Scar, Not Stain Poem by Bishnupada Sethi

I was born into a surname
they spat like a curse—
murmured with a smile,
the way you warn a child about fire:
"Careful, he's from that caste."

In school I claimed the front bench
and the first roll number
with perfect marks,
outshining everyone.
A teacher announced my scores with pride;
then someone quietly asked me to keep away
from food and water
they considered pure.
"Some villagers feel uneasy."

I ate alone, in a separate line,
with the children of lesser mortals—
rice tasting of dust and metal—
watching classmates laugh through the window.

When they lost—
in races, debates, exams—
caste became their weapon
to drag me low,
as though I hadn't burned the midnight oil,
as though my parents hadn't toiled
for second-hand books.
I asked only for the same sky.

Every village path declared
I was trespassing.
The temple gate stopped me,
though my heart prayed harder.

Worst was the voice inside:
"You are nothing.
Born low, stay low.
No matter how high you climb,
they'll drag you back into this mud
they call your blood."

It made me flinch at my own surname,
apologise for breathing too loudly.
It almost convinced me
my pain proved my worthlessness.

Then the boy who ate alone
under the neem tree,
in a separate line,
stood up and answered back.

I was never low.
My caste is not a stain—
it is the scar
left by a system that tried to kill my spirit
and failed.

I am still here.
Every prize, every boundary crossed,
every refusal to bow
is another nail in the coffin of their lie.

I was never less.
And I will spend my life proving it—
not to them,
but to the child who once believed
he was born to be small.