Caste, Culture & The Cubicle
Every morning in an urban gated community, the day begins with a ritual that seems simple, even normal. A woman walks in with quiet steps and begins sweeping, mopping, washing the dishes, preparing chai. She is addressed not by name, but by the functional identity society has assigned her: bai, kaamwali, maid. The children of the house grow up hearing her spoken to in a sharper tone than the one reserved for the beloved family dog. They learn early: some people stand, others bend.
They learn early: some people stand, others bend.
Caste in India is not always spoken out loud. But it doesn’t need to be. It lives in tone, in seating arrangements, in how one offers water — if at all — and in the instinctive flinch when someone “not like us” enters the space. It shows up in weddings and WhatsApp groups, but perhaps more insidiously, it shapes our understanding of labour, value, and authority — the basic grammar of workplace culture.
From home to office, this hierarchy seeps through the walls. Just as domestic workers are expected to quietly absorb scoldings, nod deferentially, and remain invisible except when needed, corporate employees are often expected to do the same — especially if they come from less privileged backgrounds. The Indian workplace often mirrors the household: the boss is paternalistic (or maternalistic), decisions trickle down, and feedback goes only one way. Obedience is praised, dissent is punished — or pathologised as arrogance, entitlement, or “not being a cultural fit.”
We’ve become so accustomed to this caste-structured chain of command that it’s rarely questioned. In fact, it’s often mistaken for professionalism. But in truth, it’s a quiet continuation of caste logic. That some people must “manage” while others must be “managed.” That leadership comes preordained — by English fluency, skin tone, last name, college attended — more than merit.
This is why so many caste oppressed professionals speak of workplace exhaustion not just from the work itself, but from constantly having to prove they belong. It’s not just about fighting for a seat at the table. It’s having to pretend the table was ever meant for everyone. There’s a reason so few rise to leadership roles despite their talent — the stairs were never designed for upward movement.
Caste doesn’t need to be uttered aloud to be present. It is embedded in mentorship opportunities denied, in jokes about reservations during lunch, in who gets to take leave for a wedding and who is guilted for requesting a festival off. It is in the unspoken codes of who is invited for after-office drinks, and who is always left out of the group photo.
And if we are being honest with ourselves, we know this hierarchy of labour is learned young. When children grow up watching their parents talk down to domestic workers, they internalise a value system — one that says dignity is not universal, but conditional. One that says labour is not labour unless it is managerial, English-speaking, and performed from behind a desk. One that believes proximity to leisure equals superiority, and that the more you manage, the more you matter.
When children grow up watching their parents talk down to domestic workers, they internalise a value system — one that says dignity is not universal, but conditional.
We like to think of the Indian home and workplace as distinct spheres — one personal, the other professional. But in truth, they are mirrors. Both operate on a deeply ingrained belief system that caste must be preserved, even if unspoken. That certain people are meant to serve, others to command. That structure, order, and respect are more important than fairness, inclusion, or equity.
Until we name it, we cannot change it. Until we unlearn it in our homes, we will replicate it in our offices. Caste is not a relic of the past. It is the rhythm of the present. And if we’re to build a work culture truly grounded in merit and dignity, we must first confront the quiet truths we’ve been raised not to see.
