Opinion Looking for love and finding caste on dating apps

This brief, yet succinct assertion may not seem uncommon for matrimonial websites, where custom filters for castes and sub-castes help people tick boxes when searching for a life partner in India’s deeply caste-ridden society.

But it should not appear surprising on dating apps either, where I stumbled upon the profile of this person, whose condition of her match being a “Gaur Brahmin boy” seemed non-negotiable. In fact, on a platform where one of the most commonly asked questions is about what a person is seeking, and the answer is often shrouded by ambiguity, isn’t this clarity appreciable?

Yet, I felt disappointed.

Dating apps in India routinely advertise their effectiveness in churning out successful love stories, trying to strike a chord with young Indians and even their parents. A friend’s father had once asked her if he should create a profile for her on Bumble to find a groom. There is no dearth of real love stories that begin on dating apps.

These apps were once (and to a large extent, still) frowned upon by the older generation who found them incongruous with their ideas of socially acceptable ways of finding a partner. But in recent years, such platforms have started taking little steps towards becoming a part of the modern-day rishta-finding mechanism, similar to matrimonial sites and matchmaking professionals (remember Sima Taparia from the Netflix series Indian Matchmaking?).

While researching for this article, I reached out to a friend who was happy to furnish more information about people mentioning their caste on dating apps. This included men with a penchant for making generous displays of their chest hair and writing about their “royal Rajput blood” or using a photo of the mythological figure Parashuram, increasingly used as a symbol of caste pride by Brahmin outfits in their dating app profile pictures.

Some profiles had names like “Munde Jattan De (Jat boy)” while other men could be seen proudly posing with their Royal Enfield bikes with stickers mentioning their caste on the headlights.

It doesn’t take much work to realise that irrespective of the gender and city, dating app bios and prompts are replete with caste references.

So, since dating apps are reflective of our social milieu, where factors such as caste, religion and finances might often knit the fabric of exclusivity and make us selective in our human interactions, why should one fuss about someone trying to look for a “Gaur Brahmin boy”?

Still, I couldn’t help but feel sad about this Indianised version of online dating, where the vice-like grip of caste not only kills the novelty of unexpected love stories but also serves as an ominous warning about how younger generations might be shaping the contours of the othering, which have left many such stories unfinished.

If the original concept of dating apps was to connect strangers who may have a spark without knowing each other’s social or economic background, these not-so-subtle declarations about caste now make such platforms just another extension of our endogamous, exclusionary society, where inter-caste marriages are still frowned upon.

As a Savarna Hindu male reporting from India’s geographically largest state, the overbearing role that my caste privilege plays is obvious. And I feel it most while sifting through the latest report of the National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB), which puts Rajasthan in second place when it comes to atrocities against Dalits, or when reading FIRs in which victims document their ordeal, talking about threats, intimidation and being abused with caste slurs.

Stories of dear friends who are served drinking water in separate glasses on account of being Dalits while visiting their ancestral villages for social events, and the fact that Dalit houses are located at the edge of villages are testimonies to how caste oppression remains entrenched.

Both villagers from remote Rajasthan hamlets and government officers would doggedly ask about my caste during reporting assignments. After determining it from my surname, the officers would then go on long diatribes about the downsides of caste-based reservation, assuming I will agree owing to my Savarna background.

The surprise on their faces when they are countered, which gradually shifts to whataboutery, is telling of how the privileged class often wilfully chooses to live in denial of the reality of caste-based discrimination.

It is not very difficult to gauge their opinions on journalists from marginalised communities who are already a minority in Savarna-dominated newsrooms.

When it comes to literature, books spin grand tales around love and unhappy endings – be it Romeo and Juliet, the haunting, destructive tale of passion in Wuthering Heights, or even much closer to home, the tragic fate of Laila-Majnu. But what is it like to actually be a part of such stories? I still remember the stunned and grief-stricken voice of Roshan Mahawar — a Dalit youngster from Rajasthan’s Dausa — from when I spoke to him in early 2021. Despite an order of the Rajasthan High Court to give them protection, Pinki Saini, the 18-year-old woman whom Roshan loved, was allegedly murdered by her father. A photo shared by Roshan showed the couple in happier times, sitting at a cafe with a plate of pastries and staring lovingly into each other’s eyes — a memory that was brutally cut midway.

Figures such as Romeo and Juliet have inspired movies and songs, and their stories are glorified and become part of folklore passed on to generations. But we must ask, in the real world, what is preferable — tragic endings which find mention in the annals of history and newspaper headlines, or two lovestruck people living a nondescript life devoid of conflict, very much alive and together, celebrating their love every day?

At such a juncture, platforms such as dating apps could actually have played a role in doing away with our deep-seated obsession with endogamy, which would be a step towards a more inclusive world.

deep.mukherjee@expressindia.com