“On the scale of the cosmos, human divisions seem absurd. Yet, here on our ‘Pale Blue Dot,’ the poison of caste discrimination continues to inflict deep wounds, particularly in societies like Nepal.”

In 1977, NASA launched two spacecraft- Voyager I and II- on, what was initially a five-year mission to explore our solar system. Their task was to study planets, take pictures, and record atmospheric data of the outer planets of our solar system. More than four decades later, both Voyagers are still flying, journeying into the unknown, far beyond Pluto, into the deep and silent cosmos. But Voyager 1 ended up doing something much bigger than science- it helped us see ourselves differently. Before Voyager 1’s camera went dark forever at Sagan’s urging; it turned back for one last look at Earth.

In February 1990, as Voyager 1 approached the edge of our solar system- about 6 billion kilometers away from the sun- it turned its camera back toward Earth one last time. Mission managers, at the suggestion of Carl Sagan, asked the spacecraft to take one final photograph before turning its camera off forever to save the energy of Voyager I for the journey to deep space.

What came from that moment was not just a scientific image- it was a philosophical revelation. Voyager 1 snapped a mosaic of 60 photos that became known as the first “family portrait” of our solar system. In one of those images, Amid the vast darkness, Earth appeared as a mere glint, barely a pixel, suspended in a sunbeam.

Sagan famously called it “The Pale Blue Dot,” and in his book, Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space, he wrote:
“Look again at that dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives……”

Earth appeared as nothing more than a “tiny blue speck of light,” less than a pixel wide, caught in a beam of sunlight.

To me, this remains one of the most humbling and powerful images humanity has ever taken. It showed how small and fragile our Earth is- not just in our solar system, but in the unimaginable vastness of the universe. Most of the stars we see in the night sky are either distant galaxies or long-dead suns. The light we receive from them takes millions of years to reach us, many of these stars are long dead before their light reaches us. In such a massive scale, how important- or rather, unimportant- are the boundaries we draw between us?

When confronted with the scale of the universe—trillions of stars, billions of galaxies- I found it humbling to consider how insignificant our daily conflicts and egos must appear.

A little disclaimer- I don’t believe in a god anymore. I gave up believing when my dear friend was diagnosed with leukemia at the age of 14. But I have chased spirituality, read many myths and books, and tried to understand what we humans hope for in the divine.

If there is a creator of this universe, wouldn’t they belong to the whole cosmos, not just our tiny corner? In the grand scale of things, what are our prayers? Would this cosmic god be pleased with or endorse, what we’ve done in their name- wars, hatred, discrimination, and division?

We may never find the answer to that, but one thing is certain: this Pale Blue Dot is the only home we have. Eight billion of us, cohabiting with millions of other species, all our history, dreams, failures, and future- everything we are- sharing one planet, sharing one future. And yet, caste-based discrimination, rationalized by appeals to tradition, religion, and inherited power structures, remains a blight on our society.

Why do we, priding ourselves on intelligence, cling so fiercely to these irrational divisions – by caste, ethnicity, gender, or religion? Why is divinity so often invoked to justify hate and hierarchy? Who someone marries, where they live, what they eat, or what job they do- why are these things still grounds for judgment?

Nowhere is this more painfully manifest than in our caste system. While its origins are debated, its formalization, many believe, was cemented by texts like the Manusmriti. The Vedic concept of varnas, perhaps not originally hierarchical, arguably became distorted over time, codified into rigid stratification based on birth, purity, and notions of superiority.

I don’t know exactly how caste-based discrimination began in our society, but like many, I believe it was formalized through ancient texts- especially the Manusmriti, which turned what may have started as occupational divisions into rigid, inescapable social hierarchies. The Vedas had varnas, and perhaps the original intention wasn’t to discriminate. But the Upanisads and Purans slowly embedded the idea that Brahmins and Chettris are somehow superior. Manusmriti turned that idea into law. And today, many of us still follow it- not as law, but as word of God.

Though outlawed by our constitution, these ideas persist as deeply ingrained, often unquestioned, ‘tradition.’ The brutal 2020 killings of Nabaraj Bika and his friends in Rukum West, and the death of Angira Pasi in Rupandehi, are horrific recent reminders. Their alleged crime? Daring to love across caste lines. These tragedies provoked outrage, but often only fleetingly. In a context where caste-based violence remains tragically normalized, such incidents struggle to maintain public attention. The cycle repeats.

Why is a life from a so-called ‘Dalit’ community still implicitly valued less than a ‘Bahun’ life in practice?

Growing up, my first experience with caste discrimination came from reading Muna-Madan. I couldn’t understand why a Chettri had to kneel to a Brahmin. Why was it taboo for a Darjee woman to ask for dahi at our home? “Everyone says your curd is delicious, wish I could have some too,” Thuldidi once told my grandmother. I remember asking my grandfather why she couldn’t have it, like others did. As a child, I didn’t have the words or courage to protest- but I knew something was wrong.

When Sunil, my friend, came to visit, certain rooms were off limits. We ate outside. He was never invited to our puja or family functions. Years later, when Gyanu sir- our teacher- ate lunch with us in the kitchen, Budathokii Aamai was scandalized. “Kaami can change his name to B.K., but he will always be Biswakarma,” she muttered. That stigma doesn’t go away just because someone changes their surname. I’ve seen change, yes. My family, too, has grown more accepting. But the shadows of old beliefs linger, the deep-rooted stigma doesn’t vanish easily.

Even in love, caste finds its way in. When I broke up with someone from the Shrestha community, my grandmother was happy. She didn’t hide it. I still don’t know what hurt more- the heartbreak or her reaction. “Don’t fall in love with a girl from pani nachalne jaat,” my mother once said. Her concern wasn’t the girl, it was the fear of society- the priest refusing to perform funeral rites, the gossip, the boycott. Even now, my mother cautions me against marrying someone from a so-called “untouchable” caste- not because she believes in these divisions, but because she fears what society will say, what the priests will do, and whether our neighbors will boycott us. This fear, this silent complicity, sustains the system.

We’ve come far, but not far enough. Yes, caste-based discrimination is illegal. But laws don’t change societies overnight. Change is slow. Too slow. It took generations before someone like Gyanu Sir could be seen as an equal at our table. It took 128 generations of Khatiwada to finally let Gyanu sir eat at our dining table. Even then, it felt like a rare exception- not a new normal. But it happened. And that proves it can happen again.

The law may prohibit caste-based discrimination, but law alone is not enough. We have come a long way from the past generations, it is “illegal’ to discriminate anyone based on religion, gender, caste, culture or race according to our constitution. Has the law worked? Certainly Not. Will the law work? The society is deep-rooted in centuries of oppression and supremacy that it will take time. What good is a constitution if society refuses to evolve with it? How long? Hopefully next generation or soon? Real change comes not only from awareness but from action.

Nabaraj and Angira, and so many of us are still preyed like second class citizen, a stupid sense of false narcissism. I shouldn’t be afraid to follow what my heart wants just because a relative-aunt or a priest might decide so. Sunil can come inside my house if he wants to. Thuldidi can taste the curd that we make. I don’t have to think of Gyanu sir dining with us as a special occasion. Will the priests allow ‘a daughter-in-law of lower caste’ to be part of ‘upper caste in law’s’ funeral? Will Thuldai stop standing last in the queue to offer Shivaratri prayers in the temple in our village.

I’ve always considered myself someone who doesn’t discriminate. But is that enough? Is staying silent the same as staying neutral? Why haven’t I done more? Why haven’t we?

Getting to the root of centuries of discrimination is certainly not easy, and it takes much more than one informed person. We must ask ourselves: how many of us have spoken up to our families, our neighbors, when they say something discriminatory? How many of us have told our Thuldai that he doesn’t have to stand last in line for Shivaratri puja?

Just knowing that something is wrong is not enough. Tolerance is not enough. We must act. We cannot wait for the next generation. Change doesn’t begin “someday.” It begins with us. Now.

To all the gods, myths, and cosmic forces watching this Pale Blue Dot- we are not hopeless. We can change. We must.

Not as Bahuns or Dalits.
As Nepalis.
As humans.