Sunita Devi, a 32-year-old OBC farmer in rural Uttar Pradesh, wipes sweat from her brow as she treks miles to a distant well, shunned by upper-caste neighbors. “If the census sees us, maybe my children won’t live like this,” she says, her voice weary but hopeful. India’s decision to include caste in its upcoming census, announced in April 2025, revives a tally not seen since 1931 under British rule. For Sunita, it’s a lifeline in a nation of 1.4 billion where caste still binds futures. But in Delhi’s crowded markets, Meena Rao, a 38-year-old Brahmin teacher, clutches her son’s hand, anxious. “Counting caste will split us further,” she murmurs, fearing lost opportunities.

Rooted in ancient Hindu texts, the caste system ranks people into Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas, Shudras, and Dalits, with thousands of sub-castes. Despite a 1950 constitutional ban, discrimination endures: Dalits face violence, and only 5% of marriages cross caste barriers. The census, stalled since 2021 by COVID-19 and logistics, seeks to map these groups, replacing outdated 1931 data. Information Minister Ashwini Vaishnaw calls it “a tool for equity,” citing Bihar’s 2023 survey showing 63% of its population as Other Backward Classes (OBCs). “We’re giving voice to the unseen,” he said.

Advocates like Sunita see promise. “Caste blocks my kids from schools, jobs,” says Ravi Kumar, a 40-year-old Dalit laborer in Mumbai, his hands scarred from construction work. The 2011 caste census, unreleased due to errors, left policy gaps; now, opposition leader Rahul Gandhi demands data to widen the 50% quota cap for OBCs, Scheduled Castes (SCs), and Scheduled Tribes (STs). Bihar’s count, which raised reservations, fuels optimism. “I want my daughter to be a doctor,” Ravi says, his eyes gleaming.

Yet, fear simmers. Meena, whose upper-caste family holds wealth—Oxfam notes 5% of Indians, often elites, own 60% of riches—worries about shrinking prospects. “Quotas already limit us,” she says, recalling 2006’s deadly anti-reservation riots. On social media, upper-caste users rage: “This is unfair!” Some in Narendra Modi’s Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) caution against unrest, arguing the count cements caste over unity. “I want my students to see beyond caste,” says Anil Patel, a Gujarat professor, his voice strained.

The stakes are personal. Bihar’s data tagged 84% as marginalized, spurring calls for fairer shares—27% of government jobs are OBC-reserved, with SCs and STs at 201 million and 104 million in 2011. Sorting thousands of sub-castes is complex, warns Professor Sukhdeo Thorat, pushing for questions on exclusion. Modi’s embrace—once dismissing caste counts—reflects Bihar’s caste-driven votes, says analyst Yashwant Zagade. A flawed count risks violence, as Karnataka’s contested survey showed.

Reactions burn bright. In Bihar, OBC youth chant “Count us, free us!” Dalit social media posts plead, “End our pain.” Upper-caste users decry “political games.” Globally, U.S. diaspora, where Seattle banned caste bias, track the news. The UN praises the aim but urges care. Rural Dalits endure 50,900 crimes yearly; urbanites like Ravi hide caste to survive. “I’m exhausted by fear,” he says.

The impact could reshape lives. Accurate data might hone aid, closing gaps—64% of top jobs are general-category. But mistakes could ignite caste wars. Modi’s BJP bets on openness, with Vaishnaw vowing “precision.” Taxpayers demand accountability for the costly effort.

What’s next? The census date is unclear, but Thorat seeks probes into discrimination’s toll. Sunita dreams of her son’s education; Meena prays for peace. As India faces its fractured soul, the count tests if data can heal or wound. Will it free Sunita’s children or unravel Meena’s hopes?