Who kept Dalits away from education?

 
The British spread the idea that before their arrival, women and Shudras in India had no right to education. Even after independence, British-influenced governments continued this propaganda. The aim was clear: divide society and rule. But truth cannot remain hidden. Today, with the help of AI and old references, the reality comes to light. Let us begin from the Vedic age—did Shudras have the right to education then?
 
शूद्रोऽपि विद्वान् भवति यद्यपि शूद्रजातः ।
विद्या हि सर्वं विश्वस्य संनादति ॥ (अथर्ववेद १९.६२.१)
 
A Shudra, though born as a Shudra, can become learned, for knowledge resounds throughout the universe and is available to all.
 
The Vedas themselves prove that Shudras and non-Aryans had full rights to education.

• ऋग्वेद ९.११२.३: “ब्रह्मराजन्याभ्यां शूद्राय चार्याय च स्वायचारणाय च” — Vedic knowledge is for Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Shudras, and non-Aryans alike.

• ऋग्वेद १०.५३.४: “यद् विश्वा अश्विना… शूद्राय वा ददथुरार्याय वा” — The Ashvins gave knowledge equally to Shudras and Aryans.

• अथर्ववेद १९.६२.१: “शूद्रोऽपि विद्वान् भवति… विद्या हि सर्वं विश्वं संनादति” — Even a Shudra can become wise; knowledge is universal.

• यजुर्वेद (वाजसनेयी संहिता २६.२): “शूद्राय च परं ब्रह्म दत्तं भवति” — Shudras too can attain the supreme knowledge of Brahman.

 
Clearly, in the Vedic age, varna was determined not by birth but by learning and deeds. Shudras and non-Aryans participated equally in Vedic study, sacrifices, warfare, medicine, and leadership.
Varna by Knowledge, not Birth
 
शूद्रो ब्राह्मणतामेति ब्राह्मणश्चैति शूद्रताम् ।
क्षत्रियात् जातमेवं तु विद्वत्त्वात् सागरादयः ॥ (महाभारत अनुशासनपर्व १४३.४९-५०)
 
A Shudra can become a Brahmin, and a Brahmin can become a Shudra. A Kshatriya too, by acquiring wisdom, can attain Brahminhood. Vyasa, the author of the Mahabharata, himself born of mixed lineage, fathered Dhritarashtra and Pandu. His son Shukadeva attained Brahminhood through Vedic study and self-realization.
 
जन्मना जायते शूद्रः संस्कारात् द्विज उच्यते ।
वेदपठात् भवेत् विप्रः ब्रह्म जानाति ब्राह्मणः ॥ (मनुस्मृति १०.४)
 
By birth all are Shudras. Through samskara one becomes a dvija (twice-born). By Vedic study one becomes a scholar (vipra). By knowing Brahman, one becomes a Brahmin.
 
Thus, birth did not decide varna; education and spiritual realization did. Examples abound: Valmiki (Shudra by birth, yet author of the Ramayana), Vishvamitra (who became a Brahmarshi), Jabali, Satyakama, and Vyasa—all born of lower or mixed origins, yet attaining Brahminhood through knowledge.
 
Education also enabled Shudras to become rulers: Chandragupta Maurya, son of a maidservant, studied at Takshashila under Chanakya and founded the Mauryan Empire. Ajatashatru, son of a maid, became king of Magadha. Mahapadma Nanda, of Shudra origin, expanded the Nanda Empire. Pushyamitra Shunga, of humble birth, founded the Shunga dynasty. Divya, a fisherman, became king of Avanti. These examples prove that in ancient India, kingship and status came not by birth but by knowledge and deeds.
 
Just as Shudras had access to learning, women too were honored seekers of knowledge. The Vedic tradition recognized Sadyovadhu (studying before marriage) and Brahmavadini (lifelong learners). Women studied the Vedas along with music, arts, and martial skills. Rigveda and Upanishads mention scholars like Gargi, Maitreyi, Lopamudra, Apala. Gargi challenged Yajnavalkya in debate, while Maitreyi questioned him on immortality, showing their intellectual depth. Vedic texts also affirm daughters as equal heirs and encourage women in politics and warfare. Thus, women were respected as philosophers, teachers, and leaders shaping India’s knowledge tradition.
 
 
From the Vedic age until the Mughal period (1526 CE), India had a rich educational tradition. Great universities like Takshashila, Nalanda, Vikramashila, Vallabhi, Odantapuri, Jagaddala, Kashi, Ujjain, Mithila, Kanchipuram, and Sringeri flourished, along with hundreds of thousands of smaller gurukuls.
 
By the 18th century, there were over 600,000 gurukuls, with Shudras and Dalits forming the majority (75–80%). Gurukuls taught not only Vedas and philosophy but also mathematics, astronomy, medicine, arts, and 72 crafts—blacksmithing, weaving, carpentry, pottery, painting, architecture, metallurgy, ivory work, gem cutting, musical instruments, agricultural tools, and shipbuilding. This made villages self-reliant.
 
British surveys (William Adam, 1835–38 in Bengal-Bihar; G.W. Leitner, 1882 in Punjab) and Dharampal’s The Beautiful Tree (1983) confirm that nearly every village had a school, with Shudras forming most students.
 
But after 1857, the British crushed the gurukul system. Macaulay’s English-based education replaced it. Kings and landlords stopped supporting village schools. The British opened few schools in villages, focusing only on producing clerks.
 
By 1901, only 97,000 schools remained (down from 600,000 gurukuls). Literacy fell to 5.3% overall (men 9.8%, women 0.7%). Shudra-Dalit literacy collapsed from 70–80% to barely 1–2%. In Bengal, Brahmin literacy was 467 per 1,000 men, but Shudras like Chamars, Mahars, Gonds, and Kolis had only 8–54 per 1,000. Dalits were at 8 per 1,000.
 
Thus, within 50 years, Macaulay’s system made the majority illiterate. Brahmins, already urban and engaged in study, adapted easily to English education and gained government jobs. Shudras and Dalits, left in villages, became illiterate.
 
Conclusion

Macaulay’s policy benefited the upper castes but destroyed Shudra-Dalit education. The closure of gurukuls and the urban-English schooling system excluded the majority. The truth is: it was the British education system that deprived Shudras of learning.
 
Today, with schools in every village, and with reservations, scholarships, and social reforms, Dalits and girls are once again entering education in large numbers.
 

A School Experiment: Do Exit Polls Fail?

 

 

Nowadays, during my morning walks, a circle of seniors like us gathers in the park. While discussing the Bengal election surveys, everyone was of one opinion—most exit polls fail.

One of us was a schoolteacher. He said, "I once conducted an experiment in class to explain why exit polls fail." When the Haryana election results turned out to be the opposite of the exit poll predictions, the students had questioned it. The teacher decided to give them a live demonstration.

The Experiment: There were 42 students sitting in four rows. The teacher called two students forward. One was asked to create a table on the blackboard with headings: 'Exit Poll', 'Election Result', 'Party A', and 'Party B'. The second student prepared 40 ballot papers from sheets provided by the teacher. The students recorded their votes, folded them, and handed them to the teacher.

The teacher then asked a student to pick 10 ballots at random—this was the 'Exit Poll'. This sample represented a significant 20% of the total votes. A student opened these ballots and wrote the figures on the board: 4 votes for 'A' and 6 votes for 'B'. According to the exit poll, 'Party B' was going to win with a two-thirds majority.

The Shocking Reality: Then, all the ballots were counted. The actual result was shocking: 'Party A' received 22 votes (55%) and 'Party B' received 18 votes (45%). Despite a massive 20% sample size, the exit poll was completely wrong!

The Takeaway: Now think about this—most states in our country have crores of voters (often exceeding 50 million). If an exit poll agency collects data from 50,000 to 200,000 voters, it amounts to less than a quarter of a percent (0.25%) of the total turnout. No matter how scientific the data collection is, the probability of an exit poll being accurate on such a tiny sample is negligible.

In reality, exit poll agencies merely try to gauge the 'vibe' and make guesses based on that. You might as well call them 'astrologers reading horoscopes'! The students were satisfied. They realized that exit polls are merely a form of entertainment. Occasionally, an agency's prediction might come true by sheer coincidence, but beyond that, it holds no real significance.

"Gems of the Rigveda: From Darkness to Light"

  

In Rigveda 5.44.15, Rishi Avatsara Kashyap।a offers a prayer to the Vishwadevas, describing how a person awakened in the light of knowledge naturally attracts sacred verses (Rucha-knowledge), melodic spiritual practices (sāma), and the blissful presence of the Divine (soma). This awakening is the foundation of true spiritual practice. Just as fire remains ever awake, so too must the seeker remain rooted in inner awareness. When the heart is awakened, wisdom, refined practices, and divine companionship flow naturally toward the seeker.

A question arises — what does it mean to be truly awake? In the Bhagavad Gita (2.69), Lord Krishna says:

What is night for most beings is wakefulness for the sage;

What is wakefulness for most beings is night for the sage.

"That which is night to all beings, therein the disciplined one is awake. And that which beings consider wakefulness, is night to the wise sage." This means that worldly indulgence is darkness to the wise, while inner awareness is true wakefulness.

Night symbolizes tamas — the quality of darkness, ignorance, laziness, attachment, and forgetfulness of the self. A person affected by tamas becomes inactive, loses discernment, lives in fear and anger, and forgets their true nature. Because of tamas, they lose interest in spiritual practice, service, and the pursuit of knowledge, while selfishness and ego begin to grow. This leads to a halt in their mental, social, and spiritual development. A person wandering in the darkness of ignorance becomes devoid of effort and purpose. They lose the courage to face life’s challenges, and sometimes, in deep despair, may even take the extreme step of ending their life

To dispel tamas, one must rise early, meditate, reflect, engage in service, and consciously choose the company of truth, wisdom, and spiritually awakened individuals — a practice that nourishes the soul, sharpens the intellect, dispels inner darkness, and enables one to make wise choices. For students, avoiding distractions like mobile phones and focusing on study is true discipline. Contemplating “Who am I?” is a gateway to self-realization. Through such conscious efforts, the inner darkness fades and the lamp of awareness is lit.

Awakening is the root of all spiritual practice. The seeker who lives with awareness naturally attracts wisdom and sacred sound. Such a seeker gains both worldly fulfillment and spiritual progress, ultimately experiencing eternal joy — not fleeting, but lasting. The Divine enters their life as a true companion, dwelling with them in the bond of sacred friendship.

Bullfight and the Clash of Superpowers

We all must have seen a bullfight at some point. A few years ago, I too had such an experience. Delhi’s Sitaram Bazaar was, as always, full of life that day. Evening was setting in, but the crowd showed no sign of thinning. The colorful stalls in front of the shops, the mixed aroma of spices and dishes, the voices of customers bargaining—all together created a lively scene.

The panipuri seller kept calling out, “Come brother, spicy panipuri!” Nearby, the ghee was sizzling on the aloo-tikki seller’s pan. Bargaining was going on at the vegetable and fruit carts.

People were absorbed in their own work when suddenly commotion broke out in the market. From nowhere, two huge bulls appeared in the middle of the street. First they stared at each other for a few moments, as if throwing a silent challenge. Then suddenly their horns clashed. The collision was so fierce that the sound echoed throughout the market.

Within moments their fight grew violent. Both bulls began pushing each other and running around. The narrow street of the market turned into an arena for them. Whatever came in front was caught in their clash. The panipuri seller’s cart overturned and his spicy water spilled onto the street. The aloo-tikki seller’s pan flipped and hot tikkis fell into the dust. The vegetable baskets scattered far—tomatoes, brinjals, potatoes rolled across the street. The fruit seller’s apples and bananas were crushed under people’s feet.

Terrified, people began to run. Some pulled their children to safety, some hid inside nearby shops. In the stampede, some fell and were injured. Bicycles and motorcycles too were knocked down and scattered on the street. Some shopkeepers stood helplessly watching their ruined goods.

I too was present in the market at that time. Frightened by the sudden chaos, I took shelter in a small grocery shop. Standing inside, we all watched the scene outside. The bulls’ clash continued. The horns colliding, the sound of hooves striking the ground, and in between, the frightened cries of people.

This struggle must have lasted about 15–20 minutes. Finally, both bulls, exhausted, went off in different directions. But the scene left behind was like the destruction after a small storm. Overturned carts, scattered vegetables, fallen utensils, and frightened people slowly coming out.

Today, while hearing the news of the America–Iran war, that old scene came before my eyes. Two powerful “bulls” stand face to face. The growing tension between them is affecting the whole world. In this fight, whichever bull wins, the result will have to be borne by ordinary people across the world—those who have no direct connection with the clash of these big nations. Just like in the market, after the bulls’ fight, the greatest loss was suffered by the panipuri seller, the vegetable seller, and the passersby.

In summary, the clash of great powers often shows its real impact not in the arena, but in the world’s markets and in the lives of ordinary people. Inflation and unemployment are borne by the common man. Then it becomes clear that the heaviest burden of the powerful’s fight always falls upon the weak.

Raju and the Goddess of Bribes

 Raju was a simple man—never troubled anyone, lived a plain and straightforward life. After his father passed away, the responsibility of the household fell on his shoulders. For the first time, he had to offer a bribe to get his father’s death certificate.

Slowly, Raju realized that every task required a bribe. So, he stopped worrying. Without anger or complaints, he began offering bribes happily. Thanks to these “bribe bundles,” all his work got done quickly. He firmly believed:

 “If you must give a bribe, give it with joy.”

He treated bribes like offerings to a goddess—the Goddess of Bribes. Through experience, he learned exactly how much to offer at which office to get things done.

When his wife gave birth, the nurse came out and joyfully announced, “Sir, it’s a boy!” Raju placed a ₹100 note in her hand and went in to see his son. The hospital gave him no trouble. From that moment, he began worshipping the Bribe Goddess for his son’s future.

Whether it was the birth certificate or adding his son’s name to the ration card, Raju offered bribes with devotion. He paid donations (disguised bribes) to get his son into a good school, then a good college. Even when he had to take loans and sacrifice his own needs, he kept the Bribe Goddess pleased.

Finally, after offering bribes equal to a year’s salary, he got his son a job.

Raju was honest—and meticulous. Before his son’s wedding, he calculated all the bribes he had paid over the years and recovered them by demanding a hefty dowry. He felt proud that his offerings to the Bribe Goddess had finally paid off.

One day, Raju felt a sharp pain in his chest. He knew his end was near. He thought, “Maybe even Chitragupta, the divine accountant, will need a bribe to send me to heaven.” He called his son and expressed his last wish. Respecting it, his son placed a bundle of ₹100 notes on his funeral pyre.

Raju reached Chitragupta’s court. Chitragupta asked, “Where should I send you—heaven or hell?”

Raju bowed deeply and offered the bundle of notes at Chitragupta’s feet. He said, “Whatever you decide is right. Just one request—please don’t send me back to India. I’m tired of worshipping the Goddess of Bribes.”

Chitragupta smiled slyly and said, “Raju, you never caused harm to anyone, so I can’t send you to hell. But you tried to buy me with a bribe. You forgot—this isn’t India, this is the court of justice. Because of this offense, I can’t send you to heaven either.”

 “You have only one punishment…”

 Raju’s eyes went dark. Suddenly, he heard a woman’s voice in Hindi — “Sir, it’s a baby boy!”

Raju realized his fate: he was born again in India, destined to carry the bribe bundle once more. Cursing his luck, he let out a loud cry— “Ta-S-S!”

The Night of Sweet Union

It was the night of their wedding. She entered the room carrying a cup of saffron milk. As soon as he saw her, the words “Shubhamangal Savdhan” echoed in his ears. He remembered how Saint Samarth Ramdas had fainted and fled from his wedding. Even Gautama Buddha had left his wife and child in the darkness of night.
 
A thought struck him: “If I don’t leave now, I’ll never escape this cycle of worldly life. I’ll never break free from attachment and desire.”
 
He turned to his wife and said, “I got married only to fulfil my parents’ wishes. Now I’m free from that promise. I have no interest in family life. I want to reach heaven and see the gods. For that, I must undergo intense spiritual practice. I have no choice.” Saying this, he ran away.
 
He reached a deep forest, far from people. To attain heaven, he began severe penance. He wore simple bark clothes. The earth was his bed, the sky his blanket. He ate roots and fruits. He never thought of worldly pleasures. He spent his days in prayer and meditation. Time passed. He grew old and eventually died.
 
Chitragupta calculated his deeds. He had earned the merit to spend one day in heaven. He was happy—at least he would see the gods once. His life’s penance would be fulfilled.
 
Angels took him to heaven. They bathed him with fragrant oils and dressed him in rich silk robes. He was taken to Indra’s court, where Lord Indra and other gods were enjoying dances by celestial nymphs like Rambha and Urvashi.
 
Lord Indra welcomed him and offered him a seat. A nymph brought him a cup of divine nectar. Lord Indra said, “Enjoy the dance of heavenly nymphs. Drink this nectar. Tonight, you may spend time with your favourite apsara. Don’t waste this moment. This is the reward of your lifelong penance.”
 
He looked around. Rambha and Urvashi were dancing in a drunken trance, their clothes disheveled, revealing more than they should. But they felt no shame. The gods were also intoxicated, enjoying the nectar touched by the lips of eternal beauties. Their clothes were more revealing than movie stars on Earth. The gods were celebrating lust openly.
 
Seeing this, he remembered a New Year’s party his friend had once taken him to at a farmhouse. There, bar girls in skimpy clothes served drinks. Men and women danced without shame, drunk and wild. That party had made him feel detached from worldly life.
 
Now, seeing the same scene in heaven, he wondered—was this the reward of his penance? Such pleasure could be bought on Earth with a little money. He had spent his whole life for this? He felt ashamed. He remembered his abandoned wife. He had hurt her for something so trivial. He wanted to ask her forgiveness.
 
He left Lord Indra’s court. But where would he find her now? Suddenly, he saw a faint figure—it was her. He shouted, “Forgive me!”
 
She replied, “What happened to you? What forgiveness? Did you see a dream?”
 
He was startled. He realized he was lying in bed. He quickly composed himself, took the cup of saffron milk from her hand and said, “The night of sweet union should be spent awake. I fell asleep. I’ve committed a sin. The guilty must be punished.”
 
She laughed and said, “There’s still plenty of night left. I’ll punish you as you wish.”
 
What happened after that—who punished whom, and how—was lost in the darkness.
 

he Blue Butterfly: A Quiet Guilt”

 
 
About 25 years ago, we lived in a small house with a front yard. In the yard stood a guava tree, a Madhu Malati vine, and pots filled with roses. Every morning and evening, sparrows chirped. The children loved feeding them and chasing butterflies.
 
But humans are selfish, restless, and never satisfied. I’m no exception. As our children grew, space felt tight. Sunlight barely entered the house because neighbours had covered their verandas. I kept thinking—if we build a bigger room in front, the house will look better and we’ll have a nice sitting area.
 
Eventually, whether due to my wife’s constant remarks or my own hidden desire, I decided to build that room. Naturally, the guava tree and Madhu Malati vine had to be cut down. In a few months, the new sitting room was ready. We moved the Tulsi plant and flower pots to the terrace. We even kept a water bowl for the sparrows. But they were gone. Without the vine, they had no place to nest. A few still came to the terrace for food and water.
 
About a year later, one evening after work, my children shouted, “Dad! Dad! There’s something like a bug on the wall!” I looked closely; it was a cocoon, with a faint blue colour inside. “It’s a butterfly cocoon,” I said. “Soon, a butterfly will come out.”
 
Maybe the butterfly’s mother had come out of habit to lay eggs. With no tree or vine, she must have laid them on a flower pot. The caterpillar crawled into the room, searching for a safe place to form its cocoon.
 
A few days later, I came home to find my kids dancing with joy. “Look, Dad! The butterfly!” A beautiful blue butterfly was flying around the room. The children were thrilled. They had turned off all the fans so it wouldn’t get hurt.
 
That night, they gently guided the butterfly out of the room, shut the doors, turned on the cooler, and went to sleep.
 
Next morning, I washed my face in the back veranda and entered the sitting room. In one corner, the butterfly lay dead. Maybe it had entered again and got caught in the fan. I stared at it for a while, feeling guilty.
 
What was the butterfly’s fault? Its mother didn’t know that a selfish man had cut down the trees. She came, didn’t find the vine, and laid eggs on a pot. The butterfly was born in a closed room instead of open nature. If it had survived, it might have returned to lay eggs here again. But now, that cycle was broken.
 
I picked it up with a heavy heart and threw it outside. Then I scrubbed my hands at the washbasin. While washing, I remembered Lady Macbeth—can we ever wash away our guilt?
 
It wasn’t just one butterfly. I had destroyed generations of butterflies for my own comfort. Since then, I’ve never seen a blue butterfly near our home.
 
Even today, whenever I see a butterfly, I remember that one. And one question keeps haunting me: While building that room, why didn’t I think even once about the lives that lived on those trees and vines? If I had, maybe that blue butterfly would still be alive.