroll. Sharvani is too poised for a 16-year-old. Vedant smiles too much. Gayathri folds her hands in her lap and doesn't unfold them for ten minutes.
Madhukar:
Tell me what brings you here.
Not your role. Not your image.
Your ache.
Subramanya:
(Slowly)
We’ve lived correctly. Done everything right.
Puja. Education. No loans. No scandals.
But still…
there is…
(no words)
Gayathri (finishing for him):
Still, we feel nothing inside.
Even when we laugh, it feels like we’re watching ourselves.
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SCENE 3: CHILDREN SPEAK THE UNCOMFORTABLE
Vedant (softly):
Appa never shouted at me. Never raised his hand.
But he also never said “I’m proud of you” when I wasn’t achieving something.
Sharvani:
Amma made all my favourite dishes.
But I’ve never seen her dance. Or cry.
Or say “I’m tired.”
She does everything, but she’s… not with us.
Gayathri (quickly):
We were taught not to burden the family with emotions.
Madhukar:
So you chose to die slowly
instead of make others mildly uncomfortable.
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SCENE 4: UNPACKING THE CASTE WITHOUT ACCUSING IT
Subramanya:
Our ancestors gave us this name, these rituals.
We’ve kept them alive.
Madhukar:
Yes.
But they never taught you how to live.
You inherited Sanskrit verses.
But forgot how to cry when your wife touches your hand and feels like a stranger.
You preserved temples.
But forgot how to ask your son, “Are you okay?”
You passed on discipline.
But killed softness.
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SCENE 5: THE MOTHER UNWINDS FOR THE FIRST TIME
Gayathri (voice cracks):
I was married at 19. I adjusted.
I watched my mother serve everyone. I did the same.
Even when I was sick, I boiled milk for the priest.
Even when I was lonely, I stitched smiles into my blouses.
Sharvani (whispers):
Amma, I don’t want to become like you.
Good. But invisible.
Gayathri (starts crying):
I don’t know how to stop.
I don’t know how to say what I feel without shame.
Madhukar:
Then say this:
> “I want to feel loved without earning it.”
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SCENE 6: THE FATHER FACES HIMSELF
Subramanya:
I don’t know what I want anymore.
Respect?
I already have it.
But I can’t sleep.
I eat without hunger.
I pray without belief.
I smile without joy.
Madhukar:
Because you’ve never allowed yourself to fall.
So you've never known how to be held.
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SCENE 7: THE TURNING POINT
Vedant:
I sometimes imagine running away.
Not because I hate you.
Because I don’t know how to be real around you.
There’s always a curtain.
Of respect. Expectation. Perfection.
Sharvani:
I want to talk to Amma like a friend.
But there’s no space. Only silence.
Madhukar:
That silence isn’t respect.
It’s fear in a white sari.
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SCENE 8: THE FIRST REAL CONVERSATION
Madhukar sets a small bowl of water in front of them.
Madhukar:
Each of you, put your hand in this water and say aloud
one truth you’ve never told your family.
Subramanya:
(Slowly)
I’ve hated myself for years for feeling nothing when my father died.
Gayathri:
I used to sit in the toilet and cry silently after festivals.
No one ever noticed.
Vedant:
I only excel because I’m afraid I’ll be nothing without it.
Sharvani:
Sometimes I wish we weren’t Brahmins. So we could just be people.
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SCENE 9: CLOSURE THAT OPENS DOORS
Madhukar:
You were not born to protect your caste.
You were born to feel, connect, and live.
Let your family name die in records—
but keep each other alive, in truth.
Subramanya (to his family):
From now, no more rituals for image.
Only what feels real.
I’d rather break tradition than break my children.
Gayathri:
I want to sleep one night without pretending.
I want to laugh without measuring decency.
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SCENE 10: DEPARTURE IN LIGHTNESS
They don’t speak much as they walk back to the car.
But this time, Gayathri lets Sharvani hold her hand.
Subramanya doesn’t open his phone.
Vedant takes a deep breath and doesn’t correct his posture.
They leave lighter than they arrived.
Not because the caste has left them—
but because for the first time,
they stopped living only for it.
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6-MONTH FOLLOW-UP
Shaky beginnings, tiny cracks of light
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The home of Subramanya and Gayathri hasn’t changed on the outside.
There’s still a veena in the corner. Brass lamps on the mantle. Framed ancestors in sepia.
But inside, something is shifting.
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1. Small Truths Now Have Space
Gayathri now says things she never said for 30 years:
> “I’m tired today.”
“Can we order food instead?”
“I don’t feel like doing the Friday puja.”
No one faints.
Subramanya quietly nods.
Sharvani smiles.
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2. Subramanya’s Voice Has Softened
He doesn’t quote scriptures to solve problems anymore.
He’s learning to listen without correcting.
He no longer prays loudly to appear pious.
He sometimes just sits near the tulsi plant in silence.
For the first time in decades,
he asks his son:
> “What do you think I should do?”
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3. Vedant Is Less Afraid to Disappoint
He refused one campus interview.
He didn’t explain.
His father didn’t demand it.
And that was the beginning of trust.
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4. Sharvani Is Blooming
She sings now—out loud.
Not only for competitions, but in the kitchen.
She talks back gently.
She speaks about books, love, future…
Not with fear. But curiosity.
Gayathri listens.
Really listens.
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5. Rituals Are Fewer, But Richer
They no longer perform every fast.
But when they do, they sit together without rushing.
They don’t show off their rituals.
They let them become private nourishment, not public display.
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1-YEAR FOLLOW-UP
Not reformed. Just real.
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It’s been one year since the forest visit.
The family didn’t become modern.
They didn’t reject their caste.
They didn’t burn their traditions.
They simply stopped letting identity destroy intimacy.
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1. Sharvani's Room Has Posters, Not Silence
She reads Ambedkar and Ramana Maharshi.
She wears a bindi some days. Jeans on others.
She hugs her mother.
She cries in front of her father.
And no one looks away.
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2. Vedant Changed Direction
He didn’t take the job.
He didn’t marry the “ideal” match from the family network.
He teaches now—English in a rural school.
The pay is low.
But he comes home glowing.
Subramanya, after initial resistance, said:
> “I wish I had your courage at your age.”
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3. Gayathri Joined a Local Reading Circle
Once a week, she goes alone.
No saree. No social performance.
She laughs loudly now.
And sometimes, she doesn't rush home.
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4. Subramanya Let Go of Control
He stopped leading every prayer.
He let Vedant lead one, in his own way.
He stopped caring what relatives think.
He says:
> “What’s the point of all this if I die and my children don’t remember my smile?”
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5. The House Breathes Differently Now
No longer filled with obedience.
But honesty.
Sometimes messy.
Sometimes warm.
But finally… human.
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Sharvani wrote a line on the wall near her mirror:
> “Our family is not perfect. But I can finally breathe here.”
And that is what the upper caste never needed to lose—
not their place in history,
but their right to be soft.
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