Unlearning Caste, One Home at a Time.

I write this with a heavy heart.

I usually steer clear of news about violence, it overwhelms me. But today, a story caught my eye. It was an honour killing, and what shook me was that it happened in my very own native Tirunelveli.

He was killed for loving someone across caste lines. Just that — loving someone. Statistics say there were nearly 300 caste-based murders in Tamil Nadu alone between 2016 and 2020. And that’s just one state. Imagine the weight of a nationwide number.

I was born and brought up in Munnar, a quiet hill town where cultures mingled easily. North Indians, Tamilians, native Keralites - we all coexisted, celebrated festivals together, played together, and ate from each other’s homes. Until I finished school, I was blissfully unaware of what caste even meant. I didn't know my own. That kind of innocence feels rare now.

I did my undergraduate studies in a small village near Tirunelveli. Most of the students were from the southern districts, and though I was technically an outsider, the love and support I received made me feel nothing of the sort. I was welcomed, seen, and held, not as someone different, but as one of their own

I had many relatives in the area, but I rarely visited them. Instead, it was my friends’ homes — regardless of their caste or background, that became my safe space. They were my comfort zone, the closest thing to home during those years.

There was something pure in those connections. No one cared what surname you carried or what your lineage was. We bonded over shared meals, exam stress, hostel gossip, and the simple joy of companionship.

That’s why this recent honour killing feels all the more surreal. In a place that gave me nothing but warmth and acceptance, a young man was brutally killed — not for a crime, not for hurting anyone, but for choosing to love someone outside his caste.

How fragile must our sense of honour be, if it is threatened by love?

I think back to those friends who welcomed me into their homes without hesitation. What would our lives have been if caste had stood in the way? If our parents had taught us suspicion instead of solidarity? If we were raised to protect a “legacy” instead of embrace humanity?

This young man’s death is not just a tragedy, it’s a crack in the soul of a society that still clings to hierarchy over heart.

Sometimes I wonder, how many more lives must we lose before we truly learn to unlearn?

I’ve come to believe that while we may not be able to change society overnight or awaken those still trapped in the illusion of caste pride, we do have the power to shape the space we call home. We can raise our children with empathy, not ego. With curiosity about others, not fear of differences. With the courage to love, and the strength to stand by that love.

Maybe our previous generations were stuck in this idea of caste — but we needn’t be. We can break this chain.

Like Bharathiyar boldly declared over a century ago:

“சாதிகள் இல்லைடி பாப்பா; குலத் தாழ்ச்சி உயர்ச்சி சொல்லல் பாவம்!”

(There are no castes, dear child; speaking of high and low birth is a sin!)

May we raise our children with this truth — not just in words, but in the way we live and love.

With hope for a kinder tomorrow,

Nancy Kavin