"The four main castes are those prescribed in the order of the varna, the ancient Aryan scriptures. But the world of the village has little to do with the varna. Today there are many castes," Vasant Rao continued, reflecting to himself how he loathed most Brahmins, who took every opportunity to claim caste superiority over Rajputs. "For example, the Brahmins here probably have two subcastes—one for the priests, who think up ceremonies as an excuse to collect money, and the other for the landowners, most of whom are also moneylenders. "There"—he pointed—"that man is a Brahmin."
Hawksworth saw a shirtless man standing by one of the white plaster homes. He wore a dingy loincloth beneath his enormous belly, and as Hawksworth examined him he noticed a strand of thread that circled around his neck and under his left arm.
"Why is he wearing a cord around his shoulder?"
"That's the sacred thread of the high castes. I wear one myself." Vasant Rao opened his shirt to reveal a strand of three colored threads, woven together. "It's consecrated and given to boys around age ten at a very important ceremony. Before the thread ceremony a boy has no caste. An orthodox Brahmin won't even eat with his son until after the boy's thread ceremony."
Hawksworth examined the thread. It was the first time he'd noticed it.
"What about the men who don't wear a thread?"
"They're the middle castes, the ones who do the work in a village. Carpenters, potters, weavers, barbers. They serve the high castes and each other. The barber shaves the potter; the potter makes his vessels. The Brahmins here probably won't sell them any land, so they'll always be poor. That's why the middle castes live in houses of mud and thatch instead of brick. And below them are the unclean castes. Sweepers, servants, shoemakers."
And below them are the non-Hindus, Hawksworth thought. Me.
"What the hell's the reason for all this? It's worse than the class system in England. I'll drink with any man, high or low. I have. And I usually prefer to drink with the low."
"That may explain why most feringhis seem so confused and unhappy. Caste is the most important thing in life." Vasant Rao glanced over his shoulder at the receding village. "It's the reason India's civilization has lasted for thousands of years. I pity your misfortune, Captain Hawksworth, not to have been born a Hindu. Perhaps you were once, and will be again in some future life. I think you'll someday be reborn a Kshatriya, a member of the warrior caste. Then you'll know who you are, what you must do. Unlike the Moghuls and the other Muslims, who have no caste and never know their purpose in life, a Rajput always knows."