What is your Jaat?

Hurry up before the stock of your caste ends.

No one ever told me about my caste and no one ever asked for it. It was like having a birthmark on a part of my body I could not see, behind my ears.

I have never been aware of my caste till now, although except for once on a train journey a few years ago. I took a train from Dehradun to Haridwar. A man in his late sixties, probably a priest in a temple, dressed in a saffron robe and with a white tilak on his forehead, sat across. He had a singular thoughtful expression on his face as if he was chewing on the strings of time while it preserved him.

Aap kahan jaa rahe ho, he asked.

Surely he knew the answer but that’s how one makes small talk. After confirming we were headed in the same direction as the train, he asked where I am from.

Bombay, I said.

Naam kya hai?

I said my name.

Gotra kaun sa hai aapka?

My face sank into a double chin.

Jaat kaun si hai aapki?

I don’t know, I blurted, in defence, and in ignorance.

Poora naam?

I said my full name.

Hindu ho, jaat nahi pata, he said in a quizzical tone. Even he couldn’t decipher it from the surname. Yadav hoga.

I understood what this was about. I may have slipped from the varna ranks.

Actually, my father is Muslim, I said, trying to silence him.

Oh, love marriage hua hoga na, he assumed, adding he could sense it from my unshaved beard.

Aajkal ka fashion hai, he said.

Love, or look, I couldn’t grasp what he was reproaching.

After the remark, he went quiet. He could have sounded intrusive if he had asked why I had a Hindu name despite a Muslim father. Trees were flying across the window, the sun was heading up, and warm air was filling the compartment.

Haridwar kyon jaa rahe ho? He asked, changing tact.

I gave the standard touristy reply.

To see the Har ki pauri, I said.

I had seen pictures of the ghat where the Ganga enters the plains. The river has a brilliant emerald tinge descending from the mountains. The water is considered sacred to the Hindus who believe a dip in its cold embrace has curative benefits.

The old man was pleased with my answer. Maybe I was on my way to shed my father’s religious birthmark from my skin.

An old man’s resting bitch face tends to spout myriad truths.

Oh, you will find magic in the waters, he said. The first person you speak to will be an angel to guide you. Remember to try the halwa-puri at Mohan sweets.

I walked from the station to the riverbank. The air was clean, the sun was pleasant, and the chaos was perfectly calibrated to blend in and disappear. I enjoyed the ordinariness of being nobody in a new place.

After observing the musical sounds of the gushing waters, marvelling at its iridescent emerald colour and dipping a toe in its icy fingers, I headed for the treats at Mohan sweets. As I walked away, I watched a boy toss a rope with a magnet tied to it. It pulled coins from the shallow end. Magic.

The salty smoke of deep-frying puris and samosas, shiny orange jalebis, with tea on the side — a classic Indian breakfast had tourists clambering to spot a table. I stood out and ate at one of the standing tables where uncles park their toddlers to reserve the space.

An aunty with tennis shoes peeping out of her baggy blue salwar stood alone, biting into a hot samosa. She smiled at me and small talk began.

She said she was here with her family. They were at another shop behind. She wanted samosa and jalebi. I said as little as possible, keeping the chat brief about being advised to eat here.

She listened patiently and as she moved away casually after polishing her plate, she washed her hands at a water dispenser and said, Koi zaroorat ho to batana.

She left with a head tilt as goodbye.

In Indian culture, one is used to hearing people say that when they are taking your leave. Let me know if you need any help. It is a polite offering when exiting a room. No one buys into the rhetoric nature of the offer.

She was just being a casual angel.

In the years since, the word savarna, or the four forward class of people, has popped up several times on my social media timeline. Initially, it amused me, as I only associated sajna with savarna. I guess for me it still means checking the sajna’s entitlement before getting ready for him. Savarna has become an irrefutable part of our daily online discourse. It makes us check on our own complacency.

My fictional surname Gaikwad was given to me by the principal of a boarding school in Kurseong who misheard the surname Gagade. My mother had to give my father’s name for my admission. She had never been married to my musalmaan father because she did not want to convert. She elected her brother-in-law’s surname Gagade. She fumbled to pronounce Gagade a few times and when the principal repeated after her to confirm, he said Gaikwad? She went along with it, nervous that he would reject my admission if she, an uneducated filly, tried to correct him. She had never met a Gaikwad.

Growing up, I associated the surname with the actor Rajinikanth whose real name is Shivaji Rao Gaekwad. I was often asked if I was related to the cricketer Anshuman Gaikwad. Since I did not play the sport, I changed the spelling to the other Gaekwad because I liked the arts and Rajinikanth. The surname also gave me the bloodline of royal lineage from the Gaekwad dynasty of Baroda. I didn’t mind this association as a child. It gave me an air of nobility.

What works for me in a democratic anglophone society will not serve me well in the cow belt extending to all regions lately. For long I have grazed pastures in disguise as a Gaekwad, gae for cow and kwad from kivaad or door: cow door. Although, it is still the best bet. To belong to the Yadava clan gains entry into the Kshatriya club. Second in the hierarchy after Brahmins. I have apparently not been doing too bad with my fake surname.

I am now acutely aware of my jaati, that I belong to a Scheduled Tribe from my mother’s side (Tamaichikar), and to the Muslim minority from my father’s side (Khan). Grandmother was from a banjara Denotified Tribe. That makes me lowest in the order, along with my personal identity belonging to the queer of caste. Three indelible strikes.

Merit alone has been my jaat so far. If people have been inferring my caste from my fake surname, they are making wrong calculations. As for my class and status, my english-speaking skill has been enough to clear my entry to any upper-class echelon in society. My strong anglophone education has made me indifferent, to not educate myself and utilise the reservation quota that my under-privilege ST status accords me.

The country is regressing to ancient times. Religion is shapeshifting into fanaticism. I may have to rely on magic and angels to survive in the future.