A few years ago, while working on a mental health initiative for the Pune Police during the pandemic, we were involved in a heated argument with fellow psychologists over a poster design. The image depicted a constable holding a stick – a lathi – standing alert. Colleagues were adamant: “Let’s not show cops with sticks. Please remove it from their hand.” We disagreed. “We must show the police as they are, not as we wish them to be.” The lathi is not just an object but a symbol of authority and violence. If we hope to change the system, we must begin with honest representations, not sanitised fantasies. That memory came rushing back this week when a disturbing video surfaced from Pune’s Kothrud Police Station.Three Dalit women residing in a hostel were allegedly taken to the Kothrud police station during a missing‑person inquiry and subjected to physical and mental harassment. The women claim they endured physical violence and casteist slurs, including comments about their birth, sexual behaviour and attire, delivered by police officers. These allegations have sparked outrage, with rights activists and political leaders demanding a thorough investigation and strict action against the officers involved.The Kothrud incident is not an aberration but a symptom of something larger at play. Recently, in an effort to curb the online glorification of youth gangs in Pimpri Chinchwad city, the Office of the Police Commissioner launched a social media campaign aimed at shaming gang members. As part of this campaign, apprehended gang members were compelled to post videos online referring to their gang leaders as “Chapri Bhai (petty goon)”. Local media and law enforcement officials applauded this initiative as an “innovative” policing strategy to delegitimise gang culture among the urban youth. However, this tactic reveals a deeply troubling and caste-insensitive dimension of policing in India.The term “Chapri” is a widely used derogatory slur derived from the Chapparband caste – a historically marginalised community in India. By institutionalising the use of this casteist term in a public policing campaign, the police not only legitimised caste-based humiliation but also exposed the pervasive lack of social sensitivity and caste literacy within the leadership ranks of law enforcement. Rather than addressing the structural factors that contribute to gang formation – such as unemployment, caste-based discrimination and social, economic urban neglect – this campaign resorted to public shaming rooted in casteist abuse. Such practices raise urgent questions about the internalised caste biases in day-to-day policing and the broader institutional failure to uphold the dignity and rights of marginalised communities. One must understand that the patterns of caste-based biases in policing a a pan Indian phenomenon. Dalit youths like Somnath Suryavanshi and Arun Valmiki died in police custody in Chhatrapati Sambhajinagar and Agra, respectively. In Tamil Nadu, the custodial deaths of Jayaraj and Bennicks in 2020 shocked the country – yet led to no structural overhaul.Dalits, Adivasis and Bahujan youth are more likely to be stopped, frisked, detained or beaten. Caste-biased criminal profiling and connecting caste identity of Dalit, Adivasi, OBC, NT, D-NT caste individuals with criminality by the Indian police force is a routine phenomenon in day-to-day policing activity. Even after changes in the law and the Criminal Procedure Code, the Indian police system seems to practice institutional caste biases rooted in the caste structure and colonial-era policing modus operandi. We observe that FIRs filed by such community members are more likely to be ignored, diluted or dismissed. Their deaths in custody are more likely to be explained away as suicide, accident or ‘medical emergency’. More than 70% of India’s prisoners are undertrials, waiting for justice, and a majority of these individuals belong to marginalised caste communities.Documentation efforts in the Status of Policing in India Report 2025 by Common Cause and Lokniti reflect that victims of police torture are most often from India’s most marginalised communities – Dalits and oppressed castes, Muslims, tribal communities, women, children and the poor. The report also states that more than two out of three police personnel from Gujarat believe that Dalits are “naturally prone to committing crimes whereas police personnel from Gujarat, Assam, and Rajasthan are most likely to believe that Adivasis are “naturally prone to committing crimes.” This is not policing based on evidence. This is prejudice, stereotypes and discrimination in action.But the challenge of caste in policing isn’t limited to how the public is treated – it runs deeper, into the very fabric of the criminal justice institution, from the police and judiciary to the media. When it comes to the police system, speak to police officers from Dalit and Bahujan communities, and many will quietly recount what it means to be seen, but not fully accepted, within the ranks. Sometimes it’s overt: being passed over for promotions, or being posted to less desirable locations or roles. However, it is often more subtle – being excluded from informal networks, having one’s authority questioned, or being second-guessed by subordinates from dominant-caste backgrounds. In their informal conversations, police personnel also reflect the presence of the caste-based informal and formal lobbies working within the police system.Advocate Bindu Dodahatti, who has studied the intersection of caste and policing extensively, argues that the police force does not simply reflect social hierarchies – it reproduces and legitimises them. In her research on the representation and lived experiences of Dalit police personnel, she describes how institutional casteism manifests through practices that appear neutral on the surface but are deeply discriminatory in their effects. From recruitment to retirement, Dalit officers often find themselves negotiating an environment that is formally structured by law, but informally shaped by caste norms. Dodahatti also cautions against over-celebrating representation. Simply having OBC/SC/ST officers in the system does not automatically translate into institutional reform. Instead, she advocates for deeper structural shifts – ensuring that institutional cultures are interrogated, grievance redressal mechanisms are robust, and that police departments are held accountable not just for outcomes but for how they treat their own. Her work makes it clear that anti-caste policing must begin from within.Another revealing faultline within the Indian police and the bureaucracy at large is the deep discomfort with the Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes (Prevention of Atrocities) Act. This unease is most evident among upper-caste officers, whose worldview is shaped by their upper caste social location that sees the law not as a safeguard for justice but as a threat to caste privilege and institutional impunity. Within police ranks, the SC/ST (PoA) Act is routinely portrayed as a “misused” tool by Dalit activists – an allegation that reflects a deeper anxiety: that oppressed communities are finally asserting their right to hold the state accountable. This narrative doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It echoes broader efforts by dominant-caste groups, such as the Marathas in Maharashtra, to dilute the Act in response to the growing political assertion and legal literacy of Dalits and other marginalised castes. Indeed, no law is beyond misuse. But the disproportionate vilification of the SC/ST Act reveals more about the casteism embedded in state institutions than about the law itself. Framing it as dangerous allows the bureaucracy to sidestep its own caste bias, delegitimise anti-caste activism, and preserve a status quo where dominant-caste impunity goes unchecked.This legal debate, which is also a social backlash, reflects how institutions that venerate the Constitution simultaneously work to subvert its emancipatory promise when it comes to addressing the caste-based social, political and cultural order. In calling the SC/ST Act “misused”, the state isn’t defending justice but is instead defending caste power, dressed up in the language of technocratic reform and neutrality. Moreover, police reform cannot be limited to public-facing behaviours or compliance with legal provisions. It must reach into the heart of police institutions – to how authority is exercised, how respect is distributed, and how caste continues to shape internal hierarchies in ways both explicit and invisible. Anti-caste policing cannot be reduced to a single workshop on ‘sensitivity’ or symbolic gestures of inclusion. It calls for a rethinking of the values that underpin policing itself – placing justice, dignity and equality at the centre. This means moving beyond a so-called ‘caste-neutral’ stance, which often masks existing hierarchies, toward a conscious engagement with the lived realities of caste-based marginalisation.Training efforts for this initiative must draw not only from legal frameworks but from the knowledge of anti-caste scholars, community organisers and survivors of caste violence. Embedding Ambedkarite values into police education is not an ideological choice – it is a constitutional responsibility. Similarly, the SC/ST (Prevention of Atrocities) Act must be implemented with depth, not just in formality. Civilian oversight bodies need to reflect the voices of Dalit and Bahujan communities, not merely administrative experience. Within the police force, reform must also be intersectional. A Dalit woman constable, for instance, may navigate institutional fatigue compounded by layers of caste and gender-based exclusion. Addressing well-being in such cases requires a structural, not individualised, approach.Anti-caste policing is not a superficial demand. It is a constitutional necessity. The right to equality (Article 14), the abolition of untouchability (Article 17), and protection from discrimination (Article 15) are not optional guidelines – they are fundamental rights. Every time a person from a marginalised caste is humiliated and denied protection, the State violates its own laws.This moment demands courage – not only from the police, but from those of us who work with them, critique them and dream of something better. We must look at the system with radical honesty. That is the only way forward.Dr Gayatri Kotbagi is an assistant professor at the Department of Psychological Sciences, FLAME University, PuneAnand Kshirsagar is a graduate student of Public Policy at Harris School of Public Policy, University of Chicago.