The ‘Proud R’ Debate: Who Gets To Reclaim A Slur? 

Influencer Divija Bhasin, or awkwardgoat3 as her Instagram handle says, is known for making videos about mental health and gender. She posted a 14-minute video encouraging women to reclaim the word "randi". 

Another day, another viral video, and yet another reminder of how the digital world is claiming a language without understanding its history. 

This time, the social media debate centres on reclaiming a casteist slur for women, popularly known as the R-word. The word “randi” has long functioned as a casteist and misogynistic slur in North India, used to police upper-caste women’s “honour” and to justify the exploitation of Dalit and Bahujan women. Historically, caste hierarchies pushed Dalit-Bahujan women into stigmatised, caste-assigned labour, including ritualised sexual work such as the Devadasi system.

The message appeared bold and empowering. But as the video went viral, many women started to write against it. Dalit feminists, in particular, argued that the slur cannot be reclaimed through an online trend because it carries centuries of misogyny, caste history, and violence. For them, the campaign felt misguided and showed how online feminism often prioritises aesthetics over the lived realities of marginalised women.

Aleena, a poet and an artist, wrote on her Instagram profile, “Who uses the word matters and who it harms matters”. She added, “Listening to communities who have suffered the worst facets of Brahmanical Patriarchy is important.” 

The reclamation of slurs has a long history, and it was across queer, Black, disability-rights, and feminist movements, where marginalised groups reclaimed terms on their own terms: the N-word within Black communities, “queer” in LGBTQ+ spaces, or “slut”. During the 2011 SlutWalk protests, a global movement that began after a Toronto police officer suggested that “women should avoid dressing like sluts” to prevent assault.

Reclamation of Slurs In India

Similarly, in India, the Dalit reclamation of “Chamar” has been a significant political and cultural intervention. Artists like Ginni Mahi, who popularised “Danger Chamar” in her music, and collectives such as Chamar Studio, founded by designer Sudheer Rajbhar, have reclaimed the term to assert dignity, pride, and historical resistance. Historically associated with leather work, “Chamar” was used as a caste slur. Rajbhar’s studio reclaims it by creating luxury, sustainable design rooted in Dalit artisanal labour. Chandrashekhar Azad, a political leader and an Ambedkarite, has also reframed “Chamar” as a symbol of assertion rather than shame.

“The slur was never just an insult, but it was a tool to police and punish women who stepped outside caste-assigned boundaries,” says Ashima, a freelance writer who covers caste, gender, and social issues.

She notes that the term has historically been used to shame women pushed into caste-assigned, stigmatised labour. A woman’s “purity” is treated as central to maintaining caste purity, which is why we still hear lines like “women from good families don’t do this.” What counts as “good” is entirely defined by caste. The moment a woman crosses those limits, she is labelled. This exposes the caste ideology that drives the abuse.

Ashima adds that the conversation would be far more honest if the focus shifted to the men and boys who use the slur, rather than asking the women targeted by it to reclaim it.

“No word is ever neutral because every term is shaped by caste and culture,” says writer and critic Aishwarya AVRaj. “Randi" is considered a ‘bad word’ because of the violence it carries. Any attempt to reclaim it must engage with the lived realities of the women historically tied to it.”

She explains that in India, the women most frequently labelled with this slur, whether through direct translation or cultural perception, are Dalit cis and trans women, and some Bahujan cis and trans women, whom entrenched caste structures have pushed into sex work. “We come from a collective history where prostitution was sanctified in the name of God. The Devadasi system is the most glaring example,” she notes.

Aishwarya questions whether a social-media-driven “reclaiming movement” can claim legitimacy while erasing these communities. She points to a sex-work survivor who spoke on Instagram: “When you listen to her, you understand how lazy this ‘R-campaign’ really is.” The survivor warns that imitation without political or historical grounding becomes “a dark thing.” Reclamation, Aishwarya insists, must come from the communities harmed and “not from influencers, virality, or algorithms.”

“This is how caste erases itself,” she says. “Not always through denial, but through dilution and by making a violent word look harmless for some, while it continues to endanger others”, says Shivani Nag, faculty at Dr.B.R Ambedkar University.

According to Nag, Feminist geographer Kim England’s work on reflexivity helps frame the stakes. An influencer from a caste-advantaged background may face trolling if she casually uses the R-word. But a Dalit domestic worker’s daughter may face eviction, violence, job loss, or police hostility. The consequences are not symmetrical because caste locations are not symmetrical. The history of the R-word cannot be detached from caste.

Drawing on Sharmila Rege’s Dalit feminist standpoint, she argues that any politics of language that sidelines Dalit women or invites them in only after the terms have already been set simply repeats the exclusionary patterns that at one time made feminism centre around concerns of upper caste women'.

“Reclamation only becomes meaningful when it is led by those for whom the term is structurally consequential,” she added. “If we don’t understand where the word comes from, we will end up reproducing the same violence we claim to fight.”

According to Nag, Philosopher Sandra Harding reminds us that marginalised women’s accounts are not mere stories but epistemic maps of power. Without them, our understanding of the R-word remains incomplete and biased toward privilege.

Drawing on Uma Chakravarti’s writings on Brahmanical patriarchy, she explains how caste purity is maintained by regulating women’s sexuality: upper-caste women are tightly controlled to preserve endogamy, while Dalit women are treated as sexually available and socially expendable. Nag also points to the trend’s growing popularity among upper-caste, urban teenage girls. “When teenage girls use the R-word as a bio tag or emoji-style slang, the caste violence embedded in the word gets obscured. It becomes an accessory.” But for many Dalit girls, she says, the word is still a threat and hurled by teachers, employers, landlords, and police. 

“A word is never just a trend for a teenage girl; it becomes part of how she learns to see herself,” says Athul Raj, a Counselling Psychologist who works through a trauma-informed, relational approach.

According to him, when a slur soaked in caste humiliation becomes fashionable online, it creates emotional dissonance. Girls may use it to appear bold or to fit in, yet they are repeating a history of violence they do not fully grasp. This blurs the line between insult and empowerment, teaching them to tolerate disrespect disguised as edginess. Raj warns that such trends distort self-esteem and sexuality, reducing complex ideas of agency into performative acts rewarded by social media’s appetite for shock.

The gap between who they appear to be online and who they are privately is widening. He adds that parents and schools must provide grounding conversations about caste, language, and digital behaviour, so that teenagers build identities shaped by reflection rather than pressure or confusion.

The debate over the R-word is not about whether a slur can ever be reclaimed. It is about who gets to reclaim it, who faces the consequences of its usage, and whose histories get erased in the process. Reclamation is powerful but only when it belongs to those for whom the word has been a wound, not an aesthetic.

Outlook also tried to reach out to Divija Bhasin for a comment, but she did not respond.