In India, the word "pure" carries a weight that transcends its dictionary definition. It’s not just a descriptor—it’s an aspiration, a status symbol, a moral compass. From "pure vegetarian" restaurants to "pure ghee" labels, from the fetishization of fair skin to the reverence for "purebred" dogs, this obsession with purity seeps into every corner of life. And if you trace its roots, you’ll find it tangled in the ancient vines of Hinduism—specifically, the Brahminical framework of caste purity. What starts as a cultural quirk reveals itself as something deeper: a systemic lens that shapes preferences, prejudices, and power dynamics. It’s too much. It’s racist. It’s casteist. And it’s time we talked about it.
The Sacred and the Spotless
Hinduism, one of the world’s oldest religions, is a tapestry of philosophies, rituals, and contradictions. At its heart lies a concept that has fueled this purity fixation: the idea of ritual cleanliness, or shuddhi. For Brahmins, the priestly caste historically positioned at the top of the varna system, purity was both a spiritual and social currency. To maintain their elevated status, they adhered to strict rules—avoiding "polluting" foods like meat, enforcing endogamy to preserve lineage, and distancing themselves from "impure" occupations or people. Over centuries, this wasn’t just theology; it became a blueprint for social hierarchy.
Fast forward to today, and you see echoes of this everywhere. "Pure veg" isn’t just a dietary choice—it’s a badge of moral superiority, often tied to upper-caste identity. A friend once told me her landlord refused to rent to non-vegetarians because they’d "taint" the kitchen. Taint it with what? The ghost of a chicken drumstick? It’s absurd until you realize it’s not about the food—it’s about signaling purity, a vestige of Brahminical values that still holds sway.
Then there’s "pure ghee." Walk into any Indian grocery store, and you’ll see it emblazoned on labels like a holy grail. Ghee, clarified butter, is sacred in Hindu rituals, but the obsession with its purity—free of adulteration, made from the "right" cows—feels like a modern extension of that old caste logic. It’s not enough for it to taste good; it has to be untainted, a word that carries a loaded history.
Fair Skin, Pure Blood
The purity fixation doesn’t stop at food. It’s in our bodies, too. India’s love affair with fair skin is no secret—Fair & Lovely (now rebranded as Glow & Lovely) built an empire on it. Matrimonial ads still shamelessly list "fair complexion" as a prerequisite, as if melanin is a moral failing. Dark skin? A curse. Fair skin? A blessing, a sign of purity. This isn’t just colorism borrowed from colonial baggage; it’s older than that. Ancient texts like the Rigveda associate light with divinity and darkness with chaos, a binary that caste ideology latched onto. Brahmins, often depicted as fair-skinned in popular imagination, became the ideal; lower castes, toiling under the sun, were darkened—both literally and metaphorically.
And then there’s caste itself. The preference for "pure" lineage is still alive in arranged marriages, where families scour family trees for any hint of "impurity"—a lower-caste ancestor, a mixed marriage. I’ve heard aunties whisper about someone’s "tainted blood" as if it’s a genetic scandal. Even pets aren’t spared—purebred dogs like Labradors or German Shepherds are prized over desi mutts, as if a pedigree certificate makes them holier. It’s the same logic: purity equals value.
The Cost of Purity
This isn’t just quirky cultural trivia—it’s a mindset with consequences. The pursuit of purity fuels exclusion. Vegetarians shun meat-eaters at dining tables. Fair-skinned actors dominate Bollywood while darker-skinned talent is sidelined. Caste-based ghettos persist in villages and cities alike, with "pure" communities gatekeeping resources. It’s a system that equates difference with contamination, and it’s exhausting.
It’s also hypocritical. India prides itself on diversity—thousands of languages, cuisines, traditions—but this purity obsession flattens that richness into a narrow ideal. A Dalit friend once told me how her vegetarianism was mocked as "fake" by upper-caste classmates because her family historically ate meat out of necessity. Her food wasn’t impure; her caste was. Meanwhile, the same society that worships purity turns a blind eye to polluted rivers, adulterated milk, and corrupt leaders. Purity, it seems, is selective.
Breaking the Cycle
So how do we unravel this? It starts with recognizing that purity isn’t an innocent preference—it’s a power play, rooted in a history of domination. We can’t erase Hinduism’s influence or the caste system overnight, but we can question the reflexes it’s left us with. Why does "pure veg" feel superior? Why is fair skin a flex? Why do we care about a dog’s pedigree more than its loyalty?
It’s not about guilt-tripping anyone—culture evolves, and people inherit baggage they didn’t pack. But it’s about honesty. India’s purity obsession isn’t quaint; it’s a thread that ties racism, casteism, and classism together. Untangling it won’t be pure or simple, but it’s a mess worth making.
