Author Archives: notsomeritorios

The Geopolitics of Achaar: Fermentation, Memory, and the Minor Aesthetics of Indian Foreign Policy

Geopolitics is usually narrated through the language of states, borders, and strategy. Nations appear as rational actors, negotiating power through treaties, alliances, and conflicts. Yet beneath this formal vocabulary lies another register—one shaped by taste, memory, and everyday practices. To think about the geopolitics of achaar is to shift attention from the spectacle of diplomacy to the intimate textures through which nations are felt, carried, and remembered. It is to ask how something as seemingly ordinary as pickle participates in the making of transnational belonging and, by extension, in the subtle formations of Indian foreign policy.

Achaar is not merely food. It is a technique of preservation, a method of extending the life of ingredients through fermentation, oil, salt, and spice. But it is also a cultural object saturated with memory. Recipes are transmitted across generations, often within domestic spaces coded as feminine and familial. The taste of achaar carries with it histories of region, caste, and household practices.

In diasporic contexts, achaar acquires a different significance. It becomes a portable archive—a way of carrying the homeland into foreign spaces. Here, the work of Jhumpa Lahiri offers a compelling lens. Her writing frequently dwells on the textures of displacement, the quiet negotiations of identity that occur in kitchens, dining tables, and everyday routines. Food, in her narratives, is not simply sustenance; it is a medium through which memory persists and belonging is negotiated.

Achaar, within such a framework, can be understood as a minor diplomatic object. It does not operate through official channels, yet it circulates across borders, shaping perceptions of India in intimate ways. A jar of pickle shared in a foreign household does not announce itself as diplomacy, but it participates in a form of cultural exchange that is deeply affective.

This suggests an alternative understanding of foreign policy—one that moves beyond statecraft to include what might be called everyday geopolitics. The Indian state often engages in cultural diplomacy through cuisine, festivals, and soft power initiatives. Yet these efforts are complemented, and sometimes exceeded, by the practices of individuals who carry their cultures with them.

Achaar’s role in this process is particularly interesting because it embodies a logic of preservation and transformation. The ingredients change through fermentation; they become something else while retaining traces of their origin. This mirrors the experience of diaspora, where identities are neither fully preserved nor entirely transformed but exist in a state of ongoing negotiation.

From a theoretical perspective, achaar can be seen as a temporal object. It holds time within it—the slow process of fermentation, the accumulation of flavour, the endurance of taste. When consumed in a foreign context, it collapses temporal distance, bringing the past into the present. This temporal dimension adds depth to its geopolitical significance. It is not just a marker of place but of continuity.

At the same time, achaar is not neutral. Its production and circulation are shaped by social hierarchies. Access to certain ingredients, the labour of preparation, and the transmission of recipes are all embedded within structures of caste, class, and gender. The jar of pickle that travels across borders carries within it these layered histories, even if they are not immediately visible.

This raises questions about what kind of India is represented through such objects. Whose tastes become emblematic of the nation? Which regional or caste-based practices are elevated as “authentic,” and which remain marginal? The geopolitics of achaar thus intersects with the politics of representation within the nation itself.

Returning to Jhumpa Lahiri, her work often resists the idea of a singular, unified identity. Instead, it foregrounds fragmentation, hybridity, and the quiet persistence of difference. Achaar, in this sense, aligns with her literary sensibility. It does not present a fixed image of India but a mutable one, shaped by context and experience.

In the domain of formal foreign policy, such nuances are often flattened. Nations are represented through coherent narratives, designed to project stability and unity. Yet the everyday practices of diaspora complicate these narratives, introducing multiplicity and contradiction.

The geopolitics of achaar therefore invites a rethinking of how we understand international relations. It suggests that alongside treaties and negotiations, there exists a quieter form of engagement—one that operates through taste, memory, and affect. This does not replace traditional geopolitics but supplements it, revealing dimensions that are often overlooked.

Ultimately, the jar of achaar becomes more than a culinary object. It is a site where domestic practices intersect with global movement, where memory meets diplomacy, and where the intimate becomes political. In tracing its journey, we encounter a different kind of foreign policy—one that is not announced in official statements but enacted in everyday life.

In this minor key, geopolitics is no longer only about power. It becomes about preservation, transformation, and the subtle ways in which cultures travel, endure, and reshape themselves across borders.

Swipe Left on Casteists: Desire, Algorithms, and the Politics of Digital Endogamy

The emergence of dating platforms has transformed the landscape of intimacy. Apps like Tinder, Bumble, and Hinge promise a world where connections are made through choice, attraction, and compatibility rather than tradition. The swipe gesture—simple, immediate, and seemingly autonomous—appears to liberate desire from older social constraints. Yet beneath this interface of freedom lies a deeper structure. The digital field of desire is not outside caste; it is often a reconfiguration of caste through algorithms, preferences, and coded signals.

To “swipe left on casteists” is therefore not merely a personal choice but a political act. It gestures toward a refusal—a rejection of caste-coded desirability and the norms that sustain it. But to understand the significance of this refusal, one must first recognize how caste operates within digital intimacy.

Caste has historically regulated desire through endogamy. As B. R. Ambedkar argued, the preservation of caste depends on controlling who can marry whom. Desire is not left to individual inclination; it is structured to ensure that relationships remain within caste boundaries. Dating apps, at first glance, appear to disrupt this logic by expanding the pool of potential partners beyond traditional networks.

However, this expansion is mediated by filters, preferences, and implicit biases. Many users signal caste through surnames, language, food habits, and cultural markers. Others explicitly state preferences that align with caste boundaries, sometimes under the guise of “compatibility” or “shared values.” In this way, caste does not disappear; it is translated into the language of choice.

The algorithm plays a crucial role in this translation. Dating apps learn from user behavior—who is liked, who is ignored, who receives matches. Over time, these patterns shape the recommendations that users see. If caste-coded preferences influence initial choices, the algorithm amplifies them, creating a feedback loop where endogamy is reproduced through data.

This dynamic can be understood as digital endogamy. The platform does not explicitly enforce caste boundaries, yet it enables their persistence by organizing interactions around user preferences. What appears as individual choice becomes a collective pattern, reinforcing the very structures that the technology seems to transcend.

Within this context, the act of swiping acquires political significance. Each swipe is not only an expression of attraction but also a participation in the distribution of visibility. To swipe right is to affirm desirability; to swipe left is to deny it. When caste shapes these decisions, the swipe becomes a micro-level enactment of hierarchy.

“Swipe left on casteists” thus emerges as a form of everyday resistance. It is a refusal to engage with profiles that reproduce casteist logic, whether explicitly or implicitly. This refusal disrupts the feedback loop of digital endogamy by withdrawing participation from its reproduction.

At the same time, this act raises deeper questions about the nature of desire. If preferences are shaped by social conditioning, can desire ever be entirely free? The digital interface presents choices as individual, but these choices are embedded within histories of power. To challenge caste within dating apps requires not only rejecting overt casteism but also interrogating the subtle ways in which attraction itself is structured.

The politics of visibility is central here. Certain bodies are more likely to be seen, matched, and desired, while others remain marginal. Dalit presence within these platforms often encounters both invisibility and fetishization. The challenge lies in creating a space where desire is not governed by hierarchy but open to difference.

Digital platforms also create opportunities for counter-publics. Users can articulate anti-caste positions, signal their refusal of caste boundaries, and connect with others who share similar commitments. Profiles become sites of political expression, where statements about equality and justice coexist with images and personal details.

This blending of the political and the intimate reflects a broader shift. The domain of dating is no longer separate from social critique; it becomes a space where larger structures are negotiated at the level of everyday interaction.

Yet the limits of platform-based transformation remain. Dating apps are commercial entities designed to maximize engagement, not to dismantle social hierarchies. Their algorithms respond to patterns rather than principles. Without broader social change, the persistence of caste within digital spaces is likely to continue.

Despite these constraints, the act of swiping retains its significance. It represents a point where individual action intersects with structural dynamics. Each decision contributes, however minimally, to the shaping of the digital field.

To “swipe left on casteists” is therefore both symbolic and practical. It signals a commitment to disrupting caste at the level of desire while also participating in the creation of alternative patterns of interaction. It acknowledges that the annihilation of caste must extend beyond institutions into the most intimate aspects of life.

Ultimately, the politics of digital intimacy reveals that technology does not automatically produce freedom. It reorganizes the conditions under which freedom is exercised. The challenge lies in recognizing these conditions and acting within them in ways that push toward greater equality.

In the simple gesture of a swipe, then, lies a complex terrain of power, preference, and possibility. To refuse caste within this terrain is to begin reimagining what desire itself could become in a world no longer structured by hierarchy.

Clothing the Subaltern: Dalit Dress and the Politics of Recognition

Clothing is often understood as an expression of individuality—an aesthetic choice through which one presents oneself to the world. Yet in a caste society, dress is never merely personal. It is regulated, interpreted, and historically structured through hierarchies of purity, labour, and dignity. To think about “clothing the subaltern” is therefore to examine how dress functions as a site where caste is both inscribed and contested—where bodies are marked, disciplined, and, at times, reconfigured.

Caste has long operated through the control of appearance. What one could wear, how one could wear it, and in what contexts one could appear were not left to individual discretion. These were governed by implicit and explicit norms that linked clothing to status. Certain fabrics, ornaments, and styles were associated with dominance and refinement, while others were tied to labour and marginality. Dress thus became a visible marker of one’s place within the social order.

For Dalit communities, this regulation was particularly pronounced. The denial of access to certain forms of dress was not simply about aesthetics; it was about restricting visibility and dignity. To dress in a way that signaled status or self-respect could itself be read as a transgression. Clothing, in this sense, functioned as a boundary—ensuring that hierarchy remained legible on the surface of the body.

The subaltern body, as theorized in postcolonial thought, is often positioned as one that is spoken for rather than one that speaks. In the context of caste, this extends to appearance. The Dalit body is not only silenced but also visually regulated. It is made to appear in ways that align with its assigned position, reinforcing the perception of hierarchy as natural.

To “clothe the subaltern” is therefore not simply to provide garments but to reconfigure the conditions under which the body appears. It is to transform dress from a marker of subordination into a medium of assertion. When Dalit individuals adopt styles associated with confidence, modernity, or visibility—whether through formal attire, fashion-forward choices, or digital self-presentation—they challenge the historical coding of their bodies.

This transformation is closely tied to the politics of recognition. Recognition involves being seen as a subject worthy of dignity and respect. Clothing plays a crucial role in this process, as it mediates first impressions and shapes how bodies are interpreted within social space. A well-dressed body can disrupt expectations, forcing a reconsideration of assumptions tied to caste.

Yet recognition is not guaranteed. The same act of dressing can produce tension. When the subaltern body adopts styles associated with dominance, it may be read as overstepping, as inappropriate, or as inauthentic. This reveals that the politics of dress is not only about access but also about legitimacy—who is allowed to inhabit certain aesthetics without contestation.

In contemporary contexts, digital platforms intensify this dynamic. On platforms like Instagram, clothing becomes part of a curated visual identity. Images circulate rapidly, reaching audiences beyond immediate social contexts. This creates new opportunities for Dalit individuals to present themselves in ways that challenge dominant representations.

Fashion, in this digital environment, becomes a form of visual speech. Through clothing, individuals communicate confidence, aspiration, and self-definition. The subaltern body, historically constrained in its appearance, enters a space where it can be seen on its own terms. Visibility here is not incidental; it is actively produced and circulated.

At the same time, these platforms are structured by algorithms that privilege certain aesthetics. Standards of beauty, style, and desirability—often shaped by class and caste-coded norms—continue to influence what gains visibility. The risk remains that the subaltern body must conform to these standards in order to be recognized.

This tension reflects a broader contradiction within the politics of clothing. Dress can enable assertion, but it can also become a site where conformity is demanded. The challenge lies in navigating this space without losing the capacity for self-definition.

From a theoretical perspective, Dalit dress can be understood as a shift from imposed visibility to negotiated visibility. Where caste once dictated how the body should appear, contemporary practices allow for greater agency in shaping appearance. This does not eliminate hierarchy, but it introduces new possibilities for contestation.

The act of dressing thus becomes political. It is not only about covering the body but about claiming space within the visual order of society. Each choice of clothing carries the potential to affirm or disrupt existing hierarchies.

Importantly, this process is not limited to individual expression. It is also collective. Shared styles, community aesthetics, and cultural symbols contribute to the formation of a broader Dalit visual identity. Clothing becomes a means of signaling belonging, solidarity, and shared experience.

Ultimately, to “clothe the subaltern” is to engage with the politics of appearance at its most fundamental level. It is to recognize that the body, as it appears in the world, is always interpreted through social frameworks—and that these frameworks can be challenged.

In this sense, Dalit dress is not merely about fashion. It is about dignity, recognition, and the ongoing struggle to redefine how bodies are seen. By transforming clothing from a marker of hierarchy into a medium of assertion, the subaltern body begins to occupy space differently—visible, self-defined, and no longer confined to the terms imposed upon it.

Dalit Erotica: Desire, Visibility, and the Politics of the Forbidden Body

Erotics, like beauty, touch, and sound, is never outside power. Desire is not simply an instinctual force that emerges from the body; it is structured, regulated, and distributed through social hierarchies. In a caste society, the erotic is governed by the logic of purity and pollution, where bodies are differentially permitted to desire and to be desired. To think about Dalit erotica is therefore to confront a foundational question: who is allowed to appear as a legitimate subject and object of desire?

Caste operates most intensely at the level of intimacy. As B. R. Ambedkar argued, the reproduction of caste depends on the control of sexuality through endogamy. Desire is disciplined so that it does not cross caste boundaries. Inter-caste intimacy becomes a site of anxiety, surveillance, and often violence. The erotic, in this sense, is not private—it is a political technology of caste reproduction.

Within this structure, Dalit bodies occupy a paradoxical position. They are excluded from normative regimes of desirability while simultaneously subjected to forms of sexualized exploitation. The dominant visual economy rarely presents Dalit bodies as desirable in their own right. Instead, they are rendered invisible, or when visible, framed through distortion and stigma. The denial of desirability is thus inseparable from the denial of dignity.

Dalit erotica emerges against this background as a counter-visual and counter-affective field. It does not merely represent sexuality; it intervenes in the distribution of desire. By placing Dalit bodies at the center of erotic representation, it disrupts the hierarchy that equates purity with attractiveness and stigma with undesirability.

The notion of the forbidden body is central here. In caste society, Dalit bodies have historically been constructed as untouchable—bodies that must not be approached, touched, or desired. This prohibition extends into the erotic imagination, where desire across caste lines is framed as transgressive. Dalit erotica exposes this construction by foregrounding the very bodies that have been marked as forbidden. It reveals that prohibition is not natural but socially produced.

This dynamic can be historically situated through the work of Shailaja Paik, particularly her analysis of tamasha performers. Dalit women performers in tamasha occupied a deeply ambivalent position within the erotic economy. Their bodies were hyper-visible as sites of performance, spectacle, and desire, yet this visibility did not translate into social dignity. Instead, it was accompanied by stigma, moral policing, and caste-based marginalization. The tamasha stage thus functioned as an early site of Dalit erotics—where visibility and exclusion coexisted. The performer’s body was desired in performance but denied legitimacy outside it, revealing how caste allows consumption without recognition.

Contemporary digital platforms reconfigure this terrain. Platforms like Instagram and OnlyFans enable new forms of self-representation and monetization. Individuals can produce and circulate images, videos, and narratives that position themselves as desirable on their own terms. The gatekeeping structures of traditional media are partially bypassed, allowing for a more direct relationship between creator and audience.

This shift is crucial because it alters the conditions under which Dalit women can appear within the erotic field. Where earlier visibility was imposed—mediated through caste-coded performance economies like tamasha—digital platforms allow for self-curation and intentional presentation. The Dalit female body is no longer only an object framed by others; it becomes a site of self-authored desire.

On platforms like Instagram, visual aesthetics—pose, dress, gaze, setting—are carefully constructed. Through these acts, Dalit women can enter the domain of desirability not as passive recipients but as active producers of their own image. The body becomes a medium of communication, where style and presence signal confidence, autonomy, and control. Visibility here is not accidental; it is strategically produced.

On OnlyFans, this dynamic intensifies through monetization. The creator directly benefits from their own representation, collapsing the traditional distance between performer and profit. This introduces a significant shift: the eroticized body becomes a site of economic agency. Instead of being consumed within systems that deny recognition, the creator participates in and shapes the terms of that consumption.

This reconfiguration allows for a new relationship to sexuality. Dalit women, historically denied both sexual autonomy and recognition, can explore and articulate desire on their own terms. The act of presenting oneself as desirable becomes an act of assertion, challenging the inherited idea that certain bodies are unworthy of erotic attention. Desire is no longer something imposed or denied; it becomes something negotiated and expressed.

At this juncture, a comparison with globalized genres such as blacked porn becomes analytically useful. Such genres operate through the hyper-visibility of marginalized bodies—particularly Black male bodies—within the erotic economy. While deeply entangled in fetishization and commodification, they also produce a paradoxical effect: they position bodies historically excluded or stigmatized as central objects of desire and power. The marginalized body, once denied normative desirability, becomes the focal point of erotic attention.

For Dalit erotics, this comparison is not about replication but about possibility. It reveals how visibility, even when structured by problematic frameworks, can disrupt established hierarchies of desirability. The emergence of Dalit presence on platforms like Instagram and OnlyFans can be read through this lens—not as identical to racialized erotics, but as part of a broader shift where marginalized bodies refuse erasure and claim centrality within the erotic field.

In this sense, the comparison becomes empowering not because it resolves the tensions of commodification, but because it demonstrates that desire can be reoriented. Bodies once marked as undesirable can become sites of attraction, agency, and economic value. Dalit erotica, in its digital form, participates in this reorientation by insisting that the Dalit body is not outside desire but can redefine it.

However, this space is not free from structure. Algorithms govern visibility, often privileging dominant beauty standards that are implicitly caste-coded. Skin tone, body type, language, and style influence reach and engagement. The platform economy thus risks reproducing hierarchies even as it appears to democratize access.

Moreover, the logic of commodification introduces tension. When desire becomes monetized, it is shaped by market demand. The creator must navigate between self-expression and audience expectation, between autonomy and algorithmic visibility. This creates a contradictory space, where empowerment and constraint coexist.

Yet even within these constraints, something significant shifts. The Dalit body moves from being illegible within the erotic field to actively inscribing itself within it. The transition from tamasha to digital platforms marks a movement from imposed spectacle to negotiated visibility, from passive objectification to conditional agency.

From a theoretical perspective, Dalit erotica can thus be understood as a struggle over the right to appear, the right to desire, and the right to define one’s own desirability. It reveals how caste operates not only through exclusion but through the regulation of intimacy and visibility.

Dalit feminist thought reminds us that this process remains uneven and contested. The intersection of caste and patriarchy continues to shape how Dalit women experience both visibility and vulnerability. Yet the emergence of digital platforms introduces new terrains where these dynamics can be challenged and reworked.

Ultimately, Dalit erotica is not simply about sexuality. It is about transforming the conditions under which bodies are seen, valued, and desired. In reclaiming the forbidden body—whether on the tamasha stage or the digital screen—it opens the possibility of a world where desire is no longer governed by caste, but becomes a site of dignity, agency, and self-definition.

Platform Pedagogies: OnlyFans and the Afterlives of Savitribai Phule

Education, in its most radical sense, is not merely the transmission of knowledge but the reorganization of who is allowed to speak, learn, and be seen. The work of Savitribai Phule marked a decisive break in the history of caste and gender in India. By opening schools for those denied access—particularly women and marginalized castes—she transformed education into a site of insurgency, where the excluded could claim visibility and voice. To think about contemporary digital platforms through this legacy is not to equate them simplistically with historical struggles, but to ask a more precise question: how do new spaces reorganize visibility, voice, and economic agency?

The emergence of OnlyFans introduces a provocative terrain for such inquiry. Typically understood through the lens of sexuality, monetization, and digital labour, the platform allows individuals—often women—to produce and distribute content directly to audiences without traditional gatekeepers. It is a space where bodies, voices, and identities are self-curated, circulated, and economically valued.

At first glance, the comparison to Savitribai Phule appears strained. One is a 19th-century educator working against caste patriarchy; the other, a 21st-century digital platform embedded in global capitalism. Yet the analytical connection lies not in equivalence, but in function: both disrupt established regimes of control over who can access spaces of production and recognition.

Savitribai Phule’s intervention was fundamentally about access to knowledge and public presence. She challenged the Brahmanical monopoly over education by creating spaces where those excluded could learn and speak. Her work destabilized the assumption that knowledge belonged to a particular caste or gender.

OnlyFans, in a different register, disrupts another form of control: the gatekeeping of visibility and economic participation in digital culture. Traditional media industries—film, television, advertising—have long operated through hierarchical structures that determine who gets to be seen and how. These structures are shaped by class, caste-coded aesthetics, and gender norms. Entry into such systems often requires conformity to dominant standards of respectability and desirability.

By contrast, OnlyFans allows creators to bypass these intermediaries. Individuals can produce content on their own terms, define their audience, and directly monetize their labour. This shift reconfigures the relationship between producer and consumer, collapsing the distance maintained by institutional control.

From a theoretical perspective, this can be understood as a transformation in platform-mediated subjectivity. The creator is not merely represented; they are self-producing. The body becomes both medium and message, entering circuits of visibility that are not entirely dictated by external authority.

For marginalized individuals, including those shaped by caste hierarchies, this reconfiguration can carry particular significance. The ability to control one’s representation challenges the historical denial of visibility. Where caste society has often rendered certain bodies invisible or stigmatized, digital platforms create possibilities for self-authored presence.

Yet this visibility is not neutral. It is structured by algorithms, audience preferences, and broader cultural norms. What gains traction, what is rewarded, and what remains unseen are shaped by systems that can reproduce existing inequalities. The platform offers access, but not an even field.

The analogy to Savitribai Phule becomes sharper when we consider the concept of pedagogy beyond the classroom. Phule’s work was not limited to formal education; it was about transforming the social conditions under which learning and expression could occur. Similarly, platforms like OnlyFans can be read as sites where individuals learn to navigate visibility, negotiate identity, and engage with economic systems.

However, this comparison must remain critical. Savitribai Phule’s project was explicitly oriented toward collective emancipation, grounded in a critique of caste and patriarchy. OnlyFans operates within a market logic where visibility is tied to monetization. The platform does not inherently challenge structural inequalities; it provides tools that can be used in different ways.

This tension highlights the limits of platform-based empowerment. While individuals may gain agency within these systems, the broader structures of inequality remain intact. The risk is that empowerment becomes individualized, detached from collective transformation.

At the same time, dismissing such platforms entirely would overlook the ways in which individuals actively reshape them. Creators develop strategies, build communities, and challenge norms within the constraints of the platform. The space becomes a site of negotiation rather than simple domination.

The figure of Savitribai Phule thus functions here not as a direct parallel but as a conceptual anchor—a reminder that access to spaces of production, whether educational or digital, has always been central to struggles against hierarchy. The question is how these spaces are used, who benefits, and whether they contribute to broader transformations.

Ultimately, to think about OnlyFans in relation to Savitribai Phule is to confront the changing nature of visibility and agency in contemporary life. It is to ask how new platforms reconfigure old questions: who gets to speak, who gets to be seen, and under what conditions.

The answer is neither simple affirmation nor outright rejection. It lies in recognizing both the possibilities and limits of these spaces—seeing them as part of an ongoing struggle over representation, dignity, and the terms of participation in a world where visibility itself has become a form of power.

The Caste of Trees: Toward a Theory of Brahmanical Botanics

Botany is often imagined as a neutral science of classification—a systematic ordering of plants according to species, morphology, and ecological function. Trees, within this framework, appear as natural objects, existing outside the social hierarchies that organize human life. Yet classification is never entirely innocent. The act of naming, ordering, and valuing life forms reflects broader epistemologies through which the world is understood. To think about the caste of trees is therefore not to anthropomorphize nature, but to examine how caste-inflected ways of seeing permeate even the domain of the vegetal. What emerges is a speculative yet revealing field that might be called Brahmanical botanics—a mode of organizing plant life through the logic of purity, hierarchy, and ritual value.

Within South Asian cultural traditions, trees have long occupied a symbolic and material presence. They are not merely ecological entities but sites of meaning—associated with gods, rituals, and moral narratives. Certain trees are elevated as sacred: the peepal, the banyan, the tulsi plant. They are protected, worshipped, and incorporated into ritual life. Their value exceeds their biological function; they become markers of purity, continuity, and spiritual authority.

This elevation is not evenly distributed across the vegetal world. Other plants—shrubs, weeds, grasses—remain unmarked, unprotected, and often unwanted. They are cut, cleared, or ignored. The botanical landscape thus becomes unevenly valued, structured by distinctions that resonate with broader social hierarchies. The sacred tree stands apart, while the ordinary plant remains in the background.

Brahmanical botanics operates through this differentiation. It assigns value not simply on the basis of ecological function but through symbolic association. Trees linked to ritual purity are elevated, while those associated with labour, decay, or disorder are marginalized. This produces a vegetal hierarchy that mirrors, in abstract form, the graded inequalities of caste.

The notion of purity plays a central role in this ordering. Just as caste ideology distinguishes between pure and impure bodies, certain plants are considered suitable for ritual use while others are excluded. Leaves, flowers, and fruits enter religious practice only when they conform to prescribed standards. The botanical world is thus filtered through a logic that separates the acceptable from the contaminating.

This filtering extends into spatial arrangements. Sacred trees are often located within temple complexes, courtyards, or protected areas. Their placement reinforces their elevated status. In contrast, plants that grow in marginal spaces—along roadsides, near waste sites, or in neglected land—are treated as expendable. The landscape becomes a map of value, where location reflects hierarchy.

Yet this hierarchy is not simply imposed from above; it is reproduced through everyday practices. Watering the tulsi plant, circumambulating the banyan tree, or gathering specific leaves for rituals are acts that sustain the symbolic order. Through repetition, these practices naturalize the distinction between sacred and ordinary vegetation.

From a theoretical perspective, Brahmanical botanics reveals how caste logic extends beyond human relations into the organization of the natural world. It demonstrates that hierarchy is not only a social structure but also an epistemological one—a way of seeing and categorizing life.

At the same time, this framework invites a critical rethinking of how value is assigned. Ecologically, so-called “ordinary” plants play crucial roles in sustaining biodiversity, soil health, and local ecosystems. The marginalization of certain species reflects not their lack of importance but the dominance of symbolic hierarchies over ecological understanding.

The concept of the caste of trees thus exposes a tension between symbolic and material value. While certain trees are revered for their ritual significance, others are overlooked despite their ecological contributions. This imbalance mirrors broader patterns in caste society, where symbolic status often overrides practical necessity.

There is also a political dimension to this analysis. If the vegetal world is organized through caste-inflected categories, then challenging these categories becomes part of a broader project of reimagining relationships between humans and nature. A non-hierarchical approach to botany would require recognizing the interconnectedness of all plant life, rather than privileging certain species based on cultural associations.

Such a shift would not eliminate the cultural meanings attached to trees but would place them within a more inclusive framework. Sacredness would no longer be the exclusive property of a few species but a recognition of the ecological and cultural interdependence of all vegetation.

The idea of Brahmanical botanics, then, is not simply a critique of symbolic hierarchy. It is an invitation to reconsider how knowledge systems shape our engagement with the natural world. It suggests that the logic of caste, once internalized, can extend into domains that appear far removed from social relations.

In tracing the caste of trees, we encounter the persistence of hierarchy in unexpected places. The forest, the field, and the courtyard are not untouched by social logic; they are interpreted through it. To recognize this is to open the possibility of thinking differently—of imagining a botanical world not organized by purity and exclusion, but by coexistence and mutual value.

Thresholds of Necessity: Dalit Open Defecation, Liminal Space, and the Politics of Shared Survival

Sanitation is typically framed as a question of infrastructure, hygiene, and development. Public discourse often treats open defecation as a problem to be solved through policy, technology, and behavioral change. While these concerns are important, they can obscure the deeper social structures that shape how sanitation is experienced. In a caste society, access to toilets, water, and waste systems is unevenly distributed, and practices around sanitation are embedded within histories of exclusion, labour, and spatial segregation. To theorize Dalit open defecation as a liminal shared space is therefore not to romanticize deprivation, but to examine how necessity produces forms of collective presence, negotiation, and, at times, solidarity within constrained conditions.

Open defecation occupies a peculiar position in social life. It occurs at the margins—fields, edges of settlements, railway tracks, riverbanks—spaces that are neither fully public nor fully private. These are threshold zones, where the body steps outside the regulated interiors of the home yet remains within the social field. Such spaces are often shaped by caste geography: who lives where, who has access to infrastructure, and whose bodies are permitted proximity to shared resources.

For Dalit communities, the lack of access to private sanitation has historically been tied to broader patterns of marginalization. Settlements are often located at the periphery, infrastructure arrives unevenly, and the burden of inadequate facilities is borne collectively. In this context, open defecation becomes not a choice but a condition structured by inequality.

Yet within this condition, the act itself takes on a social dimension. It is rarely a purely individual activity. People move in groups, at particular times—early morning, late evening—navigating safety, visibility, and privacy together. These routines produce a form of collective temporality, where bodies synchronize their movements within shared constraints.

The space of open defecation thus becomes a liminal commons—a space defined not by ownership but by shared use under conditions of necessity. In these spaces, social interactions unfold: conversations, exchanges, moments of humor, and the quiet coordination of daily life. The body, often subject to stigma and regulation, enters into a collective rhythm that blurs the boundary between private need and social existence.

This liminality is significant. The space is outside the formal structures of the state and the home, yet it is deeply shaped by both. It reveals the gap between policy and lived experience, between the promise of development and the realities of uneven access. At the same time, it creates a zone where the rigid boundaries of caste can be momentarily reconfigured—not dissolved, but negotiated.

From a theoretical perspective, such spaces can be understood through the lens of embodied survival practices. When institutional systems fail to provide basic infrastructure, communities develop routines that allow life to continue. These practices are not inherently liberatory; they are responses to constraint. Yet within them, forms of mutual awareness and coordination emerge.

The idea of solidarity in this context must be approached carefully. It does not arise from ideal conditions but from shared exposure to vulnerability. Individuals recognize each other within the same structural condition, navigating risk and necessity together. This recognition can produce a subtle form of mutual presence, a sense that one is not alone within the experience of marginalization.

At the same time, these spaces are marked by tension. Issues of gender, safety, and dignity are deeply implicated. For women, the need to seek privacy in exposed environments introduces additional risks, shaping how and when these spaces are used. The liminal commons is therefore not a neutral site; it is structured by multiple layers of power.

The politics of sanitation in caste society cannot be separated from the history of labour. The stigmatization of certain forms of work—particularly those involving waste—has long been tied to caste hierarchy. Open defecation exists alongside this history, revealing how the management of waste is unevenly distributed across social groups.

In contemporary discourse, efforts to eliminate open defecation often focus on infrastructure and behavior. While these are necessary, they can sometimes overlook the social relations that shape how infrastructure is accessed and used. Without addressing these underlying structures, the transformation of sanitation practices remains incomplete.

To conceptualize Dalit open defecation as a liminal shared space is therefore to shift attention from abstraction to lived experience. It highlights how bodies navigate environments shaped by inequality, how routines of necessity produce forms of social interaction, and how spaces at the margins reveal the limits of formal systems.

Importantly, this analysis does not celebrate the condition. The goal is not to preserve such spaces but to understand what they reveal about the organization of society. The existence of these liminal zones points to the need for more equitable distribution of resources and a rethinking of how dignity is understood in relation to the body.

At the same time, recognizing the forms of collective life that emerge within these spaces allows for a more nuanced understanding of survival under constraint. Even in conditions shaped by deprivation, individuals create patterns of coordination, recognition, and, at times, quiet resilience.

The threshold, then, is both a site of exposure and a site of insight. It reveals the fragility of systems that claim universality while excluding many, and it shows how communities inhabit and negotiate these exclusions. In this sense, the politics of sanitation becomes inseparable from the broader politics of caste, where the most basic aspects of life—space, body, and necessity—are structured by inequality.

Dalit Choreopolitics: Dance, Embodiment, and the Kinetics of Social Justice

Dance is often relegated to the domain of art, entertainment, or cultural expression—an aesthetic practice that produces pleasure, spectacle, and rhythm. Yet dance is also a profoundly political form. It organizes bodies in space, regulates movement, and produces visibility. In a caste society where the body itself is historically disciplined, regulated, and hierarchized, dance becomes more than performance; it becomes a kinetic intervention into structures of power. To theorize Dalit dance is therefore to examine how movement transforms the stigmatized body into a site of assertion, and how choreography becomes a technique for generating political awareness.

Caste has long governed the body not only through labour and spatial segregation but through codes of comportment—how one stands, walks, gestures, and occupies space. Certain forms of bodily expression have been historically valorized as refined, while others have been marked as excessive, vulgar, or disorderly. Classical dance traditions, often associated with upper-caste patronage, have been elevated as embodiments of discipline and aesthetic purity. In contrast, forms of dance emerging from marginalized communities have frequently been relegated to the periphery, treated as folk, raw, or unstructured.

Dalit dance intervenes in this hierarchy by re-signifying movement itself. It does not simply seek inclusion within established aesthetic frameworks; it challenges the criteria through which aesthetic value is assigned. The Dalit body, historically read through the lens of labour and pollution, becomes in dance a body-in-motion that refuses fixity. Movement disrupts the attempt to stabilize identity within hierarchical categories.

This disruption can be understood as a form of choreopolitics—the politics of how bodies move together, how they claim space, and how they produce collective presence. Dance organizes bodies into formations that are both aesthetic and social. When Dalit dancers perform in public spaces—streets, stages, protests—their movements reconfigure the spatial order. Spaces that once excluded or marginalized become sites of visible assertion.

The temporality of dance also plays a crucial role. Choreography unfolds in time, structuring sequences of movement that are repeated, varied, and collectively synchronized. This temporal dimension allows dance to function as a pedagogical tool. Through repetition, gestures become familiar; through rhythm, messages are internalized. Political ideas are not only spoken or written but embodied and enacted.

In this sense, Dalit dance operates as a technique of political awareness. It translates abstract concepts—dignity, equality, resistance—into bodily experience. Audiences do not merely observe; they feel the intensity of movement, the force of rhythm, the collective energy of performers. Dance thus produces an affective form of knowledge that complements verbal discourse.

The use of dance in protests and public gatherings further illustrates this function. Rhythmic movement, synchronized steps, and collective gestures create a sense of unity and momentum. Dance becomes a medium through which individuals are transformed into a collective political subject. The body, often isolated within structures of hierarchy, is reconnected through shared movement.

Dalit dance also engages with memory. Movements often draw upon cultural forms, historical references, and community practices that carry the traces of past experiences. In performing these movements, dancers activate a form of embodied remembrance. The past is not merely recalled; it is re-enacted through the body.

At the same time, Dalit dance is not confined to tradition. Contemporary forms incorporate new styles, media, and influences, reflecting the dynamic nature of cultural expression. Digital platforms allow performances to circulate widely, reaching audiences beyond immediate contexts. Videos, recordings, and online performances extend the reach of choreopolitical interventions, creating new spaces for engagement.

However, as with other forms of cultural production, the circulation of Dalit dance within digital and institutional spaces introduces tensions. The risk of appropriation, commodification, or aesthetic dilution remains. The challenge lies in maintaining the political and cultural specificity of the form while engaging broader audiences.

The body in Dalit dance is therefore both aesthetic and political. It resists being reduced to spectacle by insisting on its historical and social context. Movement becomes a language through which experiences of marginalization are expressed and transformed.

From a theoretical perspective, Dalit dance can be seen as a shift from regulated embodiment to insurgent embodiment. Where caste imposes limits on how bodies may move and appear, dance expands those possibilities. It allows for the emergence of new forms of presence that challenge established norms.

Ultimately, Dalit choreopolitics reveals that social justice is not only a matter of policy or discourse. It is also a matter of how bodies inhabit space, how they move together, and how they make themselves visible. Dance becomes a medium through which the struggle against caste is not only articulated but performed.

In this performance lies its power. The moving body disrupts the stillness of hierarchy, creating rhythms that carry both memory and aspiration. Through dance, the Dalit body asserts its right not only to exist but to move freely, collectively, and visibly within the world.

Dalit Gym: Muscularity, Discipline, and the Reconfiguration of the Caste Body

The gym, in contemporary culture, appears as a neutral space of self-improvement—a site where individuals sculpt their bodies through discipline, repetition, and effort. It promises transformation: the possibility of remaking the self through labour upon the body. Yet, like all social spaces, the gym is not free from history. It is structured by implicit norms about what bodies should look like, how they should move, and what forms of physicality are valued. To theorize the Dalit gym is to interrogate how caste inhabits the domain of muscularity, how the body becomes a site of both regulation and resistance, and how physical training reconfigures the politics of dignity.

Caste has historically produced a differentiated relationship to the body. Dominant caste ideology often privileged forms of existence associated with intellectual labour, ritual purity, and distance from physical exertion. In contrast, Dalit bodies were tied to labour—marked by work that was necessary yet stigmatized. This division did not merely organize occupations; it shaped aesthetic and moral valuations of the body itself. The “refined” body was one that appeared removed from labour, while the labouring body was rendered excessive, crude, or unformed.

The gym emerges within this history as a paradoxical space. On the one hand, it universalizes the language of discipline. Every body, regardless of origin, is invited to participate in regimes of training that promise strength and transformation. On the other hand, the norms that govern gym culture—ideas of ideal physique, nutrition, and performance—are not evenly accessible. They are shaped by class, exposure, and cultural capital.

The concept of the Dalit gym therefore does not simply refer to Dalits entering fitness spaces. It points to a deeper transformation: the reappropriation of the body from a site of imposed labour to a site of self-directed discipline. Where caste historically assigned labour to Dalit bodies, the gym allows for a rearticulation of labour as choice, as investment in the self rather than service to others.

This shift carries significant symbolic weight. Muscularity, within modern culture, is often associated with control, confidence, and visibility. A well-built body commands attention; it occupies space differently. For Dalit individuals, whose bodies have historically been subject to regulation and marginalization, the cultivation of muscularity can function as a form of spatial and social assertion.

The Dalit gym thus becomes a site where the politics of visibility is renegotiated. The body, once marked by stigma, is re-presented as a locus of strength. This transformation does not erase the history of caste but reworks its meanings. The same body that was once read through the lens of labour and pollution is now read through the lens of discipline and performance.

At the level of theory, this can be understood as a shift from imposed embodiment to produced embodiment. In caste society, the body is assigned a position within a hierarchy that appears natural and unchangeable. In the gym, the body becomes a project—something that can be reshaped through effort. This does not fully escape social structure, but it introduces a space where identity can be partially reconfigured.

The temporality of the gym is also significant. Training operates through repetition—sets, reps, routines that accumulate over time. This repetitive labour contrasts with the repetitive labour historically imposed on Dalit bodies. In one case, repetition is a condition of subordination; in the other, it becomes a means of self-formation. The same logic of repetition is thus reappropriated and transformed.

At the same time, the Dalit gym is not outside power. Fitness culture often carries its own hierarchies, privileging certain body types, diets, and lifestyles. The risk remains that the gym reproduces new forms of exclusion even as it challenges older ones. Access to resources—equipment, training, nutrition—continues to shape who can fully participate in these spaces.

Yet within these constraints, the gym offers a terrain of negotiation. It allows for the emergence of new subjectivities grounded in strength, discipline, and self-possession. The Dalit body, in this context, is no longer confined to the roles assigned by caste; it becomes a site of experimentation and assertion.

The circulation of gym culture through digital media further amplifies this transformation. Images of trained bodies, workout routines, and fitness narratives travel across platforms, creating new imaginaries of what is possible. The body becomes not only a physical presence but also a visual statement, entering broader circuits of representation.

This visibility, however, is double-edged. It can empower, but it can also subject bodies to new forms of scrutiny and comparison. The challenge lies in navigating these dynamics while retaining the capacity for self-definition.

Ultimately, the Dalit gym represents a reconfiguration of the relationship between body and power. It demonstrates how spaces of physical training can become sites of political significance, where historical hierarchies are contested through the cultivation of strength and presence.

To theorize the Dalit gym, then, is to recognize that the politics of caste extends into the most intimate dimensions of life, including the body itself. It is also to acknowledge that resistance can take forms that are not always overtly political—emerging instead through practices of discipline, repetition, and transformation.

In this sense, the gym becomes more than a place of exercise. It becomes a space where the body is reclaimed, redefined, and reinserted into the world on new terms.

Spotify Savarna: Taste, Algorithms, and the Caste of Listening

Music is often imagined as the most democratic of cultural forms. It travels across boundaries, circulates freely, and appears to belong to everyone. In the age of streaming platforms like Spotify, this democratic promise seems further amplified. With millions of songs available at the touch of a screen, listeners are invited into an infinite archive of sound, where choice appears unrestricted and taste entirely personal. Yet beneath this surface of abundance lies a quieter structure—one in which listening is shaped, filtered, and organized through algorithmic systems that reproduce existing hierarchies. To think about Spotify Savarna is to examine how caste enters the domain of taste, how algorithms curate cultural experience, and how listening itself becomes a site of social stratification.

Taste has long been understood as a marker of distinction. What one listens to, appreciates, or rejects is rarely a purely individual decision; it is shaped by social location, access, and cultural exposure. In many contexts, certain genres of music are associated with refinement, education, and prestige, while others are marked as raw, local, or excessive. These distinctions often mirror broader hierarchies of class and caste.

Within the Indian context, the valuation of music has historically intersected with caste structures. Classical traditions have often been elevated as high culture, associated with discipline, purity, and intellectual depth. Meanwhile, forms of music emerging from marginalized communities—folk traditions, protest songs, local performance cultures—have frequently been treated as peripheral or inferior. These hierarchies are not inherent to the music itself; they are socially produced.

Streaming platforms appear to disrupt these hierarchies by placing all forms of music within the same digital interface. A user can move seamlessly from classical compositions to contemporary rap, from devotional music to experimental sound. However, this apparent equality is mediated by algorithms that organize what is visible and what remains obscure.

The algorithm functions as a curator. It analyzes listening habits, categorizes users, and recommends songs based on patterns of engagement. Playlists such as “Discover Weekly” or “Daily Mix” promise personalization, presenting music that aligns with the listener’s taste. Yet this personalization is not neutral. It operates through systems of classification that reflect broader cultural patterns.

The concept of Spotify Savarna captures this dynamic. It points to the ways in which dominant cultural preferences—often aligned with upper-caste and urban sensibilities—are amplified within algorithmic systems. Music that fits established categories of refinement or global appeal is more likely to be promoted, while forms of expression rooted in marginalized experiences may remain less visible.

This is not necessarily the result of explicit bias coded into the system. Rather, it emerges from the data on which the algorithm is trained. If dominant groups produce and consume certain types of music more frequently, the algorithm learns to prioritize those patterns. Popularity becomes a feedback loop: what is already visible becomes more visible.

Dalit music, particularly forms associated with protest, assertion, and local cultural expression, enters this system under unequal conditions. Its themes may be politically charged, its language regionally specific, and its production less aligned with mainstream industry standards. As a result, it may not fit easily within the categories that algorithms use to organize content.

Yet this marginality also produces new forms of engagement. Dalit artists and listeners use digital platforms to circulate music that speaks directly to their experiences. Songs become tools of political expression, articulating histories of exclusion and visions of resistance. The digital space, while structured by algorithms, still allows for moments of disruption where alternative sounds gain visibility.

The politics of listening thus becomes central. To listen is not merely to consume sound but to participate in a cultural economy that assigns value to certain voices over others. When listeners engage with Dalit music, share it, and incorporate it into their playlists, they contribute to reshaping the patterns that algorithms recognize.

At the same time, the platform’s interface encourages a form of passive consumption. Playlists curated by the algorithm can reduce listening to a seamless flow of sound, where individual tracks blend into a continuous stream. In such environments, the political and historical contexts of music risk being flattened. Songs that emerge from specific struggles may be absorbed into a generalized aesthetic experience.

This tension highlights the limits of algorithmic democratization. While platforms like Spotify expand access, they do not automatically dismantle the hierarchies that structure cultural production. Instead, they often reconfigure these hierarchies in subtler forms.

The idea of Spotify Savarna therefore invites a rethinking of digital culture. It suggests that the politics of caste does not disappear in virtual spaces but adapts to new technological infrastructures. Algorithms, far from being neutral tools, participate in shaping the distribution of cultural attention.

At the same time, the digital environment remains a contested space. The same systems that reproduce hierarchy can also be used to challenge it. Independent artists, community networks, and alternative platforms create pathways for marginalized voices to reach wider audiences. The outcome is not predetermined; it depends on how these spaces are navigated and contested.

Ultimately, the question is not whether music can transcend caste, but how listening practices can be transformed. A more egalitarian soundscape would require not only technological change but also shifts in cultural perception—an openness to forms of expression that have historically been marginalized.

Spotify Savarna thus reveals the persistence of caste within the most contemporary domains of life. It shows how the politics of hierarchy extends into the seemingly neutral act of listening, shaping what we hear, what we value, and what remains unheard.