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Dalit Visions: The Anti-Caste Movement and the Construction of an Indian Identity, Rev. Edition, Pa
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- GenresNonfictionIndiaPolitics
108 pages, Paperback
First published September 25, 1995
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About the author
Gail Omvedt
32 books67 followersDr. Gail Omvedt is an American-born Indian scholar, sociologist and human rights activist. Omvedt has been involved in Dalit and anti-caste movements, environmental, farmers' and women's movements.
She was born in Minneapolis, and studied at Carleton College, and at UC Berkeley where she earned her PhD in sociology in 1973. She has been an Indian citizen since 1983.
In recent years she has been working as a consulting sociologist on gender, environment and rural development, for the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP), Oxfam Novib (NOVIB) and other institutions.
Wikipedia
She was born in Minneapolis, and studied at Carleton College, and at UC Berkeley where she earned her PhD in sociology in 1973. She has been an Indian citizen since 1983.
In recent years she has been working as a consulting sociologist on gender, environment and rural development, for the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP), Oxfam Novib (NOVIB) and other institutions.
Wikipedia
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 5 reviews
February 3, 2024
5☆ — a concise text — including chapters that link to such topics as socialism, the aryan race theory, dalit panthers, the logic of dalit politics, as well as icons such as ambedkar, phule, tarabai shinde, and pandita ramabai — that could provide a broadly comprehensive perspective into the anti-caste movement in india.
August 15, 2025
#79th Indian Independence day
Gail Omvedt approaches Dalit Visions like a noble chronicler of the oppressed, determined to etch the lives of Phule, Ambedkar, Periyar, and other anti-caste titans into the annals of history. The intent is commendable—this is not another dusty volume praising ancient monarchs or lionizing Brahmin theologians. She wants the voices of Dalit-Bahujan leaders ringing loud and clear.
And yet, the problem begins with the telescope she chooses: instead of a wide-angle lens on the complexity of caste and Indian history, we get a tightly wound tunnel pointing at one fixed ideological destination. Imagine shooting a grand, multi-character historical epic, but the camera is locked forever on one character’s left ear.
The structure is linear, almost teleological, marching inevitably toward Ambedkar as the shining culmination of centuries of struggle — as if history was designed from the start with the sole purpose of producing him. This is the “Whiggish history” syndrome, where every event is seen as a stepping stone toward the present ideals of the author. Real history is messier: alliances shift, leaders contradict themselves, movements fragment, reforms happen in fits and starts, sometimes even from the “enemy’s” camp. But Omvedt’s anti-caste saga is smoothed into a kind of storybook liberation narrative where the forces of light (Dalit-Bahujan leaders) steadily triumph over the forces of darkness (Brahminism). It’s stirring, yes, but it’s also as one-dimensional as a recruitment poster.
Her chosen heroes — Ambedkar, Phule, Periyar, and a select few — are elevated to near-sainthood. They stride across the pages as flawless moral exemplars, paragons of rationality, and champions of justice. Their pragmatic compromises, strategic contradictions, and internal critics are kept firmly offstage. It’s like an Amar Chitra Katha: Activist Edition, complete with cartoon villains: “Brahminism” becomes the all-powerful Bond villain, lurking in every shadow, plotting societal domination with sacred thread in hand. But the real history of oppression in India is more complex — and often more depressing. Non-Brahmin elites dominated many regions; princely states enforced caste as rigidly as any Brahmin sabha; colonial administrators often hardened caste identities in the name of bureaucratic efficiency. The notion that all antagonists were Sanskrit-chanting priests twirling their moustaches on the steps of a temple is a convenient myth.
One of the book’s more glaring blind spots is its cultural amnesia about the many anti-caste currents that flowed within Hinduism. Kabir, Ravidas, Tukaram, the Nayanmars, and the Alvars — saints who dismantled caste barriers through devotional movements — are given minimal credit because they muddy the “outside versus inside” framework.
The Lingayat movement in Karnataka, with its rejection of caste and ritualism, fits awkwardly into her schema, so it receives passing attention at best. Omvedt’s narrative sometimes reads as if Dalit-Bahujan assertion could only exist by rejecting Hinduism wholesale, which is historically untrue. Many leaders and communities carved out space within Hindu traditions to challenge caste while retaining devotional identities. Writing them out of the picture is like penning a history of jazz while pretending New Orleans was never in America.
Her theoretical scaffolding, while passionate, often races ahead of the evidence. The nuanced debates in Dharmaśāstra, the regional variability of caste practices, the distortions introduced by colonial census categorisation — all get collapsed into rally-ready slogans. At times, the ideological rhythm feels more like a movement pamphlet than a peer-reviewed historical study. And then there’s the romanticised vision of a pre-Aryan, egalitarian utopia: a paradise of indigenous, casteless communities destroyed by invading priests. It’s a thesis beloved by some strands of political rhetoric, but modern archaeology, linguistics, and genetics have made that picture far murkier. The evidence for such a neat “golden age” is, at best, fragmentary; yet Omvedt treats it as foundational truth.
Perhaps the most awkward silence in the book concerns caste hierarchies within Dalit-Bahujan communities. Endogamy, sub-caste discrimination, and even untouchability between marginalised groups — these were (and often still are) harsh realities. But in Dalit Visions, oppression seems to flow only from the “upper” to the “lower” in a perfect vertical line. To extend the royal metaphor, it’s like banning duelling in the kingdom — but only when aimed at the king, while turning a blind eye to the dukes stabbing each other in the courtyard.
Reformist Hindus who worked against caste from within the tradition — Sri Narayana Guru’s spiritual egalitarianism, Gandhi’s temple entry campaigns, the Arya Samaj’s rejection of caste by birth — receive, at most, a dismissive nod. To give them space would require acknowledging that significant anti-caste victories have also come from internal reform, not just external opposition. But that would spoil the clean, combative binary that drives the book’s narrative momentum.
In terms of tone, Omvedt writes with moral urgency, which is inspiring if you already share her worldview. But if you don’t, the moral absolutism and selective evidence are more likely to harden your scepticism than open your mind. Where a balanced historian might invite dialogue, Dalit Visions often feels like it is preaching to the choir — rallying the faithful rather than persuading the unconverted.
This is not inherently wrong; movement literature has its place. But it’s worth noting that the book sits more in that tradition than in the realm of critical, multi-perspective history.
Historically, her framing leaves too many stones unturned. Vedic texts show more social fluidity than she admits; the Upaniṣads universalised spiritual knowledge; Smṛti laws evolved over centuries, often contradicting earlier prescriptions; Bhakti movements dissolved caste boundaries in practice; and colonial policies hardened caste identities in ways that pre-modern society often did not. Omvedt’s sharpest critiques would land harder if they grappled with these contradictions rather than writing them out.
None of this is to say that Dalit Visions lacks value. It is a passionate, committed chronicle of certain strands of the anti-caste movement, a rallying cry for Dalit-Bahujan political identity, and an accessible introduction to key figures like Phule and Ambedkar. As a polemic, it works — the heroes inspire, the villains infuriate, and the rhetoric stirs the blood.
But as a comprehensive history, it oversimplifies, over-idealises, and over-generalises. It is not the full banquet of historical truth, but rather a feast curated by the host, with some dishes conspicuously missing and others spiced just to the chef’s taste.
If history is a sprawling royal court, Omvedt has chosen to seat only her favourite courtiers at the high table, while barring the doors to any inconvenient guests who might disrupt the harmony of her chosen narrative.
The result is a text that, while valuable for what it includes, is equally defined by what it leaves out. And for a reader willing to dine only on her menu, it will be satisfying.
For those who want the whole court, with its bickering factions, contradictory traditions, and messy alliances, it will feel like a partial view — a noble but blinkered vision, roasted here not out of malice, but because even the finest ideals deserve the seasoning of complexity.
[Kolkata, August 15, 2025]
Gail Omvedt approaches Dalit Visions like a noble chronicler of the oppressed, determined to etch the lives of Phule, Ambedkar, Periyar, and other anti-caste titans into the annals of history. The intent is commendable—this is not another dusty volume praising ancient monarchs or lionizing Brahmin theologians. She wants the voices of Dalit-Bahujan leaders ringing loud and clear.
And yet, the problem begins with the telescope she chooses: instead of a wide-angle lens on the complexity of caste and Indian history, we get a tightly wound tunnel pointing at one fixed ideological destination. Imagine shooting a grand, multi-character historical epic, but the camera is locked forever on one character’s left ear.
The structure is linear, almost teleological, marching inevitably toward Ambedkar as the shining culmination of centuries of struggle — as if history was designed from the start with the sole purpose of producing him. This is the “Whiggish history” syndrome, where every event is seen as a stepping stone toward the present ideals of the author. Real history is messier: alliances shift, leaders contradict themselves, movements fragment, reforms happen in fits and starts, sometimes even from the “enemy’s” camp. But Omvedt’s anti-caste saga is smoothed into a kind of storybook liberation narrative where the forces of light (Dalit-Bahujan leaders) steadily triumph over the forces of darkness (Brahminism). It’s stirring, yes, but it’s also as one-dimensional as a recruitment poster.
Her chosen heroes — Ambedkar, Phule, Periyar, and a select few — are elevated to near-sainthood. They stride across the pages as flawless moral exemplars, paragons of rationality, and champions of justice. Their pragmatic compromises, strategic contradictions, and internal critics are kept firmly offstage. It’s like an Amar Chitra Katha: Activist Edition, complete with cartoon villains: “Brahminism” becomes the all-powerful Bond villain, lurking in every shadow, plotting societal domination with sacred thread in hand. But the real history of oppression in India is more complex — and often more depressing. Non-Brahmin elites dominated many regions; princely states enforced caste as rigidly as any Brahmin sabha; colonial administrators often hardened caste identities in the name of bureaucratic efficiency. The notion that all antagonists were Sanskrit-chanting priests twirling their moustaches on the steps of a temple is a convenient myth.
One of the book’s more glaring blind spots is its cultural amnesia about the many anti-caste currents that flowed within Hinduism. Kabir, Ravidas, Tukaram, the Nayanmars, and the Alvars — saints who dismantled caste barriers through devotional movements — are given minimal credit because they muddy the “outside versus inside” framework.
The Lingayat movement in Karnataka, with its rejection of caste and ritualism, fits awkwardly into her schema, so it receives passing attention at best. Omvedt’s narrative sometimes reads as if Dalit-Bahujan assertion could only exist by rejecting Hinduism wholesale, which is historically untrue. Many leaders and communities carved out space within Hindu traditions to challenge caste while retaining devotional identities. Writing them out of the picture is like penning a history of jazz while pretending New Orleans was never in America.
Her theoretical scaffolding, while passionate, often races ahead of the evidence. The nuanced debates in Dharmaśāstra, the regional variability of caste practices, the distortions introduced by colonial census categorisation — all get collapsed into rally-ready slogans. At times, the ideological rhythm feels more like a movement pamphlet than a peer-reviewed historical study. And then there’s the romanticised vision of a pre-Aryan, egalitarian utopia: a paradise of indigenous, casteless communities destroyed by invading priests. It’s a thesis beloved by some strands of political rhetoric, but modern archaeology, linguistics, and genetics have made that picture far murkier. The evidence for such a neat “golden age” is, at best, fragmentary; yet Omvedt treats it as foundational truth.
Perhaps the most awkward silence in the book concerns caste hierarchies within Dalit-Bahujan communities. Endogamy, sub-caste discrimination, and even untouchability between marginalised groups — these were (and often still are) harsh realities. But in Dalit Visions, oppression seems to flow only from the “upper” to the “lower” in a perfect vertical line. To extend the royal metaphor, it’s like banning duelling in the kingdom — but only when aimed at the king, while turning a blind eye to the dukes stabbing each other in the courtyard.
Reformist Hindus who worked against caste from within the tradition — Sri Narayana Guru’s spiritual egalitarianism, Gandhi’s temple entry campaigns, the Arya Samaj’s rejection of caste by birth — receive, at most, a dismissive nod. To give them space would require acknowledging that significant anti-caste victories have also come from internal reform, not just external opposition. But that would spoil the clean, combative binary that drives the book’s narrative momentum.
In terms of tone, Omvedt writes with moral urgency, which is inspiring if you already share her worldview. But if you don’t, the moral absolutism and selective evidence are more likely to harden your scepticism than open your mind. Where a balanced historian might invite dialogue, Dalit Visions often feels like it is preaching to the choir — rallying the faithful rather than persuading the unconverted.
This is not inherently wrong; movement literature has its place. But it’s worth noting that the book sits more in that tradition than in the realm of critical, multi-perspective history.
Historically, her framing leaves too many stones unturned. Vedic texts show more social fluidity than she admits; the Upaniṣads universalised spiritual knowledge; Smṛti laws evolved over centuries, often contradicting earlier prescriptions; Bhakti movements dissolved caste boundaries in practice; and colonial policies hardened caste identities in ways that pre-modern society often did not. Omvedt’s sharpest critiques would land harder if they grappled with these contradictions rather than writing them out.
None of this is to say that Dalit Visions lacks value. It is a passionate, committed chronicle of certain strands of the anti-caste movement, a rallying cry for Dalit-Bahujan political identity, and an accessible introduction to key figures like Phule and Ambedkar. As a polemic, it works — the heroes inspire, the villains infuriate, and the rhetoric stirs the blood.
But as a comprehensive history, it oversimplifies, over-idealises, and over-generalises. It is not the full banquet of historical truth, but rather a feast curated by the host, with some dishes conspicuously missing and others spiced just to the chef’s taste.
If history is a sprawling royal court, Omvedt has chosen to seat only her favourite courtiers at the high table, while barring the doors to any inconvenient guests who might disrupt the harmony of her chosen narrative.
The result is a text that, while valuable for what it includes, is equally defined by what it leaves out. And for a reader willing to dine only on her menu, it will be satisfying.
For those who want the whole court, with its bickering factions, contradictory traditions, and messy alliances, it will feel like a partial view — a noble but blinkered vision, roasted here not out of malice, but because even the finest ideals deserve the seasoning of complexity.
[Kolkata, August 15, 2025]
January 6, 2018
A concise survey of the attempts at imagination and construction of Dalit & adi-Shudra identity in contrast to (Brahminical) Hinduism. The book explains the failure of these attempts till now and the success of Congress(and later Parivar) in countering this. Names and provides reference to number of personalities neglected by mainline media/historiography.
November 10, 2011
Gail Omvedt started the book on expected lines, i.e., by denouncing vedic tradition as the central focus of Hinduism.
She highlights the dangers of Hindu nationalism and outlines the Gandhian (reformist) and Nehruvian (secular) methods adopted by different sections to counter this danger. She argues that the attempt is flawed because it validates the general identification of the Hinduism with the tradition of India or "Hindu" with "Bharatiya".
Then she goes on to introduce the dalit approach which "proclaim a politics of identity" and which "define 'Hinduism' itself as an oppressive class/caste/patriarchal force."
The introduction gives a snapshot of the trajectory of dalit politics in India especially from the 1970s with the founding of the Dalit Panthers.
I have always felt a discomfort listening to or reading dalit discourse because of its outright denouncement of all that is valued by Hindu tradition. I think I was expecting something different from this book. However that matter was laid to rest when I read in the introduction that "the impetus to challenge the hegemony and validity of Hinduism is part of the very logic of Dalit politics."
Along with popular faces of the movement like Ambedkar, Phule and Periyar the book introduces some lesser known dalit activists like Tarabai Shinde, Pandita Ramabai and Mangoo Ram. It also critically analyses the challenges faced by the movement at different stages and how the dalit consciousness spread wider over a period of time ultimately leading to their political empowerment.
However, the book admits the failure of the dalit movement to achieve the task of demolishing the Hindu religion and establishing a distinct dalit identity. Given the current state of dalit movement it seems obvious that the movement has lost its militant nature and political empowerment has come without a corresponding economic empowerment.
This, I think, is the reason why politicians are engaged in tokenism that appease the impoverished dalit voters. Raising of Ambedkar's and Kanshi Ram's statues in UP by BSP is part of this exercise to create an iconography that sustains the hope for Dalits in India. But the reality remains that neither a new park nor a statue can offer a solution to the crisis that dalits find themselves in. Gail Omvedt also fails to offer any potential solution to the predicament faced by the dalit movement.
Also, while Omvedt believes that evocation of people's past will continue to have a role in the formulation of a new society, in which the major dalit theme remains that of confidence and aspiration, she is able to acknowledge only those reinterpretations of puranas and history that denounce the upper castes and highlight the exploitation of the sub-altern like in the case of Eklavya or Shambuk. However, I believe there is also ample scope for dalit empowerment in those reinterpretations of scriptural literature that view dalit characters in a positive light. An example would be the reinterpretation oft criticised 'Purushasookta' in which shudras are supposed to have originated from the toes of the purusha. A positive reinterpretation of this focus on the fact that toes are the symbol of reverence in Hindu customs (lotus feet of Lord Vishnu, etc.).
She highlights the dangers of Hindu nationalism and outlines the Gandhian (reformist) and Nehruvian (secular) methods adopted by different sections to counter this danger. She argues that the attempt is flawed because it validates the general identification of the Hinduism with the tradition of India or "Hindu" with "Bharatiya".
Then she goes on to introduce the dalit approach which "proclaim a politics of identity" and which "define 'Hinduism' itself as an oppressive class/caste/patriarchal force."
The introduction gives a snapshot of the trajectory of dalit politics in India especially from the 1970s with the founding of the Dalit Panthers.
I have always felt a discomfort listening to or reading dalit discourse because of its outright denouncement of all that is valued by Hindu tradition. I think I was expecting something different from this book. However that matter was laid to rest when I read in the introduction that "the impetus to challenge the hegemony and validity of Hinduism is part of the very logic of Dalit politics."
Along with popular faces of the movement like Ambedkar, Phule and Periyar the book introduces some lesser known dalit activists like Tarabai Shinde, Pandita Ramabai and Mangoo Ram. It also critically analyses the challenges faced by the movement at different stages and how the dalit consciousness spread wider over a period of time ultimately leading to their political empowerment.
However, the book admits the failure of the dalit movement to achieve the task of demolishing the Hindu religion and establishing a distinct dalit identity. Given the current state of dalit movement it seems obvious that the movement has lost its militant nature and political empowerment has come without a corresponding economic empowerment.
This, I think, is the reason why politicians are engaged in tokenism that appease the impoverished dalit voters. Raising of Ambedkar's and Kanshi Ram's statues in UP by BSP is part of this exercise to create an iconography that sustains the hope for Dalits in India. But the reality remains that neither a new park nor a statue can offer a solution to the crisis that dalits find themselves in. Gail Omvedt also fails to offer any potential solution to the predicament faced by the dalit movement.
Also, while Omvedt believes that evocation of people's past will continue to have a role in the formulation of a new society, in which the major dalit theme remains that of confidence and aspiration, she is able to acknowledge only those reinterpretations of puranas and history that denounce the upper castes and highlight the exploitation of the sub-altern like in the case of Eklavya or Shambuk. However, I believe there is also ample scope for dalit empowerment in those reinterpretations of scriptural literature that view dalit characters in a positive light. An example would be the reinterpretation oft criticised 'Purushasookta' in which shudras are supposed to have originated from the toes of the purusha. A positive reinterpretation of this focus on the fact that toes are the symbol of reverence in Hindu customs (lotus feet of Lord Vishnu, etc.).
Displaying 1 - 4 of 5 reviews