Some men say that they should be satisfied with the abolition of

Host: The sun was setting over Mumbai’s industrial horizon, bleeding deep orange light through layers of smog and dust. The streets buzzed with motorcycles, the cries of vendors, and the metallic clang of construction. It was one of those evenings where the city’s noise felt almost sacred — the sound of a civilization talking to itself.

On the edge of Dadar, in a small workers’ canteen tucked behind a textile factory, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other at a metal table, their cups of cutting chai trembling slightly as the trains rumbled nearby.

The walls were peeling, plaster flaking like the city’s own tired skin, and an old radio buzzed softly with the voice of a public speaker — a recording from decades ago — the words filled the air with a kind of solemn fire:

“Some men say that they should be satisfied with the abolition of untouchability only, leaving the caste system alone. The aim of abolition of untouchability alone without trying to abolish the inequalities inherent in the caste system is a rather low aim.”
— B. R. Ambedkar

Host: The sound cut through the humid air like a blade. Jeeny’s eyes lifted from her cup, their brown depths flickering with anger — not the kind that burns wildly, but the kind that smolders, deliberate and moral.

Jack leaned back, his grey eyes unreadable, a faint smirk forming as if he’d heard something he’d been waiting to debate all day.

Jeeny: “Every time I hear his voice, I feel like it still echoes through every street of this country — like we haven’t moved at all.”

Jack: “We’ve moved, Jeeny. Just not fast enough to please the idealists. You can’t erase four thousand years of hierarchy with one Constitution.”

Jeeny: “But we haven’t even tried to erase it. We’ve just dressed it differently. Changed its vocabulary. Made it polite.”

Jack: “That’s how societies evolve. You chip away at injustice, bit by bit. You don’t tear it down overnight.”

Jeeny: (sharply) “That’s not evolution. That’s complacency dressed as patience.”

Host: The lights flickered once, briefly illuminating the faces of a few workers eating nearby — their hands calloused, their faces lined with fatigue, their voices low and hesitant, speaking in Marathi and Hindi, each word carrying the weight of their station in life.

Jack watched them, then turned back.

Jack: “You think tearing down caste overnight would solve inequality? You’d just replace one form of division with another — money, power, education. Hierarchies don’t vanish, Jeeny. They adapt.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly Ambedkar’s point. We’ve adapted the surface and ignored the roots. You can outlaw untouchability, but if you keep the structure that justifies it, you’ve cured the symptom and kept the disease.”

Jack: “And what would you do instead? Abolish religion? Tear down every cultural identity? That’s not justice — that’s erasure.”

Jeeny: “No. Justice doesn’t mean erasure, Jack. It means rebirth. Ambedkar didn’t want to destroy people — he wanted to free them from the prison of inherited shame. That’s what equality means: no one begins life with a verdict.”

Host: A train thundered past outside, rattling the windowpanes. The vibration made their tea ripple, like a pulse running through the table itself.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But the reality is brutal. Try walking into a village in Bihar or Tamil Nadu and telling people caste doesn’t matter. You’ll get laughed out — or killed.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly why it’s not just a legal problem, it’s a psychological one. The caste system isn’t just in laws, Jack. It’s in language, in homes, in marriages, in jokes whispered over dinner. It’s in silence.”

Jack: “And you think one reformer’s dream can rewrite human instinct?”

Jeeny: “Human instinct isn’t caste, Jack. It’s learned cruelty. Nobody is born believing they’re superior. They’re taught it — in rituals, in surnames, in who sits where at a wedding. Ambedkar wasn’t fighting instinct; he was fighting education gone wrong.”

Host: The air thickened, heavy with the humidity of thought and argument. The ceiling fan creaked overhead, circling lazily, as if too tired to choose a side.

Jack: “Let’s be honest. The caste system isn’t about faith anymore. It’s about economics. The poor stay poor. The rich stay rich. Whether you call it caste or class, the hierarchy remains.”

Jeeny: “But class isn’t hereditary. You can rise out of it. Caste won’t even let you imagine rising. It locks imagination itself. It says: you are this forever. That’s the violence Ambedkar was talking about — not the physical kind, but the quiet, systemic kind that teaches people they don’t deserve to dream.”

Jack: “Dreams are luxuries for those who can afford them.”

Jeeny: (angrily) “And yet, it’s the ones who can’t afford them who dream the hardest! Do you know why Ambedkar converted to Buddhism? Because he refused to live in a religion that refused to see him as human. That wasn’t a rebellion, Jack. That was resurrection.”

Host: Her voice cracked slightly — the sound of someone who had read too much history, too many stories of people denied water, denied temples, denied touch.

Jack stared at her, then looked away — his jaw tightening.

Jack: “I’m not denying the cruelty. I’m saying idealism without realism is another cruelty. You can’t legislate hearts.”

Jeeny: “No. But you can legislate fairness. You can make it uncomfortable for the unjust to breathe easily.”

Host: The rain began outside, slowly, tapping against the tin roof. The workers had left now, their plates stacked neatly, the canteen empty except for them.

Jack leaned forward, his voice quieter now.

Jack: “Tell me, Jeeny — do you really believe caste can die? Completely?”

Jeeny: (pauses) “Yes. But not in our lifetime.”

Jack: “Then what’s the point?”

Jeeny: “The point is to keep trying anyway. Because giving up would mean agreeing with the system. And silence, Jack — silence is its oldest accomplice.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened, the defiance in them dimming into thought. The rain outside grew steadier, the sound like an endless applause from the earth.

Jack: “You know, Ambedkar was born in 1891. A man from the lowest rung of the system ends up drafting the Constitution of the very country that oppressed him. That’s not just rebellion. That’s genius.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He didn’t ask for pity — he demanded respect. And yet, decades later, we still debate whether equality should be partial or whole. Whether untouchability is enough. Can you see how small that makes us?”

Jack: “Maybe we’re afraid, Jeeny. Because true equality means letting go of privilege. And people don’t surrender power — they disguise it.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Yes. They rename it merit. They call it tradition. They polish oppression until it looks respectable.”

Host: The lights flickered again, casting long shadows across the wall — their faces half-lit, half-lost, like truth and denial wrestling in the same frame.

Jack: “Maybe Ambedkar wasn’t asking for revolution. Maybe he was asking for introspection — for us to look in the mirror and see what we pretend not to.”

Jeeny: “He was asking for courage, Jack. The courage to confront our comfort. To stop thinking equality is charity. It’s not a gift — it’s a debt.”

Host: The rain began to lighten, turning into a fine mist. The streetlights outside flickered on, bathing the wet road in a dim, golden haze. A group of schoolchildren passed by, laughing, their uniforms soaked but their faces alive with innocence — too young to know the lines the world would soon draw around them.

Jack watched them quietly, then turned back.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe abolishing untouchability isn’t enough. Maybe it’s like cleaning the wounds but leaving the knife inside.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Yes. Exactly that.”

Host: They sat in silence, their cups empty, the radio now humming faintly with static. The city outside was still, waiting for the next train, the next argument, the next small act of defiance.

And as the camera of the evening pulled back, through the rain-streaked window, their figures seemed small — two people in a tired canteen, yet carrying the weight of a centuries-old conversation.

Host: In the distance, a billboard showed a smiling politician promising equality in bold letters — a promise older than the ink that printed it.

And beneath that light, the truth glimmered faintly, like a whisper Ambedkar had left behind:

That justice is not born when the oppressed are touched.
It is born when no one remembers who was untouchable.