The effect was immediate and profound. The shouting died as if a switch had been thrown, replaced by the kind of hushed attention that only someone of Ambedkar's stature could command. Even those who disagreed with him on specific issues recognized that he spoke with moral authority earned through decades of fighting for Dalit rights, through personal experience of humiliation and discrimination that gave him credibility no Brahmin reformer could match.
He stood slowly, his slight frame somehow filling more space than its physical dimensions suggested, his face carrying the complex expression of someone who had spent a lifetime balancing idealism against pragmatism, principle against compromise, the demands of justice against the constraints of political reality.
The chamber fell Into complete silence. Members who had been shouting moments before sat back down, watching, waiting to see how the architect of Dalit political consciousness would respond to this challenge to everything he had fought to build.
Ambedkar adjusted his glasses—a small gesture but one that seemed to carry deliberation, as if he were not just preparing to speak but preparing to make a decision that would affect millions. When he finally spoke, his voice carried none of the passion that had characterized other protesters. Instead, it was measured, controlled, the voice of a lawyer presenting a case whose outcome mattered more than emotional satisfaction.
"While I appreciate Minister Sinha's concern for economic upliftment," he began, each word precise and weighted,
"and while I acknowledge that her proposal to limit reservation benefits to one generation has merit—indeed, I had myself proposed that reservations should exist only for ten years, after which they should be reviewed and potentially discontinued if their purpose had been achieved—I must nevertheless express profound disagreement with the elimination of caste-based reservation."
He paused, letting his position be clearly understood before proceeding to his reasoning.
"Economic poverty and social degradation are not the same thing, though they often coincide. A Dalit who acquires wealth through extraordinary effort still faces social discrimination that a poor Brahmin does not. The wealthy Dalit is still refused entry to temples, still cannot draw water from common wells in many villages, still sees his children excluded from social gatherings and marriage alliances. Money alone does not purchase social respect in a society structured by caste."
Several heads nodded in agreement. This was the core argument for caste-based reservation—that it addressed social disabilities that transcended economic circumstance, that required specific remedies targeting the mechanisms of discrimination rather than just alleviating poverty that might be symptom rather than cause.
Ambedkar continued: "The Scheduled Castes have suffered for millennia under a system that denied them not just economic opportunity but human dignity. The Constitution we are drafting must address this through targeted provisions that specifically uplift communities that have been systematically oppressed. Economic reservation alone will not achieve this because it treats all poverty as equivalent when historical experience shows that caste-based poverty involves additional layers of social exclusion that economic measures cannot reach."
It was a powerful argument, delivered with the authority of someone who had personally experienced what he was describing rather than merely sympathizing from a distance. The chamber was listening intently, many members clearly being persuaded or at least finding their existing convictions reinforced.
But Saraswati Devi was not someone who could be overwhelmed by authority or emotional appeals, no matter how legitimate. She had anticipated this argument, had spent weeks thinking through her response, understanding that she would face not just opposition but righteously angry opposition from people who had every reason to distrust proposals that seemed to deny their lived experience.
She looked directly at Ambedkar, her expression respectful but unyielding.
"Dr. Ambedkar, I understand where you are coming from,"
she said, her voice carrying a different quality now—less professorial, more personal, as if she were speaking to him as an individual rather than as a symbol of Dalit political consciousness. "Before we proceed further, let me establish common ground. You agree that descendants of those who have already benefited from reservation should not receive it again, correct? That the purpose is to lift families rather than to create permanent classes of beneficiaries?"
Ambedkar nodded slowly. "Of course. My proposal was for reservations to exist only for ten years, with review thereafter. Your approach of excluding descendants is also valid—perhaps even better because it prevents dynasties of advantage from forming while allowing reservation to continue for genuinely disadvantaged families."
"Good," Saraswati said, and Anirban could see her mentally checking off the first component of her strategy—establish areas of agreement before proceeding to areas of conflict, demonstrate that she was engaging in good faith rather than simply dismissing Ambedkar's concerns. "Now, to your central point about social discrimination that transcends economic status."
She moved away from the podium, pacing slightly as she organized her thoughts—a habit from her teaching days that made her arguments feel more like dialogue than lecture.
"You argue that caste-based reservation is necessary because Dalits face social disabilities even when they acquire wealth. I do not dispute that reality—social prejudice is real and persistent. But I must ask: will legal reservation eliminate that prejudice? Will it create genuine social respect, or will it instead create resentment among those who lose opportunities to reservation beneficiaries, thereby reinforcing the very prejudices you seek to overcome?"
The question hung in the air, and several members looked uncomfortable because it touched on something they had observed but were reluctant to articulate publicly—that reservation often generated backlash that made social integration more difficult rather than easier.
Saraswati continued: "You want reservation for Shudras and Scheduled Castes because they have suffered under the caste system, under untouchability. I understand this. But tell me—if we institutionalize caste categories in law, if we make caste the basis for state benefits, are we eliminating the caste system or perpetuating it under new management?"
She turned to face the broader chamber now, addressing not just Ambedkar but everyone present.
"Caste became hereditary when occupation became fixed, when flexible economic roles hardened into social prisons that could not be escaped. The British made it worse—they formalized caste categories for census purposes, they drained our wealth and left behind a society where financial poverty bred social poverty, where economic immobility reinforced caste boundaries. But now we have the opportunity to break that cycle. We can say: caste ends here. Identity based on birth ends here. Every child, regardless of parentage, receives the same education and competes on the same terms."
Her voice was gaining intensity now, passion breaking through the scholarly detachment.
"But if we instead say: caste continues, but now it determines government benefits rather than social status—have we truly ended discrimination or just changed its form? If we tell a Brahmin child that seats are reserved against them, a Shudra child that their admission came through reservation rather than merit, are we building a casteless society or deepening the very divisions we claim to oppose?"
Jagjivan Ram was on his feet again. "That is easy to say for someone who has never experienced being denied education because of their birth!" His voice carried real pain, personal history of humiliations endured. "You speak of merit as if opportunity has been equal, as if Dalit children have had the same access to schools and books and teachers as upper-caste children!"
Saraswati turned to face him directly..
"You are absolutely right, Mr. Ram. Opportunity has not been equal. That is why I propose universal free education through Class 10, why I propose economic reservation for the poorest families, why I propose infrastructure investment prioritized in regions with lowest literacy rates. These measures will disproportionately benefit Dalits and tribal communities because they are disproportionately poor and underserved."
She paused.
"But I propose these measures not because you are Dalits but because you are Indians denied opportunities that every citizen deserves. The remedy targets the actual disability—lack of education, lack of economic resources—rather than treating caste identity as permanent handicap requiring permanent compensation."
A voice cut through from another section of the chamber—Maulana Abul Kalam Azad, his expression troubled, his tone carrying the careful modulation of someone trying to bridge secular and religious constituencies within his own political identity.
"Dr. Sinha, you speak as if caste is India's only form of social discrimination. But what about religious minorities? Muslims face systematic discrimination in employment, in housing, in access to government services. Should they not receive protection through reservation?"
Saraswati's expression hardened. This was territory she had anticipated but found particularly frustrating because it attempted to equate different forms of social organization with different histories and solutions.
"Maulana Azad, with respect, Islam explicitly rejects caste. The Quran teaches that all believers are equal before Allah, that no one is superior to another except in piety and good works. If Muslims face economic disadvantage, they will benefit from economic reservation like anyone else. But to claim that Muslims as a religious group require special protection is to suggest that religious identity should determine state benefits—which violates the secular principle that this Assembly has committed to uphold."
Azad's face darkened. "You cannot dismiss the reality of communal discrimination by citing religious texts! The theory and practice of Islam are different things. There Is prejudice within Muslim communities, hierarchy despite theological equality—"
"Exactly my point!" Saraswati interrupted, her voice sharp.
"Every religion claims universal equality while practicing various forms of hierarchy. Even within castes there are sub-castes, within sects there are factions. The Ahmadiyya Muslims live in constant fear of persecution by mainstream Muslims who deny their legitimacy. The Shia and Sunni divide has generated centuries of conflict. Christians have denominational hierarchies. Sikhs have caste-like distinctions despite Guru Nanak's explicit rejection of caste."
She gestured broadly at the chamber.
"If we begin making legal reservations based on every group's historical grievances, where does it stop? You say Muslims deserve reservation—fine. But then Christians will point to their persecution under various Hindu and Muslim rulers, will demand equivalent protection. Sikhs will cite the martyrdom of two of their Gurus under Mughal rule, will demand recognition of their suffering. Tribal communities will cite their displacement by Aryan invasions—real or mythical, depending on whose history you believe—and demand compensation spanning millennia."
Her voice rose, carrying now not just argument but warning.
"And what of the so-called upper castes who suffered under Islamic sultanates? The Brahmins who were killed for refusing conversion, the artisans who were taxed into poverty under the jizya system, the traders whose businesses were confiscated? Should they demand reservation too? For centuries, different communities have dominated and oppressed each other in turn. Everyone has historical grievances. Everyone has ancestors who suffered."
She slammed her hand on the podium, the crack echoing through the chamber.
"But we cannot build a nation on competitive victimhood! We cannot make state policy based on who can claim the most historical suffering! That path leads only to permanent division, to every community calculating its pain against others, to endless litigation about who deserves what based on crimes committed centuries ago by people long dead against people who never knew them!"
The chamber was absolutely silent now, members transfixed by the force of her argument even as many fundamentally disagreed with her conclusions.
Saraswati's voice dropped to something quieter but no less intense.
"Fifteen percent reservation based on economic need—from middle school through undergraduate education—is sufficient. It targets actual disability rather than historical identity. It provides uplift without creating permanent dependency. It benefits the poor regardless of which ancient text their ancestors followed or which medieval ruler oppressed their community."
She looked directly at Ambedkar again, her expression carrying something that might have been sympathy mixed with resolve.
"Dr. Ambedkar, you speak eloquently about social respect that cannot be purchased with money alone. But let me ask you something: if social respect is what you seek, will you demand it from those who do not respect you? Will you beg for dignity from those who deny your humanity?"
The question was delivered with such intensity that several members actually flinched. This was personal now, stripped of diplomatic language, cutting to the core of what reservation was actually meant to achieve.
"I received death threats for leaving Islam," Saraswati said, her voice carrying an edge that suggested these were not abstract threats but real dangers she had faced and continued to face.
"I receive rape threats regularly from those who believe women should not speak in public, who think female education is Western corruption. I am here only because I had family wealth that allowed me to study abroad, that provided security when I returned. Do you see me demanding reservation for apostates? For women who rejected religious authority? For those who face violence for choosing education over tradition?"
The silence was profound. No one had expected this level of personal revelation, this willingness to expose her own vulnerabilities in service of her argument.
"In the end," she continued, her voice steady despite the intensity of emotion beneath it, "money is everything. Not because wealth purchases happiness or virtue or social respect—but because poverty makes all other forms of oppression worse. A poor Dalit faces both economic and social discrimination. A wealthy Dalit faces only social discrimination, which while painful is not life-threatening in the way that starvation or lack of medical care is life-threatening."
She turned back to face the full chamber.
"You seek to end caste through institutionalizing caste. You want to eliminate discrimination by making discrimination legal and constitutional. You burn the Manusmriti because it treats people unequally based on birth—and I support that burning!—but what you propose is the same system with different beneficiaries. You are simply changing which castes the law favors, not eliminating the principle that law should treat people differently based on identity markers they cannot change."
Saraswati's voice was rising now, gaining the kind of momentum that comes from someone who has moved beyond merely defending a position into genuine passionate conviction that what they are saying must be heard regardless of consequences.
"Do you know what will happen if we establish caste-based reservation in the Constitution?" she asked, her voice carrying through the chamber with the force of prophecy. "First it will be Scheduled Castes—ten percent, perhaps. You will say: this is temporary, just for ten years until historical disadvantages are corrected."
She began pacing, her words coming faster.
"Then Scheduled Tribes will demand equal treatment—why should forest communities receive less protection than Dalits? Another ten percent. Twenty percent total, but still manageable, you will say."
"Then some politician—ambitious, populist, hungry for votes—will discover Other Backward Classes. Shudras who are not quite Dalits but not upper caste either, communities that can claim historical disadvantage even if they never experienced untouchability. Another twenty-seven percent. Now nearly half of all seats are reserved."
Several members were shifting uncomfortably because she was describing a political dynamic that everyone recognized as plausible even if they hoped it would not occur.
"And then another politician will say: what about Muslims? They face discrimination too! Another few percent. And Christians—they were converted from lower castes, they inherit that disadvantage! More percent. And Jains and Sikhs and Buddhists—everyone will find a reason why their community deserves special protection."
Her voice was nearly shouting now, each word landing like a hammer blow.
"Bit by bit, piece by piece, the majority of the nation will demand seats not based on merit but based on memory of historical pain! And what of those who remain—thosewho remain?" she continued, her voice dropping now but somehow more dangerous for its quiet intensity.
"Those students who worked harder, studied longer, sacrificed more—but lost their seats to others simply because their ancestors were born into the wrong caste five hundred years ago? What will they feel?"
She turned to face Ambedkar directly, her expression carrying something between challenge and plea.
"They will feel betrayed by the very democracy they were promised. They will look at the student admitted through reservation—someone who may have scored lower, studied less, come from a family that is actually wealthier than their own—and they will not see a victim of historical injustice receiving necessary support. They will see a beneficiary of legal discrimination, someone who took what should have been theirs."
Her voice hardened.
"And that resentment will not stay theoretical, Dr. Ambedkar. It will become hatred. The very people you want to uplift will face even greater social discrimination because their achievements will be dismissed as products of reservation rather than merit. Every Dalit doctor will hear whispers that they only graduated because seats were reserved. Every tribal engineer will face assumptions of incompetence because surely they could not have earned their position through actual ability."
Ambedkar's face was impassive, but something in his eyes suggested he was listening not just to counter her arguments but genuinely considering whether she might be identifying real dangers he had not fully appreciated. He remained standing, his slight frame somehow radiating authority despite its physical limitations.
"Minister Sinha," he said, his voice carrying that same measured quality but now with an edge of steel beneath it,
"you paint a dystopian picture of reservation's consequences. But let me offer a different vision—one grounded not in speculation about future political opportunism but in present reality."
He adjusted his glasses, that small gesture somehow creating space for everyone to settle back into listening rather than reacting.
"You say that economic reservation will benefit Dalits naturally because we are disproportionately poor. This is true. But it misses something fundamental about how caste operates. Poverty among Dalits is not random misfortune like a drought or a flood. It is the systematic result of centuries of deliberate exclusion from education, from land ownership, from craft guilds, from every avenue of economic advancement."
His voice gained strength, drawing on decades of personal experience with the mechanisms of caste oppression.
"A poor Brahmin child and a poor Dalit child may have the same family income, may live in similar material conditions. But that Brahmin child grows up in a household where literacy is valued, where there are books even if there is no money, where education is treated as birthright even if achieving it requires sacrifice. That Brahmin child attends a village school where the teacher—himself likely upper caste—unconsciously gives more attention, more encouragement, more benefit of the doubt."
He paused, letting the specificity of his examples demonstrate that he was describing observed reality rather than abstract theory.
"The Dalit child, by contrast, grows up in a household where for generations no one could read because no one was allowed to learn. Where there are no books because owning books would have invited punishment. Where education is viewed with suspicion because historically it was the domain of those who used knowledge as weapon to maintain their dominance. That Dalit child attends the same village school but sits in the back row, receives less attention, faces lowered expectations that become self-fulfilling prophecies."
Several members were nodding, recognizing the accuracy of what Ambedkar described. This was not hypothetical—this was the lived reality of millions of children across India, the way caste shaped educational outcomes even when economic circumstances were ostensibly equal.
Saraswati was listening intently, and Anirban could see from her expression that she was not dismissing Ambedkar's argument as mere sentiment but actually engaging with its substance. This was the kind of debate that he had hoped to foster—not theatrical posturing but genuine intellectual collision between two formidable minds wrestling with genuinely difficult problems.
"Dr. Ambedkar," Saraswati responded, her tone respectful but unyielding, "you are describing cultural capital—the intangible advantages that education and social status confer across generations. I do not dispute that this exists or that it creates real disadvantages for communities historically excluded from education."
She moved closer to where he stood, closing the physical distance as if to emphasize that this was dialogue rather than hostile confrontation.
"But here is my question: if the problem is lack of cultural capital, if the disability is absence of educated household traditions and teacher expectations and social
encouragement—how does reservation at university level address this? You are proposing to intervene at the endpoint of a process that has already failed, to compensate at age eighteen or nineteen for disadvantages that accumulated over the previous twelve years."
Her voice carried genuine curiosity now, as if she was asking a question she actually wanted answered rather than making a rhetorical point.
"Would it not be more effective to intervene earlier—to ensure that the Dalit child in your example attends a better-funded school with trained teachers who do not carry caste prejudices, who provide equal attention and encouragement regardless of students' backgrounds? To provide supplementary tutoring and mentoring programs starting in primary school, when intervention can actually change developmental trajectories? To create boarding schools for talented children from disadvantaged backgrounds—removing them from environments that discourage achievement and placing them in settings where education is valued and supported?"
Ambedkar was quiet for a moment, visibly weighing her proposal against his own understanding of what was needed.
"What you describe requires decades to implement," he finally said. "We need solutions now for the generation currently facing discrimination, not promises of better futures for children not yet born. University reservation provides immediate access to higher education for communities that have been systematically excluded. It creates role models—Dalit doctors, tribal lawyers, engineers who demonstrate to their communities that these professions are possible."
"But at what cost?" Saraswati pressed. "If those Dalit doctors and tribal lawyers face constant questions about whether they truly earned their positions, if their very presence triggers resentment among those who lost seats to them, have we actually created positive role models or have we instead reinforced stereotypes about Dalit incompetence that now carry legal sanction?"
She returned to the podium, pulling out a document that had apparently been prepared for exactly this moment.
"I have here the educational statistics from Indraprastha Vishwavidyalaya—the university I founded seven years ago. We admit students purely on entrance examination results, with economic assistance provided to those who qualify but cannot afford tuition. Over seven years, we have enrolled students from every caste background, every economic level, every region of India."
She consulted the document.
"Our Dalit and tribal students currently comprise eighteen percent of total enrollment—higher than their proportion in the general population. They achieve graduation rates equivalent to students from other backgrounds. They receive employment offers from top firms and government positions at rates indistinguishable from their peers. Why? Because everyone knows they entered through merit, passed the same entrance requirements, demonstrated equivalent capabilities."
She looked up.
"Compare this to institutions that use caste-based reservation. Dalit and tribal students there face constant whispers about whether they truly belong, whether their degrees are legitimate, whether employers should trust their qualifications. They carry the stigma of reservation throughout their careers, regardless of their actual abilities. We have taken the very mechanism intended to create equality and weaponized it into permanent marker of alleged inferiority."
The argument was powerful because it was grounded in actual data rather than theoretical speculation. Several members were taking notes, clearly finding this empirical approach more compelling than abstract arguments about justice or historical grievance.
Ambedkar stood silently for a long moment, his expression complex and difficult to read. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a different quality—less defensive, more contemplative, as if he were thinking through implications in real time rather than simply defending predetermined positions.
"Minister Sinha, you present a genuine dilemma. I had not fully considered the stigmatizing effects of reservation on those it is meant to help. My focus has been on ensuring access—getting Dalit students through the door—without adequate attention to what happens once they are inside."
He paused, and the chamber held its breath because this was Ambedkar acknowledging uncertainty, which was rare enough to be momentous.
"But I remain concerned about your faith in merit-based systems. Merit itself is not neutral. The examinations you propose as objective measures of ability are written in languages that privilege certain communities, test knowledge that is more accessible to those from educated families, reward forms of intelligence that correlate with social class. A Brahmin child and a Dalit child may have equal raw potential, but by the time they sit for entrance examinations at age seventeen, twelve years of differential treatment have created real gaps in preparation that examination scores will reflect."
It was a sophisticated objection, one that engaged with the mechanisms rather than just the principles. Saraswati nodded, acknowledging the validity of the concern even as she prepared to challenge it.
"You are correct that examinations can reflect accumulated advantages rather than pure ability," she conceded. "That is why my proposal includes multiple assessment components—Board examinations that test standard curriculum, entrance examinations that can be prepared for through structured study, and project work that allows students to demonstrate capabilities in areas where they may have unusual talents."
She pulled out another section of her documentation.
"And that is why I propose substantial investment in examination preparation—free coaching classes for economically disadvantaged students, practice materials distributed through schools, mentoring programs that help first-generation college aspirants understand how to navigate the examination and admission process. We make merit more accessible rather than abandoning it as a standard."
"Furthermore," she continued, warming to her argument,
"the Right to Education Act we passed today will begin addressing those accumulated disadvantages at their source. Universal free education through Class 10 means that within one generation, every child will have received the same foundational preparation. Economic reservation ensures that bright students from poor families can continue their education despite financial constraints. We are building the infrastructure that makes merit-based competition genuinely fair rather than simply assuming current circumstances are adequate."
Ambedkar was nodding slowly, his expression suggesting he was being persuaded not to abandon his concerns but to consider that perhaps there were multiple valid approaches to addressing them.
"You make a compelling case for long-term institutional change," he said, his voice carrying grudging respect. "But I return to my earlier concern: what of the current generation? Those who have already suffered through inferior schooling, who face examination systems that disadvantage them, who need access now rather than promises of future equity?"
Saraswati's expression softened slightly, acknowledging the legitimacy of his concern even as she prepared to challenge his proposed solution.
"For the current generation, I propose targeted remediation rather than reservation. Preparatory programs for students from disadvantaged backgrounds—intensive coaching that brings them up to competitive levels before they sit for entrance examinations. Bridge programs at universities for students who show potential but have gaps in preparation. Mentoring and support services that help them succeed once admitted."
She paused.
"These interventions cost money and require institutional capacity that we are still building. But they address the actual disadvantages you identify without creating the resentment and stigmatization that reservation generates. They say to Dalit students: we recognize you faced barriers, and we will help you overcome them—but your admission will be based on your demonstrated ability, not on your caste identity. Your degree will be unquestioned because you earned it on the same terms as everyone else."
The argument was gaining traction because it acknowledged Ambedkar's concerns while offering alternative remedies that avoided the problems Saraswati had identified. Several members who had been firmly opposed to her position were now looking thoughtful, clearly wrestling with the trade-offs she had articulated.
Jagjivan Ram stood again, his expression troubled but his tone more measured than his earlier angry outburst.
"Minister Sinha, Dr. Ambedkar—I have listened to both of you and I find myself torn. I understand the dangers of permanent reservation becoming entrenched and creating resentment. But I also understand the urgency of current need, the reality that Dalit students face discrimination that economic categories alone may not capture."
He looked between them.
"Is there no middle ground? Could we not have limited caste-based reservation—say five percent rather than the larger percentages being proposed elsewhere—combined with the economic reservation you suggest? This would provide targeted help for the most disadvantaged while not becoming so large as to generate the backlash you fear."
It was a genuine attempt at compromise, the kind of proposal that in other circumstances might have bridged the divide. But Saraswati shook her head firmly.
"Mr. Ram, I appreciate the attempt at compromise, but I must respectfully decline. The principle matters more than the percentage. Once we establish that caste is a legitimate basis for legal discrimination—even benevolent discrimination intended to help disadvantaged groups—we have opened a door that will prove impossible to close."
Her voice carried conviction born of having thought through every possible variation.
"Politicians will always find ways to expand categories of beneficiaries because that is how they accumulate political support. Five percent for Scheduled Castes today becomes ten percent tomorrow when it proves politically popular.
Then Scheduled Tribes demand equivalent treatment. Then Other Backward Classes. Then religious minorities. The percentages grow, the categories multiply, and within a generation we have created a system where the majority of Indians claim disadvantaged status and demand state protection."
She looked directly at Ram.
"The only sustainable position is to say: caste ends here. It ends as a category in census data, as a consideration in legal proceedings, as a basis for state benefits of any kind. We recognize historical injustice through economic support for the poor—who will disproportionately be Dalits and tribals—and through universal education that prevents historical disadvantages from perpetuating into future generations. But we do not make caste permanent by inscribing it in constitutional law."
At that Moment Anirban saw even Ambedkar to be shaken..