Invisible walls: Caste in early learning spaces

Everyday practices in Anganwadis reproduce caste hierarchies, shaping exclusion in children’s experiences of care, learning and belonging.

In a remote village in Karnataka, children gather each morning in a circle in the Anganwadi courtyard. Laughter fills the air as their games begin. Yet the circle is never quite complete. Tribal children stand slightly apart, almost instinctively, as though guided by an invisible line no one has ever formally drawn. They are too young to understand caste, yet old enough to feel the distance it creates. 

When lunchtime arrives, the separation becomes even more visible. While rice and dal are served to all children, a few privileged caste children quietly open tiffin boxes brought from home. Their parents have instructed them not to eat food prepared by a tribal helper. A small boy watches in silence. He may not know the language of purity and pollution, but he senses that something about him — and the food served to him — is considered different.

These are not isolated incidents. They are part of a deeper and disturbing reality that continues to exist in many early childhood spaces across the country. Anganwadis, which are meant to nurture equality, dignity, nutrition and learning, often become the first institutions where children silently learn hierarchy. Before they learn the alphabet, they learn who sits where, whose touch is acceptable, whose food is rejected, and who belongs within, or outside, the social circle.

A few years ago, a newly appointed Dalit cook stood outside an Anganwadi holding her appointment order while parents objected to her entry. “Why should a Scheduled Caste woman cook for our children?” they asked openly. Her dignity, employment and identity remained suspended outside the doorway of a public institution meant to serve every child equally. 

In yet another village, discrimination took quieter but equally painful forms. Separate metal plates and tumblers were kept aside for Dalit children so that “others would not feel uncomfortable,” as one helper explained softly. Some Dalit children were asked to bring their own utensils from home, which were then stored separately.

This issue was brought to the notice of the department and the practice was stopped. Now, all children are being served in the same plates at the Anganwadi.

These practices persist despite constitutional guarantees and legal protections under the National Food Security Act, 2013, and the Right to Education Act. The utensils themselves appeared ordinary, yet they carried the weight of history — symbols of inherited boundaries normalised through everyday routine. 

The geography of inequality is visible not only in social interactions but also in the physical structure of many villages. In one Panchayat, two Anganwadi centres served children from the same village: one located in the privileged-caste neighbourhood and the other in the Dalit colony. The centre on the main road was bright, spacious, and filled with charts and toys. The centre in the Dalit colony, however, was cramped, leaking, and overcrowded, with children squeezed together on worn-out mats.

A little girl whispered softly, “We want to play with those children… but we are not allowed.” In that quiet sentence lay the everyday architecture of exclusion — one that separates children long before they can fully understand why.

Such moments reveal how deeply caste continues to shape the emotional and social worlds of children. To adults, these experiences may appear small or routine. But for children, they leave lasting impressions. A separate plate, a rejected meal, a refusal to sit together or a subtle exclusion from play gradually enters a child’s understanding of self-worth.

Psychologists describe this as internalised inferiority. Children experience it more simply — as the quiet shrinking of possibilities.

The tragedy is that these exclusions unfold within spaces specifically designed to reduce inequality. Anganwadis, under the Integrated Child Development Services (ICDS) programme, are intended to ensure nutrition, preschool education, care and protection for all children. Our Constitution abolishes untouchability and prohibits caste-based discrimination in public spaces. The Right to Education Act mandates inclusive and discrimination-free learning environments. The National Food Security Act recognises food as a legal entitlement, not charity. International commitments such as the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child also obligate India to protect children from discrimination based on caste or social origin.

Yet the distance between law and lived reality remains painfully wide.

Social hierarchy

Across India, similar incidents continue to emerge. Reports from Uttar Pradesh describe Dalit students being made to sit separately during midday meals. In Tamil Nadu, Dalit children have reportedly been asked to clean classrooms. In Rajasthan, a nine-year-old Dalit boy died after allegedly being beaten for touching a water pot reserved for privileged caste students. These are symptoms of a social order that continues to survive within educational institutions despite decades of democracy, constitutionalism and development.

Various research studies reinforce these field realities. They show that caste bias continues to influence seating arrangements, teacher expectations, participation, access to resources and even educational outcomes. 

The discrimination may not always appear overt, but it quietly influences childhood experiences and limits educational opportunities.

Modernity without equality

India often celebrates technological advancement, digital classrooms and rising enrolment rates. Villages now have smartphones, internet connectivity and digital learning platforms. Yet many children still cannot freely share a meal together. This contradiction exposes a deeper crisis: modernity without equality remains incomplete.

The persistence of caste prejudice in early childhood spaces also reveals how discrimination reproduces itself socially. Children are not born with caste bias; they absorb it from the adults around them — through parental instructions, social customs, segregated practices, silence and institutional tolerance. When children repeatedly witness separation in food, seating, play and touch, hierarchy begins to feel natural. The invisible curriculum of caste becomes stronger than the formal curriculum taught in classrooms.

The consequences are not merely social; they are emotional and psychological. Early childhood is the most sensitive stage of human development. Experiences of humiliation, exclusion and rejection during these formative years can profoundly affect confidence, participation, learning ability and emotional well-being. Many children begin to withdraw silently. Some stop participating altogether. Others internalise the belief that they are somehow less deserving than their peers. 

These wounds may not be visible, but they travel with children into adolescence and adulthood.

Collective responsibility

Change cannot come only through laws written on paper; it must take root in everyday practice. Real transformation begins when Anganwadi workers consciously model inclusion, when teachers recognise and challenge prejudice, when parents question inherited notions of purity and pollution, and when local leaders affirm that every child’s dignity matters more than caste customs.

Only then can these spaces truly become centres of care, equality and belonging rather than silent classrooms of social exclusion.

Early childhood spaces must become places where equality is not merely spoken about but experienced daily — through shared meals, mixed playgroups, equal facilities and relationships built on dignity and belonging.

Training programmes for Anganwadi workers and teachers must include anti-bias education and child rights perspectives. Communities, too, must engage in open conversations about caste discrimination rather than treating it as a private social matter. Accountability mechanisms must also monitor exclusionary practices in nutrition and preschool spaces with seriousness and urgency.

That broken circle in the remote village represents more than a morning game. It reflects the unfinished promise of equality in the country.

We speak proudly of constitutional values, child rights, food security and inclusive development. Yet these promises remain incomplete until they reach the smallest Anganwadi in the most remote village — until every child can sit, eat, learn and play together without fear, shame or exclusion.

The walls dividing children may be invisible, but their consequences are not.

Unless these unseen barriers are dismantled in early childhood itself, they risk being passed silently from one generation to the next — through gestures, routines and silences that continue to shape the future of the country' children.

(Sudha Sreenivasa Reddy is a social development practitioner and training Facilitator with the Right to Food Programme at the Centre for Child and the Law, National Law School of India University, Bengaluru)