We are the contemptibles, We don't mingle with you ever. We're kept outside the walls, We don't enter your house unless cleaning.
You call us the contemptibles, You don't love any of us usually. You keep us outside your walls, You don't enter our house unless cleansing.
All of them consider us the contemptibles, They don't worry about us usually. All they think about is them, That is all about us.
For several thousand years India has, like the most of the ancient world, witnessed differentiation of people based on their familial history. But alas! That was the ancient world, not the modern world. We carry the past on our shoulders even to the present. I have a poem to convey my thoughts appropriately.