When the Government of India announced on April 30 that caste enumeration would be included in the upcoming national Census, I saw it as a historic shift — our first such effort since the 1931 caste-based Census. It marked a fundamental change in how the state chooses to engage with the social realities that shape our everyday lives. Is the caste Census simply a victory of oppositional politics in India? I think it goes beyond that — it represents the culmination of persistent state-level pressures, strong regional assertions, and a growing public realisation that we cannot reimagine India’s social architecture unless we first make a genuine effort to understand it. This decision is not just overdue, it is historic. But more importantly, it is not merely an administrative exercise; it is a political and moral reckoning we must not take lightly.
Let’s be honest: Our welfare policies for the marginalised caste groups are not anchored in empirical reality. The last time caste data for the entire population was collected was in the 1931 Census. Since then, caste has continued to shape life chances — but the Indian state has chosen to look the other way. The 2011 Socio-Economic and Caste Census (SECC), conducted by the UPA government, was an attempt to bridge this gap. But it failed. The SECC’s caste data was never released because of serious methodological shortcomings. Respondents listed over 46 lakh unique caste names, many of them overlapping, ambiguous, or duplicated. There was no consistent classification mechanism to distinguish between actual caste names, sub-castes, clan titles, gotras, surnames, or even regional variations of the same caste group. In other words, the SECC collected data, but it lacked the clarity and categorisation to turn that data into meaningful policy insight.
In contrast, recent state-level initiatives have shown that a caste census is both possible and necessary. Bihar, Karnataka, and Telangana have all experimented with caste surveys — each pushing the political envelope in its own way. These surveys have delivered more than just numbers; they have laid bare the mismatch between perception and reality. In Karnataka, the so-called dominant castes — Lingayats and Vokkaligas — were found to comprise only 11.09 per cent and 10.31 per cent of the population, respectively, far less than assumed. OBCs, on the other hand, constitute over 70 per cent of the population. The reservation architecture, based on older political balances rather than contemporary demographics, now stands exposed. In Bihar, the backward and extremely backward castes form more than 63 per cent of the state’s population. Telangana raised its OBC quota to 42 per cent and even introduced intra-SC sub-classifications.
But all of these, important as they are, remain ad hoc and legally vulnerable. They are not conducted under the Census Act of 1948. They don’t have national validity. And they cannot substitute for a scientifically rigorous and legally binding national data set. The demand for a caste census is not about competitive populism; it is about data integrity and democratic accountability. What India needs now is a reliable, comprehensive, and scientific caste census conducted under the Census Act. This will require a formal amendment to the Act to include caste as a recognised parameter. Without this legal backing, any data collection exercise, no matter how detailed, remains on shaky ground. A caste census under the Census Act will ensure that data is collected under uniform definitions, centralised protocols, and strict confidentiality safeguards. But legal reform is not enough. The questionnaire design must also be deeply thoughtful. We must avoid the mistakes of SECC 2011 by designing a questionnaire that clearly distinguishes genuine caste identities from synonymous names, sub-castes, surnames, and gotras. It should reflect local dialects and self-identification patterns, supported by an inclusive, precise taxonomy that minimises duplication and ambiguity.
Some worry that a caste census might deepen divisions. But in my view, truth cannot divide — only lies and ignorance do. If caste determines access to education, jobs, housing, and political power, as the data clearly suggests, then justice demands that we understand its scale and nature. Hiding caste under the pretence of promoting equality only perpetuates existing inequalities. You cannot fix what you refuse to measure. There are risks, of course. The Karnataka experience shows us that caste data can trigger discomfort, even within progressive parties. The Congress government in the state was divided over the survey it commissioned. Lingayat and Vokkaliga leaders alleged underrepresentation. Political allies questioned the timing. Electoral arithmetic clashed with social arithmetic. This is the paradox: Data that is collected in the name of justice often unsettles the very coalitions it seeks to empower. But if we shy away from discomfort, we will never move toward justice.
To navigate this path, we need transparent implementation, empirical rigour, and constitutional wisdom. States like Karnataka and Telangana have already begun this process, presenting their surveys not just as population counts but as multi-dimensional assessments including educational, economic, and social indicators. This is the route India must follow at the national level. Any attempt to justify increased or altered reservation percentages must go beyond numbers—it must be grounded in demonstrable socio-economic disadvantage. The caste census also opens the door for re-examining the 50 per cent reservation ceiling, set in the Indra Sawhney case and reaffirmed in the Maratha judgment. If new data shows that backward groups form a significantly larger share of the population and are still underserved, it could create the legal foundation for expanding quotas under “extraordinary circumstances”.
The larger question, however, is philosophical. What kind of society do we want to build? One that is driven by tokenism and dated assumptions, or one that responds to contemporary realities with courage and compassion? A caste census can help us answer that question — but only if we treat it as an instrument of equity, not expediency. Let this not be another SECC. Let it be a foundational moment that expands our understanding of justice, representation, and democracy itself. And above all, let us remember: Counting must lead to caring. Otherwise, we are merely playing with numbers, not changing lives.
The writer is professor & head, Department of Political Science, Maulana Azad National Urdu University, Hyderabad
The 2011 Socio-Economic and Caste Census (SECC), conducted by the UPA government, was an attempt to bridge this gap. But it failed. (File photo) 
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