When Privilege Gets Help, It’s “Networking”; When Others Get Help, It’s “Quota”

 

When Privilege Gets Help, It’s “Networking”; When Others Get Help, It’s “Quota”

Unpacking the Double Standards of Caste Privilege in India

In India, the conversation around social mobility often reveals a stark hypocrisy. For those in the “general category” — a polite euphemism for upper castes — opportunities handed down through family ties, alumni networks, or social circles are celebrated as savvy “networking.” It’s seen as a natural extension of merit, hard work, and personal connections. But when lower castes, including Scheduled Castes (SC), Scheduled Tribes (ST), and Other Backward Classes (OBC), access affirmative action through reservations or quotas, it’s frequently demonized as unfair favoritism, a handout that undermines true achievement. This double standard isn’t just rhetoric; it’s rooted in centuries of systemic inequality that continues to shape Indian society today.

This article delves into how upper castes justify their privileges as legitimate networking while vilifying quotas for others. We’ll trace the historical factors that built these upper-caste networks from ancient times and explore why lower castes have been systematically denied the same advantages. Drawing from historical context and contemporary analyses, the goal is to highlight how caste operates as an invisible force, often unacknowledged by those who benefit from it most.

The Myth of Merit: How Upper Castes Frame Privilege as “Networking”

Upper castes in India have long positioned their advantages as the fruits of individual effort and strategic connections, rather than inherited privilege. For instance, in professional fields like tech, finance, and academia, upper-caste individuals often leverage family legacies, elite school alumni groups, and informal referrals to secure jobs or promotions. This is praised as “networking” — a skill anyone can supposedly learn. Yet, as discussions on platforms like Reddit point out, these networks are rarely accessible to outsiders, and they’re built on generations of exclusivity.

A key justification is the narrative of “meritocracy.” Upper castes argue that their success stems from superior education and skills, ignoring how caste has historically monopolized access to these resources. In the tech industry, for example, upper-caste dominance in Silicon Valley and Indian IT firms is often attributed to talent, but research shows it’s largely due to early migration waves favoring those with pre-existing privileges like English education and urban connections.

This framing allows privilege to hide in plain sight: when a Brahmin or Kshatriya gets a leg up from a relative in a high position, it’s “using connections wisely.” Meanwhile, quotas are labeled as “reverse discrimination,” eroding standards.

This hypocrisy extends to everyday discourse. Upper-caste individuals might dismiss caste as irrelevant in modern India, claiming society is now “casteless” for the privileged. But as one analysis notes, this invisibility is itself a privilege — upper castes don’t “see” caste because it works in their favor, maintaining homogeneity in elite spaces like universities and corporations.

Studies from higher education institutions reveal that upper-caste students often view their advantages as earned, while perceiving lower-caste peers as undeserving beneficiaries of quotas.

Demonizing Quotas: The Backlash Against Lower-Caste Support

On the flip side, affirmative action programs — designed to counteract centuries of exclusion — are routinely attacked as unjust. The 10% quota for economically weaker sections (EWS) among upper castes, introduced in 2019 and upheld in 2022, sparked outrage from activists who argued it further entrenches privilege by benefiting those already advantaged, while diluting reservations for historically oppressed groups. Critics from lower castes see this as a “violation” of constitutional equity, yet upper castes frame it as a fair extension of economic aid.

The demonization often boils down to resentment: quotas are portrayed as “stealing” opportunities from the “meritorious.” In media and social commentary, lower-caste success via reservations is dismissed as tokenism, ignoring the barriers they overcome. For example, in science and academia, upper castes dominate due to inherited networks, but quotas for lower castes are blamed for any perceived drop in quality.

This narrative conveniently overlooks how upper-caste “networking” functions as an unofficial quota system, reserving spots through referrals and social capital.

In essence, when lower castes get institutional help, it’s seen as charity at the expense of others. But upper-caste networking? That’s just business as usual.

From Ancient Roots: The Historical Foundations of Upper-Caste Networking

The origins of this disparity trace back to India’s ancient caste system, formalized in texts like the Manusmriti around 200 BCE to 200 CE. This varna system divided society into four hierarchical groups: Brahmins (priests and scholars), Kshatriyas (warriors and rulers), Vaishyas (traders), and Shudras (laborers), with Dalits (formerly “untouchables”) outside it entirely. Upper castes, particularly Brahmins, were granted exclusive rights to education, land ownership, and religious authority, creating early networks of power.

Over centuries, these structures evolved under various rulers, from medieval kingdoms to British colonialism. Upper castes adapted by aligning with colonial administrators, gaining access to English education and civil service roles. This built intergenerational wealth and connections: families passed down knowledge, property, and social ties, forming closed networks in bureaucracy, business, and academia.

In the modern economy, these networks persist. In Mumbai’s industrial era, upper castes used caste-based associations to secure jobs in mills and factories. Today, in global migration, upper castes dominate tech and professional diasporas because historical privileges like better schooling and urban access enabled them to capitalize on opportunities first. Economic studies show Brahmins enjoy higher education, income, and social connections, reinforcing their networks.

Caste-based segregation in cities further cements this, with upper castes clustering in affluent areas for mutual benefit.

These factors — rooted in ancient hierarchies and amplified through history — have created a self-perpetuating system where upper castes “network” effortlessly, often without recognizing it as privilege.

Barriers to Entry: Why Lower Castes Don’t Have the Same “Networking” Privileges

Lower castes have been systematically excluded from building similar networks due to entrenched discrimination and resource deprivation. Historically, they were barred from education, property ownership, and social mixing, enforced through untouchability and violence. This legacy persists: lower castes face poorer schools, underfunded institutions, and exclusion from elite networks.

Economically, caste restricts access to finance and entrepreneurship. Dalits and OBCs encounter discrimination in hiring, loans, and business partnerships, limiting their ability to form robust networks. In rural areas, landlessness and manual labor trap generations in poverty, while urban migration favors those with prior advantages — often upper castes.

Socially, caste homogeneity in elite spaces makes integration difficult. Lower castes report invisibility or outright bias, with upper castes refusing to collaborate or mentor. During crises like the COVID-19 pandemic, lower castes suffered disproportionately due to lack of safety nets and networks. Macroeconomic analyses estimate that caste discrimination reduces entrepreneurial potential and overall growth, as lower castes are denied the capital and connections upper castes take for granted.

In short, lower castes aren’t just starting from behind; the system is rigged to keep them there, without the “networking” luxuries afforded to others.

Toward a More Equitable Future

Recognizing this double standard is the first step toward dismantling it. While quotas provide essential redress, true equity requires addressing the invisible networks that perpetuate upper-caste dominance. As India evolves, conversations around caste must move beyond denial to acknowledgment — only then can networking become a tool for all, not just the privileged few.By examining these dynamics, we see that privilege isn’t always overt; it’s often woven into the fabric of society. For a nation aspiring to meritocracy, confronting caste head-on is non-negotiable.

The Bystander Apathy in India: When Human Suffering Turns into Entertainment

In the bustling streets of India, where chaos reigns supreme and traffic moves like a lawless river, a chilling reality unfolds all too often. Imagine this: a pedestrian is struck by a speeding SUV — a Thar, perhaps — careening through the crowd. The victim lies on the footpath, bleeding profusely, screaming in agony, their cries piercing the humid air. Passersby glance momentarily, then avert their eyes and continue on their way, as if the scene is just another pothole to sidestep. If a crowd does form, it’s not to render aid but to gawk at the “tamasha” — the spectacle. Phones emerge not to dial emergency services but to capture videos and photos, turning a life-or-death moment into viral fodder for social media groups. This isn’t fiction; it’s a grim snapshot of societal indifference that plagues the nation, where empathy seems extinct and human lives are reduced to entertainment value.

This barbaric behavior raises profound questions about the state of humanity in India. Why do people ignore the pleas of the injured? Why does suffering amuse rather than alarm? Drawing from numerous reports and studies, it’s clear this isn’t isolated but a widespread phenomenon rooted in psychological, legal, and cultural factors. A 2013 survey by the SaveLife Foundation revealed that 74% of Indians are unlikely to help an accident victim, even when alone or with others. This apathy, often termed the “bystander effect,” explains how individuals in a group assume someone else will step in, diffusing responsibility until no one acts.

Real-Life Horror Stories: From Ignorance to Exploitation

Tragic incidents abound that illustrate this heartless detachment. In 2017, a man in Delhi was run over multiple times by vehicles while lying injured on the road; motorists and pedestrians alike ignored him, leading to his death. Similarly, in 2021, a man stabbed his wife to death on a crowded Delhi street, with bystanders filming the assault rather than intervening. These aren’t anomalies — in fact, research shows that in India, bystanders are far less likely to help strangers compared to protecting loved ones, amplifying the isolation of victims.

The crowd’s role often exacerbates the problem. Instead of calling an ambulance or police, spectators pull out smartphones to record the gore. Why? For the thrill of sharing “shocking” content among friends or on platforms like WhatsApp and Instagram. This voyeurism turns personal tragedy into public entertainment, a disgusting twist where a person’s final moments become memes or group chat fodder. As one report notes, urban desensitization has made us immune to violence and accidents, treating them as background noise in our chaotic lives. In a country where road accidents claim over 150,000 lives annually, this behavior isn’t just negligent — it’s complicit in preventable deaths.

The Roots of Indifference: Fear, Psychology, and a Broken System

At the heart of this issue lies the bystander effect, a psychological principle where the presence of others discourages individual action. In India, it’s compounded by practical fears: 88% of people believe good samaritans face harassment from police or hospitals, including endless questioning, legal entanglements, or demands for payment. A national study on impediments to bystander care highlights how attitudes from law enforcement deter help, with many fearing they’ll be blamed or dragged into court.

Cultural and societal elements play a role too. In fast-paced cities like Delhi or Mumbai, life’s hardships breed a survivalist mentality — why risk your own stability for a stranger? Some argue that India’s dense population and constant exposure to poverty and accidents normalize suffering, turning empathy into exhaustion. Yet, this doesn’t excuse the glee in spectating; it’s a sign of deeper moral decay. As the user aptly puts it, these individuals’ lives seem so devoid of meaning that watching someone bleed out provides a perverse form of entertainment. It’s barbaric, stripping away the humanity that should bind us.

Even youth, often seen as agents of change, show reluctance. A study on predicting intentions to help accident victims found that perceived behavioral control and attitudes influence action, but barriers like fear persist. And while the Supreme Court introduced the Good Samaritan Law in 2016 to protect helpers from legal hassles — offering anonymity and no liability — awareness remains low, with 77% still hesitant due to police fears.

A Nation Not for the Faint-Hearted — or Anyone?

They say India is not for beginners, but perhaps it’s not for anyone at all. In a land of ancient philosophies preaching compassion — like ahimsa — modern reality paints a picture of monsters masquerading as men. When suffering is entertainment and sympathy is scarce, what does that say about us? Victims don’t just bleed from wounds; they bleed from the collective indifference that lets them die alone amid a sea of faces.

Change is possible, but it demands education, stricter enforcement of protective laws, and a cultural shift toward empathy. Until then, the next time you see a Thar-rammed pedestrian crying on the sidewalk, remember: ignoring them doesn’t make you neutral — it makes you part of the problem. India deserves better than this spectacle of savagery.

The Name We Discard: How Indian Immigrants Adapt in the US

 

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The Name We Discard: How Indian Immigrants Adapt in the US

Rajesh becomes Ray. Priya becomes Pree. Arun becomes “Aron” because, well, it’s easier. These aren’t just spelling variations — they’re microcosms of a larger asymmetry in how immigrant identity works in America

Walk into any American tech office, startup, or corporate floor. You’ll find Indians with anglicized names filling their professional lives while keeping their “real” names for family WhatsApp groups. The pattern is so routine it feels natural, almost inevitable. Yet the opposite rarely happens: when Americans move to India or anywhere else in Asia, they rarely feel compelled to change their names. This asymmetry reveals something uncomfortable about how power, discrimination, and assimilation work.

The Numbers Don’t Lie: How Common Are These Changes?

The practice is widespread but often invisible because it happens gradually. My older brother, Nirmalkumar, became Norm. My sister, Savita, became Sammy. These aren’t dramatic rebrandings — they’re accommodations, convenience, survival tactics in a system not built for them.

The examples are endless and mundane:

• Shrinivasan → Shri or Steve
• Priya → Pree or even just “P”
• Deepak → Dave
• Anjali → AJ
• Vikram → Vik or Victor

Some Indians officially change their names on resumes, LinkedIn, and job applications. Others switch between contexts — their legal name in one setting, an anglicized version in another. This code-switching becomes second nature, so normalized that it barely registers as a choice anymore

Why This Happens: The Machinery of Discrimination

The reasons are deceptively simple but rooted in real harm:

1. Hiring Bias Is Measurable

Harvard research demonstrated that resumes with Indian names receive callback rates 26–50% lower than identical resumes with “white-sounding” names. This isn’t anecdotal — it’s statistical. When a hiring manager sees “Priya Gupta” versus “Priya Gardner,” the outcomes differ meaningfully. Discrimination is real, quantifiable, and immediate

2. Pronunciation Becomes a Burden

There’s a subtle cruelty in workplaces where your name requires explanation every time you introduce yourself. Hiring managers stumble over it. Colleagues butcher it repeatedly. In meetings, you’re constantly correcting people — a micro-aggression that drains energy while signaling that you don’t quite belong. Changing your name removes this daily friction.

3. Professional Advancement

Indians quickly learn that their ethnic identity can be a ceiling, not a bridge. Names become a calculus: Is keeping my identity worth limiting my career? For many, the pragmatic answer is no. Changing your name isn’t about preference — it’s about survival in a system that penalizes difference

4. Social Integration

Beyond careers, there’s a social dimension. Getting hired is one thing; actually fitting in is another. An anglicized name makes social interaction frictionless. Americans don’t have to feel uncomfortable around difference. Indians don’t have to be the foreign one. Everyone is more comfortable.

The Hypocrisy Is Structural

Here’s where your original critique hits hardest: Americans almost never do this in reverse.

When Americans move to India, the UK, Australia, or anywhere else, they keep their names intact. A “Mike” remains Mike. A “Jennifer” doesn’t become “Jaya.” They face no equivalent pressure, no hiring discrimination tied to their names, no systematic barrier that rewards assimilation.

This isn’t because Americans are individually more principled. It’s because they carry institutional power with them. American names aren’t foreign in most of the world — they’re prestigious. They suggest education, wealth, reliability. An American’s name is assumed to be correct; an Indian’s is assumed to be difficult.

The asymmetry reveals the truth: name-changing isn’t a choice born from respect for local culture. It’s a symptom of power imbalance. Indians adapt because they have to. Americans don’t adapt because they don’t have to.

The Trap of Individual Solutions to Systemic Problems

This is where the hypocrisy becomes philosophical. By normalizing name changes, we’re essentially telling Indian immigrants: “The system discriminates against you, so change yourself to fit it.”

This approach has consequences:

• It makes discrimination invisible. If discrimination isn’t obvious because everyone has adapted to it, it becomes self-inflicted rather than systemic.
• It shifts responsibility. Instead of asking “Why does American society penalize different names?” we ask “Why don’t you just change yours?”
• It surrenders identity. Each name change is a small surrender of cultural identity on the altar of professional acceptance.

Researchers themselves have pushed back: “We do not suggest immigrants to Anglicise their ethnic names in order to avoid discrimination,” warns Harvard research, because “this puts the onus on immigrants to promote equity

The Growing Resistance

Not everyone accepts this bargain anymore. Some Indian immigrants and their children are consciously resisting, keeping their names despite the friction, treating it as “a symbol of successful resistance to assimilation.”​

Activists are pushing systemic solutions instead. California passed a historic ban on caste discrimination. Recruiters are learning to value diversity rather than demanding homogeneity. Some companies now anonymize resumes to remove racial bias.

But these changes move at glacial speed. Meanwhile, individuals still face rent to pay and careers to build.

What This Reveals About Assimilation

The name-change phenomenon exposes how assimilation really works in America. It’s not a free exchange of cultures — it’s a hierarchy where the dominant culture’s comfort is prioritized over minority identity. It’s a system that says: “You’re welcome here, but only if you make us comfortable by becoming more like us.”

Meanwhile, Americans anywhere in the world remain comfortable as they are. No one asks them to change. No one makes it worth their while. They don’t have to choose between their name and their career.

That asymmetry is the hypocrisy. Not that Indians change names — that’s rational survival. But that we’ve normalized it so completely that it feels like personal preference rather than what it actually is: adaptive response to discrimination masked as cultural assimilation.

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The real question isn’t whether Indians should change their names. It’s why, in a diverse nation built by immigrants, we still make it necessary.

The CJI Gavai Shoe-Throwing Incident: Unpacking the Controversy, Selective Outrage and Misplaced Anger in India

In a brazen act of courtroom disruption on October 6, 2025, 71-year-old lawyer Rakesh Kishore attempted to throw a shoe at Chief Justice of India (CJI) Bhushan Ram Gavai during a Supreme Court hearing.

Shouting slogans about the “insult to Sanatan Dharma,” Kishore was swiftly detained by security, but the incident has since spiraled into a national conversation on judicial respect, communal tolerance, and the double standards in India’s socio-political landscape.

This event, rooted in Kishore’s fury over a prior judgment by CJI Gavai, not only exposes the volatility of religious sentiments but also reveals how certain groups weaponize them while others exercise restraint.

Amid this chaos, the Supreme Court has issued numerous judgments in recent years that have been perceived as challenging Muslim practices, yet no Muslim has ever resorted to such violence against the judiciary. This stark difference underscores the Muslim community’s tolerance in the face of adversity. Meanwhile, the lack of stringent action against Kishore — despite his act — highlights how Hindutva fanatics often evade accountability, potentially emboldening further extremism.

The Prior Judgment: A Misconstrued Remark on Lord Vishnu and the Role of ASI

The shoe-throwing incident was not spontaneous but stemmed from simmering resentment over a Supreme Court judgment delivered by CJI Gavai in mid-September 2025, in what has come to be known as the Khajuraho case.

The plea, filed by a devotee, sought directions to reconstruct and reinstall a seven-foot idol of Lord Vishnu, which had been beheaded during the Mughal era and was discovered as an archaeological artifact in Khajuraho, Madhya Pradesh.

Dismissing the petition, CJI Gavai emphasized that the matter fell squarely under the jurisdiction of the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI), an expert body responsible for preserving historical artifacts.

He noted, “It’s an archaeological find, whether the ASI would permit such a thing to be done or not… there are various issues.”

In a light-hearted aside to the petitioner, who professed deep devotion to Lord Vishnu, the CJI suggested, “If you are saying that you are a strong devotee of Lord Vishnu, then you pray and do some meditation.”

This remark was misconstrued by elements within the Hindutva ecosystem as an insult to Sanatan Dharma, with critics accusing the CJI of mocking Hindu beliefs and deities.

However, the comment was far from insulting — it was a pragmatic redirection to the appropriate authority, underscoring the judiciary’s role in deferring to specialized bodies like the ASI for matters involving historical preservation.

CJI Gavai later clarified his stance, affirming, “I respect all religions” and emphasizing his belief in true secularism, while noting that his words had been taken out of context.

The judgment itself was neutral, avoiding judicial overreach into archaeological decisions.The ASI, established in 1861, operates under the Ministry of Culture, which is part of the central government led by Prime Minister Narendra Modi.

As such, any policy on restoring or altering artifacts like the Vishnu idol ultimately falls under the executive branch’s purview. If the Hindutva ecosystem is dissatisfied with the ASI’s potential reluctance — due to guidelines protecting the integrity of historical finds — they should direct their ire toward the Modi government, which has the authority to influence or amend such policies through legislative or administrative means.

Yet, the outrage has been disproportionately aimed at CJI Gavai, perhaps because deferring to the ASI disrupts narratives seeking judicial validation for religious restorations. This misplaced anger ignores the government’s role, raising questions about whether the criticism is truly about devotion or a strategic attack on judicial independence.

Supreme Court Judgments and the Muslim Community’s Restraint

In contrast to this aggressive response, the Supreme Court has handed down several rulings in recent years that have directly impacted Muslim communities, often reshaping their religious and cultural practices. The 2017 ban on instant triple talaq, the 2022 upholding of hijab restrictions in certain educational institutions, and ongoing discussions on a Uniform Civil Code have all been met with criticism from Muslim groups for encroaching on personal laws.

Despite these setbacks, Muslims have channeled their dissent through peaceful protests, legal appeals, and democratic engagement — never through physical assaults on judges.

No Muslim has thrown a shoe at a CJI, even amid judgments perceived as biased or intrusive. This pattern of tolerance, rooted in a commitment to non-violence and institutional respect, stands as a testament to the community’s resilience. As social media users have pointed out, “Muslims face rulings on talaq, polygamy, and more, yet respond with petitions, not projectiles.”

The shoe incident, conversely, exemplifies how some Hindutva proponents resort to extremism when faced with even mild judicial pushback.

Hindutva Fanatics Roam Free: No FIR, Muted Response

Following the incident, Kishore was questioned and released without an FIR being filed, as CJI Gavai personally directed officials not to press charges, opting instead for composure and continuity in proceedings.

The Bar Council of India suspended his license, but Kishore expressed no regret, claiming a “divine force” compelled him.

This leniency is telling: Had the perpetrator been Muslim, the fallout would be immense — multiple FIRs under contempt and assault charges, nationwide condemnations from BJP leaders, and a barrage of dehumanizing campaigns by the party’s IT cell.

In reality, while PM Modi called the act “utterly condemnable,” there have been no statements from the President or governors. BJP figures have issued measured rebukes, but online, Hindutva supporters defend Kishore as a “hero” defending faith. Critics like Nupur J. Sharma have shifted blame to the CJI’s “loose tongue.”

This asymmetry grants a free hand to Hindutva extremists, normalizing violence under religious pretexts.

A Broader Implication: Erosion of Secular Fabric

The episode, intertwined with caste dynamics given CJI Gavai’s Dalit heritage, signals deeper biases.

By targeting the judiciary while sparing the government, the Hindutva narrative risks undermining institutions. India’s Muslims have shown exemplary tolerance; it’s imperative that all communities follow suit to preserve the nation’s democratic ethos. Unchecked, such incidents could pave the way for more “Hindutva terrorism,” where fanaticism trumps law and reason.

The Trust Trap: How the People Closest to Us Fool Us the Most

 

The Trust Trap: How the People Closest to Us Fool Us the Most

In a world overflowing with information, misinformation, and outright deception, we’d like to believe that our inner circle — friends, family, and those who share our worldview — serves as a reliable shield against falsehoods. After all, these are the people we trust implicitly. Yet, paradoxically, it’s often these very individuals who fool us the most. Not necessarily through malicious intent, but because our defenses drop when information comes from familiar sources. We accept their words at face value, bypassing the critical thinking we reserve for outsiders. This blind spot isn’t just a personal quirk; it’s a cognitive vulnerability that permeates our relationships, politics, and society at large.

The Psychology of Unquestioned Trust

At the heart of this phenomenon lies a simple truth: we don’t question what aligns with our existing beliefs. When a friend shares a story that reinforces our views — whether it’s about a cultural tradition, a political scandal, or even a health tip — we let it slide through our mental filters unchallenged. Why? Because it feels right. It echoes our biases, providing that comforting sense of validation. Seeking a second opinion feels unnecessary, even disloyal. After all, if they’re like us, how could they be wrong?

Contrast this with how we respond to information from “the other side.” If someone with an opposing ideology or political leaning makes a claim, our skepticism kicks into overdrive. Driven by the innate human desire to be right (and to prove them wrong), we dig deep — scouring articles, fact-checking sources, and dissecting arguments until we find even a shred of evidence to dismiss it. This selective scrutiny creates an imbalance: we’re hyper-vigilant against external threats but blind to internal ones.

This dynamic plays out vividly in personal relationships. Friends and family, sharing similar values and backgrounds, become unwitting carriers of misinformation. A relative might pass along a family myth or a biased anecdote without verification, and we absorb it as gospel. Over time, these unchallenged narratives shape our worldview, entrenching biases we might otherwise question.

The Political Echo Chamber: Fooled by Our Own Side

Nowhere is this trust trap more evident than in politics. Supporters of a particular party or ideology are most susceptible to deception from within their own ranks. Right-wing individuals, for instance, often get fooled by right-wing sources precisely because those narratives bolster their preconceptions. False claims about immigration, economic policies, or cultural threats circulate freely in these circles, unchecked by criticism. Why bother fact-checking when it feels so affirming?

Meanwhile, the same people will scrutinize left-wing information relentlessly. Every statement from the opposing side is dissected, often until a minor inconsistency allows for outright dismissal. This isn’t unique to one side; it’s a universal bias. Left-leaning individuals fall prey to their own echo chambers just as easily. The result? Polarization deepens, and truth becomes secondary to tribal loyalty.

In India, this issue is amplified by the country’s diverse social fabric. Many live in self-imposed bubbles — offline and online — surrounded by people who mirror their religious, caste, or gender identities. Hindus in predominantly Hindu circles rarely engage with Muslim perspectives, leading to unchecked stereotypes and Islamophobia. Conversely, those immersed in Muslim communities might develop Hinduphobic views without exposure to counter-narratives. Upper-caste groups, insulated from lower-caste experiences, perpetuate casteist attitudes, while male-dominated friend circles foster resistance to feminism.

Social media exacerbates this. Algorithms feed us content that aligns with our likes, creating digital silos where diverse voices are algorithmically excluded. The more time we spend in these bubbles, the harder it becomes to escape. Obnoxious, narrow-minded views thrive in isolation, unchallenged and self-reinforcing.

Breaking Free: The Power of Diversification

The antidote to this deception isn’t cynicism toward those we trust — it’s a deliberate pursuit of diversity. Just as diversification in investing spreads risk and yields better returns, applying it to our social and informational diets builds resilience against bias. This means actively seeking opinions that differ from our own, even when it’s uncomfortable.

Cognitive dissonance — the mental discomfort of holding conflicting ideas — will arise, but it’s a necessary growing pain. Start small: If your network is mostly Hindu, befriend Muslims and listen to their stories. Upper-caste individuals should connect with those from lower castes to understand systemic inequalities. Men in male-heavy circles ought to engage with women to grasp feminist perspectives. And vice versa — the principle applies universally.

In politics, follow sources from across the spectrum. Read critiques of your favorite party; they might reveal blind spots you didn’t know existed. Offline, step out of homogeneous groups: attend interfaith events, join mixed-caste discussions, or participate in gender-diverse forums. Online, curate your feed to include opposing viewpoints rather than muting them.

This isn’t about abandoning your beliefs but enriching them. By exposing ourselves to “the other,” we sharpen our critical thinking, reduce susceptibility to deception, and foster empathy. In a divided world, especially in multicultural societies like India, this diversification isn’t just wise — it’s essential for personal growth and societal harmony.

Stepping Out of the Bubble

Ultimately, the people we trust fool us not because they’re inherently untrustworthy, but because we let them. Our biases create the perfect environment for unchallenged ideas to flourish. Recognizing this is the first step toward liberation. The next is action: break the cycle of narrow-mindedness by embracing discomfort and seeking diverse perspectives.

In doing so, we don’t just avoid being fooled — we become wiser, more compassionate versions of ourselves. After all, true wisdom isn’t found in echo chambers; it’s forged in the friction of differing worlds. So, reach out, listen, and question — even those you hold dear. Your mind, and your relationships, will thank you.

Gerontocracy in Indian Politics: Why Our Leaders Don’t Reflect the Country’s Youth

 

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Gerontocracy in Indian Politics: Why Our Leaders Don’t Reflect the Country’s Youth

India is young. Its politicians are not.

While the average Indian is about 28 years old, the people governing India are among the oldest in the country’s history. This generational distortion — where lawmakers are far older than the citizens they represent — is known as gerontocracy. Recent data from the 18th Lok Sabha, current state assemblies, and the top echelons of government shows how deeply this phenomenon runs through Indian democracy.

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The Stark Age Gap: Parliament and Assemblies vs The People

Numbers don’t lie:

• Average age of 18th Lok Sabha MPs (elected in 2024): 56 years — the highest ever.
• Only 11% of MPs are aged 40 or younger; more than half are 55+, and the oldest is 82.
• State assemblies: A nationwide ADR analysis of 4,092 MLAs finds that over 61% are above 50. Just 11% are under 40, showcasing a similar tilt toward the aged.

By contrast:

• India’s median age (2024): ~28.4 years — with over 65% of citizens below 35.
• The average Rajya Sabha member is estimated to be well over 60.

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A Portrait of India’s Greying Power Structure

Despite having the world’s largest youth population, the highest offices of Indian politics and administration add up to a formidable portrait of elder leadership:

• Prime Minister Narendra Modi will turn 75 in September 2025; already one of India’s oldest serving PMs.
• National Security Advisor Ajit Doval is 80 years old as of 2025 — India’s oldest and longest-serving NSA.
• Key Chief Ministers:
• Pinarayi Vijayan (Kerala): 80 (oldest CM in office)
• Nitish Kumar (Bihar): 73
• Mamata Banerjee (West Bengal): 70
• Chandrababu Naidu (Andhra Pradesh): 75
• Yogi Adityanath (Uttar Pradesh): 53
• Pema Khandu (Arunachal Pradesh): 46 (youngest among major states)
• Revanth Reddy (Telangana): 55
• Mohan Yadav (Madhya Pradesh): 59
• Other senior figures:
• Sonia Gandhi (Congress leader): 78
• Rajnath Singh (Defence): 74
• Amit Shah (Home): 60

Lok Sabha youngest and oldest MPs:

• Oldest: T. R. Baalu, 82 (Tamil Nadu)
• Youngest: Four MPs at 25 (constitutional minimum) — Shambhavi Choudhary, Sanjana Jatav, Pushpendra Saroj, Priya Saroj.

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What Does Gerontocracy Mean for Democracy?

A gerontocracy is rule by elders. In India, this means the lived experience and priorities reflected in the law are those of a generation several decades older than India’s average citizen. This can skew legislative focus — employment, digital policy, social media, education, and entrepreneurship issues affecting youth may be interpreted through an out-of-date lens. When older generations dominate, innovation can slow, and youth concerns — including climate, tech, jobs, and mental health — may get less official attention.

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Why Are India’s Politicians So Old?

The roots run deep and structural:

• Top-Down Nominations: Parties are controlled by concentrated leaderships; tickets for “winnable” seats go mostly to loyal, well-connected veterans.
• Weak Intra-Party Democracy: Internal elections or leadership changes rarely elevate younger figures.
• Societal Tradition: Seniority is culturally valued, and experience is often equated with age.
• No Legal Remedies: While the Constitution sets lower age limits (25 for Lok Sabha/MLA, 30 for Rajya Sabha/MLC), there is no structural mechanism to promote youth candidatures. The Law Commission’s 170th report highlights the urgent need for intra-party reforms and greater transparency.
• Safety for Parties: Older politicians are seen as a “safe bet,” especially in risk-averse electoral environments

Is It a Problem Unique to India?

Globally, parliaments are older than populations. However, for a country where the youth form the largest chunk of voters in the world, the disconnect is more dramatic and consequential. The Inter-Parliamentary Union’s data shows that only about 2.8% of global MPs are under 30, underscoring how rare it is to see real youth representation at the top.

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Fixing the Gap: What Will It Take?

1. Internal Party Democracy:
   Legal reforms enforcing regular, transparent inner-party elections and term limits can force parties to broaden their leadership pipelines.
2. Affirmative Action:
   Youth quotas in ticket allotment, modeled on gender reservations, could be considered.
3. Institutional Innovation:
   Regular youth parliaments, mentorship programs, and seats for youth representatives in important committees would mainstream young voices.
4. Societal Change:
   Voters increasingly demanding younger candidates will shift party priorities.

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Conclusion: A Demographic Dividend, Squandered?

India’s democracy is often celebrated for its vibrancy, but its most vital demographic — youth — struggles to be heard where it matters most. Power’s “age wall” is rising at precisely the moment when India needs bold, youthful thinking the most. If the promise of India’s demographic dividend is to be realized, Parliament and state assemblies must reflect not just the wisdom of age but the promise and perspective of youth.

It’s time for India’s politics to grow younger — for the sake of its democracy and its future.

The Legal Gray Area of Sex Toys in India: Could Legalization Help

 India, a country with deeply rooted cultural norms and traditional views on sexuality, is slowly beginning to engage with modern conversations about sexual health. However, when it comes to sex toys, the conversation is still largely hush-hush, veiled in a legal and cultural gray area. These products, which play an essential role in personal sexual health and expression, are not explicitly illegal in India. Yet, their sale and use are still surrounded by ambiguity, particularly when compared to more liberal countries.

As India continues to grow and modernize in many aspects, the question arises: Should sex toys be legalized? And if so, could it potentially contribute to solving some of the country’s larger, more pressing issues around sexual violence and rape?

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The Current Status of Sex Toys in India

In India, the sale of sex toys is not technically illegal, but it is also not explicitly regulated. Under Section 292 of the Indian Penal Code, the sale and distribution of "obscene" materials are prohibited. This has often been interpreted to include adult toys, making the availability of these products both illegal and hard to track. As a result, consumers may buy sex toys discreetly through online retailers that ship products in plain packaging, or they may visit shops that cater to niche markets.

Despite the availability of sex toys through online stores like IMbesharam and Shycart, the stigma surrounding their use remains pervasive. This stigma is deeply embedded in Indian society, where conversations about sexuality and pleasure are often suppressed or taboo. As such, many who purchase these products do so in secrecy, as any open conversation about sex is typically met with societal judgment.

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Rape: A Complex Issue in India

Sexual violence in India is unfortunately widespread, and the country has one of the highest rates of reported rape cases in the world. However, the causes of rape are deeply multifaceted and complex, often rooted in issues like misogyny, social inequality, gender-based violence, poor sex education, and patriarchal norms.

Rape is not merely a consequence of sexual desire or frustration but a violent expression of power, control, and dominance. Thus, reducing the incidence of rape requires addressing root causes, such as a lack of sexual education, the objectification of women, and the suppression of sexual expression. The question, then, is whether legalizing sex toys could be a step toward a solution, offering a healthier way for individuals to express their sexuality in a private and controlled environment.

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Could Legalizing Sex Toys Help Reduce Rape?

While no direct studies in India specifically link the legalization of sex toys with a decrease in rape rates, there are global studies that suggest a potential connection between legal access to sexual outlets and reductions in sexual violence.

One such study, examining prostitution laws across 31 European countries, found that countries which legalized prostitution experienced a reduction in rape rates by approximately 3 cases per 100,000 people. Conversely, countries that maintained prostitution prohibitions saw an increase of 11 cases per 100,000 people. The study concluded that legal access to commercial sex may serve as a substitute for potential offenders, potentially reducing the likelihood of sexual violence.

In a similar vein, adult entertainment venues, such as strip clubs, have been shown to reduce crime rates in surrounding areas. A study conducted in New York City found that the opening of these venues led to a 13% reduction in sex crimes in the surrounding precincts within a week. The researchers suggest that adult entertainment venues might provide a safer, more socially acceptable outlet for sexual urges, thereby decreasing the incidence of violent crimes like rape.

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Is Legalizing Sex Toys the Answer?

Based on these studies, there is evidence to suggest that providing legal, regulated sexual outlets, such as sex toys, might help reduce the likelihood of sexual violence. These studies argue that when individuals have access to safe and consensual ways to express their sexuality, the likelihood of violent sexual behavior may decrease. However, this is by no means a cure-all solution for rape in India or anywhere else.

Rape is primarily driven by issues of power, dominance, and control, not sexual frustration alone. Therefore, while legalizing sex toys could be part of a broader strategy for improving sexual health and education, it should not be seen as a silver bullet for addressing sexual violence. A holistic approach is needed, one that includes comprehensive sex education, stronger legal protections for women, challenging misogynistic attitudes, and increased awareness around consent.

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Why India Should Consider Legalizing Sex Toys

India has long struggled with open discussions about sexuality. The taboo around sex toys reflects a broader societal discomfort with acknowledging sexual pleasure outside of heterosexual marriage. Yet, as the country modernizes, it is crucial to break down these barriers and engage in open, respectful conversations about sexual health and rights.

Legalizing sex toys could:

1. Promote sexual health and well-being, offering individuals a way to explore their sexuality in a healthy, private manner.

2. Encourage better sex education by removing the shame and stigma around sexuality and promoting open dialogue about consent, respect, and personal boundaries.

3. Help reduce sexual violence, by providing safe, consensual alternatives for sexual expression and possibly decreasing the pressure placed on individuals who might otherwise turn to violent outlets.

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Conclusion

Legalizing sex toys in India could indeed be a small but significant step toward fostering a healthier, more open sexual culture. However, this alone will not be enough to solve the problem of sexual violence. A comprehensive approach that addresses the deeper cultural and systemic issues surrounding gender inequality, sexual education, and the treatment of women is essential. But by removing the stigma and making sexual health products legally available, India could take a crucial step toward reducing violence and promoting a more respectful and inclusive society.

The Defenders of Caste: A Look at Pro-Caste Discrimination Groups in Hindu History

 The caste system, one of the most enduring and controversial aspects of Hindu society, has sparked fierce debates for centuries. While reformers like Jyotirao Phule and Sri Narayana Guru fought to dismantle its rigid hierarchies, others stood firm in its defense, arguing it was a sacred and functional order. These pro-caste discrimination groups—rooted in scripture, tradition, and ideology—left an indelible mark on India’s social fabric. Who were they, what did they believe, and how did they justify their stance? Let’s dive into their world.

The Scriptural Backbone: Manu and the Manusmriti

No discussion of pro-caste ideology can skip the Manusmriti, the ancient legal text attributed to the mythical sage Manu (circa 200 BCE–200 CE). Often called the "lawbook of Hinduism," it codified caste duties with chilling precision. One of its most cited verses declares:

"For the prosperity of the worlds, He [the Creator] from His mouth, arms, thighs, and feet created the Brahmin, the Kshatriya, the Vaishya, and the Shudra." (Manusmriti 1.31, trans. George Bühler)

This origin story framed caste as divine, with Brahmins (priests) at the top and Shudras (servants) at the bottom. The text didn’t stop at theology—it prescribed strict rules, like barring Shudras from Vedic study: "If a Shudra intentionally listens to the Vedas, his ears should be filled with molten lead" (Manusmriti 4.99). Harsh? Absolutely. But for its defenders, it was a blueprint for cosmic harmony.

Later pro-caste groups leaned heavily on Manu’s authority. The Manusmriti wasn’t just a relic—it was a rallying cry for those who saw caste as Hinduism’s backbone.

The Philosophers: Madhvacharya and the Vedic Order

Fast forward to the medieval era, and we meet Madhvacharya (1238–1317), the founder of Dvaita Vedanta. A towering philosopher, he didn’t just accept caste—he theologized it. Madhvacharya argued that the Varna system reflected innate spiritual capacities, tied to birth and karma. In his commentary on the Bhagavad Gita, he interpreted Krishna’s words—"The fourfold Varna was created by Me" (4.13)—as proof of a divinely ordained hierarchy.

For Madhvacharya, caste wasn’t oppression; it was destiny. His followers, often Brahmin elites, used his teachings to reinforce their status, claiming spiritual superiority over lower castes. While he focused on metaphysics, his ideas gave intellectual heft to pro-caste groups centuries later.

The Orthodox Revival: Sanatan Dharma Sabhas

By the 19th century, British rule and reform movements like the Brahmo Samaj threatened traditional Hindu norms. Enter the Sanatan Dharma Sabhas—orthodox societies determined to protect caste from "Western corruption." Formed across India, these groups saw caste as the glue of Hindu civilization. One of their key texts, the Dharma Shastra, echoed Manu: "Each caste has its own dharma; to abandon it is to invite chaos."

The Bharat Dharma Mahamandal, founded in 1887, took this further. Its leaders, often Brahmin pandits, argued that caste preserved purity and prevented social "mixing." They opposed inter-caste dining and temple entry for Dalits, claiming such acts defied scripture. In a 1902 manifesto, they wrote: "The Varna system is the eternal law; to break it is to break Hinduism itself" (cited in Jaffrelot, Religion, Caste, and Politics in India).

These groups weren’t just nostalgic—they were militant in their defense of tradition, clashing with reformers like Swami Vivekananda, who called caste a "disease" in its rigid form.

The Hindutva Twist: M. S. Golwalkar’s Vision

In the 20th century, pro-caste ideology found a modern champion in M. S. Golwalkar, the second head of the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS). In his 1939 book We, or Our Nationhood Defined, Golwalkar praised the Varna system as a "scientific" social order:

"The Hindu people have lived for centuries in perfect harmony because of the Varna system, which assigns each his place and function."

Golwalkar didn’t deny caste’s inequalities—he embraced them as natural. He distinguished "casteism" (petty rivalries) from caste itself, which he saw as unifying. While he opposed untouchability to consolidate Hindu unity, he rejected calls to abolish caste, arguing it was integral to India’s identity. His ideas influenced the RSS and its affiliates, shaping a pro-caste narrative within Hindutva circles.

The Brahmin Sabhas: Guardians of Privilege

Localized groups like the Brahman Sabha in Bengal (19th century) took a more practical approach. Comprising Brahmin elites, they resisted anti-caste reforms with a mix of scripture and self-interest. When reformers pushed for widow remarriage or Dalit education, these sabhas pushed back, citing texts like the Rigveda (10.90), which describes society as a body with Brahmins as the head and Shudras as the feet.

Their logic was simple: caste ensured order, and Brahmins were its rightful stewards. In an 1870s petition against reform, a Bengal Sabha declared: "To educate the low-born is to invite rebellion against dharma" (quoted in Sarkar, Writing Social History). It was less theology, more power play—but it worked for them.

Why Did They Fight for Caste?

Pro-caste groups weren’t just stubborn traditionalists. For them, caste was a sacred framework that mirrored the universe’s order—Brahmins as intellect, Kshatriyas as strength, Vaishyas as wealth, Shudras as labor. Disruption meant chaos. Plus, let’s be real: it preserved privilege for the upper castes, who dominated land, temples, and learning.

Their sayings—whether Manu’s stark commands or Golwalkar’s nationalist spin—reveal a worldview where hierarchy wasn’t oppression but purpose. Critics like B. R. Ambedkar called it a "system of graded inequality," but defenders saw it as eternal truth.

Legacy and Tension

Today, pro-caste voices are quieter but not gone. Orthodox pockets and some Hindutva factions still echo these ideas, clashing with India’s constitutional push for equality. The tension between caste’s defenders and its reformers remains a defining thread in Hinduism’s story—a debate as old as the Manusmriti itself.