From childhood, Onam has always meant unity. Every year, I was actively involved in organizing celebrations—at school, in college, and later at workplaces. It was the one festival where Keralites came together, regardless of religion or caste. The friendships I formed during those times were genuine and long-lasting. I truly believed that Kerala, and Keralites, had managed to rise above the divisions that still haunt much of India.
That belief stayed with me—until recently.
I had been living in a villa layout in Bangalore for over six years. So when an Onam celebration was planned in the layout for the first time, I was excited to be involved. Around 15–20 of us came together to organize it, and the process felt familiar and warm. For the first time in years, I felt a sense of community again. We laughed, celebrated, and it felt like real friendships were forming.
Then, slowly, things started to change.
Soon after the celebration, there were informal gatherings and casual get-togethers. But I wasn’t invited. At first, I thought maybe it was a coincidence. But then it happened again. And again. I started noticing patterns—photos being shared, plans being made, all without us. Everyone else from the organizing group seemed to be part of it. We weren’t.
Some invites to public celebrations in the layout were also shared only within certain circles, quietly skipping others. That’s when the exclusion began to feel intentional—not just social randomness.
What hit even harder was how deeply it seeped into everything. Even my son felt it. He would get invited to kids' birthday parties, but we—the parents—were never included. He would ask, “Why are all my friends' parents there, but not you?” And I didn’t have an answer.
What confused me the most was that even those I thought of as friends seemed aligned with the exclusion. Still, I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. I thought maybe I was imagining it. Maybe it was just social circles forming naturally.
So when the next Onam came around, I participated again. I still believed in showing up, staying open. The celebration itself went fine—people were polite, even warm—but afterward, the same cold silence returned. That’s when I started putting the pieces together.
Eventually, I realized what was going on. Every person in that tight-knit circle belonged to the same caste. I didn’t. That was the difference.
Let me be clear: this is not about blaming any caste. Some of my closest friends, mentors, and supporters are from the same community. Casteism isn’t confined to one group—it can come from anywhere. And that’s what makes it so dangerous when it hides behind education, affluence, and global exposure.
These were people in senior roles at top firms. People who travel the world, send their kids to elite schools, and project an image of modernity. But the mindset—subtle exclusion based on caste—was very much alive.
Eventually, I stopped engaging. I didn’t confront anyone. I just knew I couldn’t let my kids grow up in a space where caste quietly decided who belonged and who didn’t. Over several months, I planned and finally moved out of that layout.
This experience broke something fundamental in me. It forced me to question a belief I’d held all my life—that Keralites were somehow different, more evolved in their thinking. Now, I know better. Prejudice doesn’t always wear a mask of ignorance. Sometimes it comes dressed in class, wealth, and education.
This whole experience shook me. It forced me to confront something I hadn’t wanted to see: that casteism isn’t just alive—it’s comfortably disguised in modern clothes, polite words, and gated communities.
And once you see it, you can’t unsee it.
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