The reservation debate in India has long been reduced to political posturing rather than a meaningful pursuit of social justice. Yogendra Yadav’s recent article in The Indian Express (8th April) follows this trend—while acknowledging the underrepresentation of Muslims in higher education, he sidesteps the urgent need for substantive reforms. His academic background could have lent depth to the discussion, yet his analysis remains politically superficial, mirroring the broader evasion of Muslim inclusion in reservation policies.
The judiciary, political class, and media have cyclically revisited reservations, from the Indra Sawhney judgment (1992) capping quotas at 50% to recent debates on EWS (Economically Weaker Sections). Yet, the systemic exclusion of Muslims, despite the Sachar Committee (2006) and Kundu Committee (2014) reports highlighting their acute marginalisation, remains unaddressed. The current reservation framework is flawed; extending it to private universities without reform will only perpetuate inequality. I’ll argue in this article on two fronts: the flaws within existing reservation policy and the need to bring Muslims as a category within reservation policy.
The hypocrisy of “merit” in reservation policy
The Supreme Court’s open category rule—allowing reserved-category candidates to claim general seats based on “merit”—exposes a glaring contradiction. Reservation was conceived as reparative justice for historical oppression, yet when a reserved-category candidate secures a high rank, their “merit” is celebrated while the same metric is weaponised against general candidates. In practice, this shrinks opportunities for general candidates, who must now compete for fewer seats in public universities or shift to private universities paying high fees because they are perceived to be “privileged” and can afford it. However, the “happening site” which Yadav talks about isn’t very happening for all who are forced to move to private universities.
Such umbrella terms or homogenising the private universities as elite or upper caste and class havens is poorly visioned and displays a lack of critical thinking with highly complicated and sensitive topics of reservation in India. Essentializing any space as “elite” or “happening site” will make us oblivious to rather pressing questions of why there is an “elite” exodus, if there is anything like an “elite exodus”, what if it’s a forceful ousting?
For instance, in my recent PhD application at JNU, 8 of 21 seats were for the general category in the centre that I applied to and was also a master’s graduate from. However, reserved-category candidates who ranked in the top 8 claimed general seats, leaving just two for general candidates in the final selection. If 8 seats were unreserved, how come only 2 general candidates could make it into the final list? Is this social justice? My rank (15) fell within the total seats (21), yet I was denied admission while lower-ranked reserved-category candidates were admitted. The policy’s double standard is clear: merit is invoked selectively, undermining its redistributive intent.
The Muslim exclusion: Caste blindness and political cowardice
Yadav’s vague mention of Muslims without advocating for their inclusion in reservations reflects a broader political failure. Muslims face systemic discrimination in education, employment, and public life—documented by the Sachar Committee but ignored in policy. Despite constituting 14% of India’s population, Muslim representation in central universities is abysmal, with government data showing just 4-5% in faculty positions.
As a Muslim woman from an “upper caste,” I am doubly excluded. As a general-category candidate, I compete for a shrinking pool of seats. As a Muslim, I face institutional bias. The suppression of Muslim voices that we witness in national discourse is increasingly evident within JNU and other academic spaces. In my centre in JNU, currently, there is no Muslim faculty, and in centres where Muslim faculties are present and are vocal, denied promotions. During my two years as a Master’s student, I actively engaged with contemporary political issues as a founding member of a student-run forum that organised discussions on globally relevant but politically sensitive topics. These were precisely the kind of conversations that find little institutional support in today’s JNU, where the administration prefers organising satsangs in university auditoriums (pun intended) or screening propaganda films rather than encouraging critical academic discourse.
My political expression faced direct censorship when, during my farewell party, I painted the Palestinian flag on my neck as a symbolic protest. A newly appointed professor who openly accepts her support for right-wing ideology chastised me for this act. This incident becomes particularly revealing when viewed alongside my academic record – I consistently ranked among the top students in my class with straight As in my MA program. Yet, during my PhD interview, I was denied even the basic courtesy of being allowed to properly present my research proposal, receiving average marks despite my strong academic credentials, which weren’t enough to position me among the top 8 as required by my general category status to find a place in the final list.
This presents a dual discrimination: first, as a Muslim who is politically vocal in an environment increasingly dominated by right-wing ideologies; and second, as a general category student forced to compete within an impossibly narrow margin of top ranks. My experience represents more than just an individual grievance – it’s symptomatic of systemic biases. As an “upper caste” Muslim, I find myself in a peculiar position where speaking about this discrimination invites accusations of being “privileged,” “elite”, and “upper caste” while my Muslim identity makes me vulnerable to institutional prejudice.
The larger questions remain unanswered: Why has the Sachar Committee’s damning evidence of Muslim marginalization been shelved for nearly two decades? Why does Muslim representation in higher education – both as students and faculty – remain shockingly low across mainstream institutions? Why is the Muslim intelligentsia ghettoised to minority institutions like Jamia or AMU, while mainstream spaces become exclusionary? Most crucially, why does no political party, including those in opposition (like the one Yogendra Yadav is associated with), dare to explicitly advocate for Muslim reservation, limiting themselves to vague references instead?
These are not rhetorical questions but urgent policy dilemmas that reveal the hollowness of our social justice discourse, or rather selective social justice when it comes to India’s largest minority community. The continued exclusion of Muslims from reservation benefits, coupled with growing institutional Islamophobia, threatens to completely erase Muslim representation from India’s intellectual landscape – a loss the nation can ill afford.
Let me state unequivocally that I support the reservation system. I affirm its necessity as a corrective measure for historical injustices faced by marginalised communities in India. However, this support does not preclude us from asking difficult questions about its current limitations.
Here is the crucial question we must confront: What about the systemic discrimination faced by Muslims today, regardless of caste or class? Who will address this ongoing marginalisation? Must we wait until the Muslim community is rendered completely invisible in public institutions, its intellectual potential stifled, and its economic progress systematically undermined before we acknowledge this injustice?
The reservation policy was designed to rectify historical wrongs. But when will we recognise and remedy the present-day wrongs being perpetrated against an entire community? The continued exclusion of Muslims from affirmative action policies suggests we are willing to let an entire generation pay the price for our collective failure to act. How much longer must this continue before we acknowledge that justice delayed is justice denied?
Reservations must evolve to address contemporary oppression. If the goal is social justice, then Muslims must be included as a reserved category, as recommended by the Sachar and Kundu Committees. The “merit” loophole must be closed to prevent reserved categories from disproportionately claiming general seats. Institutional Islamophobia in admissions and faculty hiring must be investigated.
Without these reforms, extending reservations to private universities will only replicate existing inequities. The question isn’t whether Muslims “deserve” quotas—it’s whether India’s commitment to justice is selective or overarching, or if political expediency will continue to override constitutional morality.
Afsheen Rizvi is a Sociology Research Scholar.
The views expressed in this piece are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publication.
