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Names that fade, caste that stays

A well-dressed man is admired and a struggling soul is deemed unworthy of a kind word. Why?
11:16 PM Feb 04, 2025 IST | Tanveer Magrey
names that fade  caste that stays
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Why do some people call me by my caste? Why do well-read individuals hesitate to utter my name, as if it carries some ominous weight, as if speaking it might summon a curse upon them? I do not know. I have no definite answers. But I have lived with this reality since childhood.

At the end of my fifth class in a small primary school, I packed my belongings and prepared for a new journey. A new town awaited me, eight kilometers away. With a fresh uniform, a brand-new rucksack, an identity card, and a tiffin box, I was ready. But one thing remained painfully unchanged—the replacement of my name with my caste.

Classmates would call me by my caste, and soon, some teachers followed. A few exceptions existed—some boys, all the girls, and most of the teachers addressed me by my actual name. But as I grew older, the percentage of those exceptions dwindled. In college and university, it almost disappeared. Interestingly, my classmates from Srinagar never used my caste. They never tried to mould my name to fit their tongues, never sought to diminish it into something more palatable. They simply accepted it as it was.

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Back in my homeland, I have noticed a troubling pattern—people are addressed based on their social standing. If you belong to the highest pedestal of society, you are "Ghulam Rasool." If you belong to the lower strata, people call you “Lasseya or Lassa." It boils down to your appearance, your wealth, your perceived status. If you step onto a bus dressed well, you are politely asked to make space. If your clothes are torn and shabby, you are elbowed aside without a second thought. The discrimination remains unchanged. Why do we do this? Is it because we see value only in those who can offer us something? Our minds are shackled by a profit-and-loss mentality—those who can help us are respected, those who cannot are discarded.

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A well-dressed man is assumed to be successful and worthy of admiration, while a struggling soul in tattered clothes is deemed unworthy of even a kind word. This disease is universal, but I remind myself—there are exceptions. And I say it in one breath.

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I have encountered former classmates who have now reached the peak of success. But when they meet those who have not "made it," they refuse to call them by name. Their tone reeks of arrogance, superiority, as if time has widened the gap beyond repair. I have seen well-read individuals, those who wear their religious knowledge like a badge of honour, still call me by my caste. And yet, the same people, when speaking to someone socially acceptable, use their full name with utmost respect.

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In some rare instances, caste is suffixed with "saeb," a token of respect. But does that truly erase the underlying bias?

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I do not know how people address each other in other parts of India. Does this discrimination connect to psychology? Perhaps. Perhaps not. But what I do know is that stripping someone of their name is stripping them of their dignity. It is unbecoming of us to deny people the simple respect of being called by their proper names. And I say it in one breath once again—there are exceptions.

Most people address others with love and warmth. When we affectionately call our children and grandchildren "saeb," should we not extend the same courtesy to the neighbour’s child, even if his hands are calloused from labour? Shouldn't we embrace both—the soft, velvet-like hands of privilege and the cracked, river-mapped hands of struggle—with equal warmth?

During my two-year post-graduation in Srinagar, I would return home every month or two. Each time, I noticed something peculiar. As long as I was in university, people addressed me by my first name and it always felt good. But the moment I returned home, my seven-lettered name was shortened to five.

Let me conclude with a recent observation. A man was walking past two people idling by the roadside. One of them called out, "Hassneh!" The other quickly corrected him, "Don't call him Hassneh. He is Ghulam Hassan now—he is rich." A name once ridiculed, now respected. But must we really wait for wealth and status before we give people the dignity they deserve?

Tanveer Magrey has a Masters in Convergent Journalism from Central University of Kashmir and he lives in Tangmarg.