Priya Jadhav, a 25-year-old Dalit seamstress, stitches clothes in a cramped Mumbai slum, her fingers calloused but her eyes bright with hope. “If they count us, maybe my daughter won’t face the shame I did,” she says, picturing a future free of caste’s shadow. India’s decision to include caste in its next census, announced in April 2025, revives a practice last seen in 1931 under British rule. For Priya, it’s a chance at justice in a nation of 1.4 billion, where caste still dictates dignity. Yet, across Delhi’s markets, Anil Sharma, a 40-year-old Brahmin shopkeeper, fears the count will fracture his community. “Why dig up old divisions?” he asks, his voice heavy with worry.

The caste system, born from ancient Hindu texts, sorts people into rigid groups—Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas, Shudras, and Dalits—with countless sub-castes. Despite a 1950 ban on discrimination, caste lingers: Priya’s neighbors shun her, and only 5% of marriages defy caste lines. The census, delayed from 2021 by COVID-19 and logistics, aims to tally these groups, updating colonial-era data. Information Minister Ashwini Vaishnaw calls it a tool for “fairness,” pointing to Bihar’s 2023 survey, which revealed 63% of its people as Other Backward Classes (OBCs). “This is for the forgotten,” he said.

For many, the count promises clarity. “Caste locks us out of schools, jobs, respect,” says Sunita Devi, a 32-year-old OBC farmer in Uttar Pradesh, who walks miles to avoid upper-caste wells. The 2011 caste census, shelved over accuracy fears, left gaps; now, Rahul Gandhi, opposition leader, demands data to expose wealth disparities and expand the 50% quota cap for OBCs, Scheduled Castes (SCs), and Scheduled Tribes (STs). Bihar’s survey, which boosted quotas, inspires hope. “I want my son to study, not toil,” Sunita says, her hands clutching soil.

But dread runs deep. Sharma, whose family thrived under upper-caste privilege, fears losing ground. Oxfam reports 60% of India’s wealth with 5% of elites, often upper castes. “Quotas already squeeze us,” he says, recalling 2006 protests that killed dozens over reservations. On social media, upper-caste users vent: “This is reverse discrimination!” Some in Narendra Modi’s Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) warn of unrest, noting the census entrenches caste over unity. “I dream of one India,” says Meena Rao, a teacher in Chennai, her voice soft but firm.

The stakes touch every life. Bihar’s count showed 84% as marginalized, fueling demands for fair shares—27% of government jobs go to OBCs, with SCs and STs at 201 million and 104 million in 2011. But counting thousands of sub-castes is a maze, says Professor Sukhdeo Thorat, urging questions on exclusion, not just numbers. Modi’s shift—once resisting caste counts—nods to Bihar’s vote-heavy caste politics, says analyst Yashwant Zagade. A botched census could spark violence, as Karnataka’s disputed count did.

Reactions pulse with emotion. In Patna, OBC youth march, shouting “Know us, free us!” social media posts from Dalits cry, “Our pain matters.” Upper-caste voices on social media lament “divisive politics.” Globally, diaspora in the U.S., where Seattle banned caste bias, watch intently. The UN lauds the intent but warns of misuse. Rural Dalits face 50,900 crimes yearly; urbanites like Priya hide their caste to rent homes. “I’m tired of lying,” she says.

The fallout could redefine India. Precise data might fine-tune aid, targeting gaps—64% of top jobs are general-category. But errors risk caste clashes. Modi’s BJP, balancing allies, bets on transparency. “We’ll get it right,” Vaishnaw vows. Taxpayers fund the effort, demanding care.

What’s next? The census date is hazy, but Thorat pushes for deep questions on discrimination. Priya sews, dreaming of equality; Sharma prays for harmony. As India faces its past, the count tests if numbers can mend or break a wounded nation. Will it lift Priya’s daughter or tear Anil’s peace apart?