By Lalita Ahlawat and Shivansh Rastogi
A Historic Headcount for Caste
India is poised to conduct a nationwide caste census for the first time in nearly a century, a bold (others contend regressive) addition to its next population survey, delayed to 2026-27. This means the decennial census will enumerate citizens by their caste identities, an exercise last done in 1931 under British rule. Independent India’s post-1947 censuses recorded only Dalits and Adivasis, included in the Scheduled Castes and Tribes, while treating everyone else as “general” category. Now, after decades of resisting such counting, New Delhi has approved collecting caste details “to ensure transparency” and address social disparities. The move comes amid fervent political debate and social soul-searching, underscoring how profoundly caste still shapes the world’s most populous nation. A government census enumerator collects information from a household in rural India during an earlier survey. The upcoming census will include a full caste count, the first since 1931, aiming to shed light on the social composition of India’s 1.4 billion people. Supporters hail this as a long-needed step for informed policymaking, while critics fear it may inflame caste divisions. What exactly is a caste census? In simple terms, it means that alongside usual questions on age, gender, and education, census-takers will ask Indians to state their caste or community. India’s caste system is an ancient, hereditary social hierarchy that categorises people into thousands of groups, from Brahmins, priestly upper castes, to Dalits, historically menaced with due the label of “untouchables,” and indigenous tribes at the bottom. These identities profoundly influence social status and opportunity, dictating, as one account notes, “from what to eat to where to live, to whom to socialise with or marry, to what educational and professional opportunities are available” for a majority of Indians. Yet for decades, the official data on most castes have been virtually nonexistent or woefully outdated. The last comprehensive caste data for all communities came from 1931; after independence, the new republic pointedly stopped counting caste (beyond SC/ST) in an effort to promote unity. A one-off Socio-Economic and Caste Census (SECC) in 2011 did attempt to tally OBCs and others, but the results were deemed error-ridden and never released. That left India “flying blind” on caste demographics, says Poonam Muttreja of the Population Foundation, who argues that policymakers have been designing affirmative action and welfare programs in the dark without accurate data. The upcoming census, covering an estimated 1.42 billion people, is set to finally illuminate the true caste composition of Indian society, as per the proponents of the activity.
Politics and Pressure Behind the Headcount
The push for a caste census gained unabated momentum in recent years, driven by electoral politics as much as social justice. Opposition parties, including the Congress party led by Gandhi family scion, Rahul Gandhi, and regional allies, have long demanded a fresh caste count to recalibrate India’s affirmative action policies. They argue it’s impossible to craft fair quotas or welfare schemes without knowing how many people belong to each caste, especially the historically disadvantaged Other Backward Classes (OBCs). Estimates of the OBC population currently range widely, from around 36%, as per some surveys, to over 50%, as assumed by the 1980 Mandal Commission, reflecting how dated and imprecise the data are. “We are effectively designing policies in the dark while claiming to pursue social justice,” Muttreja warns, underscoring the need for an accurate count. For the ruling Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), however, the caste census was a sensitive proposition. Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s government had initially resisted updating caste data, with BJP leaders warning that “counting people by caste…would deepen social divisions”. As recently as 2021, the central government told the Supreme Court that a full caste enumeration was administratively too complex. But the political calculus shifted after a series of political setbacks and perceived rising lower-caste discontent. In 2023, the BJP lost a major state election in Karnataka to Congress amid anger over quota cuts, and saw a formidable opposition alliance coalesce nationally on a pro-caste-survey platform. Facing a chorus of demands, even from some of its own coalition partners, the BJP made a stunning about-face. In April 2025, just ahead of crucial state elections, Modi’s cabinet approved adding caste questions to the coming census. Information Minister Ashwini Vaishnaw framed it as a “historic” move to empower disadvantaged communities and “ensure transparency” rather than leaving the task to piecemeal state surveys. Nevertheless, the very concern that led the BJP to resist a caste census, one of exacerbating societal division, still persists. Notably, this announcement came on the eve of an election in Bihar, one of India’s poorest, and politically most significant states, long known for caste-centric politics. Bihar’s own government, then led by a regional alliance opposing the BJP, had already forged ahead with a statewide caste survey and released the findings in October 2023, to national fanfare. That Bihar census revealed OBCs and “Extremely Backward Classes” together make up a whopping 63% of Bihar’s 130 million people. Dalits or the Scheduled Castes account for about 19.7%, Scheduled Tribes 1.7%, and the rest, the so-called “upper” or unreserved castes, just 15.5%. The data confirmed what many had long assumed, lower and backward castes form the large majority, while traditional elites are relatively small in number. Bihar’s exercise was heralded by its architects as a template for a nationwide caste census, and opposition leaders vowed that “when we form the next government at the Centre” they would implement it across India. Sensing the public resonance of this issue, the BJP-led central government has now moved to take ownership of the caste count, a classic case of political oneupmanship over who champions “social justice” for India’s masses. Both sides clearly see electoral arithmetic at stake. Many of India’s political parties, including the BJP, owe their success to carefully crafted caste coalitions. Modi’s party, though traditionally associated with upper-caste leadership, has built a broad base among OBC groups in recent years, the Prime Minister himself hails from an OBC community. A credible new count of caste groups could reset the calculations of which communities command numerical clout, and thus how parties woo them. It is no accident that Congress leader Rahul Gandhi has popularised the slogan “jitni aabadi, utna haq” (proportionate share in power to each community). Gandhi argues that if OBCs constitute, say, 50% of Indians, they should likewise have 50% of jobs and opportunities, not the 27% reservation they currently receive under a decades-old quota system. His party has even pledged to raise the quota ceiling, currently capped at 50% for all reserved categories by a Supreme Court ruling, to accommodate the true proportions of backward classes. The BJP, wary of ceding this narrative to the opposition, now highlighting that a national census will be more “scientific” and fair than politically driven state surveys . In effect, India’s ruling party has been “flummoxed into action” by pressure from below, as one analyst put it, and is keen not to be seen as anti-OBC going into upcoming elections. However, what no one seems to take note of, particularly in a free, democratic society, espousing equality, and that applies in context of equity in access to all kinds of opportunities, is the slow and appalling demise of meritocracy; which now seems out of the equation.
Objectives of the Caste Count
What do leaders hope to accomplish with a caste census? Officially, the goal is to gather granular data to better target government benefits and uplift disadvantaged groups. Supporters say knowing the population of each caste, and their socio-economic indicators, will help update affirmative action policies, allocate scholarships or welfare schemes, and ensure no community is left behind. “The aim…is not just to know the count of various castes but their participation in the country’s wealth as well,” Rahul Gandhi has stated. Indeed, a big motivation is to reveal how equitably or not India’s economic gains are spread among castes. There is widespread suspicion that historically oppressed communities have not benefited proportionately from India’s growth, and fresh data could confirm the extent of that disparity, providing a basis for course correction. Wealth and income statistics already hint at profound caste-based inequalities. According to the World Inequality Lab, over 88% of India’s billionaire wealth is controlled by upper-caste families, whereas Dalits and indigenous tribes have virtually no representation among the ultra-rich. Upper castes are estimated to own 55% of the country’s total household wealth, far above their share of the population. By contrast, lower caste groups remain disproportionately poor, only 12.3% of Dalits, Scheduled Castes, made it to the highest wealth bracket, while over 25% of Dalit households languish in the lowest wealth category. In rural economies, Dalits and OBCs often lack land or capital; in business, Dalits and Tribes are underrepresented as enterprise owners relative to their labor force participation. Such figures, supporters argue, underscore the need to quantify caste disparities comprehensively. A caste census would, in theory, enable more evidence-based policymaking to tackle these gaps, whether through updating reservation quotas, directing investments to neglected communities, or expanding support in education and jobs for those who need it most. There are also political objectives, albeit less openly stated. A detailed caste count might redraw the power map among India’s myriad communities, identifying which groups truly form large vote banks. This data could inform future constituency delimitations or power-sharing arrangements. Smaller sub-castes that feel overlooked might gain visibility. Parties championing particular castes could refine their strategies with better numbers. In short, the census has the potential to empower communities with new knowledge of their numeric strength, which is why many social justice activists celebrate it. As one commentator put it, “for people to discard [caste], it’s important for the state to gauge it accurately,” only by staring at the hard data can India confront the “structural inequalities that are often politically and socially inconvenient”.
Will Data Deliver on the Promises?
A crucial question is whether conducting a caste census will actually help achieve these lofty objectives. Skeptics warn that simply counting caste groups, while necessary, is not a panacea for deep-rooted inequality. For one, there is a risk the data could be politicised or misused. Once new numbers emerge, interest groups are likely to demand a bigger slice of the pie, more government job reservations, more university seats, perhaps even new quotas in the private sector and legislatures. India’s current reservation system allots 49.5% of seats in public jobs and colleges to lower castes, SC/ST 22.5% + OBC 27%. This is based on roughly half the population being “backward classes,” an assumption from old data. If the new census shows, say, 70% or 80% of Indians are from these groups, pressure will mount to raise the quota cap beyond 50%. “Demands to raise quotas” are virtually certain. Such a move would require constitutional amendments and is bound to ignite heated debate over meritocracy versus affirmative action. Already, states like Tamil Nadu breach the 50% limit, reserving up to 69%, and politicians like Gandhi have signalled readiness to change the rules nationally. Whether that ultimately “empowers” lower castes or triggers a backlash from those who feel left out, including many poor among the so-called upper castes, is an open question. Another concern is the accuracy and granularity of the data. India’s caste landscape is incredibly convoluted, there are hundreds of caste group names, often localised and overlapping. Enumerators will need to record self-reported caste identities across this diversity. A similar 2011 effort floundered partly because respondents gave ambiguous or inconsistent answers, and compiling the results proved challenging. The government insists it will ensure quality and “transparency” in this count. But experts caution that if the data collection is not meticulous, the results could be contested or even unusable, undermining the very purpose. Timing is also an issue, the census is slated to finish by March 2027, meaning any actionable insights, such as revised quotas or welfare allocations, may not come until late in the decade. Critics note that by then, the political landscape could shift again, and there’s no guarantee a future government won’t simply shelve or sit on uncomfortable findings, much like the last caste survey’s fate in 2011. “Now they have said census with caste enumeration will happen, but no one knows whether the data will be released in 2029 or 2030 or even later,” one observer wryly told The Federal , reflecting a skepticism borne of past experience. Most contentious is the social impact: Will a caste census diminish or deepen casteism? Opponents of the idea argue that an official count risks legitimising caste identities further. They contend that India should be trying to transcend caste divisions, not reinforce them by etching them into the census rolls. “Caste has no place in a country with ambitions of becoming a major world power,” goes the refrain. In this view, underscoring caste could balkanise society, fuel competition among groups, and perpetuate an identity politics that overshadows issues of common good. Some uppercaste groups have openly opposed the census, worried it will erode their historic privileges or lead to policies that favour other communities at their expense. Upper-caste anxiety is indeed palpable, witness the backlash in some quarters to the Bihar survey and to a recent popular film that highlighted caste discrimination, which was met with court cases from Brahmin organisations claiming it was defamatory. These critics ask, shouldn’t India’s focus be on economic development and poverty alleviation for all citizens, rather than counting caste and potentially re-dividing the pie on caste lines? On the other hand, supporters respond that ignoring caste does not make it disappear, it only obscures injustices. Far from sowing division, they argue, good data on caste can be the foundation for greater equality. After all, caste-based discrimination and violence remain harsh realities in India. Each year, authorities record over 50,000 cases of alleged “atrocities” against Dalits, ranging from social boycotts to assault and worse. Residential and occupational segregation by caste is still widespread, especially in rural India. Even in cities, Dalits and lower castes often face subtle exclusion. Proponents of the census contend that confronting these facts openly is necessary to galvanise action. They point to how policy breakthroughs in the past followed data revelations, for instance, the original 1931 caste census informed affirmative action in independent India, and a landmark 1980 report, using old data, led to the Mandal Commission quotas that uplifted millions of OBCs. To them, a new caste count is about naming and quantifying the problem, so that future generations may finally move beyond it. As Bloomberg columnist Andy Mukherjee, himself from a Brahmin family, wrote in support of the census, “discriminating against people based on who they marry and what they eat” might have suited an archaic vision of society, but “it’s a costly fantasy in a secular republic.” For Indians to truly discard the “abhorrent marker” of caste, the state first needs to measure it and acknowledge the disparities.
Caste Census and India’s 2047 Ambition
This debate feeds into a larger question: what does the caste census mean for India’s aspiration to become a developed nation by 2047, the 100th anniversary of independence? Prime Minister Modi has often invoked the goal of building a “Viksit Bharat” or developed India by 2047, a nation with a thriving economy and equitable society. In many ways, achieving that vision is inseparable from addressing caste-based inequities. No country can reach its full potential if large sections of its people remain socially and economically disadvantaged. Supporters of the caste count argue that India cannot simply wish away caste if it wants to be truly modern; it must tackle it head-on. Comprehensive caste data, they say, will force a reckoning with unequal access to education, jobs, and resources, spurring more inclusive growth. “For the country’s progress to continue without hindrance, society must become stronger economically and socially,” the government’s own statement noted, adding that counting caste will help ensure the social fabric isn’t torn by political pressures. In principle, a caste census could guide investments in human development, from schooling in Dalit hamlets to entrepreneurship programs for OBC women, that lift up marginalised groups, thereby boosting productivity and talent nationwide. An India in 2047 where the accident of birth no longer dictates one’s destiny would indeed be a stronger, more cohesive nation. Accurate data is a starting step toward that ideal of equality of opportunity. Yet the path is fraught with complexity. Some critics fear that an obsessive focus on caste-based entitlements could undermine meritocracy and innovation, ultimately slowing economic progress. They point to contentious proposals like dramatically expanding reservations, some politicians talk of “90% reservations” in government jobs, sparking fiery debate, while others such as Rashtriya Janata Dal’s Tejasvi Yadav (son of former Bihar Chief Minister Lalu Yadav and someone who has not even finished school) now demand reservation in the private sector as well, hence the question arises — whether this is the way to become a developed economy. If the post-census politics descend into a scramble for ever-greater quota slices by each group, the resulting policies might prioritise identity over merit or efficiency. Detractors worry such an outcome could discourage investment or drive India’s brightest talent abroad, hampering the 2047 dream. Social unity is another concern, a developed India, one might argue, should see citizens identifying as Indian first rather than primarily by caste. Will the caste census, even if done with good intentions, delay the fading of these identities by re-inscribing them in officialdom? It’s a delicate balance. The ideal scenario, as some visionaries describe 2047, is an India where “caste, religion, region and language would cease to divide” and what is best in tradition is carried forward while injustices are shed. In that sense, the caste census could be a double-edged sword, either a tool to hasten the end of caste hierarchy by spotlighting inequity, or a tool that entrenches caste consciousness further if handled poorly
A Turning Point in the World’s Largest Democracy
As India proceeds with this landmark census, the stakes are undeniably high. On one level, it is a long-overdue statistical exercise, filling glaring gaps in India’s knowledge about itself. It aims to count every community in detail, bringing facts to debates previously dominated by anecdotes and political rhetoric. The data could be revolutionary. It might reveal, for instance, that OBCs form well over half of India’s population, as many suspect, or it could show a more nuanced picture of myriad intermediate castes and minorities, each with their own struggles. It will certainly provide new insights into education levels, incomes, and living standards across different castes, since the census is expected to pair the caste question with socioeconomic data. Policymakers, academics, and activists are eagerly awaiting these findings, which could guide affirmative action policies for the next generation. On another level, the caste census is a mirror held up to Indian society. It forces the country to ask, are we willing to confront the truths it reflects? And if the public does confront and accept the truth of Indian society, don’t the country’s politicians almost certainly stand ready to ram it into an endless political quagmire? The process itself has already prompted a national conversation about the caste system’s place in 21st-century India. For a country often touted as the world’s next economic powerhouse, such introspection is critical. Does acknowledging caste-based gaps help build a more inclusive prosperity, or does it risk fracturing the social cohesion needed for growth? There is no easy answer yet. What is clear is that the caste census is more than just a count, it is a political and moral choice. As one Reuters report succinctly put it, supporters see it as essential “data on those deserving of government assistance,” while critics see caste as something India should outgrow in its quest to be a major world power. Both perspectives hold a kernel of truth. India’s challenge will be to ensure that counting caste becomes a means to reduce caste’s importance over time, by using the information to uplift the oppressed, rather than a way of perpetuating an identity fault line. In the coming years, as the census forms are filled out in every corner of the country from Himalayan villages to urban slums, India will effectively be taking stock of an old social order at the very moment it strives for a new future. The outcome, how the data is used, and to whose benefit, could well shape the republic’s social contract for decades. Is the caste census a step toward finally remedying an injustice and uniting India on a path of equitable development? Or will it entrench caste consciousness and spawn new conflicts? The answer may determine what kind of nation India will be when 2047 arrives. For now, as the saying goes, “You can’t fix what you don’t measure.” And so India has decided, at long last, to measure caste, and by doing so, perhaps begin to fix its deepest fault line.