The caste thread travels overseas

When Sanjana Choudhary, 23, landed at Oxford to pursue a master’s degree in South Asian History on a prestigious scholarship, it felt like a fresh start. She believed she could finally just be a student, unburdened by the heavy markers of caste, class, and geography.

Growing up on the periphery of Bhopal in Madhya Pradesh, Sanjana recognised early on that for most Dalit students, schools are vulnerable spaces where opportunities are disproportionately divided along caste lines. Her family had struggled for generations to secure formal names and a surname; her grandmother, who recently died, was known simply as Chotibai.

Echoing the words of Rohith Vemula, her “most immediate identity” as a Dalit came into sharp focus when she moved to Delhi University for higher education. There, she found her community reduced to a footnote in the curriculum — a reality she describes as “systemic invisibilisation”. Peers routinely dismissed her presence as the product of reservation quotas rather than ability. In response, Sanjana found strength in the anti-caste writings of Dr. B.R. Ambedkar, reclaiming reservation as a right. After graduating, she secured a highly competitive, open-merit scholarship that paved her way to Oxford.

But her hopes for a blank slate were short-lived. Struggling to find belonging within the broader Indian student group at Oxford, she quickly realised many of her Indian dominant-caste peers were second- or third-generation attendees. Once she openly shared her caste identity, the social dynamics noticeably shifted. Alienated by the mainstream diaspora, she gravitated towards a smaller, deeply supportive circle of Dalit scholars.

Together, they co-convened the Oxford South Asia Ambedkar Forum, an anti-caste society dedicated to amplifying Dr. Ambedkar’s ideas, championing marginalised voices, and advocating for caste to be recognised as a protected category under U.K. anti-discrimination laws. Yet, during their discussions and film screenings, Sanjana noticed a glaring absence — students from the uppered castes almost never attended or engaged.

The realisation was both profound and painful — Dalits remain othered even in the hallowed halls of elite foreign universities. “The uppered castes have been moving to the West for generations,” Sanjana explains. “This has helped them accumulate immense socioeconomic, intellectual, and caste capital, both abroad and back home in India.” It is a capital, she observes, that allows them to project, celebrate, and impose a dominant, homogeneous idea of Indian culture, ensuring that the shadow of caste travels with them.

This complex reality does not disappear at national borders, a fact starkly underscored by ongoing conversations back home. The tragedy of Sahil Wakode, a second-year B.Tech student found dead in his IIT Bombay hostel room on September 18, has once again opened a conversation about the social environment in India’s premier institutions. Following allegations from his parents regarding caste-based harassment, the incident brought competing national narratives sharply into focus.

In the broader public discourse, there is an ongoing argument that caste is a diminishing factor in modern society, with some suggesting that routine academic and institutional pressures are mistakenly attributed to discrimination. Yet, conversations with Dalit scholars reveal a vastly different lived experience. For many of these students, caste is not a closed chapter but a persistent shadow that trails them from childhood into the corridors of college — and ultimately, across the globe, into elite universities and then jobs.

Entry points

This imported discrimination often manifests in subtle, modern forms of untouchability within shared living spaces. Vedika (name changed), 23, another Dalit student in the U.K., recalls a deeply distressing incident at her accommodation when she attempted to store some meat in a refrigerator shared with an Indian diaspora family. She was rebuked and told that her food could not occupy the same space as the provisions of so-called pure vegetarians.

“I broke down,” she shares. “But then I realised this is the harsh reality I have to face all my life, wherever I go.” She adds that she has constantly felt the burden of having to justify her merit and her very existence, simply to prove she deserved a place in those social and academic spaces.

Rema (name changed), 27, who completed her Master’s in development studies in 2020 at SOAS University of London and her PhD at another U.K. university in 2025, remains deeply unsettled when recounting her own experiences. The segregation, she explains, often begins before students even arrive on campus.

“The immediate priority in university WhatsApp groups is figuring out who you are — specifically, your caste — so they can avoid sharing accommodation with a Dalit,” Rema says.

For Dalit students, the policing of their identity is relentless, invasive, and deeply insidious. They share that the dominant-caste diaspora employs a covert toolkit to deduce a person’s background. The scrutiny often begins with mundane markers: analysing a mobile phone ringtone, physical appearance, the tone and diction of one’s language, or casual questions about vegetarianism.

However, other methods are disturbingly calculated. A seemingly friendly pat on a male student’s back is often a deliberate attempt to feel for a janeu (the sacred thread worn by so-called upper-caste men). Invitations to pool parties are sometimes weaponised as an excuse to see a man bare-chested and check for the thread. Even academic achievements are intensely scrutinised, with peers actively unmasking a student’s caste simply by the name of the scholarship they received.

Once a student’s caste identity is established, dominant-caste peers often manufacture deliberate distance, using alienating, complex language and exclusionary social cues to ensure Dalits feel the divide.

When this prejudice invades shared living spaces, it can become overtly hostile. Rema recalls another Dalit student whose flatmate declared he could not share a kitchen with an “untouchable”. Unintimidated, the young woman stood her ground, calmly telling him that his prejudice was his own problem and that he was free to pack up and find a new apartment.

The reach of caste discrimination also shapes friendships and intimate relationships. Rema notes that in some cases, a Dalit student’s decision to refuse or set boundaries in a personal relationship can itself trigger caste-based hostility, turning what might otherwise be an ordinary interpersonal conflict into harassment shaped by deeply rooted social hierarchies.

For Abhishek Bhosale, 35, a doctoral researcher in development studies and the president of the Dr. Ambedkar Society at SOAS, the battle on foreign soil is twofold: fighting everyday discrimination and dismantling the narratives controlled by dominant-caste groups. He describes the student-led society — dedicated to debating and understanding global struggles against systemic oppression — as a vital sanctuary.

“The Ambedkar Society is like a second campus for us. It’s a space built by marginalised communities where our lived experiences take centre stage,” Abhishek explains.

He points out glaring hypocrisy within academia, where dominant-caste Indian professors often act as gatekeepers. Some discourage Dalit students from researching or discussing their discrimination, questioning the relevance of studying caste abroad. Abhishek recalls an unsettling encounter with a professor who frequently writes Dalit case studies but casually admitted she “doesn’t understand caste”.

“These academicians have a privilege that Dalit students simply don’t,” he notes. “For them, it is merely knowledge production; for a Dalit student, it is our internalised, everyday reality.” In another instance, an Indian academic insisted that caste should only be discussed back in India, not in U.K. university spaces, while simultaneously running Vedic classes there.

Enduring prejudice

Beyond the classroom, the socioeconomic and cultural divide is stark. Relying heavily on scholarships, many Dalit students navigate university life with frugality, cooking their own inexpensive meals, while being quietly shut out of the broader social scene. Abhishek notes that Dalit students are rarely welcomed at Friday night parties or included in the travel plans of dominant-caste cliques.

Across the Atlantic, Aatika Singh, 29, an Art History student at Stanford University who comes from New Delhi, views her academic journey through a similar lens of profound alienation. “My time at Stanford has been a testament to how many of my mental health concerns stem directly from recognising myself as a Dalit woman engaged in anti-caste scholarship,” she explains. She quickly discovered that institutional mechanisms were inadequate for someone with her background, noting a continuous, built-in resistance within the university to truly understanding caste. With very few Dalit peers on campus, finding a supportive community was nearly impossible.

“We carry our caste marginality from India,” she notes, “and it is cemented even harder abroad.” This marginalisation is often reinforced by powerful external structures. Aatika points out that the Indian American lobby — heavily dominated by Brahmin Silicon Valley donors — exerts significant influence over how U.S. universities address caste issues and respond to Dalit students’ concerns. Because this influence crosses borders, she argues that caste discrimination, harassment, and sexual violence demand global, rather than purely national, interventions.

“It is not just a reality of South Asian institutions; it is a reality worldwide, wherever the Savarna diaspora goes. We are never free of these dynamics,” Aatika asserts. She stresses that caste needs a global vocabulary that clearly defines it as a transnational, hierarchical system of discrimination.

Furthermore, Aatika highlights the compounding socioeconomic burdens first-generation Dalit students face abroad. While their dominant-caste peers seamlessly access the resources of the developed world, Dalit students are often financially stretched, sending money back home and having to think twice before spending on essential academic networking, such as travelling or attending conferences. For Aatika, better university accommodation and targeted mental health support are desperately needed short-term measures, but the ultimate goal, she feels, must be much larger. Echoing a Dalit feminist ethos, she concludes, “It is not just about social justice; it is about social transformation.”

This systemic marginalisation extends to Australia as well. Upalee Labhane, 32, who got his master’s degree in chemical engineering at the University of Sydney and now works as a Business Development Specialist in Melbourne, observes a pervasive culture of silence. He notes that Dalit students are often deeply hesitant to disclose their identity, particularly when discussions turn to government aid or scholarships.

Because dominant-caste Indian students constitute the majority, they frequently form exclusive academic cliques, restricting study and assignment groups strictly to their own circles. Upalee explains that if a Dalit student reveals their caste, they risk being immediately sidelined from collaborative work. This academic isolation carries severe practical consequences: Dalit students hide their caste identities for the fear of losing credit for group assignments and ultimately suffering lower grades.

“The social environment is constructed in such a way,” Upalee says, “that it simply does not allow students to safely express their true identity.”

Staying in tune

Not all scholars agree with centring caste in the diaspora experience. A media and communication fellow from the dominant caste at the University of Oxford, who requested anonymity, believes the focus abroad should shift away from rigid caste lines toward a cohesive national identity.

“When students from other countries, like China and Pakistan, present a united front through their university societies, why should Indians be divided?” he asks. While he acknowledges that caste issues must be tackled, he cautions against reducing the Indian identity to just caste and discrimination, warning that such narratives risk tarnishing the country’s global image. Instead, he advocates for a mutual effort where both dominant-caste and Dalit students actively cooperate and assimilate on foreign soil.

Similarly, the Philadelphia-based Hindu American Foundation (HAF) pushes back against the narrative that caste discrimination is a widespread issue in the U.S. In its Reporter’s Guide to Caste, the organisation states there is “no credible or reliable data” on the caste identity of South Asian immigrants or the extent of caste-based discrimination. While the HAF vehemently condemns all forms of prejudice and rejects the claim that caste discrimination is inherent to Hinduism, it actively opposes making caste a specifically protected legal category. The foundation argues that existing federal and State laws covering national origin, ancestry, and ethnicity already provide adequate protection for discrimination complaints.

Despite these arguments, institutional momentum is shifting. The University of California, Davis, in 2021 added caste to its anti-discrimination policy in direct response to students reporting on-campus bias. Under the updated framework, students and staff facing caste-based harassment can now file formal grievances that trigger official university investigations.

Milan (name changed on request), 48, a Brahmin multinational employee and University of Texas graduate, argues the diaspora has found fertile ground in the U.S. to preserve its ingrained biases. He notes that earlier waves of Indian immigrants, including wealthy students and H1-B tech workers, were predominantly from uppered castes. While university alumni assimilated somewhat through exposure to liberal campus environments, the direct-to-workforce IT wave remained largely insular. Today, these individuals hold powerful corporate roles, their deeply rooted notions of caste superiority intact.

For dominant-caste people, challenging this ecosystem carries a heavy price. Milan notes that being a vocal opponent of caste bigotry within the close-knit uppered-caste diaspora guarantees severe social ostracisation.

When Dr. B. R. Ambedkar returned after years of study abroad, to what was then called Baroda in Gujarat, he could not find accommodation in the city simply because he was a Dalit.

He wrote in the essay ‘Waiting for a Visa’: “My five years of stay in Europe and America had completely wiped out of my mind any consciousness that I was an untouchable and that an untouchable whenever he went in India was a problem to himself and to others. But when I came out of the station my mind was considerably disturbed by a question, ‘Where to go? Who will take me?’ I felt deeply agitated.”

Dr Ambedkar had the foresight to recognise that the caste system would become a global issue. It leaves Dalit scholars like Aatika Singh with the question: “Where do we go?”