Divyanshu Mangariya

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But still, like air, I will rise)

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The Whispers Of Caste: The Stigma That I Carry

I did not choose this name, yet it chose me,
etched deep before I could even speak.
Dalit—broken, scattered, meant to serve,
not to stand, not to dream, not to belong.

In school, I sat at the edge of the bench,
not by rule, but by a silence heavier than words.
Their eyes, sharp like knives, cut through me,
not with rage, but with something colder—disgust.

My lunch was my secret, my shame,
wrapped in cloth, eaten in corners,
for hands that touched my food
were hands deemed impure.
I swallowed not just bread, but isolation.

They spoke of equality in textbooks,
but in whispers, they called me by caste.
Not my name, not who I was,
but the dirt they believed I was made of.

Time moved forward, but the chains remained,
no longer iron, but woven into glances,
into pauses before invitations,
into words unsaid but deeply felt.

They tell me it is better now,
that caste is only a shadow of the past,
but I still see it, feel it, carry it.
It lingers in boardrooms, in rented homes,
in temple doors where I step back,
in handshakes that never fully close.

Dalit—a word, a wound, a world.
Not broken, not impure,
but made to feel so,
again and again and again.

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