Chadeep
Mumbai Slum Dweller
- Joined
- Feb 29, 2020
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Dating was never supposed to feel like this.
I entered the world of dating with the same expectations most people have: to connect, to fall in love, to feel seen. But as a Dalit woman in India, I quickly learned that love here doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Caste is always in the room, even when no one says the word out loud.
For a while, things would go well. I’d meet someone who seemed interested - someone who liked my mind, my independence, my confidence. But the moment my caste came up, everything changed. The shift would be almost instant: they’d pull away, act distant, or disappear altogether. The messages would stop. Suddenly I wasn’t the woman they saw a "future" with.
The most painful part is that these weren’t always strangers on dating apps. Some were men I’d grown close to, men who knew me, who laughed with me, who held my hand like it meant something. And yet, when the novelty wore off or things began to feel "serious," they’d fall back on caste as a convenient excuse. "It’s not you," they’d say. "But our families would never accept it." Or worse: "You deserve someone who won’t have to fight this hard."
As if I hadn’t spent my entire life fighting.
It’s not just the rejection, it’s the way caste turns you into a category instead of a person. I’ve had men tell me things like, "You don’t look like a Dalit," or "Wow, I’d never have guessed." What they mean is: I don’t conform to their image of what a Dalit woman should look or act like, which, in their minds, is someone visibly inferior, someone they can feel superior to.
Other times, the comments are overtly sexual. I’ve been told that Dalit women are "wild," "great in bed," "more open-minded." I’ve been fetishized more times than I can count. To them, I’m exciting, a break from the norm. I’m someone to sleep with, not someone to marry. I’ve begun to feel like I’m part of a private ritual that savarna men go through before they settle down with someone from their own caste. I’m the hidden phase they never speak of: the shame wrapped in lust.
The disposability of it all hits hard. I started to feel like a test run. Like I was being dated until it was time to get "serious' with someone more culturally convenient. Someone caste-approved. Someone who doesn’t require courage to love.
Even potential relationships, ones that never get off the ground, often end the same way. Some men ask subtly, "Where are you from?" "What’s your full name?" And when the answers reveal my identity, the interest evaporates. They’ll say something vague like, "Oh, I just don’t think we’re a match," but I know what they’re really saying. Before I even get a chance to show who I am, they’ve already decided I’m not worth the effort.
And then there’s the constant class difference; the socio-economic gap that underscores everything. I’ve worked incredibly hard to be where I am. I’ve studied, built a career, supported myself. But even then, it’s not enough. My achievements are dismissed, often linked only to reservation. I’m told, sometimes jokingly, sometimes not, "You must’ve gotten in through quota." As if I couldn’t possibly be where I am because I earned it.
The microaggressions are endless- subtle, but sharp. Comments about my "privileges," or how "caste shouldn’t matter in today’s world," usually come from those who’ve never had to hide their identity to be loved. Or worse, people say, "But you’re not like those Dalits," expecting me to be flattered.
I used to push back. I used to try and explain. I tried to educate, to correct, to be patient. But it’s exhausting to keep justifying your humanity, to keep asking people to see you as a full person instead of a caste stereotype.
Over time, this constant emotional labor began to erode something in me. I started believing that love wasn’t meant for people like me. That no matter how successful, kind, or loving I am, I’ll always be too Dalit to deserve something lasting, something public, something proud.
And so, I quit dating.
Not because I stopped believing in love, but because I couldn’t keep subjecting myself to this cycle of fetish, rejection, erasure, and pain. I couldn't keep being someone's experiment, someone's thrill, someone's secret. I couldn’t keep performing emotional labor just to prove I’m worthy of basic respect.
Choosing to stop dating was not giving up, it was reclaiming my peace.
I want a love that doesn’t ask me to shrink. A love that sees my caste and still stays. A love that honors my story, my struggle, my strength. Until that love exists, until someone chooses me with my identity, not in spite of it, I choose myself.
To every Dalit woman reading this who has felt invisible, fetishized, or discarded: I see you. Your worth is not defined by their silence, their shame, or their cowardice. We are not disposable. We are not secret histories in someone else’s life
I entered the world of dating with the same expectations most people have: to connect, to fall in love, to feel seen. But as a Dalit woman in India, I quickly learned that love here doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Caste is always in the room, even when no one says the word out loud.
For a while, things would go well. I’d meet someone who seemed interested - someone who liked my mind, my independence, my confidence. But the moment my caste came up, everything changed. The shift would be almost instant: they’d pull away, act distant, or disappear altogether. The messages would stop. Suddenly I wasn’t the woman they saw a "future" with.
The most painful part is that these weren’t always strangers on dating apps. Some were men I’d grown close to, men who knew me, who laughed with me, who held my hand like it meant something. And yet, when the novelty wore off or things began to feel "serious," they’d fall back on caste as a convenient excuse. "It’s not you," they’d say. "But our families would never accept it." Or worse: "You deserve someone who won’t have to fight this hard."
As if I hadn’t spent my entire life fighting.
It’s not just the rejection, it’s the way caste turns you into a category instead of a person. I’ve had men tell me things like, "You don’t look like a Dalit," or "Wow, I’d never have guessed." What they mean is: I don’t conform to their image of what a Dalit woman should look or act like, which, in their minds, is someone visibly inferior, someone they can feel superior to.
Other times, the comments are overtly sexual. I’ve been told that Dalit women are "wild," "great in bed," "more open-minded." I’ve been fetishized more times than I can count. To them, I’m exciting, a break from the norm. I’m someone to sleep with, not someone to marry. I’ve begun to feel like I’m part of a private ritual that savarna men go through before they settle down with someone from their own caste. I’m the hidden phase they never speak of: the shame wrapped in lust.
The disposability of it all hits hard. I started to feel like a test run. Like I was being dated until it was time to get "serious' with someone more culturally convenient. Someone caste-approved. Someone who doesn’t require courage to love.
Even potential relationships, ones that never get off the ground, often end the same way. Some men ask subtly, "Where are you from?" "What’s your full name?" And when the answers reveal my identity, the interest evaporates. They’ll say something vague like, "Oh, I just don’t think we’re a match," but I know what they’re really saying. Before I even get a chance to show who I am, they’ve already decided I’m not worth the effort.
And then there’s the constant class difference; the socio-economic gap that underscores everything. I’ve worked incredibly hard to be where I am. I’ve studied, built a career, supported myself. But even then, it’s not enough. My achievements are dismissed, often linked only to reservation. I’m told, sometimes jokingly, sometimes not, "You must’ve gotten in through quota." As if I couldn’t possibly be where I am because I earned it.
The microaggressions are endless- subtle, but sharp. Comments about my "privileges," or how "caste shouldn’t matter in today’s world," usually come from those who’ve never had to hide their identity to be loved. Or worse, people say, "But you’re not like those Dalits," expecting me to be flattered.
I used to push back. I used to try and explain. I tried to educate, to correct, to be patient. But it’s exhausting to keep justifying your humanity, to keep asking people to see you as a full person instead of a caste stereotype.
Over time, this constant emotional labor began to erode something in me. I started believing that love wasn’t meant for people like me. That no matter how successful, kind, or loving I am, I’ll always be too Dalit to deserve something lasting, something public, something proud.
And so, I quit dating.
Not because I stopped believing in love, but because I couldn’t keep subjecting myself to this cycle of fetish, rejection, erasure, and pain. I couldn't keep being someone's experiment, someone's thrill, someone's secret. I couldn’t keep performing emotional labor just to prove I’m worthy of basic respect.
Choosing to stop dating was not giving up, it was reclaiming my peace.
I want a love that doesn’t ask me to shrink. A love that sees my caste and still stays. A love that honors my story, my struggle, my strength. Until that love exists, until someone chooses me with my identity, not in spite of it, I choose myself.
To every Dalit woman reading this who has felt invisible, fetishized, or discarded: I see you. Your worth is not defined by their silence, their shame, or their cowardice. We are not disposable. We are not secret histories in someone else’s life
Funny thing she is chasing men who don't want her. Because she finds men of her own Caste Unattractive.
