A Story Without an End
It begins at home.
Food taboos.
Utensils.
Who cooks.
Who serves.
Who eats last.
Who cleans.
Smells.
Skin.
Clothes.
Surnames.
No surnames.
Who enters the house.
Who never should.
Who stands outside.
Who eats outside.
I learned it young.
Saw it transform—
from harsh to subtle,
yet hard.
Not in words.
In gestures,
in looks,
in silences.
And I carried it
outside.
Into school.
Into work.
Into friendships.
Noticing.
Remembering.
Choosing.
Then—
love.
And for a while,
caste disappeared.
Until she wanted
to meet the family.
That’s when
everything returned.
The food.
The name.
The silence.
The glances.
She could not enter.
Not the kitchen.
Not the bedroom.
Not my father’s approval.
Or my mother’s.
Or our ancestors’.
And me?
I stood there.
Still.
Cowardly.
Knowing better.
Doing nothing.
No shame,
before caste pride.
That is how it lives.
Through men like me.
A story without an end.
