Why The Indian Government Fears A Caste Census
(ANALYSIS) The central government’s gazette notification for India’s upcoming 2027 census omits the word “caste.” This, despite earlier public assurances that caste data would be collected.
The absence of explicit mention has triggered accusations of deliberate evasion. Is the reluctance tied to the disruptive potential of a full caste enumeration—one that could unsettle the ideological foundations of Hindu nationalist politics?
The notification “talks about census, not caste census,” pointed out Congress party leader Jairam Ramesh. “Why caste is not mentioned in it – has PM Modi changed his mind?” he asked, as reported by The Times of India.
A caste census would generate official data on the socio-economic status of every caste group, exposing the scale of inequality and forcing a reconfiguration of political representation, resource allocation and policy priorities. It would also strike at the core of Hindu nationalism’s simplified narrative that Hindus are a unified community facing a common external threat.
The narrative hides the strict caste divisions that affect the daily lives of most Hindus. Caste breaks this false idea of unity by showing how unequal the society really is, with some groups having far less power, resources and respect than others — shifting attention away from the constructed external enemy of Muslim and Christian minorities.
Further, if a census counts religion but not caste, the majority appears unified. If it counts caste, that illusion collapses. Dalits (Scheduled Castes), Adivasis (Scheduled Tribes) and Other Backward Classes (OBCs) together account for an overwhelming numerical share of the Hindu population. Combined, these groups comprise about 66 % of the total Indian population — and similarly within the Hindu population, they form an overwhelming majority.
Yet the representation of these groups in wealth, education, private enterprise, media and upper bureaucracy remains disproportionately low, as shown by both government and independent data sources. This contradiction becomes statistically undeniable through caste enumeration.
It’s like a company that claims all its employees are equal partners, but an internal audit reveals that all senior roles are held by just one group, while the others remain stuck in entry-level jobs despite decades of service. That audit disrupts the story the leadership has told investors. In a similar way, a caste census is an audit of power within the supposed unity of Hindu society.
A caste census would force political parties, especially those with upper-caste dominance, to rework their strategies. Power-sharing negotiations, candidate selection, welfare allocation and even internal party leadership would come under pressure from caste groups armed with fresh legitimacy.
In Bihar, where a caste survey has already taken place in some form, these changes are already evident. The data revealed that OBCs (including Extremely Backward Classes) made up over 63 % of the population, and Dalits nearly 20 %. This spurred a push to raise reservation quotas to 65 %, actions that are now contested in court. It also stirred political competition, especially in the run-up to elections, as parties vied for credit.
A national caste census would multiply such claims across the country.
The ruling party’s appeal rests heavily on its image as a champion of development and national pride. Caste awareness challenges that by bringing in a different logic — one that speaks of historical injustice and rights, and reminds the country that much remains to be done before claiming greatness. Welfare would then be seen as repayment of a long-standing social debt, not as an act of generosity. The debate would move from who deserves subsidies to who has been systematically denied privilege.
Even the state machinery stands to be reshaped. Bureaucracy, judiciary, armed forces and academia all have deep caste imbalances. Once caste data is officially documented, it creates pressure to re-examine not just representation, but also access and opportunity.
The government may then be pushed to act on fronts it prefers to ignore, whether it’s reservation in the private sector, targeted budget allocations, or reforming hiring practices in institutions that remain the preserve of dominant castes.
There is also the issue of narrative control. In the absence of caste data, the government can frame its performance around metrics like GDP, unemployment and inflation without acknowledging how differently these impact various caste groups. For example, if OBC or Dalit unemployment is significantly higher than the national average, or if malnutrition among Scheduled Castes persists despite economic growth, the government’s claims of inclusive development lose credibility. Caste data grounds economic policy in uncomfortable truth.
Avoiding the caste census preserves political convenience. It allows governments to keep reservations capped, avoid reclassifications and continue dealing with the majority community as a unit rather than a layered hierarchy.
The fact that the state can mobilise the machinery to count toilets and mobile phones but not caste groups tells us that the fear is not about feasibility, but about what the data might force India to admit. A caste census cannot solve discrimination, but it does make denial more difficult.
This article has been published in partnership with Newsreel Asia.
Vishal Arora is an independent journalist based in New Delhi, India, who covers Asia and beyond. He serves as editor of @Newsreel_Asia and is a board member of The Media Project. He’s written for many outlets including The Wall Street Journal, The Diplomat and The Caravan.