Could you walk us through the key campaigns and strategic initiatives you’re currently leading under the National Campaign on Dalit Human Rights (NCDHR)? What are the central questions and pressures shaping this work today?
The National Campaign on Dalit Human Rights emerged out of a moment of reckoning. Around 1989, there was a surge in caste-based atrocities across the country—entire villages were burned, people were killed, and Dalit communities faced large-scale violence. In places like Andhra Pradesh, these weren’t isolated incidents but part of a broader pattern that created an urgency to come together nationally and confront what was happening on the ground. The first step was to document these atrocities, understand the legal mechanisms in place, and build a national platform where none existed before. Over time, that became the foundation of NCDHR’s work: training more than six or seven thousand human rights defenders—mostly Dalits working at the grassroots—to investigate crimes, support survivors legally, and engage the state on issues of policy. Because we are a rights-based organization, much of our focus has been on how laws and systems can actually serve marginalized people, and one of our major milestones was pushing for amendments to the Prevention of Atrocities Act of 1989, which were finally passed in 2013. But as we continued, we began asking ourselves what happens in the absence of violence—what does a dignified life look like? Beyond justice, people need peace, education, a home, and opportunity. Around 2007–08, our focus expanded from access to justice to economic justice, examining budgets, education, and public entitlements to understand where resources go and who benefits from them. We also turned our attention to gender justice, focusing on Dalit women’s rights, and created the National Dalit Watch to monitor exclusion during disasters. That work began after the 2004 tsunami, when colleagues like Paul Divakar and other senior leaders found that many Dalit families had been denied relief and rehabilitation—a stark reminder of how discrimination persists even in moments of crisis. This pushed us to work on disaster risk reduction and engage with the state on inclusive relief. In recent years, our attention has also turned toward the climate crisis, as its effects are felt most severely by marginalized communities. We are now working to build climate resilience, studying how heatwaves, floods, and other disasters disproportionately affect Dalits and the poor, and collaborating with governments to develop systems that can reduce their impact. These interconnected struggles—justice, livelihood, gender, and climate—continue to define our work today.
You’ve had a prior career in the corporate sector and hold a background in economics. How has this shaped your approach to budget justice and fiscal accountability in your rights-based work?
When I first joined the organization after years in the corporate sector, it was a shock to find that there were hardly any systems in place—people were doing important work, but it was scattered and reactive. Coming from a background where structure and accountability were non-negotiable, I realized that one of the most valuable things I could bring was discipline, because for Dalit organizations the stakes are much higher: one mistake can discredit an entire movement while others can fail and recover easily. That awareness pushed me to help build internal systems, not to mimic corporate culture but to ensure we functioned with a standard of excellence that the world often denies us, and over the years this emphasis on process has strengthened our credibility and sustainability. Within NCDHR, for example, key areas like finance and data—once dominated by upper-caste professionals—are now led almost entirely by people from the community, which I see as one of our quiet revolutions. Even if someone isn’t as polished or formally trained, we invest in them because building community capacity is building the movement itself. At the same time, I’ve seen how development work often suffers from a disconnect between what’s promised in proposals and what happens on the ground— too many organizations speak for marginalized people without actually empowering them. Our principle has been simple: the money must go where the struggle is. That clarity also shapes how we understand India’s broader development model. We know the system is exploitative, yet access to its resources and opportunities remains necessary because Dalits, Adivasis, and Bahujans have historically been excluded from it. It’s similar to debates in the U.S. where marginalized groups seek justice within a system built on injustice—rejecting it entirely means forfeiting rights, while accepting it uncritically means legitimizing oppression. From an Ambedkarite perspective, our task is to claim what is constitutionally ours while continuing to challenge the inequities that structure it, because we built this country through our labor and sacrifice, and what we demand is not charity but justice—an equal share in the nation we sustain. Yet caste discomfort runs deep: even something as basic as the caste census unsettles those who benefit from invisibility because it exposes the truth that those who clean, construct, and serve are still denied recognition and redistribution. India’s policies on paper—affirmative action, targeted budgets, constitutional safeguards—are progressive, but their implementation is riddled with caste bias; I remember a case where funds from the Dalit budget were used to build a road connecting a Dalit basti to the highway, but construction stopped one kilometer short because officials didn’t want Dalits to have access. This is what happens when the idea of social justice exists in the text but not in spirit. Until those in power are sensitized and held accountable, these contradictions will persist. For me, annihilation of caste doesn’t mean erasing identity or ending affirmative action; it means reaching a point where being Dalit no longer determines how one is treated. Our struggle is not just for wealth but for dignity—for a society where our humanity is recognized without qualification, and where justice is not conditional but inherent.
As Chair of the Asia Dalit Rights Forum, how do you approach cross-border solidarities among Dalit and similarly oppressed communities across South Asia? What have you observed about the varying levels of anti-caste consciousness, institutional support, and resistance across different national contexts, particularly where caste is denied or rendered invisible?
I’ve observed striking differences in how caste and anti-caste consciousness manifest across South Asia. In Nepal, for instance, many Dalit groups remain deeply embedded within Hindu structures—sometimes even more devoutly than dominant castes—despite being excluded from temples and subjected to the same discriminatory norms. It’s a contradiction that reveals how deeply caste ideology is internalized, and I often think that one reason for this is that Nepal does not have an Ambedkar. We do, and that changes everything. I’ve spoken about how vital it would be to translate Ambedkar’s writings into Nepali, to make his ideas accessible to communities who are still seeking a vocabulary for their liberation. In Bangladesh, Dalits are mostly descendants of laborers taken from India during colonial times—many from Hindu and Christian communities—while in Sri Lanka, most are plantation workers, and in Pakistan, Dalits are largely sanitation workers from Hindu and Christian backgrounds. Across these contexts, levels of consciousness and resistance vary, but the shared experience of structural exclusion binds us. That’s why building cross-border solidarity has been central to our work at the Asia Dalit Rights Forum: to connect struggles that are often denied or made invisible within national frameworks. I often recall what Paul Divakar says about Ambedkar—how he may not have known, at first, that he was part of a broader community of Mahars and Dalits across regions, yet through connection and organizing, he built a movement that transcended locality. A similar realization happened internationally through spaces like the 1995 Beijing World Conference on Women, where Dalit women leaders such as Ruth Manorama first connected with counterparts from other countries, and later, at the 2001 World Conference Against Racism in Durban, where the Dalit issue was recognized globally for the first time. Over 300 Dalit activists attended, marking a turning point in how we began to see ourselves not just as Indians but as part of a transnational struggle against caste-based discrimination. These connections have deepened our understanding of caste as a global human rights issue, akin to racism or indigenous oppression, and they have given rise to new alliances and platforms for visibility. There is still much work ahead, but this solidarity—rooted in shared histories of exclusion and the shared language of resistance—has been essential in strengthening the Dalit movement’s global voice and ensuring that caste is no longer treated as an internal or isolated matter, but as a fundamental question of justice everywhere.
What has been the most difficult challenge in building a sustained coalition of Dalit organisations around the Special Component Plan (SCP) and Tribal Sub-Plan (TSP) legislation: whether at the level of policy formulation, political traction, or grassroots coordination? And within that process, how do you assess the role of wider solidarities within Bahujan movements, Adivasis, religious minorities, and other structurally excluded communities?
When I first began working on Scheduled Caste Sub Plan (SCP) and Tribal Sub Plan (TSP) budgets, it was almost unthinkable for a Dalit woman to lead conversations on fiscal policy. I remember walking into meetings with MPs and senior policymakers who would look right through me, waiting instead to speak to the men beside me. Even within Dalit movements, there was skepticism—people would hang up my calls or dismiss what I was saying until they realized that my intentions were clear and my work serious. It took years to gain acceptance, not only because I was a woman, but because I wasn’t from a family of activists. I came into this work through a different route, and I had to prove myself in spaces where a young Dalit woman talking about numbers, budget architecture, and policy accountability was unheard of. Over time, I became one of the few women in the country engaging deeply with budgetary issues through a Dalit rights lens, insisting that economic justice is as central to anti-caste struggle as fighting violence. This approach— linking fiscal accountability to social justice—was new for many, but eventually people began to recognize its value. Still, it has been a hard and lonely journey. Even today, some parliamentarians are surprised to learn that I oversee the final numbers and analysis before they go public. Within the movement, too, there’s often more comfort when Dalit women speak about violence rather than structural economics, because it fits more easily into existing narratives of suffering rather than systemic change. At the same time, navigating feminist spaces has been equally fraught. Historically, Indian feminism has been led and defined by dominant-caste women, and Dalit women have often been welcomed only as tokens—expected to listen, not to challenge. Many spaces still struggle to name even one Dalit feminist leader despite decades of activism. I have faced that exclusion personally, but over the years, I’ve realized that the only way to shift this is by showing up, by engaging, and by creating pathways for younger Dalit, Adivasi, and minority women to enter and reshape these spaces. That’s what I am now committed to— ensuring the next generation doesn’t have to start from the margins the way we did. Coalition-building for SCP and TSP work has also been challenging because of the fault lines between marginalized groups. When we reached out to Adivasi organizations, many hesitated to join. Some questioned Ambedkar’s relevance to their struggles, seeing him as a Dalit, not a national leader. This gap reflects the need for more sustained dialogue and exchange, because while Ambedkar emerged from Dalit experience, his vision was one of universal liberation and equality. Yet, movement histories diverge— Adivasi groups have often centered forest and land rights, while Dalit movements have focused on atrocity and access to justice. Even when Adivasi groups came on board for the legislation, these philosophical and political differences remained visible. Building solidarity within the broader Bahujan framework, too, has proven idealistic in today’s context. Kanshi Ram’s idea of Bahujan unity was visionary, but the reality on the ground tells a harder story. The National Crime Records Bureau data shows that states like Uttar Pradesh and Haryana, dominated by Yadavs and Jats respectively— groups categorized as OBCs at least in Uttar Pradesh—also record some of the highest levels of violence against Dalits. So, while the idea of unity among all oppressed groups is powerful, it remains complicated by the fact that many immediate oppressors of Dalits are themselves from other backward communities. The OBC category itself is uneven—between the landed and landless, between those who dominate and those who are barely above Dalits in the social hierarchy. Many so-called OBC communities in states like West Bengal or Uttarakhand still face forms of untouchability, showing how arbitrary and bureaucratic these classifications often are. These fractures make coalition work deeply complex. While solidarity between Dalits, Adivasis, minorities, and women’s groups is absolutely essential, the political environment makes it harder than ever to sustain. Still, we must hold on to that vision. Leaders like V.T. Rajshekar always believed that cross-community solidarity was the only way to build lasting social justice. And though achieving that in today’s climate may seem idealistic, it remains necessary. Even if political unity proves elusive, moral and strategic solidarity— standing together when any of us faces violence or exclusion— remains the foundation of our collective struggle.
With the current push for a caste census, what potential do you see for it to generate accountability and redistribution? Conversely, what risks might it pose, especially in terms of weaponising data for the National Register of Citizens? And specifically, how might it exacerbate existing fractures in Dalit Muslim relations and other inter-community solidarities?
Aadhaar data and census data already function as gateways to the NRC—you don’t even need additional mechanisms for that. I don’t think the caste census will directly affect the NRC, because it will happen anyway, and in many ways, it’s already underway. What worries me more is that many marginalized people may not even be properly enumerated because they lack the required documentation, which will only deepen their exclusion. That said, the caste census will have a significant impact, especially on OBCs. What we saw in Bihar, where around 63.14% of the population was identified as OBCs (including 27.12% of Backward Classes and 36.01% of Extremely Backward Classes), completely changed the political and policy landscape. Those kinds of numbers make people in power nervous because they challenge the existing framework of representation and resource allocation. Knowing the real size and composition of the OBC population could lead to stronger demands for sub-categorization and for a fairer share within reservations and welfare budgets. For Dalits, too, the caste census could reaffirm what we’ve been saying all along—that despite decades of constitutional guarantees, social and economic exclusion persist. If the data shows an increase in the Dalit population, then the 50% cap on reservations will have to be re-examined, because it no longer reflects demographic realities. It will also give renewed legitimacy to affirmative action as a continuing necessity. Another important area is the private sector. These numbers could strengthen the argument for extending reservation policies beyond public employment, something Dalit organizations have been demanding for years. But we also have to recognize the risks. In the current political climate, data can easily be weaponized. The same caste census that could enable justice and redistribution could also be used to monitor, surveil, and divide. If the data is selectively interpreted, it could pit communities—Dalits, OBCs, Muslims— against each other, especially when the government or dominant groups frame it in competitive rather than solidaristic terms. So while a caste census has the potential to bring visibility and accountability, without structural safeguards and political commitment to equity, it could just as easily entrench the very hierarchies it claims to expose.
How do you navigate the relationship between high-level policy advocacy and grassroots mobilisation? Are there moments where these modes of engagement align productively? Or do they sometimes come into conflict in terms of goals, language, or strategy?
They don’t always align. When we go and meet opposition leaders, people in the community ask why we’re meeting them—they were in power and did nothing. If we meet the current government then that’s another issue, either way it’s difficult. But the point, as you said, is that organizations working on public policy must engage with whichever government is in power. For example, the amendments we fought for were drafted by NCDHR and the coalition we anchored and although Congress could not pass it, it was the BJP that finally passed it in Parliament. So we can’t afford to be rigid. Public policy requires negotiation and persistence, no matter who’s in power. Of course, this often creates friction with grassroots activists who see engagement with certain parties as compromise, but for us, it’s a necessary strategy. There’s always this tug of war between those doing field mobilization and those working on legislation or fiscal policy, yet I think awareness on the ground has grown. People now understand the importance of consistent engagement with state and district administrations, not just street-level resistance. Actually, Tamil Nadu is one place where this relationship between policy advocacy and grassroots movements feels most organic. Groups working on horizontal reservations, trans rights, and Dalit issues— like Grace Banu’s work—show how advocacy and mobilization can reinforce each other. The state’s caste composition, with fewer dominant upper-caste groups and a stronger OBC base, may have something to do with it. You rarely find such synergy elsewhere in India. In most other states, the disconnect between policy spaces and ground realities remains wide, often because of ideological suspicion or lack of institutional trust. Still, I think it’s crucial to remember that under Congress, for all their failures, there was at least space for dialogue. We could protest outside a minister’s house, shout slogans, and still be invited to meet later that day to discuss the issue. That space for dissent and debate is essential to any democracy. Today, that space is gone—you can’t protest, you can’t question. The very idea of engagement has been made suspect. So while our movement has always faced internal tensions, we’re now also facing an external environment where engagement itself has become a risk. And yet, we continue, because without sustained policy dialogue, without sitting across the table even from those we oppose, there’s no path to reform. That balance between principle and pragmatism is difficult, but essential.
In recent years, digital spaces have become both critical sites of visibility and vectors of violence. How has social media and online organising reshaped the landscape for Dalit movements? Have you seen tangible shifts in public discourse or policy response as a result of digital interventions?
About ten or fifteen years ago, there was very little Dalit presence online. I don’t mean just the NCDHR, but the larger discourse on caste itself—Dalit issues rarely surfaced in digital spaces. That changed dramatically after Una, when the movement and Jignesh Mewani’s leadership went viral. What began as a local atrocity became a global issue because of online mobilization. People across the world picked it up, and the momentum was unstoppable. Since then, I’ve seen so many young people from our community find their voice online—on Instagram, in independent platforms like Round Table India, and across social media. They’re writing, influencing, and shaping narratives in ways that mainstream media long denied us. This has become an alternative public sphere, a counter-space where Dalit voices can speak for themselves. I’ve also seen firsthand how these digital spaces can shift institutional agendas. I’ve worked directly with Twitter and Facebook, to discuss how caste issues could be better represented, how their algorithms could account for caste-based harassment, and how caste could be included in global policy frameworks. That was a powerful moment—it showed that our collective digital presence could actually influence tech governance and global discourse. These platforms, despite their flaws, have amplified our voices, allowing us to challenge both media bias and social hierarchies. This digital empowerment has been transformative. It’s not just about visibility; it’s about agenda-setting power—shaping what gets discussed, how it’s framed, and who gets to speak. For a long time, we were spoken about but rarely spoken to or allowed to speak for ourselves. Now, through social media and independent digital spaces, the community has found a way to bypass traditional gatekeepers. It’s a crucial shift, and it’s changing how the world sees Dalit politics, culture, and resistance.
Do you have any final thoughts and appeal for our readers?
I think there are two things that are absolutely essential for the future of our movement. The first is solidarity. It may not be an ideal or easily attainable state where all Dalits, Bahujans, Adivasis, and minorities come together as one collective force, but solidarity remains vital. Even if it feels like a dream, it is the foundation on which any hope for justice and equality rests. We have to keep reaching across these lines, standing with one another, even when unity seems impossible, because that moral and political commitment sustains the movement. The second is the need to nurture a new generation of leaders. Our organizations must consciously build young leadership—especially Dalit women leaders as well as Bahujan OBCs—who can take the struggle forward in a rapidly changing world shaped by technology, AI, and new social realities. It’s crucial that they understand these emerging systems and know how to engage with them politically. As seniors in the movement, our responsibility is to ensure that this leadership pipeline continues—that young people from marginalized communities step forward, shape anti-caste politics in their own language, and carry forward the legacy. Because, ultimately, the struggle for equality and dignity must renew itself with every generation—that’s how we keep the movement alive.
Beena Pallical is a Human Rights activist and General Secretary, National Campaign on Dalit Human Rights. She is the chair of Asia Dalit Rights Forum & leads a coalition of Dalit Organisations on the SCP TSP Legislation.