Caste in America

I’ve found myself drifting further left than I expected this year. Much of that is circumstantial, being involved in local activism in the United States naturally places one within progressive coalitions. Yet even in this frame, my ideological compass is firmly rooted in some admiration for Brahminical continuity and Bharat Mata as civilizational anchor.

At times I speculate on where Bharat truly ends. Is it the Hindu Kush? The Iranian plateau? The Persian world has always seemed to me about 20–30% Indianise; its mythology, musicality, and memory bear the imprint of the Indo-Aryan stream more than the Indo-European one, no matter how insistently modern Iranians lean toward a Westward identification.

This brings me to a provocative thesis I’ve often floated: that Brahmins are the civilisational custodians of the Indian subcontinent, and that their displacement often signals a broader cultural erasure. The tragedy of the Kashmiri Panditsis not merely a community’s trauma, but a warning. Without Brahminical continuity, Vedic frameworks falter. Hinduism in Pakistan and Bangladesh remains vulnerable precisely because it lacks the embedded authority and supervisory function of Brahmin elites to anchor Vedic traditions and calibrate resistance to incessant Islamisation.

I’ve long suspected that some contemporary coalitions, while often formed in the name of Dalit justice, may in fact contain strong anti-Brahmin undercurrents. And while I absolutely support Dalit rights and empowerment, the political cost of Brahmin exclusion may be civilisational.

Take Urdu culture, for example. I’ve previously described it, somewhat provocatively, as a “circumcised version of Brahminical culture.” This was meant to highlight how deeply Indianised many of the cultural artefacts associated with Indo-Islamic identity truly are: Kathak, biryani, the Taj Mahal, and much of the Mughal aesthetic are either rooted in Indian forms or heavily domesticated by Indian cultural logics.

However, in the interest of fairness, I want to acknowledge an important corrective offered by Kabir, who responded with a high-signal comment drawing on his training as an ethnomusicologist:

“Your point on high culture is frankly incorrect and completely contrary to the scholarly consensus. Take Hindustani classical music, for example—it is most definitely an Indo-Islamic art form. The patron saint is Hazrat Amir Khusrao. The first gharana was the ‘Qawaal bachon ka gharana’. The music developed in the Mughal courts. To this day, the vilambit khayal composition often carries the signature of Sadarang, a Muslim. As late as the early 20th century, the major gharanas were dominated by Muslims. Pandit Bhatkhande himself lamented that ‘our music was in the hands of Muslims and dancing girls’.”

This is a powerful and necessary clarification. It reminds us that civilisational memory is never unilinear and that “high culture” in the subcontinent has always been a space of entanglement and exchange, often under Muslim patronage, and sometimes against Brahminical orthodoxy.

Still, my broader point remains: many elements considered emblematic of “Islamicate” identity on the subcontinent were birthed, brokered, or indigenised in ways that blur any neat Arab, Persian, or Central Asian genealogy. That tension, the fusion and the friction, is the hallmark of India’s civilisational genius.

Kabir’s correction elevates the conversation, and I thank him for it.