Inmein to koi raunak nahin hai, khushboo nahin haiDauran, batao, tum hi batao ye kinke ghar hain?(There is no vibrancy here, no fragrance to be foundDauran, tell me, you tell me, whose homes are these)Urdu poet Owais Ahmed Dauran had penned this couplet at a time when, during Indira Gandhi’s Emergency, he was compelled to seek refuge in the home of a mehtar (a member of the scavenger community) in my village, in order to escape the repressive machinery of the state.When I visited the mehtar’s home some time ago – a dwelling that, much like the filth and refuse of the so-called ‘elite’ households, had been cast out to the fringes of the settlement and concealed from public view – the sorrow radiating from his hearth seemed to settle profoundly in my gaze, and an odd, unsettling stench seemed to infiltrate my very breath.I sat there for a long while, reflecting upon Dauran saheb while observing the courtyard: a gentle, dappled shade fell upon it from the tree overhead; in one corner – within an enclosure fashioned from rotting bamboo strips – a foul, muddy stench rose into the air; and along one side, partially shielded by the house wall yet simultaneously laying the courtyard bare, clothes hung from old wooden pegs.Amidst all this, I experienced a sense of restlessness within myself – a yearning to truly perceive my own existence – and so, I found myself enquiring…And mehtar – who was engrossed in crafting decorative items, perhaps for a wedding, out of thin, skillfully whittled strips of bamboo – replied, “Ah, so you are asking about Mai and Babu? Had they been still alive, they would have told you themselves… For as long as they lived, they went about carrying the red flag with the sickle and hammer symbol…”While the mehtar was speaking, for some reason, what I appeared to be hearing was this: “Dauran Saheb’s comrades have passed away; now, only I remain – along with this one-room house, which was allotted to us years ago under the Indira Awaas scheme.”Even though a government scheme may have, at some point, transformed their humble hutment into a brick-and-mortar house, the “caste” of this dwelling remains known to everyone to this very day.And the stark, visible truth is that this brick house has now begun to reveal the frailty of its construction in countless places; here and there, bricks have gone missing; elsewhere, a half-dislodged brick clings on precariously, crumbling at the edges; and cracks, crisscrossing the walls, are gradually reducing the entire structure to a state of dilapidation. Meanwhile, the soot rising from the earthen stove situated in the tiny veranda has already smeared its blackness across the original redness of these bricks.Dauran saheb must have recited that couplet while gazing upon a very different incarnation of this house; yet, even years later – despite the arrival of bricks to replace the bamboo poles, mud, and thatch – the profound truth embodied in that verse hasn’t truly changed.I have alluded to this house on a previous occasion, but today I wish to recount the story once again – this time in Dauran saheb’s own words – specifically regarding the notion that “houses have no caste.” Such a political statement has, with great simplicity, served to perpetuate a lie – one that is often conveniently reiterated in the assertion that all human beings are equal; that social hierarchies and distinctions of high and low status are relics of a bygone era; that such things simply do not happen anymore; and, finally, the claim that “we, for one, do not subscribe to any of this.”If one observes closely, this statement emerges directly from the actual conduct and hypocrisy of that very society – donning, quite formally, the garb of political rhetoric. Much like the tusks of an elephant, it serves merely as a display piece, while deep within the psyche, a toxic and ugly truth continues to writhe and shift uneasily.Be that as it may, before I offer any further commentary on the cunning nature of this deceptive and misleading statement, do listen to Dauran saheb’s recollection (as translated to English):“During the era of Indira Gandhi’s Emergency, I was hiding at the home of a comrade – a sweeper by profession. That poor comrade of mine – whose home reeked terribly and in one corner of which pigs were kept – was ready to lay down his very life for my sake. His wife, too, felt the exact same way. I remained hidden at their place for three or four days. His wife would prepare bhujiya – a dish of fried potatoes that was half-raw and half-burnt – along with charred rotis; she would place this food before me with immense love and affection, and I would eat it. I – a man of refined tastes when it comes to food, one who typically prioritizes gourmet cuisine – continued to eat the meals prepared by my poor, sympathetic comrade’s unkempt wife without the slightest hesitation…I do not know when our class-ridden society – and the wretched social order it has established, fractured by caste divisions – will finally come to an end, or when human beings will truly be accorded their dignity. I feel a deep sense of shame living my life within the confines of this system. As I write these words, my pen trembles: my comrade was a mehtar (scavenger), and his unkempt, ragged wife was a mehtrani.Rise up! Rise and utterly dismantle this vile, degrading social order, so that a human being may simply be a human being – no longer a mehtar or a dom. Let every individual possess a home to dwell in – a home free from the gloom of darkness and the stench of filth…”Dauran saheb hailed from the elite class. He was a handsome, slender Pathan. On numerous occasions, he spoke and wrote openly against the arrogance of racial pride – that is, the notion of caste superiority – and was a staunch proponent of viewing every human being as nothing more or less than a human being. His entire struggle was dedicated to the cause of social equality; perhaps that is precisely why he was able to perceive the dense darkness within this home, to comprehend the bitterness of burnt bread, and to truly feel the oppression of a system where a human being is not recognised as a human, but merely as a mehtar or a halalkhor – a system where one’s very home is defined solely by this caste identity.In this context, one might offer a piece of counsel to the Honourable Union home minister: step away from the political theatrics, the elaborate fanfare and logistical machinery of merely dining at the homes of Dalits. Instead, he should consider actually staying overnight in those homes – homes situated in some remote corner of a village, far removed even from the shadows of our elite residences – where the caste system, in all its ugliness, continues to exist today, starkly exposing its shameful reality.And if even that proves unfeasible, let him simply stand in any village or rural hamlet across the country and, with a mere gesture of his hand, ask: “To whom do these houses belong?” Rest assured, the very first truth he will encounter in the answer he receives will be – caste.And if I were asked to describe my village or city – specifically in the context of its Muslim inhabitants – I could pinpoint with absolute precision exactly which neighborhood, which corner, or which hamlet houses the faqirs (Shah), where the dhuniya (cotton-carders) reside, in which direction lie the homes of the raine (vegetable vendors), and exactly where one finds the homes of those “low-born weavers” – the very group Sir Syed once disparaged.I could also tell you the exact distance from my local railway station to the ‘Mithila Deep Halt’ – the very place where a woman from a pamariya household once confided in me, saying, “It fills us with deep shame when people refer to us as ‘the dancer’s wife’.”I have highlighted this specific context because, politically speaking, it is frequently asserted that caste distinctions do not exist among Muslims – that all are equal. While this is not the appropriate moment to dwell at length on the politics that conflates the religion of Islam with the diverse reality of Muslims, the spatial geography of Muslim households has undoubtedly emerged as a compelling subject for academic study.Speaking from my own experience, the shadow of a Faqir’s home never falls upon that of a Syed; rather, it falls upon the courtyard of a Dalit. In light of this reality, those who claim that “houses have no caste” ought to be reminded: you speak of houses, yet here, even the shrines possess a caste identity.Indeed, in Darbhanga, there once lived a sufi, a revered saint, from the Faqir community named Baba Ashiq Shah. So few people visit his shrine that the meager donations fail to cover even the shrine’s basic upkeep. Yet, if you were to visit the shrine of an elite figure elsewhere in this very same city, the sheer multitude of devotees would leave you utterly astounded. Is this disparity a manifestation of genuine faith, or is it simply because a Faqir remains a Faqir – whether within the confines of his own home or at his final resting place?I raise these points because the BJP’s newfound affinity for the backward communities is no longer a secret. Given this interest, they might perhaps be keen to understand the caste dynamics underlying these Muslim households – thereby enabling them to translate their slogan ‘Sabka Saath, Sabka Vikas’ into a tangible reality on the ground with genuine earnestness. In reality, the Honourable home minister is well aware that our neighbourhoods and localities are not merely divided along religious lines; within their respective faiths, they are fragmented – to a far greater extent – by the rigid frameworks of caste.And leaving aside the traditional neighbourhoods, the situation in the residential societies of our metropolises regarding this identity rooted in religion and caste is no different. Even if, by some rare coincidence, a place happens to be free of such divisions, how long does it take for that very fact to become headline news? Whether it is the politics of hate flaring up because a house was sold to a Muslim, or a dispute over namaz (prayer) simply because a neighbour happens to be Muslim – a multitude of such reports demonstrate that houses, too, possess a caste identity. And if they do not inherently possess one, it takes no time at all for those intent on guarding their identity in the name of religion to impose one upon them.Let me remind you that those who engage in the politics of caste – followed by the politics of religion – are acutely aware of when to utilise a bulldozer and when to sideline caste identity in the name of religion. They know exactly when to label someone as marginalised and when to refer to them merely as a Hindu. This represents a politics of opportunism – a deceptive ploy designed to divert attention away from the real issues at stake.In essence, when you deny that houses possess a caste identity, what you are actually seeking to deny is the necessity of a caste census. And the direct implication of this denial is a continued refusal to grant equitable representation – for as long as, and to the greatest extent that, it remains possible to do so.Otherwise, our homes – and their specific geographical placement – have always served as constant reminders of our ascribed social status at birth; and now, alongside caste, the very geography of our homes is being rigidly defined in the name of religion as well.To sum up, houses possess a hunger of their own; they have a caste, they have affluence, they have poverty – and they certainly possess a religion and a faith. And regarding such houses that possess no caste identity, a poet once aptly observed:Ghar ki taameer tasavvur hi mein ho sakti haiApne naqsh-e ke mutabiq ye zameen kuch kam hai(A home can truly be constructed only within the realms of imaginationFor this earth, as it exists, is far too constricted to accommodate the blueprint of one’s own design)And then, of course, there are those who do not have a home available to them at all. For them too, one can offer nothing but a single couplet: Ba-zair-e-qasr-e-gardoon kya koi aaraam se soyeYeh chhat aisi purani hai ki shabnam se tapakti hai(Beneath the palace of the heavens, how can anyone sleep in peaceThis roof is so ancient that it leaks even from the dew)This article first appeared on The Wire Hindi. It has been translated by Naushin Rehman.