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My civics textbook educated me about ‘The evils of caste system’ but didn’t equip me to deal with its manifestations in my own classroom.

As a child, I worked harder to hide it, every tiny nudge throwing me off balance, every new interrogation about caste assaulting my spirit. But not enough had changed that I could give a straight answer to the question: ‘What caste are you from?’ My Dalitness still weighed heavy within me I dragged its carcass behind me through my childhood and into adulthood. Two generations of prestigious government jobs and concealed last names somewhat diluted the obvious markers of Dalitness. Dad-the son of a revered civil servant wasn’t forced down from his horse, neither was his wedding party disrupted. My grandfather, father and I experienced our Dalitness in vastly different ways. When I finally stopped pretending to be ‘upper’ caste, I was able to be more authentic and honest about what I wrote. Coming out gave me the courage to admit that I won’t know everything about everything and that that’s okay. I had to pretend to know things I knew nothing about (I made up for it with intense research, of course) because if not, I feared people would find out my caste. As a lifestyle journalist, I worried about being careful enough to keep the construct of my ‘upper’ caste. I just lived everyday – like many of us still do – thinking the weight of my caste was somehow justified and how things were supposed to be. I became so used to hiding my Dalitness that I didn’t know I had the option to tell anyone about it.

The cruelest thing hiding can do to you is to take away your options. You think this is all there is, this is your life without the option of it being any different. The harshest and perhaps the most brutal aspect of hiding your identity (for me at least) is that it feels like nothing.