#Binge Reviewing my previous Reads # Hindutva, Indic
Rajiv Malhotra has spent decades positioning himself as both a cultural warrior and a civilisational interpreter, someone who seeks to wrest the narrative of India away from Western scholars and their interpretive grids and return it to what he sees as the sources of its own authenticity.
Each of his major works, from Breaking India to Sanskrit Non-Translatables and The Battle for Sanskrit, has a recognizable rhythm: first an outline of the Western or secularist distortion, then a sharp critique of its assumptions and hidden agendas, and finally a counter-vision that asserts India’s agency.
His book Varna, Jati, Caste: A Primer on Indian Social Structures fits squarely into this trajectory, but its stakes are higher and more charged, because caste is the nerve-centre of almost every debate about Indian society, politics, and culture. If Sanskrit was the contested ground for intellectual sovereignty, caste is the battlefield of India’s social soul. And Malhotra, predictably, does not retreat from the fire; he marches straight into it.
At first glance, the word “primer” in the subtitle might mislead readers into thinking this is an elementary or introductory treatment. However, the book is anything but simplistic. What Malhotra does here is attempt a reframing exercise: to disentangle the categories of varna, jati, and caste, to recover their precolonial meanings, and to show how the fusion of these concepts under the single, loaded label of “caste” is itself a product of colonial misrepresentation and missionary propaganda.
For Malhotra, “caste” is not a neutral descriptor but a weaponized term, carrying within it centuries of Orientalist stereotypes, Christian moralism, and postcolonial social theory. The insistence on using “caste” as the umbrella term, he argues, has distorted both scholarship and public discourse, making it impossible to see India’s social structures in their original terms. His goal is not to deny social hierarchy or discrimination but to challenge the very framework through which such realities are interpreted.
The book thus begins by carefully distinguishing varna from jati. Varna, for Malhotra, is an idealised four-fold classification, linked to functions and dispositions, not rigid birth categories. Jati, by contrast, is the lived, dynamic, community-based social organization that proliferated into thousands of groups, with their own occupational specialisations, rituals, and kinship rules.
When British administrators, Orientalist scholars, and missionaries collapsed these into a single rigid “caste system,” they created what Malhotra sees as a caricature: a frozen hierarchy imposed on India’s past and then projected back as an eternal essence of Hindu society. By exposing this conflation, Malhotra believes he is not whitewashing oppression but rather recovering a more complex and pluralistic social reality that colonialism misrepresented for its own ends.
What gives the book its force is the way it situates this argument within a longer genealogy of Western thought about India.
Malhotra’s adversaries are not only the East India Company census-makers but also the modern critical theorists who, in his view, recycle the same distortions under the guise of progressive scholarship. He draws connections between colonial ethnography, missionary tracts, Marxist historiography, and contemporary NGOs, suggesting that all of them feed on the same foundational misreading: the idea of India as a civilisation hopelessly trapped in caste oppression. In this sense, the book continues the “Breaking India” theme, identifying external interventions that destabilise Indian society by weaponizing its faultlines. But here the battleground is not secessionism or evangelical funding but the very categories through which Indians understand themselves.
Reading Malhotra’s prose, one senses the urgency of his mission. He is not simply clarifying distinctions for the sake of academic precision; he is trying to unshackle Indian identity from what he sees as an imported epistemology. The word “caste,” in his account, is like a Trojan horse: it appears as a mere label, but inside it lurks an entire worldview of hierarchy, oppression, and shame, designed to make Hindus internalise a sense of civilisational guilt.
By substituting the terms varna and jati, Malhotra seeks to restore a vocabulary in which Indians can speak about their own social structures without conceding to Western moral frameworks. This is consistent with his earlier insistence on Sanskrit non-translatables: just as words like dharma and atman cannot be flattened into “religion” and “soul,” so too varna and jati cannot be flattened into “caste.” Translation, for Malhotra, is never innocent; it is the site where power is exercised and agency lost.
But if the project is ambitious and provocative, it is also deeply contentious. Critics will say, and with some justification, that Malhotra downplays the realities of hierarchy, exclusion, and violence that have been recorded throughout Indian history. His attempt to rescue varna as an ideal scheme and jati as a pluralistic community network risks sounding like apologetics, even if he insists otherwise.
The danger of his approach is that in his zeal to expose colonial distortions, he sometimes makes precolonial inequities seem like benign differences rather than entrenched systems of privilege and oppression. This is where his writing is at once compelling and frustrating: it sparks a necessary rethinking of categories but often glosses over the material realities that made “caste” a lived burden for millions. The polemical edge that makes his prose sharp also makes it one-sided.
Yet to dismiss the book as mere whitewashing would be to miss its larger intellectual intervention. What Malhotra is really challenging is the monopoly of interpretation. He is saying, in effect, that caste studies have been dominated by lenses external to Indian civilisation, whether colonial, Marxist, or postmodern, and that Indians must reclaim the right to theorise their own social structures.
This is not a call to deny injustice but to refuse the framing of injustice in categories that strip away civilisational nuance. And in that sense, the book echoes larger global debates about decolonisation. Just as African scholars question the use of “tribe” as a colonial label that homogenised diverse communities, Malhotra is questioning the use of “caste” as a label that collapses varna and jati into a monolith of oppression. Whether one agrees with him or not, the intellectual move is part of a broader struggle over knowledge and power.
The reflective reader will also notice how the book speaks to Malhotra’s long-standing preoccupations. His fight against Sheldon Pollock in The Battle for Sanskrit was about who gets to interpret Sanskrit texts. His argument in Sanskrit Non-Translatables was about who controls the meanings of key concepts. His warnings in Breaking India and Snakes in the Ganga were about who funds and drives narratives about Indian society.
Varna, Jati, Caste is of a piece with this, focusing on one of the most loaded and globally recognised aspects of Indian identity. It is as if Malhotra has gradually been circling around the core, and here he finally engages with the issue most associated with India’s image in the world. The battle for Sanskrit was important, but the battle over caste is existential, because it shapes not just intellectual discourse but social and political life itself.
In comparing this book with others in the genre, one sees both its strengths and its limits. A.G. Noorani’s The RSS: A Menace to India is polemical in the opposite direction, using caste as evidence of Hinduism’s oppressive essence. Swapan Dasgupta’s Awakening Bharat Mata collects ideological writings that navigate caste with a conservative nationalist lens. Manu Pillai’s Gods, Guns and Missionaries tells a more historical story of how modern Hindu identity was shaped, including its entanglements with caste.
Against these, Malhotra’s book stands out not for offering historical narrative or political analysis but for its conceptual clarity: it wants to pull apart the very categories others take for granted. That makes it less useful as social history but more provocative as civilisational theory. It is not a chronicle of caste but a battle over the word “caste” itself.
The reflective essayist must acknowledge how this book complicates our reading of both Indian and Western narratives. On the one hand, it warns us against accepting colonial categories uncritically. On the other, it warns us against romanticising the past by dissolving all hierarchy into benign diversity. The truth lies, as always, somewhere in between.
The colonial state did distort, freeze, and weaponize India’s social structures, but precolonial India was not an egalitarian utopia. Malhotra’s book is strongest when it exposes the colonial gaze, weakest when it refuses to confront the internal dynamics of exclusion with equal seriousness. Yet perhaps its value lies precisely in its imbalance: it pushes the pendulum back hard enough to make space for new, more nuanced engagements that neither demonise nor sanitise.
Stylistically, the book is classic Malhotra. He writes with urgency, with a sense of mission, often with rhetorical flourishes that make his work more manifesto than monograph. For academic readers, this is frustrating, as they expect nuance and balance. For lay readers, it is invigorating, because it feels like someone is finally standing up to the chorus of caste-as-India’s-essence. His admirers will read it as a decolonising intervention, his critics as ideological obfuscation. Either way, it refuses to be ignored. And in that refusal, it does what all of Malhotra’s books do: force the debate into the public square.
Ultimately, Varna, Jati, Caste is less a conclusion than an opening salvo. It is not the last word on caste—indeed, it cannot be—but it is a provocation that unsettles received wisdom and demands a response. In reading it, one may disagree with Malhotra’s minimisation of hierarchy, one may find his polemics exhausting, but one cannot leave untouched by the questions he raises:
Who defines India’s social categories, in what language, and to what end?
Those questions linger long after the polemics fade, and they ensure that this book, like his others, will continue to haunt both scholarship and public discourse.
In the end, to review this book is to acknowledge the paradox of Malhotra’s project. He is at once illuminating and obscuring, liberating and constraining. He gives Indian readers tools to resist external misrepresentations, but he also risks arming them with oversimplifications that ignore internal complexities. His insistence on varna and jati as alternatives to caste is a valuable corrective, but it must be supplemented with honest reckonings of how those structures also produced suffering.
If one reads him not as the final word but as a passionate interlocutor, then his work becomes less threatening and more generative. It becomes a catalyst for deeper, more balanced conversations that neither capitulate to colonial categories nor retreat into nostalgia.
At nearly every point, the reflective reader is caught between admiration for the courage of his intervention and discomfort with its blind spots. That tension is precisely why the book matters. In a world where “caste” has become the shorthand for India in the global imagination, to challenge the term itself is to challenge a narrative centuries in the making. Whether one agrees with Malhotra or not, his refusal to accept that shorthand forces us to reconsider how much of our self-understanding is mediated by alien categories.
That is no small achievement. And it is why, for all its flaws, Varna, Jati, Caste: A Primer on Indian Social Structures deserves to be read, debated, contested, and remembered as one of Malhotra’s most important interventions.