“If you are not counted right, you may be counted out of justice.”
When a government enumerator knocked on Ahmed’s blue-painted door in Bengaluru’s Chamrajpet last month, he hesitated before answering one question: What is your caste? Ahmed, a retired Urdu teacher, knew the formality of the question hid something deeper. His Christian neighbour was facing a similar confusion – should they write “Kuruba Christian” as their forefathers once did, or simply “Christian”? These moments of hesitation, repeated in millions of homes across Karnataka, reveal how this so-called “Social and Educational Survey” has reopened old wounds about identity, justice, and representation.
At first glance, the exercise seems bureaucratic. Conducted by the State Backward Classes Commission, the survey aims to collect data on the social, educational and economic conditions of all communities. Its stated goal is fairness to ensure that welfare schemes and reservations are based on facts, not assumptions. Ministers insist it will bring equity, not division. Yet, in a state where caste is not just a social reality but a political currency, enumeration is never neutral. The act of counting people, and deciding how they are counted, has become a battlefield of identity politics.
Across cities and villages, enumerators are asking questions that test both belief and belonging. For some, it is a chance for long-ignored groups to be seen and heard. For others, it threatens to disturb entrenched hierarchies. In this clash of expectations lies the deeper story of the ongoing caste survey.
Fears among Dominant Castes
Opposition to the survey has come most loudly from dominant groups i.e. Vokkaligas, Lingayats, and Brahmins who fear that new numbers might expose their relative privilege and challenge their share of jobs and benefits. Their leaders claim the process will “divide Hindu society” and create unnecessary fragmentation within communities. Swamis from several mutts have gone so far as to call for boycotts, arguing that recording sub-groups like “Veerashaiva” and “Lingayat” separately will weaken unity.
Their anxiety is not only cultural but political. For decades, these groups have enjoyed a decisive say in Karnataka’s power structure. If fresh data shows that they are better off than assumed, their entitlement to existing quotas may be questioned. In their eyes, enumeration becomes an act of subtraction, taking away a part of their long-held dominance.
The government maintains that the survey is not a caste census but a developmental study meant to guide welfare distribution. But that assurance has done little to calm tempers. Political actors on both sides continue to use the issue as ammunition, one calling it a step towards social justice, the other dismissing it as a divisive experiment.
Christians in the Crossfire
If the upper-caste Hindus are wary of losing their share, Christians are worried about losing their identity altogether. Until recently, the Commission’s manual listed 57 Christian sub-castes – from “Kuruba Christian” to “Madiga Christian.” These labels were removed after objections from Hindu organisations who said conversion nullifies caste.
Church leaders protested, saying this erasure amounts to silencing historical truths. “Caste does not vanish with baptism,” one priest remarked during a press meet in Mangaluru. “Our people continue to face the same social barriers; they simply face them as Christians now.”
The Archdiocese of Bangalore and Christian advocacy groups have written to the government, demanding restoration of the sub-caste entries. For now, respondents may write their sub-caste in the “others” column, but this free-text data may never be tabulated.
Muslim Reactions and Practical Wisdom
Muslims have approached the survey with guarded pragmatism. Remembering the confusion of earlier enumerations, community leaders have issued practical guidelines. In public meetings and Friday sermons, imams and social activists have advised families to write “Religion: Islam,” “Caste: Muslim,” and under Sub-caste, mention their professional or linguistic identity.
This instruction is not about faith; it is about survival in a bureaucratic system. If “Muslim” is omitted or wrongly coded, the community’s long-standing place in the OBC category could be jeopardised. Local Jamaat and civic organisations have opened help desks to guide people.
Still, apprehension runs deep. Some worry that data could later be used to stigmatise or target. Others fear that undercounting in urban areas, where Muslims form large working-class clusters, might distort results. The memory of past political misuse of population figures is not easily forgotten. Yet most recognise that withdrawal or silence would be more damaging.
The Politics of Counting
Every caste and community seems to carry its own fear into this survey. The rich fear exposure; the poor fear invisibility. The majority fears loss; the minority fears erasure. Here, the act of enumeration becomes a mirror to the moral crisis of Indian democracy: who counts, and who doesn’t?
For decades, India’s development policies have rested on dated assumptions about population and poverty. Without fresh data, resource allocation becomes a guessing game. But when new data threatens the powerful, resistance begins. In Karnataka, the caste survey has revealed how justice and privilege pull in opposite directions.
Even operationally, the process is uneven. Enumerators complain of inaccurate digital maps, faulty mobile applications and long working hours. The government claims that 80% of households have been covered, yet the quality of that coverage remains uncertain. To correct gaps, district offices have opened helplines where citizens can register if they were missed. However, implementation remains a race against both time and trust.
From an Islamic point of view, the question of enumeration touches on a deeper moral truth. The Qur’an repeatedly commands justice in measure and record: “And establish weight in justice and do not make deficient the balance.” (55:9) To count people truthfully is a form of justice; to miscount them is a form of oppression. Policy should arise from truth, not from fear.
For Muslims, therefore, participation in the survey is not merely administrative duty; it is a moral one. It is a way of demanding justice through data, ensuring that the community’s deprivation is neither hidden nor denied.
What Lies Ahead
The final report of the survey will take months to compile. When it does appear, the numbers will surely spark fresh political battles. If the data exposes sharp inequalities, pressure will grow to revise reservation structures. Dominant castes may resist; minorities will seek greater inclusion. The government’s credibility will depend on how transparently it publishes and explains the data.
Beyond policy, the survey has already achieved one unintended consequence; it has forced Karnataka to look into the mirror of its own diversity. The reflection is uncomfortable but necessary. Social justice cannot survive on outdated figures or selective blindness. Every citizen, regardless of faith, has the right to be seen accurately in the eyes of the state.
For minority communities, the task now is vigilance. They must keep records of their entries, follow up with authorities if mistakes occur, and demand that self-declared data be respected. They should insist that the final report disaggregate results by religion as well as caste, so that deprivation is not hidden under the convenient label of “Others.”
The survey’s outcome will test whether India’s democracy still has space for truth that is inconvenient to power. It is not only about numbers; it is about the moral arithmetic of equality.