Cultural entrenchment of Hindutva : local mediations and forms of convergence 9780415677998, 0415677998

Citation preview

Cultural Entrenchment of Hindutva

Cultural Entrenchment of Hindutva
Local Mediations and Forms of Convergence

Editors


Daniela Berti
Nicolas Jaoul


Pralay Kanungo

published 2011 in India by Routledge
912 Tolstoy House, 15-17 Tolstoy Marg, Connaught Place,

First

New Delhi 001

110

Simultaneously published by Routledge
2 Park

in the UK

Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxfordshire OX14

4RN

First issued in paperback 2015 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2011 Daniela Berti, Nicolas Jaoul and Pralay Kanungo

Typeset Star

by


Compugraphics

Private Limited

5-CSC, First Floor, Near City Apartments Vasundhara Enclave Delhi 110 096

All

rights

reserved. No part of this book may be

reproduced

or

utilised in any

form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publishers.

Data


British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication A catalogue record of this book is available from the British

ISBN-13: 978-1-138-65995-7 (pbk) ISBN-13: 978-0-415-67799-8 (hbk)

Library

Contents List of Plates List of Abbreviationsix Foreword

vii xi xiii

Acknowledgements 1 Introduction

PART I: Hindutva-affiliated Organisations and Local Mediators 1.

2.

3.

4.

Music and Politics in Kerala: Hindu Nationalists Versus Marxists

29

The Local Enactment of Hindutva: Writing Stories on Local Gods in Himachal Pradesh

64

Casting Community, Culture and Faith: Hindutva's Entrenchment in Arunachal Pradesh

91

The Sbakba and the Mandal: The Shiv Sena, 'Popular Culture' and Associations in Mumbai

PART II: 5.

6.

Convergence,

People's 118

Gurus and Sects

Health, Yoga and the Nation: Dr Karandikar and the Yoga Therapy Centre, Pune, Maharashtra

145

On the Margins of Hindutva: The Krishna Pranami Sect in Nepal and India

161

7.

8.

In the Image of Jhulelal: Sindhi Hindus, Humanitarian Action and Hindu Nationalism

Services, Muscular Hinduism and Implicit Militancy in West Bengal: The Case of the Bharat Sevashram Sangha

185

Social

209

PART III: Entrenchment amidst Resistance 9. The Symbolism of Krishna in Uttar Pradesh Politics in the 1990s: Understanding the 'Normalisation' of Hindutva in North India 10.

Casting the 'Sweepers': Local Politics Sanskritisation, Caste and Labour

241

of 273

11. The Boa and its Petty Enemy: Contemporary Relationships between Hindu Nationalists and the Sikhs

307

About the Editors Notes on Contributors Index

329 331 334

List of Plates 1.1 1.2

1.3

2.1

2.2

2.3

Tapasya logo. All rights reserved. Poster of Tapasya's 30th anniversary: folklore, Teyyam performer as an emblem of folklore, the Tapasya logo and temple mural paintings. Courtesy of Christine Guillebaud. Front cover of the book Malayalam Songs: Selection of Folk Songs (Malayalappattukal. Terannatutta natanpattukal) by Gopi Putukode. All rights reserved. Courtesy of Christine Guillebaud.

3.2

3.3

6.1

36

47

Himachal Pradesh ABISY secretary,

Vidhya Chand Thakur, kullu (2002). Courtesy of Daniela Berti. Kullu ABISY president, Davedhar Singh, paying homage to the medium of a village deity, Kullu (2002). Courtesy Courtesy of Daniela Berti. Molu Ram Thakur, Kullu (2002). Courtesy of Daniela Berti.

3.1

35

72

76 83

of Donyipolo with the photographs of the RSS leaders in RSS Office, Itanagar. Courtesy of Pralay Kanungo. Jwtt Ane, the Nyishi goddess bearing the Ju message of the VKIC 'Development through Culture'. Courtesy of Pralay Kanungo. Nyedar Namlo (Nyishi Temple), Doimukh. Courtesy of Pralay Kanungo.

109

in Kalimpong (India), of the main Krishna Pranâmî Pranami centres in West Bengal (2006). Courtesy of Gérard Gerard Toffin.

164

Image

101

108

Mangaldham temple one

8.1

of Swami Pranavananda, revered as 'the King of the Hindus'. A saṃnyasin samnyasin from the BSS practicing a ritual (abbiseka) to the divine image of his guru on the aspersion (abhiṣeka) occasion of 'the great night of Śiva' Siva' (Mahā (Maha Śivarātri). Sivaratri). Kolkata, 2007. of 217 February Courtesy Raphaël Raphael Voix.

Image

10.1

Valmiki teenagers at the Carisma procession, during Navratri. Kanpur, April 2000. Courtesy of Nicolas Jaoul. Jaoul.

10.2

Sudarshan, 'Victory Bhim, Victory Victory to Kabir. When we'll improve, all will improve.' Courtesy of Nicolas Jaoul. Jaoul. Dev Kumar and his team performing at the Buniyad programme in Haddi Godown, Kanpur (January 2000). Courtesy of Nicolas Jaoul.

10.3

to

293

to

297

299

List of Abbreviations ABISY Akhil Bharatiya Itihas Sankalan Yojana ADC aide de camp AIYM All India Yadav Mahasabha ASVS Arunachal Shiksha Vikas Samiti AVP Arunachal Vikas Parishad BHEL Bharat Heavy Electrical Ltd BJP Bharatiya Janata Party BSP Bahujan Samaj Party BSS Bharata Sevasramasangha DAV Dayanand Anglo-Vedic (network of schools and colleges) DPYK Donyi-Polo Yelam Kebang HBVS Harijan Bal Vidyarthi Sangh HSS Hindu Swayamsevak Sangh IARF International Association for Religious Freedom JSS Jeev Sewa Sansthan (JSS, the Institute for the Service of Life) KNN Kanpur Nagar Nigam OBC Other Backward Castes MLAMember of Legislative Assembly MYS Mathura Yadav Sammelan NCERT National Council of Educational Research and Training NEFA North East Frontier Agency (Arunachal was part of Assam and was called the NEFA until 1962). NIFCS Nyishi Indigenous Faith and Cultural Society NMML Nehru Memorial Museum and Library NRI Non Resident Indians PDC personality development camp RFPS Rangfraa Faith Promotion Society (RFPS) RJD Rashtriya Janata Dal RPP Rashtriya Prajatantra Party RSS Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh SC Scheduled Caste

Sindhi SCAT Cultural Association of Toronto SLAS Sthanya Lok Adhikar Samiti

Samajwadi SP Party SSS Sudhar Samiti Swayam UP Uttar Pradesh VDC Village Development Committees VHO World Hindu Organisation Vishva VHP Hindu Parishad VKA Vanvais Kalyan Ashram Vivekananda VKV Kendra Vidyalayas Vivekananda VKIC Kendra Institute of Culture

Foreword Perhaps one of the most striking aspects of radical nationalist

movements across the world is their capacity to appeal to and influence

those far beyond their immediate circle of supporters. Political ideology may not be the only key to understanding such success. Let me draw a brief comparison with the situation in France — many of the contributors to this volume may have borne this in mind while reflecting on India. The Front National, a French antiSemitic, neo-fascist political party, manages to win a considerable number of votes at general elections. Its programme contains few religious or cultural references, except for general claims about the French nation. In this respect it differs from Hindutva’s deep involvement in the cultural debate in India. However, there are some points of convergence. In France, as in India (and elsewhere), radical movements build their attraction around the demonisation of some ‘Other’ — Jews or immigrants in the case of the Front National, the latter being accused of ‘taking jobs from the French’ and eventually endangering the nation’s identity. This rhetoric has enabled the party to claim that it ‘says aloud what everybody thinks but doesn’t dare say’, a claim held true among very diverse categories of people who may not otherwise adhere to the party’s goals. Besides, militants of the Front National at the local level may posit themselves as self-dedicated, protective people, while denouncing the corruption of the ‘political establishment’. I remember reading a story years ago about an elderly lady who sang the praise of some militants who had repaired her broken window pane. This was after her unsuccessful attempts at requesting the municipal services run by another ‘mainstream’ party to do so. In such cases, sympathy and perhaps support were based on totally non-political grounds. This may correspond to a widespread dynamic; indeed, nearly all the articles in this volume testify to the decisive impact that seva (service) has on the positive image of themselves that the Sangh Parivar and other organisations are able to promote. Moreover, radical movements, by the very nature of their rhetoric, tend to impose their own categories of reference on other political actors, thereby playing a crucial role in shaping the political debate and even defining their opponents’ agenda. The broader problem

Cultural Entrenchment of Hindutva

may therefore be summed up thus: to what extent does a political programme depend on political consensus for its success? How much does its capacity to influence society depend on its ideology? Taking such questions seriously means developing a research strategy. It is not sufficient to only consider the political game within the discourses and writings of political parties, or in terms of political alliances. The chain of initiatives that lead to adhesion, sympathy, or mere convergence with radical nationalist parties’ programmes has to be investigated both top down and bottom up. In order to achieve this, the scale of observation has to be diversified to include fine-grained studies at the local level that take into account individual actions and motives. It is thus also a question of methodology: how may ethnographies of social, cultural and political action inform political analysis? The present book shows how much can be gained through such an approach. It is a fresh voice amidst the vast amount of scholarship on Hindutva, even with respect to studies on ‘vernacular’, ‘banal’ nationalism in India. The novelty here lies in the analytical emphasis that is laid on various figures of mediation between Hindutva organisations and local people. With the focus shifting from organisational affiliation to political opposition, passing through forms of convergence, it becomes increasingly evident that the mediators involved at the local level may not necessarily be members of nationalist organisations themselves, and that the influence of the Parivar is the result of a complex interaction with diverse, if not antagonist, stakes. Indeed, national pride, religious reform, cultural chauvinism, and the ethnicisation of difference are not its property, and are not necessarily the outcome of its policy. The very fact that forms of resistance may share similar values and tactics, despite the paradox it may represent, necessarily leads to a nuanced appreciation: while, on the one hand, such convergence may ensure the ideological influence of Hindutva as a set of values, on the other, it also entails a dilution of its organisational impact. This volume breaks fresh ground in the political anthropology of India, bringing forth a wealth of previously unpublished new material and providing inspiring perspectives about the process of Hindutva’s entrenchment, which is of direct, immediate, comparative value. Gilles Tarabout Senior Research Fellow, CNRS

Acknowledgements This volume is the outcome of a research project funded by the CNRS (Programme ATIP Jeunes chercheurs) and hosted by the Centre for Himalayan Studies during 2005–2007. We are also particularly indebted to the Foundation Maison des Sciences de l’Homme (FMSH), Paris, and in particular to the co-directors of the Franco-Indian exchange programme, France Bhattacharya and Véronique Bouillier, for hosting the workshops and welcoming in Paris scholars from abroad throughout the duration of the project. Many thanks to scholars who presented papers and took part in discussions with the team such as Nandini Chandra, Amit Desai, Peggy Froerer, Chris Fuller, Christophe Jaffrelot, David Ludden and Lucia Michelutti. We are also grateful to Jean-Luc Racine, Denis Matringe and Jean-Claude Galey for their comments during seminars. We would like to thank those members of the team who, although they did not contribute to the present volume, have regularly attended our seminars and participated as discussants, such as Véronique Bouillier, Catherine Clémentin-Ojha and Gilles Tarabout, who extended his help from the very formulation of the project to the preparation of the manuscript. We thank Joëlle Smadja, the Director of Centre for Himalayan Studies, for her support to the project. We are also extremely grateful to the anonymous readers for their useful comments and to Bernadette Sellers for her careful proofreading of most of the articles included in the volume. Finally, we would like to thank Routledge for the interest shown in our manuscript.

Introduction Daniela Berti Over the last few years, works on Hindutva have shifted their focus from the more visible forms of Hindu nationalist mobilisation and violence to the more daily and imperceptible infiltrations of a ‘soft’ Hindutva culture which has supposedly normalised certain Hindutva clichés in contemporary Indian society. More nuanced works covering diverse areas now show how Hindutva seeps through various spheres of social and cultural life. This may be seen, for instance, in the increasing number of studies showing how a diffuse, so-called metropolitan Hindutva is penetrating popular culture. One example is the work of Sheena Malhotra and Tavishi Alagh (2004), which analyses how post-1990 films in the domestic drama genre have shifted from an inclusive, ‘ideal’ Indian family to one of Hinduness, ‘wherein Hindu symbols are all-pervasive and colour the lives of both Hindu and non-Hindu characters’. Similarly, Murty (2009) examines how in box-office hits some Hindutva middle-class values of discipline, order andswadeshi1 combine with the fervour for liberalisation and globalisation. Cricket and the business of producing sport celebrities (Nalapat and Parker 2005) as well as popular music (Manuel 2008) have also recently been seen by scholars as areas where, through a market strategy, an exclusive (Hindu) definition of the nation is forged. These works are part of the growing number of studies inspired by Michael Billig’s concept of ‘banal nationalism’, an expression used by the author to study how informal national feelings are constantly reproduced in daily life through routine symbols and speech habits (Billig 1995).2 1 A movement to encourage the purchase and use of local, Indian-made goods which has been part of the Indian freedom movement but which has been appropriated and reinterpreted by Hindutva. 2 Initially used by the author to refer to the context of everyday US patriotism, the notion has been largely, though not always explicitly, adopted and further developed by authors for studying forms of nationalism in various cultural contexts.

Daniela Berti

The present volume, still pursuing this general line of inquiry, intends to reconsider how Hindutva is affecting a wide range of social, cultural and religious milieus in contemporary India by starting with the notion of entrenchment. Though close to Billig’s concept of banalisation or normalisation, the notion of entrenchment is used here to address a multiplicity of processes, mechanisms and even paradoxical dynamics of assimilation by way of which Hindutva penetrates different regional contexts, both at the urban and rural levels, thanks to the mediation of different social actors. Notwithstanding the choice of word, the notion of entrenchment does not necessarily refer to an unconscious attachment of the individual to his/her cultural or linguistic roots — which is often included in notions such as everyday or banal nationalism. In fact, the different Hindutva local entrenchment scenarios described here are not just routinised in daily life, since they are rather the outcome — whether programmatic, circumstantial or even involuntary — of actors or dynamics which are in one way or another related to or confronted with some Hindutva mediators. Nevertheless, the notion of entrenchment is not reduced to the mere notion of mobilisation, largely used in works where Hindutva has been conceptualised as the first agent in cultural transformations. In most of the cases analysed here, those involved in a local Hindutva enterprise are not always monitored by Hindutva organisations and, when they are, they are not necessarily motivated, as Hindutva leaders are, by the promotion of any sort of national identity. Indeed, the aim of this volume is to show how Hindutva influence may work through the mediation of people who deny any strong commitment to the Hindutva programme or who may even be radically opposed to it. In order to explore the existence of these blurred, ambiguous zones of cultural and political transformations, in 2004 a research team was set up consisting mostly of anthropologists whose fieldwork focuses on different aspects of regional culture as well as on local social and political dynamics. 3 The idea was not to look for ‘exemplary Hindutva fields’ by choosing places where the presence 3 This two-year project, financed by the ‘Atip-Jeunes Chercheurs’ at the French National Centre for Scientific Research (CNRS) and by the Fondation de la Maison de Sciences de l’Homme, and the research team met on a regular basis from 2004–2007.

Introduction

of Hindutva is readily visible and ascertainable. We particularly wanted to investigate the non-ideological and non-committed zones of Hindutva influence. The contributions included in the volume will show three dynamics of Hindutva’s cultural entrenchment. The first concerns cases where the initial move comes from RSS-affiliated organisations.4 The leaders of these organisations, who often belong to the RSS, elaborate their discourse in relation to a specific cultural or artistic programme. This is then enacted at the regional level by local mediators who may become interested in participating in the programme for their own cultural interest, without necessarily endorsing all aspects of the Hindutva agenda. Although the activity of these local mediators may lead to an ambiguous, if not contradictory, outcome compared to the ambitions of central leaders, there is indeed a strategy here from above, which provides them with some theoretical or practical directives.

different

The second dynamic is that of convergence. This refers to cases

where people operate in a more or less organised way, in religious groups or associations, which also often have a spiritualistic Contrary to the scenario evoked above, the sometimes very strong affinities between these people’s discourse and Hindutvabased views are not at all monitored by a Hindutva organisation. Instead, people appear to gather around the figure of a guru or a federative figure (who may himself sometimes have a Hindutva link) and may share or may end up sharing some personal sympathies with the Hindutva programme. This overlap between a social and cultural milieu and Hindutva discourses is not therefore the result of a strategy, and sometimes appears to be purely circumstantial. However, due to its occurrence in many different linguistic and cultural milieus it appears to correspond to a contemporary trend which needs to be analysed.

dimension.

4 Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS), a militant organisation, was established for the propagation/diffusion of Hindutva (‘Hinduness’). The aim of the organisation is to build a new (and strong) Hindu people/nation. Its members get paramilitary training. The RSS is the real core of the other organisations that together form the Sangh Parivar, which designates the entire body of the organisations formed around the RSS. Among these, one is a political party, the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), and another is a religious organisation, the Vishva Hindu Parishad (VHP).

A third kind of Hindutva entrenchment which will be considered here occurs within a context of resistance. This trend can also be observed in different regional milieus, where people who oppose militant Hinduism — either individually or in a well organised and activist way — may in fact paradoxically, and even inadvertently, adopt some aspects of its rhetoric in order to put forward their social claims.

consciously

Before further detailing these three dynamics in the light of the

contributions presented by our research team, we will carry out a brief overview of some ethnographic works on Hindutva. These works will allow at identifying different modalities of Hindutva entrenchment in local society, along with some of the main questions they have raised. Without at all attempting to be exhaustive, we will consider here only those studies that have particularly insisted on the existence of non-ideological and ambiguous zones of Hindutva’s impact in local society along with some of the main questions they have raised.

Hindutva in the Locality Authors working on Hindutva realised quite early on the need to study this movement not just in relation to political and electoral success (or failure) of the BJP but to the way Hindutva ideas have become acceptable among large strata of the population. Until the late 1990s, however, Hindutva studies were mainly concerned with analysing the ideological and emotional messages conveyed by the more ideological and anti-Muslim forms of the movement. Though some of these works also investigate the historical roots of the movement, the general trend at this period, as noted by Simpson, is to study Hindutva in its urban form, and in some cases ‘by reifying and homogenising it (Simpson 2004). In most studies, emphasis has been laid on the Hindutva and narrative ‘construction’ or ‘invention’ of mythical, cultural and ritual themes which are part of the more ‘official’ or conventional Hindutva ideology. Examples are the use of maps or ritual processions highlighting the Hindu character of the Indian nation (Assayag 1997 , 2001; Davis 1996), the transformation of gods’ iconography in posters or in propaganda videos (Brosius 2005; Kapur 1993; Lutgendorf 1995; Pinney 2004; Smith 1995) or the rewriting of history in school textbooks stressing the opposition between ‘Hindu’ to the Muslim Otherness (SAHMAT 2002a, 2002b, 2002c; Sundar 2004; Thapar 1999).

iconographic

Other studies have focused less on the Hindutva general

programme and more on grass-roots activities of Hindu mobilisation

in its local and regional dynamics (Copley 2003; Hansen 1996; Zavos et al. 2004). In anthropology, one aspect which has been highlighted by these regionalised studies is the way local Hindutva organisations try to become accepted in a place by starting the local promotion of specific festivals. Christopher Fuller’s study on Vinayaka Chaturthi in Tamil Nadu (2001) shows, for example, how due to the increasingly important role the Hindu nationalist holds in the public space within this state, the festival — which was previously performed at the local and family level — has been promoted to a national festival celebrated on a grand scale and aimed at disseminating Hindutva ideology (ibid.). According to the author, this promotion has played a significant part in helping to normalise Hindu nationalism within Tamil Nadu, so that Hindutva ideas can ‘percolate into the common sense of the people’ (ibid.: 134). Yet, as the author notes, it would be misleading to think that all those who participate in it and look favourably upon Hindu revivalism, are ideologically committed (ibid.). While Vinayaka Chaturthi shows a politicisation of what was previously a private festival, James G. Lochtfeld’s study of the Kumbha Mela (2004) is a case where Hindutva has adopted a local religious practice which, in the past, had already proved its pertinence in legitimating political power. This festival, which in the early 20th century served to compete with the colonial government, was used in the mid-1980s by the VHP and other Hindutva organisations ‘as a stage to contest the secular government running the festival’ (ibid.: 116). Although, as the author points out, VHP people claim that the Kumbha Mela is their own, most pilgrims undertaking the pilgrimage do not necessarily sympathise with Hindutva ideology. This political versatility of public spaces where Hindutva may

be found to interact has also been put forward by Kaur (2003) in relation to the Ganapati festival in Maharashtra. This festival also has an anti-colonial past, which since the 19th century has led to the emergence of martial representations of Ganapati fighting against a demoniacal representation of the ‘outsider’. The author highlights how, even when the public space of the festival later fell under Shiv Sena’s control, it continued to be used by different political forces and by various interest groups, which could counteract and contest the Hindu nationalist discourse. Even today, when around twothirds of festival committees are run by the Shiv Sena, devotees take

part in the festival with no overt political affiliation, so that this ‘multifaceted’ festival is neither completely controlled by religious nationalists nor totally dominated by communal politics (ibid.: 18). A further aspect put forward by some authors is the way in which Hindutva local activities may converge with different and more neutral forms of social action in order to conquer new loyalties among strata of the local population. One example is in the realm of social services (seva) which has proved to be a successful way of laying local roots and of facilitating an ‘approach to families whose political culture is not Hindu nationalist’ (Jaffrelot 2005b: 221). In some cases, the RSS or some of its Hindutva leaders officially show personal sympathy for these kinds of religious movements which, on their own, may not be concerned with Hindutva national objectives. One example is the case of the modern sect of the Amritanandamayi. During the festivities to celebrate the Mata’s 50th birthday, L. K. Advani publicly manifested his sympathy towards her by offering her a garland of roses and touching her feet in front of thousands of devotees.5 However, as Warrier (2003) reports in her work on the sect, Mata devotees whom she met on the field were not that concerned about Hindutva and did not show much enthusiasm when questioned on the topic. The author also shows how the devotees’ intensive provision of seva is due not so much to their personal motivations but to their love of and devotion to the Mata — which makes the notion of seva, in their case, quite different from the RSS’s ‘welfare strategy’. Nevertheless, the similarities between the two activities — although only apparent6 — may create a blurred area (or in some cases a bridge) between the two activities.

different

Another example of this possible overlapping has been studied

by Alter (1994) in his analysis of the relationship between Hindu nationalism and paramilitary lathi drills, and Indian wrestling exercises. The author notes that although from a superficial point of view it would be easy to confuse these two forms of ‘regimented 5 Cf. ‘Advani Inaugurates Amritanandamayi’s Birthday Celebrations’, http://in.rediff.com/news/2003/sep/24amma2.htm. Accessed 21 December 2010. 6 In this respect, it should be said that although it may be misleading to identify the RSS seva with the seva of religious movements, the post-Independence RSS model of welfare, as Berckerlegge notes, ‘was elaborated on the basis of symbols and a concept that would be meaningful to those already familiar with neo-Hindu philosophies of service’ (2004: 130).

training’ and to see them as part and parcel of the same ideology, they are in many ways fundamentally different (ibid.: 559). As the author points out, the confusion is also amplified by the fact that some Hindu fundamentalists have tried to appropriate wrestling for their own militant discourse. A similar but reversed movement emerges in the case studied by Véronique Bénéï (2001) in relation to the possible interplay between Hindu and Indian nationalism in Maharashtra schools. According to the author, what is passed on in these schools is not isolated ‘nationalist propaganda’ but ‘a nationalism that is totally integrated into school life and knowledge’. It then becomes ‘banal nationalism’ (ibid.: 212). This makes any study at the grassroots level difficult since, as the author notes, ‘many people — even those not belonging to the Hindu fold — conceive of Indian culture and the Indian nation as being essentially Hindu, without this conception necessarily being accompanied by any communalist claim or militant Hindu identity’ (ibid.). Similarly, Peggy Froerer (2007) notes how ‘more routinised aspects of Hindu nationalism are being inculcated in government and other non-RSS educational institutions’. In her study in central India, she also shows how, by contrast, children attending Shishu Mandir are motivated more by the prospect of achieving success in their education than by the idea of creating a Hindu nation. Another issue which emerges from these regional studies is that Hindutva’s relations with a specific class, caste or religious movement are not univocal and may vary according to regional political and contexts. Staffan Lindberg’s study (1995) shows, for example, how farmers’ movements in Punjab, Maharashtra and Uttar Pradesh display great variations in their response to the Hindu nationalist movement, which goes from identification, via various kinds of accommodation, to clear-cut confrontation. The author notes how, from an ideological point of view, although any compromise between the farmers’ movements and Hindu nationalism would be unexpected or unlikely, on a practical level their possible interaction depends on a multitude of factors, such as the cultural origins of the farmers’ movements, negotiation between the different groups, and local leaders’ political alliances.7

politically

cultural

7 On this topic see also Michelutti (2008).

These works highlight the need to study how Hindutva may affect social, religious and intellectual milieus where its institutional

presence is relatively soft. This is in keeping with David Ludden’s suggestion that research on Hindutva needs to focus not only on the ‘Sangh Parivar’ but also on ‘everyday environs that imbue Hindutva with diffuse meaning and substance’ (Ludden [1996] 2005).

Hindutva Entanglements One methodological difficulty in studying Hindutva’s cultural

impact on local society is to discern what may be identified as Hindutva from overlapping cultural trends which either preceded it or partake of more global and similar cultural trends. Two of the issues immediately associated nowadays with the Hindutva

programme — the anti-Muslim feelings and the homogenisation of cultural diversity — are not in fact specific to Hindutva. Today the Sangh Parivar prints its own mark, style and purposes on these issues, but it has not been substantially innovative in the matter.

With regard to the first issue, some historians have recently shown that the perception of a Muslim ‘otherness’, and even their ‘demonisation’ goes back much further than colonisation (cf. Pandey 1990; Pollock 1993 ). As Talbot (1995) points out, however, this

does not mean to say that a pre-colonial existence of Hindu and Muslim identities and confrontations implied a unified religious ‘Hindu’ consciousness, such is the case in the current Hindu nationalist view.

Similarly, the efforts to homogenise Hindu cults and practices and to reform those considered immoral or primitive are not new. As Antony Copley (2003) argues, this attitude is also part of an older and larger movement that aimed at reforming social and ritual

practices that were not in keeping with the high castes’ orthopraxy.8 It is a well-established movement, dating back to the 19th century, which brought about a reduction in particularisms and which itself took place in the frame of broader changes in society. For

instance, the Lalbegi ritual in a community of Dalits, the Chuhras, which combined elements of Sufism and Hinduism, was replaced by the worship of Sant Valmiki thanks to the efforts of an Arya 8 Cf. Frykenberg (1988); Gold (1991); Thapar (1999).

Samaj activist in the 1930s (Jaffrelot 1996; Jaoul in this volume; Prashad 2000).

These efforts toward homogenisation could also have had a nationalistic (although not Hindutva) dimension. Ramaswamy (1999) points out how advocates of the Sanskrit Commission appointed by the Government of India up until 1956, echoed ‘what many

a (Hindu) nationalist had claimed for Hinduism in late colonial India’ (Ramaswamy op. cit.: 374). The Commission defended the idea, already anticipated by the orientalisation of education under colonial rule, that since Sanskrit had always projected a

pan-Indian image it would have been likely to consolidate the country’s territorial unity. One of the members of the Commission also guaranteed that ‘some of the sciences, in their origins in the West, had their roots in or were intimately connected with Sanskrit’,

a formulation which today has a very strong Hindutva connotation (Ramaswamy 1999: 371; see also Gould 2005). Similar observations may be made by referring to a more previous period. As Vasudha Dalmia and Heinrich von Stietencron

(1995) suggest, using Srinivas terminology, centripetal Sanskritising tendencies were prominent in the past and were promoted to various ends by rajas and feudal landlords, and later by colonial ethnography and historiography (Dalmia and von Stietencron

op. cit.: 22). Similarly Diana Eck (1999), in her study on places of pilgrimage and in what she calls an ‘imaginary landscape’ or a ‘living geography’,9 analyses the process of localising what is considered to belong to a pan-Indian tradition. According to her, there is a ‘lack

of singularity’ of sacred places in India, as shown by the fact that all the rivers can be assimilated to the Ganges and all the mountains to the Himalayas. She demonstrates how even the Pandavas’s exile in the jungle (or Rama’s exile) is ascribed to a multiplicity of

localities, functioning as a meta-narration to which many regional or tribal traditions have subscribed. She characterises this tendency as a form of ‘geographical sanskritisation’, where local places or local gods are ‘attached’ to epics and to Sanskrit cosmological

stories. Eck points out how this attitude has also been used in the 9 This consists in producing, duplicating or multiplying ad infinitum the places where the story of Indian gods or heroes is considered to have taken place (Eck 1999).

construction of an indigenous Hindu sense of nationhood (and nowadays of Hindu nationalism), and how it becomes difficult to distinguish between the two trends Eck (op. cit.: 27).10 The existence of Hindutva-like themes in previous processes of

pan-Indianianisation of specific geographical regions also emerges from what Antje Linkenbach (2002) has written about recent regional historiographies in the Garhwal and Kumaon Himalayan region. One of the examples he takes is the work of Ram Bhadur, a retired surgeon from Garhwal, who had been in the British Army and whose book (1916) on the history and culture of Garhwal set out to commemorate 100 years of British rule in this region. His praise of British rule in Garhwal, which he represents as Ram Raj, coexists with his aim of showing the ‘ancient greatness of the country’, its pan-Indian significance and of exposing the links between the region and the country. While emphasising the particularity of the region and its ‘sacredness”, his main attempt is to present Garhwal not as a separate marginal place in the remote Himalayan hills but as a religious centre, the cradle of Aryan and Hindu culture and civilisation (ibid.). Today these themes lie at the heart of Hindutva regional historiography and national rhetoric and, as Linkenbach notes, it is only by taking into account other important assumptions in the book (such as the absence of any anti-colonial feelings and references to the outside origin of Aryan culture) that divergences clearly come to light. A similar case will be discussed regarding Himachal Pradesh’s historiography in one of the contributions (see Berti in this volume), where Hindutva theory on Aryan autochthony is found in exactly the same terms among writers who are explicitly against what they themselves define as the Hindutva saffronisation of History. 10 A. M. Shah (2005), taking a more explicit stance with regard to the Srinivas’s concept of Sanskritisation, has more recently discussed the multiple sources of Sanskritisation which are simultaneously found at the village level. He stresses the importance of not reducing this term to the cultural emulation of higher castes by lower castes (or tribes) in the caste hierarchy,and the fact that Srinivas himself considers Sanskritisation as a many-sided cultural process, not necessarily connected with the caste system. Among the many ‘Sanskritisation agencies’ he mentions how sanyasis and sadhus, anti-untouchability laws, the press, television, the demand for Hinduism from abroad, have led ‘to greater sankritisation of society as a whole, including the dalits and the adivasis’ (op. cit.: 243).

Not only has Hindutva to be seen in the light of a long-standing cultural process in India, but also by taking into account similar processes occurring in different parts of the world. This will help to

avoid considering some crucial points of the Hindutva rhetoric as a merely Indian/Hindutva cultural process, while at the same time it will contribute to achieving a better understanding of its For example, the concept, described by Eck and Linkenbach,

specificity.

of ascribing a pan-Indian significance to a regional place may be compared to what Axel Harneit-Sievers (2002: 15) defines as a way

for postcolonial historiography to ‘transcend the local’, placing it within a broader framework. Indeed, in a collective volume on what the author calls ‘new local historiographies’ in Africa and South Asia, he shows how in both cases the ‘new local historians’11 try to construct a homogenous community not only by defining it in opposition to groups in the immediate neighbourhoods, but also

by searching for prestigious origins (ibid.). Although local African historians look for prestige in distant, non-autochthonous places (in the Middle East, in Egypt or in Israel) in the cases reported in Harneit-Sievers’s volume, we also find some African writers today who — like the Hindutva discourse on Harappa and Mohenjodaro — want to show the ‘black African origin’ of Egyptian

civilisation (Falola [2001] 2004: 224). Similarly, the insistence demonstrated by Hindutva writers in denouncing the West for deforming national history and their appeal for an indigenous historiography apt at producing a feeling of national unity, is found in exactly the same terms in the African nationalistic discourse (op. cit.: Ch. 6).

History-writing and the use of archaeology to support the claim to a prestigious past is indeed another aspect which Hindutva shares with both Western and other post-colonial societies. Scholars have shown this to be directly linked to the emergence of nation-states (Thiesse 2001). What has particularly been put forward recently is not only the relationship between archaeology and nationalism — the

way archaeologists in the 19th and 20th centuries helped underwrite many nationalist programmes (Anderson 1991: 163–85) — but also how archaeological data is manipulated for nationalist and 11 With this expression, Axel Harneit-Severs (2002: 3) refers to members of the local educated elite who have a ‘strong biographical connection to the locality or community they deal with; most of them are non-professional historians operating outside of academia’.

especially religious nationalist purposes (Dever 1998; Diaz-Andreu and Champion 1996; Kohl and Fawcett 1995). These ‘techniques for the production of locality’ (Appadurai

1996: 182) are not only present in post-colonial societies or ‘in where the older sense of the local community has become problematic’ (Harneit-Severs 2002: 13). Alban Bensa (2001) on a similar process in French rural areas where the recently developed ‘history mania’ is also associated with a ‘redefinition and valorisation of places’ and with the transformation of these places into ‘remarkable sites’. As Bensa wrote, ‘From one corner of the country to the other, people are forever adopting age-old traditions, ancestries and roots, which ensure the thriving continuity of regions, towns or villages with ancient and glorious times’ (op. cit.: 1; my translation). Daniel Fabre also remarks how the people of the small French village of Minot claim to descend from the Gauls and support their claim with archaeological evidence (Fabre, op. cit.). The recourse to archaeology, history and science to prove the panIndian character of a regional caste or ‘ethnic’ identity is a common attitude today found in different regions of India (cfr. Michelutti and Berti in this volume). The similarities that some elements of Hindutva ideology have with the cultural dynamics which either precede this movement or which are part of more global and contemporary contexts of transformations must be considered if we wish to study Hindutva’s cultural impact at the local level. Indeed, as soon as we move away from the more ideological and aggressive forms of the movement and conduct investigations in the field, we often find a very and entangled mix of similar yet not identical individual attitudes which are difficult yet essential to identify. The following section lays out an overview of the contributions to the volume, which have been organised according to three different dynamics they reveal in relation to Hindutva entrenchment — mediation, convergence and resistance. However, some will present more blurred situations where the dynamics exposed in these three sections may coexist and overlap.

situations reports

complicated contributions Hindutva and Local Mediators

The first dynamic focuses on cases where the initial move comes from RSS-affiliated organisations. Indeed, in order to implement

their ideological programme, RSS cadres have increased the number of their affiliates to cover specific cultural domains, social milieus or interest groups. Many of their branches have been set up at the regional, district or village level in an attempt to secure a local network. The leaders of these organisations, who often belong to the RSS, elaborate their discourse in relation to a specific cultural or artistic programme. This is then enacted at the regional level by local mediators who may take an interest in participating in the programme for their own cultural interest, without necessarily endorsing all aspects of the Hindutva agenda. Although the activity of these local mediators may lead to an ambiguous, if not contradictory, outcome compared to the ambitions of central leaders, there is indeed a strategy here from above, which provides them with some theoretical or practical directives. The effort of Hindutva organisations to entrench their programme

in local society is not specific to Hindutva, but is common to other extreme nationalist movements. To take just one example, the French radical right-wing party, the Front national, has been trying since the 1980s to develop a ‘wide network of satellite organisations and of peripheral circles of mobilisation’ in order to promote new forms of sociability and to increase the visibility of the movement (Martin et al. 1999: 170, my translation). However, contrary to the Sangh Parivar, the Front national’s social mobilisation is more the outcome of an individual initiative rather than a strategy conceived at central level, and it has therefore not succeeded in making inroads in French culture and creating the ‘front society’ it hopes to achieve (op. cit.: 180). An opposite dynamic seems to be at work for the Sangh Parivar, where a highly centralised modus operandi is often strategically dissimulated to ‘attract[ing] in its new members who do not adhere to its ideology but may join one of its affiliates without any problem’ (Jaffrelot 2005a: 11).12

12 One recent example of the necessity to keep this ‘constellation’ unified, along with the need to mobilise non-committed people, is the BJP plan to adopt Obama’s campaign by adding IP capabilities in its Unified Messaging Platform. Over the last few months, a small team of political strategists, computer specialists and management graduates in New Delhi has been studying Obama’s speeches and slogans, website, campus outreach and rhetoric of change. http://www.watblog.com/2008/06/11/from-hindutva-to-technology-bjp-surely-hascome-a-long-way/. Accessed 21 December 2010.

The present volume begins by developing this point in the light of four ethnographic cases taken from different regions and milieus. These cases show different ways in which Hindutva organisations have enacted their programme at the regional level by the mediation

of people who are not necessarily committed to the Hindutva ideology. The first three chapters investigate how the Hindutva discourse on regional culture partly merges into the discourse on cultural heritage which the post-independence politicians sponsored with the

help of local folklorists in order to promote a regional identity while instilling the awareness of national unity. The activity that Hindutva

cultural organisations carry out today throughout the country has to somehow adapt its approach and methodology to the specific form that this discourse on heritage assumes in each state. Guillebaud’s contribution shows how in Kerala Malayali folklorists, sympathising with Marxists in the region, have been

collaborating with the communist government since the 1950s in studying, recording and publishing works about Kerala history, arts and literature. From a non-Brahmin milieu, these folklorists have been more concerned with valorising a ‘Dravidian culture’ than with showing the cultural belonging of Malayali artistic and

literary traditions to the ‘Sanskrit-pan-Indian’ tradition (which was never really challenged). The prolific activity of this intellectual

milieu has not prevented Hindutva organisations dedicated to the arts and literature from finding a place in this specific cultural field. The author shows, however, that contrary to Marxist-oriented Malayali folklorists who are in regular contact with folk artists and who even deal with all the practical and preparatory aspects

of their performance, Hindutva leaders are completely cut off from this folk milieu, and rely on what has already been collected and documented by leftist folklorists for their study. Moreover, while Malayali folklorists have been concerned with putting forward the specificity of regional folklore without bothering about linking it to

national unity, Hindutva leaders have developed a specific theory and vocabulary for combining, unifying and simplifying classical

and folk forms of art, further emphasising the universal, spiritual dimension that arts are supposed to convey rather than the expressive variations and aesthetic diversity of the performance itself. Things went differently in Himachal Pradesh, as observed by Daniela Berti in Chapter 2. Here, the lack of a classical artistic

or literary production along with the geographical remoteness of the Himalayan state prompted post-Independence politicians to constantly recall the place that the Himalayas occupy in Sanskrit texts and to culturally link the region to the rest of the country. Consequently, Congress-oriented folklorists of the post-colonial period also tried, as Hindutva leaders do today, to show the panIndian substratum of the Himachali culture. Berti focuses on the way a Hindutva organisation is implementing a programme to collect stories and ritual practices related to local village deities. In this region, the absence of any large-scale research programme on the study of regional culture has lent more space to a Hindutva organisation to impose their presence in the intellectual milieu. This Hindutva organisation’s approach to regional culture then appears to move away from previous Himachal folk studies and to rely on a well detailed fieldwork programme whose aim is also to involve and instruct village people in small-scale data collection. The author shows how, although the data collected are simply considered rough material in the eyes of the organisation’s central leaders and will be used later by specialists to ‘decode’ a more homogenous Hinduism from behind the village specificities, the Hindutva organisation the promoter of a project whose aim is to put cultural diversity into writing. Paradoxically, and contrary to the Kerala context, in Himachal Pradesh the very credibility of the Hindutva organisation relies on its field-oriented approach, which is appreciated and recognised even among intellectuals who are not sympathisers. A yet more different scenario of Hindutva encroachment on the former process of building a regional/national heritage is described in Chapter 3 by Pralay Kanungo in relation to Arunachal Pradesh. From the 1960s onwards, the leader of the tribal communities of Adi and Nyishi started a process of institutionalisation and uniformisation of faith, aimed at constructing an Arunachal-Hindu cultural identity. The author interprets this process partly as a reaction to Christian activity in the area, which was negatively perceived by Adi and Nyishi intellectuals even before Hindutva organisations appeared in the region. The author also discusses how one of the crucial figures of the Arunachal Pradesh state apparatus mobilised local leaders to take on Christianity and encouraged RSS leaders to open schools and other cultural institutions in Arunachal Pradesh. In turn, these Hindutva institutions established alliances with local intellectuals and collaborated with them in the process

becomes

of institutionalising and unifying regional cults. One example analysed by Kanungo is the cult of Donyipolo, which was already regarded as an icon of regional identity first by Adi intellectuals, then later by the RSS. This example shows how, in Arunachal Pradesh, Hindutva leaders have disseminated their ideology by strengthening the ongoing local processes of regional cultural unification instead of following the more conventional Hindutva route. Another context where Hindutva had to adjust to a wellestablished (though much more compatible) form of regionalism, is presented in Chapter 4, with Djallal G. Heuzé’s study on the Shiv Sena’s influence over youth clubs in Bombay. Differently from the rural/tribal context of Himachal and Arunachal, where Hindutva organisations needed to create centres of interests to gather people in a common public space, in the big urban towns of Maharashtra there were already numbers of meeting points where the Hindutva influence could penetrate. From the perspective of political Heuzé analyses the many types of association these clubs have set up alongside Shiv Sena. Some of them are run entirely by Shiv Sainiks, while others are more autonomous. The author analyses the cul-tural and historical context which led to the emergence of these forms of popular association and the impact they have on Shiv Sena milieus. He highlights the differences but also the links between working-class and lower middle-class associations (mandal), and middle-classes clubs. He shows how clubs, focusing more on multiple activities (culture, sport, religion, social services) are able to influence different kinds of set-ups independently of political views. Here clubs emerge as bridge-like structures whereby the Shiv Sena, on the one hand, tries to infiltrate clubs with its own emblems and values and, on the other hand, also ends up influenced by these clubs. Whether or not the cultural programme implemented at the local level by the Hindutva organisations comply with the national Hindutva ideology, the main impetus behind it comes from the RSS spheres, from leaders and organisations which strategically make use of local people in order to carry through their own programme.

sociology,

highest ideological Convergence, Gurus and Sects

The following set of four chapters focuses on groups or movements which are not directly related to the RSS network, yet whose members

may have developed a similar discourse or point of view. Contrary to the scenario evoked above, the sometimes very strong affinities between these people’s discourse and Hindutva-based views are not the result of a Hindutva-driven strategy and sometimes appears to be purely circumstantial. The chapters refer to cases where people operate in a more or less organised way, in religious groups or associations, which also often have a spiritualistic dimension. The main feature of this type of association is the existence of a guru or a charismatic figure endowed with federative qualities (who may himself sometimes have a Hindutva link) and who may end up sharing some personal sympathies with the Hindutva programme. It is not so much a structured bureaucratic and administrative organisation which renders this federative figure effective, but rather a network of people in charge of particular activities (social services, yoga therapy, religious proselytism) who recognise themselves as bound to the figure of this guru. These organisations may take part in an affinity game with common Hindutva views (social services, an anti-Muslim discourse), which may occasionally create bridges with them. The possible leaning these milieus may show towards Hindutva is above all due to the fact that in the past the guru of these organisations may have had a privileged link with the Hindu right wing and may encourage what he presents as a vision. This is what emerges from the case described by Anne-Cécile Hoyez (Chapter 5) regarding a yoga therapy centre in Pune called Kabir Baug. The founder of this centre, ‘Dr Karandikar’, proposes a very personal vision of yoga which, though defined as ‘traditional’ as opposed to ‘Westernised’, is very much based on medical therapy, relying on a pseudoscientific discourse on cellular medicine and on the use of sophisticated machines. He also presents himself as a guru, seeking national and international recognition, although paradoxically he organises his centre around a very regional and local system of recruitment. His profile would not be very different from many other figures we may find in contemporary India had he not had long-standing personal links with the RSS. This personal affiliation with the RSS is in no way apparent to the members of the centre, nor does the RSS particularly try to impose its authority on the centre. The centre, therefore, seems no more Hindutvaoriented than any other centre, though many of Karandikar’s ideas about yoga and tradition closely converge with the general Hindutva rhetoric. What the case demonstrates is that the close tie between

traditionalist

Karandikar and the RSS, though conjectural or circumstantial, may lead to possible developments in that direction. The next two chapters illustrate how some Hindutva discourses or stereotypes and various dynamics of religious or cultural identity overlap each other. However, differently from the cases presented in the first section, these identitarian mechanisms are not those forged by local politicians and intellectuals for the construction of regional states but are used to define religious groups boundaries. In Chapter 6, Gerard Toffin studies the Krishna Pranâmîs sect in India and Nepal and shows how the Pranâmîs, from being by upper-caste Hindus as close to the Muslims, undertook important transformations in their practices and religious in the second half of the 20th century in order to adhere to a more conventional form of Hinduism. The author also highlights how although the Pranâmîs’ precepts and values today are fully consistent with those of Hindutva organisations, the members of this sect belong to very different political parties, ranging from the Hindu right wing to communists and even Maoists. He argues that the sect’s current communalist components, and above all their anti-Muslim and anti-Christian tendencies, do not have quite the same connotations as in the Hindutva discourse, since they are more exclusively concerned with defying and affirming the identity of the group by opposing its boundaries with other similar but rival sectarian groups. A similar shift from syncretism versus Hinduisation may be in the case described by Frédérique Pagani (Chapter 7). This concerns a Sindhi benevolent association, the Jeev Sewa Sansthan (the Institute for the Service of Life) in Bairagarh, a Sindhi township near Bhopal. Like other contemporary guru-headed movements, the Jeev Sewa Sansthan is a combination of a search for a Sindhi (Hindu) identity, a strong belief in a nation-building mission, along with a mild form of universalism (which also enables the organisation to be registered as a charitable trust). It also joins the ranks of other movements in associating different areas like education, health, social service and moral preaching. However, contrary to more orthodox sectarian affiliations, this kind of movement allows a more flexible participation since it relies on individual networks rather than a homogenous bureaucratic organisation. Consequently, the association may attract people from very different backgrounds, some of whom may be Hindutva sympathisers without necessarily being activists.

considered attitudes

observed

The author also analyses the progressive redefinition of the

association (and of Sindhi in Bhopal) towards a Hindu-Gujarat identity

given their post-Partition migration from Pakistan to India. Indeed, in such kinds of setup, which lie outside a strictly orthodox milieu, there is nothing to indicate which direction the association will take over time, both as a result of a new leadership and/or of changes in the specific political and social context in which the sect operates. A more contrasting and ambiguous case in which Hindutva-like stereotypes are adopted for affirming a sectarian identity emerges in the case studied by Raphaël Voix (Chapter 8) of the Bharata Sevasramasangha ‘Community of Service to India’, founded in Bengal at the beginning of the 19th century. The author demonstrates how, while provocative, masculine anti-Muslim speeches may appear to have brought BSS close to Hindi-Hindu nationalism, they were also attempting to promote a Bengali, linguistic and regional, variety of macho Hinduism. Paradoxically, the West Bengali secularist government, as well as central government, was backing the sect’s ritual and social activities by making public donations and even entrusting the sect with the running of public health projects in remote areas. The author shows also how the extent to which BSS’s links and affinity with Hindutva are or not publicly asserted by their members depends on the political context of the state. As in the case of the Pranâmîs studied by Toffin, it is important here to consider the specific political context in which the sect has developed in order to assess its Hindutva commitment.

Entrenchment amidst Resistance A third kind of Hindutva entrenchment which will be considered here occurs within a context of resistance. Contrary to the previous sections, where the connection with Hindutva involves groups or milieus which are not overtly hostile to Hindutva views, this last shows cases where people who consciously oppose militant Hinduism — either individually or in a well organised and activist way — may in fact paradoxically, or inadvertently, adopt some aspects of its rhetoric in order to put forward their social claims. This trend can also be observed in different regional milieus, and partly recalls the logic of ‘strategic mimetism’ which refers to the of reform movements to assimilate certain cultural traits and practices of the Other in order to better resist him (Jaffrelot 1992).

section

attitude

This also takes Hindutva cultural entrenchment a little further than the idea of its normalisation in an everyday context, presenting it as an effective cultural tool which may be adopted to support opposing political struggles and various identity claims. The between the arguments put forward by these movements and those propagated by Hindutva organisations may indeed be the direct outcome of the latter’s efforts to take root in these different milieus. This is the case with Dalit movements. Not only do they refuse to be involved in Hindutva discourses, they even contest the idea of being identified as Hindu. Nevertheless, this does not prevent them from opting for other forms of cultural or religious standardisation, since they actually promote the ‘Dalitisation’ of Indian society as opposed to ‘Hinduisation’ — Hinduisation and Brahminisation are generally lumped together (Ilaiah 1996). The case of the Dalit opposition to the Hindutva organisation for ‘social service’, Seva Bharti, is even more significant in this perspective. Indeed, Seva Bharti’s attempts to take root among Dalits face opposition by Dalits militants. Yet, at the same time, its action leads Dalit militants to take up a position where arguments are expressed in terms of ‘race’ (a favourite Hindutva issue) and ‘culture’, while economic and political analyses are overlooked. The similarity of cultural concepts and arguments used by the two opposite groups in representing their respective identity has been recently put forwarded by Rohit Chopra (2006) in his work on Dalit and Hindu nationalist websites. The author shows how both types of online discourses let emerge a new mode of representing collective identity, which he calls ‘global primordiality’, both groups presenting their respective history in a historical narrative frame of domination and resistance (Hindu nationalists by Muslims and Dalits by Brahmins) and each asserting that Dalits/Hindus are ur-communities of the subcontinent and the original inhabitants of the Indus Valley. In Chapter 9, Lucia Michelutti contributes to these discussions by studying the contemporary transformations taking place amongst pastoral low castes in the town of Mathura, Uttar Pradesh. These pastoral castes are undergoing a process of social and cultural under a Yadav label. Today, the cultural construction of this ‘Yadavisation’ dating back to the end of the 19th century, presents a number of affinities with the Hindutva discourse though it is

similarities

fusion

adapted to defending a Yadava identity: the importance

attributed to the re-establishment of a ‘pure’ Yadava race; the search for an ancient prestigious historical origin and for a Yadava-Aryan

pedigree; the necessity to prove their arguments with ‘historical facts’ and to provide a scientific methodology of history-writing. These kinds of issues, which today have an immediate Hindutva connotation, are not only to be seen as a sort of ‘Yadava version’ of Hindutva discourse. The author demonstrates how they are part of a wider process of Yadava ethnicisation and social mobility which

goes back to the British period and to Hindu reformers and which, even in the contemporary period is influenced by different factors, such as the broader process of local printing and the formation of a local intellectual milieu. The same kind of dynamics has been put forward by Nicolas Jaoul’s chapter on Valmikis in Kanpur, a main industrial centre in

Uttar Pradesh. The author shows how the rhetoric of Ambedkarite leaders, although violently opposed to Hindutva, presents several parallels with it. Some of these leaders have even created propaganda organisations very similar to the RSSshakhas, emphasising the same ideals of self-improvement and physical strength. He also put forward how the idea of unifying different low-caste groups under

a Ramayan/Sanskrit label was not a Hindutva monopoly but has been fuelled over the course of time by political groups opposed to Hindutva. For Congress politicians, this identification strategy was aimed at keeping the ‘sweepers’ dissociated from the Dalit emancipation movement and avoid possible strikes by the sanitation labour. Even the Ambedkarite leaders, contrary to any Brahminical

identification, encouraged their candidates to rely on their Valmiki name to fight the election. In spite of changing their name because of its Sanskrit/Brahminical connotation, Ambedkarist leaders ended up to find some caste relation between Valmiki and Ambedkar to such a degree that Ambedkar is now said be a Valmiki in popular discourse.

The volume ends with Christine Moliner’s study on Hindutva activities in the Sikh-majority state of Punjab (Chapter 10). The author analyses how both Hindutva and Sikh organisations are engaged in a debate on the Sikh identity and how this debate is reminiscent of the late 19th century’s Arya Samaj–Singh Sabha She also considers how Hindutva activities in Punjab may

controversy.

be taken by some Sikh groups as a way of consolidating the Sikh identity.

Most of the articles presented in this volume testify to a sort of reconfiguration of a general process that is taking place in different

milieus within Indian society, particularly outside orthodox circles. This concerns the relationship to rituals and deities, the definition of identities, the relationship to history and to regional culture which may or may not be a direct outcome of Hindutva, but which

progressively or through different elements appear likely to mark this kind of affiliation. Yet, what also emerges from all these ethnographic studies is the ambiguous interplay between Hindutva and a ‘national’, ‘Vedic’, ‘Hindu’ or ‘pan-Indian’ aspiration, or merely

local people’s emotional attachment to their community, their and their locality.

language References Alter, Joseph S. 1994. ‘ Somatic Nationalism: Indian Wrestling and Militant Hinduism’, Modern Asian Studies, 28 (3): 557–88. Anderson, Benedict. (1983) 1991. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London and New York: Verso. Appadurai, Arjun .1996. Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of , Public Worlds, Vol. 1. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Assayag, Jackie 1997. ‘ Action rituelle ou réaction politique? L’invention des pro-cessions du nationalisme hindou dans les années 1980 en Inde’, Annales. Histoire, Sciences Sociales, 52 (4): 853–79. ———. 2001. L’inde: désir de nation. Paris: Odil Jacob. Beckerlegge, Gwilym. 2004. ‘ The Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh’s Tradition of Selfless Service’, in Johan Zavos, Andrew Wyatt, Vernon Hewitt (eds), The Politics of Cultural Mobilisation in India, pp. 105–35. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Bénéï, Véronique. 2001. ‘ Teaching Nationalism in Maharashtra Schools’, in Christopher J. Fuller and Véronique Bénéï (eds), The Everyday State & Society in Modern India, pp. 194–222. London: Hust & Company. Bensa, Alban. 2001. ‘ Introduction’, in Alban Bensa and Daniel Fabre (eds), Une histoire à soi. Figurations du passé etlocalités, pp. 1–12. Paris: MSH. Billig, Michael. 1995. Banal Nationalism. New York: Sage Publications. Brosius, Christiane. 2005. Empowering Visions: The Politics of Representation in Hindu Nationalism. London: Anthem Press. Chopra, Rohit 2006. ‘ Global Primordialities: Virtual Identity Politics in Online Hindutva and Online Dalit Discourse’, New Media & Society, 8: 187–206. Copley, Antony (ed.). 2003. Hinduism in Public and Private. Reform, Hindutva, Gender and Sampraday. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Dalmia , Vasudha and von Stietencron Hienrich (eds). 1995. Representing Hinduism: The Construction of Religious Traditions and National Identity. New Delhi: Sage Publications.

Globalization

Davis, Richard H. 1996. ‘ The Iconography of Rama’s Chariot’, in D. Ludden (ed.), Making India Hindu: Religion, Community, and the Politics of Democracy in India, pp. 27–54. New Delhi: Oxford India Paperbacks. Dever W. G. 1988. ‘Archaeology, Ideology, and the Quest for an ‘Ancient’ or ‘Biblical’ Israel’, Near Eastern Archaeology, 61 (1): 39–52. Diaz-Andreu Marga and Champion Timothy (eds). 1996. Nationalism and Archaeology in Europe. London: University College London Press. Eck, Diana. 1999. ‘ The Imagined Landscape: Patterns in the Construction of Hindu Sacred Geography’, in Veena Das, Dipankar Gupta and Patricia Uberoi (eds), Tradition, Pluralism and Identity: In Honour of T.N. Madan, pp. 23–46. New Delhi: Sage Publications. Fabre, Daniel. 2001. ‘ L’Histoire a change de lieux’, in Alban Bensa and Daniel Fabre (eds), Une histoire à soi. Figurations du passé et localités, pp. 13–39. Paris: MSH. Falola, Toyin. (2001) 2004. Nationalism and African Intellectuals. New York: University of Rochester Press. Froerer, Peggy. 2007. ‘ Discipling the Saffron Way: Moral Education and the Hindu Rashtra’, in Modern Asian Studies, 41 (5): 1033–71. Frykenberg, Robert E. 1988. ‘ Fundamentalism and Revivalism in South Asia’, in J. W. Djorkman (ed), Fundamentalism, Revivalist and Violence in South Asia, pp. 20–39. Delhi: Manohar. Fuller, Christopher. 2001. ‘ Vinayaka Chaturthi Festival and Hindutva in Tamil Nadu’, Economic and Political Weekly, 36 (19): 1607–16. ———. 2003. The Renewal of the Priesthood:Modernity and Traditionalism in a South Indian Temple. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Gold , Daniel . 1991. ‘ Organized Hinduisms: From Vedic Truth to Hindu Nation ’, in Martin E. Marty and R. Scott Appleby (eds), Fundamentalisms Observed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Gould, William . 2005. Hindu Nationalism and the Language of Politics in Late Colonial India. New Delhi: Cambridge University Press. Hansen, Thomas B. 1996. ‘ The Vernacularisation of Hindutva: BJP and Shiv Sena in Rural Maharashtra’, Contribution to Indian Sociology , 30: 177–214. Harneit-Severs, Axel (ed.). 2002. Place in the World: New Local Historiography from Africa and South Asia. Leyde and Boston: Brill . Ilaiah, Kancha. 1996. Why I Am Not A Hindu: A Sudra Critique of Hindutva Philosophy, Culture and Political Economy. Samya: Calcutta. Jaffrelot, Christophe. 1992 ‘ Le syncrétisme stratégique et la construction de l’identité nationaliste hindoue’, Revue française de science politique, 42 (4): 594–617. ———. 1996. The Hindu Nationalist Movement and Indian Politics in India, c. 1935–1993. Delhi: Viking. ———. 2005a. ‘ Introduction’, in Christophe Jaffrelot (ed.),The Sangh Parivar. A Reader, pp. 1–22. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. ———. 2005b. ‘ Hindu Nationalism and the Social Welfare Strategy: Seva Bharti as an Education Agency’, in Christophe Jaffrelot (ed.), The Sangh Parivar: A Reader, pp. 211–24. New Delhi: Oxford University Press.

Kapur, Anuradha . 1993. ‘ Deity to Crusader: The Changing Iconography of Ram’, in Gyanendra Pandey (ed.), Hindus and Others: The Question of Identity in India Today, pp. 74–107. New Delhi: Penguin Books India. Kaur, Raminder. 2003. Performative Politics and the Cultures of Hinduism: Public Uses of Religion in Western India. Delhi: Permanent Black. Kohl, Philip L. and Clare Fawcett (eds). 1995. Practice of Archaeology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lindberg, Staffan. 1995. ‘ Farmers’ Movements and Cultural Nationalism in India: An Ambiguous Relationship’, Theory and Society, 24 (6): 837–68. Linkenbach, Antje. 2002. ‘ A Consecrated Land: Local Constructions of History in the Garhwal and Kumaon Himalayas, North India’, in A. Harneit-Sievers (ed.), A Place in the World: New Local Historiographics from Africa and South Asia, pp. 309–30. Leiden, Koninklijke : Brill . Lochtfeld , James G. 2004. ‘ The Construction of the Kumbha Mela ’, South Asian Popular Culture, 2 (2): 103–26. Ludden, David (ed.). (1996) 2005. Making India Hindu: Religionm Community and the Politics of Democracy in India . New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Lutgendorf , Philip . 1995. ‘ All in the (Raghu) Family: A Video Epic in Context’, in Lawrence Babb and Susan Wadley (eds), Media and the Transformation of Religion in South Asia , pp. 217–53. Philadelphia: University of Philadelphia Press. Malhotra , Sheena and Tavishi Alagh. 2004. ‘ Dreaming the Nation: Domestic Dramas in Hindi Films Post-1990’, South Asian Popular Culture , 2 ( 1 ): 19–37. Manuel, Peter. 2008. ‘ North Indian SufiPopular Music in the Age of Hindu and Muslim Fundamentalism’, Ethnomusicology, 52 (3): 378–400. Martin, Virginie, Guilles Ivaldi and Grégory Lespinasse. 1999. ‘ Le Front National entre clientélisme et recherche d’un enracinement social’,Critique internationale, 4: 169–81. Michelutti , Lucia. 2008. The Vernacularisation of Democracy: Politics, Caste and Religion in India. New Delhi: Routledge. Murty, Madhavi. 2009. ‘Representing Hindutva: Nation, Religion and Masculinity in Indian Popular Cinema, 1990 to 2003’, Popular Communication, 7 (4): 267–81. Nalapat , Abilash and Andrew Parker. 2005. ‘ Sport, Celebrity and Popular Culture: Sachin Tendulkar, Cricket and Indian Nationalisms’, International Review for the Sociology of Sport 40 (4): 433–46. Pandey, Gyanendra. 1990. ‘ The Colonial Construction of “Communalism”: British Writings on Banaras in the Nineteenth Century’, in Veena Das (ed.), Mirors of Violence: Communities, Riots and Survivors in South Asia, pp. 94–134. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Pinney, Christopher. 2004. ‘ Photos of the Gods’: The Printed Image and Political Struggle in India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Pollock, Sheldon. 1993. ‘ Ramayana and Political Imagination in India’, The Journal of Asian Studies, 52 (2): 261–97.

Cultural

Prashad, Vijay. 2000. Untouchable Freedom: A Social History of a Dalit Community. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Ramaswamy, Sumathi. 1999. ‘ Sanskrit for the Nation ’, Modern Asian Studies, 33 (2): 339–81. SAHMAT (ed.). 2002a. The Assault on History. Delhi: SAHMAT. January. ———. 2002b. Against Communalisation of Education. Delhi: SAHMAT. March. ———. 2002c. Saffronised and Substandard: A Critique of the New NCERT Textbooks. Delhi: SAHMAT. December. Shah, A. M. 2005. ‘ Sankritisation Revisited’, Sociological Bulletin, 54 ( 2 ): 238–49. Simpson, Edward. 2004. ‘ “Hindutva” as a Rural Planning Paradigm in PostEarthquake Gujarat’, in J. Zavos, A. Wyatt and V. Hewitt (eds), The Politics of Cultural Mobilization in India, pp. 136–65. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Smith , H. Daniel. 1995. ‘ Impact of “God Posters” on Hindus and their Devotional Traditions’, in L. Babb and S. Nadley (eds), Media and the Transformation of Religion in South Asia. Philadelphia: University of Philadelphia Press. Sundar, Nandini. 2004. ‘ Teaching to Hate: RSS’ Pedagogical Programme’, Economic and Political Weekly, 39 (16): 1605–12. Talbot, Cynthia. 1995. ‘ Inscribing the Other, Inscribing the Self: Hindu-Muslim Identities in Pre-Colonial India’, Comparative Studies in Society and History, 37 (4): 692–722. Thapar, Romila. 1999. ‘ Some Appropriation of the Theory of Aryan Race Relating to the Beginnings of Indian History ’, in A. Daud (ed.), Invoking the Past: The Uses of History in South Asia, pp. 15–35. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Thiesse, Anne-Marie. 2001. La création des identités nationales. Europe XVIIIè-XXè siècle. Paris: Editions du Seuil. Warrier, Maya. 2003. ‘ The Seva Ethic and the Spirit of Institution Building in the Mata Amritanandamayi Mission’, in Antony Copley (ed.) Hinduism in Public and Private, pp. 254–89. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Zavos, John, Andrew Wyatt and Vernon Hewitt (eds). 2004. The Politics of Cultural Mobilization in India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press.

Part I Hindutva-affiliated Organisations and Local Mediators

1 Music and Politics in Kerala: Hindu Nationalists Versus Marxists * Christine Guillebaud

Communists have spread all over Kerala, not only in government but

also in art and culture! M. A. Krishnan, former Chief Editor,

Kesari Weekly, the roar of nationalism (RSS), 2007 Artistic practices have greatly attracted the attention of the political arena in Kerala since the second half of the 20th century. After India’s partition in 1947, the segmentation of regional states on a linguistic basis fostered local nationalism in Kerala governed by the freshly elected communist government. As a matter of fact, this state has developed a broad cultural policy promoting local heritage both in music and dance. This phenomenon has been driven by the necessity to build a ‘Keralite’ national unity. Since 1956, the state of Kerala has created various festivals in its large cities, targeting the middle classes and setting up artistic competitions in high schools and colleges. It has also developed a radio and television network to broadcast local music. Moreover, this policy has led to the creation of a number of research institutes where experts (usually Marxist researchers) in folklore studies have produced a large number of publications over the last 60 years. During the mid-1970s, some 20 years after the birth of Kerala state, Hindu nationalists from the RSS set up their own organisations for the arts and their dissemination. The first of these, Tapasya ‘Art and Literary Forum’ (Kala sahitya vedi), specialises in organising music and dance performances and literature festivals. The second, Balagokulam, also known as ‘The Children’s Cultural Movement’, * I would like to thank Daniela Berti, Gilles Tarabout and Nicolas Jaoul for the care they took in reading this article and for their insightful comments. I owe special thanks to Vincent Rioux and Bernadette Sellers for having read a first version of this article.

Christine Guillebaud

promotes thecollective teaching of music, dance and poetry for children with the aim of spreading the Hindu cultural tradition. This article will compare two competing nationalist programmes

of Keralite artistic practices. The focus will be on the opposing views on how to define the concepts of cultural heritage and culture, as well as the different strategies used to spread them among the population. We will first present current activities and methods used by the Sangh Parivar in artistic fields to spread its Hindutva ideology to the public at large and especially to the younger generation. Such activities are mainly based on a process of Sankritisation. An analysis will then be made of the areas covered by the Kerala government’s cultural policy and its strong impact on the emergence of a ‘regional’ nationalism. Mediated by local folklorists, this policy has acquired the approval of social equality values and has led to a social reform movement by promoting the arts.

national

Tapasya and Balagokulam, Two Keralite Organisations for the Promotion of Hindu Culture Apart from the numerous (all-India based) Sangh Parivar organisations established today in Kerala, several regional organisations have emerged over the last three decades in various spheres of society and culture1. Among these, Tapasya (heat) and Balagokulam (herd of cows of the child [Krishna]) form two associations entirely dedicated to the arts and their teaching. A ‘Divine’ Art The organisation Tapasya was set up in 1975 in the Calicut offices of

the weekly Kesari, the main RSS journal in Kerala, often compared to its Hindi equivalent, Panchajanya, and to the Marathi Vivek. Tapasya was formerly a small group of intellectuals interested in literature, folk arts and dance. Among them was the great poet (Mahakavi) Akkitam Achuthan Namboodiri, author of the essay 1 For instance, the Ksetra Samrakshana Samithi for the protection of Hindu temples; the Matsya Pravartaka Sangham, a Hindu fishermen trade union; the Bharatiya Vichara Kendram which organises conferences and seminars for the intellectual elite; the Hindu Aikya Vedi whose aim is the ‘consolidation’ of various organisations and social sections in Hindu society; and the Amrita Bharati Vidya Pitham, a kind of open university proposing distance learning in order to propagate Hindu cultural heritage and the Sanskrit language.

Music and Politics in Kerala

‘Epic of 20th Century’ (uripatam nottantinte itihasam) published in 1952. Today, most RSS activists consider this opus to be a visionary

text having predicted the collapse of the communist block. M. A. Krishnan, chief editor of Kesari from 1964–90, and V. M. Korath, former freedom fighter and chief editor of Mathrbhumi,2 began to animate a literature forum in Calicut which scholars, journalists

and All India Radio staff members attended. The RSS was banned several times; hence these intellectuals consider themselves to have been ‘formally underground’. They chose the name ‘Tapasya’ in reference to the term ‘tapas’, a Vedic and classical Hindu concept

depicting the spiritual experience traditionally undergone by rishis (sages). This RSS group, entirely dedicated to the arts and literature, seems to be one of the first of this kind in India. It appeared to be the driving force behind the Sangh Parivar national organisation

called the All India Samskara Bharati, 3 established a few years later in 1981 in Nagpur, central India. At the national level, this organisation works for the preservation of Indian culture through the development of its art forms, attributing awards to young

talents or senior artists. It also organises a national painters’ camp and, more recently, a classical music festival.4 Historically, Tapasya was the first regional cultural organisation to be officially affiliated to the Samskara Bharati. Although it initially emerged among RSS

activists, it spread afterwards as a parallel organisation. Today, Tapasya is well established among classical artists and art critics. By organising regular concerts and literature forums, it has managed to gather numerous artistic personalities. It also 2 Daily newspaper in Malayalam created in 1923. Supporting the Indian National Congress, it is considered to be one of the early platforms for the state’s freedom movement. 3 ‘Samskara’ is a Sanskrit word which means ‘consecration, cultivation of the mind, accomplishment’. ‘Bharati’ is the goddess of knowledge and music, more commonly known as Sarasvati. 4 Held at the cultural capital of Mysore, this event gathered around 500 musicians from all over the country. As expressed by the organisation’s secretary, Krishna Murthy: ‘This festival is our endeavour to bring together the renowned and young Carnatic and Hindustani musicians, as it would help them to interact with each other. Also, we believe that the festival makes a good platform for all artistes to meet and share views and experiences on a common basis’ (The Times of India, 11 January 2009). The ideological implications of such a project, shared with Tapasya, will be explored later.

includes members of the Keralite branch of the three major national institutions dedicated to the arts in India— the Sangeet Natak Akademi (government organisation for the promotion of music and the performing arts), Sahitya Akademi (its equivalent for literature) and Lalita Akademi (Academy of Fine Arts). Like these institutions, Tapasya is a regular cultural organisation: it awards trophies, prizes and certificates to many Keralite performers,5 poets and novelists. Moreover, it publishes the monthly Varttikam (1,000 copies) run by Chief Editor K. P. Shashi Dharan, a literature critique, as well as a high quality catalogue. Among the 30 Tapasya units based in Kerala, the town of Irinjalakuda certainly is the most developed as it benefits from a rich artistic environment. It houses an important Brahmin elite: masters of the Sanskrit drama Kutiyattam, artists and producers of Kathakali and classical dances are actual members of the organisation or obtain casual contracts and funds. This success among performers is not specific to this organisation. It appears to be the result of a long process of institutionalising classical art forms which started during the 1930s throughout India.6 After Independence, faced a shortage of traditional patronage, provided in the olden days by royal courts and nobility. The advent of national and private academies during the 1950s subsequently modified the status of practitioners, from craftsman to artist, and reshaped their performance and transmission activities (Guillebaud 2010). In this context of changing patronage, Tapasya has been considered a regular cultural institution offering performance opportunities and new income to local musicians. Thus, it has been rooted in the artistic, mainly classical, milieu for more than 30 years, in a way comparable to other private or public institutions.

performers

5 For example, one could mention the Tapasya Purashkar Music Award. With regard to the performing arts, prize winners are mainly classical art specialists (Carnatic music, Mohiniyattam dance, etc.) or folk performers (tiruvadira kali dance, brahmani pattu, etc.), all members of Brahmin castes. Specialists from other castes started to win prizes only recently. 6 On the process of the institutionalisation of Indian classical arts during the 20th century and its relationship with nationalist movements after see Mitter (1994) and Guha-Thakurta (2004) for painting and sculpture; Bakhle (2005) for Hindustani music, Subramaniam (2006) and Weidman (2006) for Carnatic music, Srinivasan (1983) for Bharatanatyam dance and Kothari (1989) for Kathak dance.

Independence,

However, performers are generally not aware of its affiliation with the Hindu nationalist movement. The last annual programme held in 2007, celebrating the 30th anniversary of the organisation,7 reveals such an ambivalent position. Many well-known artists were invited to take part in the event as, for instance, the tabla player, Sudheer Kadalundi, famous for his Guinness World record in 2005 (he gave a non-stop 57-hour recital, The Hindu, 1 March 2007). His performance of ‘fusion music’ on such occasions began with the national anthem ‘Vande Mataram’ and was followed by a mix of Hindustani, Carnatic and semi-classical pieces played on the flute, violin, keyboard, tabla and cymbals. Like most well-known musicians in India and elsewhere, during an interview he explained: ‘I need to assume a social responsibility. I must help spread the message of peace, unity and brotherhood (...) Music is a God-given gift. It is also my bread and butter. I am glad to remain a performing artist’ (ibid.). This discourse that underlines the unity and divine character of music, its universality and spirituality, even if it contains the same type of vocabulary used by Hindu nationalists, does not seem to convey any political ideology. Indeed, that is the kind of contradictory situation in which most artists affiliated to Tapasya seem to live. They agree to be patronised by Tapasya without sharing its ideological views. It is one of the essential aspects of this organisation’s cultural entrenchment process in Kerala. Backstage, out of the public eye, the organisation’s committees, at the regional and district levels, have formalised a specific ideological discourse to convey what, to their mind, the ultimate aim of Art should be, and a nationalist project for preserving and spreading the ‘Hindu cultural tradition’. M. A. Krishnan is the current Tapasya guide at the Kerala state level. A professor and specialist of Sanskrit literature, he left his job and joined the RSS in 1954, propagating its nationalist views. He explains his project by using the notion of ‘heredity’, a term that is typical of a racial discourse and used by him in English:

effectively

India has a cultural and literary background. The greatest are Vedas and Upanishads; they are the roots of our heritage. In Malayalam as well, there is a very long history. We have to keep up this heredity, 7 Like other Sangh associations, Tapasya brings together the different district units during an annual meeting at the state level to celebrate the organisation’s anniversary, with concerts and seminars largely covered by the media.

propagate literature and pass them on to the next generation. Music, drama, especially in Kerala, mural paintings (Ramayana and Purana) and Ravi Varma8 pictures... through the discussion and writings, we encourage heredity (interview with M. A. Krishnan, February 2007).

Plate 1.1: Tapasya logo. All rights reserved. Courtesy of Christine Guillebaud.

From Sanskrit texts to Raja Ravi Varma paintings, including the performing arts, the Tapasya project encompasses all art forms. The association’s logo is somewhat explicit. An anthropomorphic figure wears ritualistic headgear (muti) used in various rituals in Kerala such as in teyyam (a possession cult from north Kerala) or those performed by the Paraya community.9 According to M. A. Krishnan, this headgear represents ‘all Devi and Kali puja’, a way of 8 Raja Ravi Varma (1848–1906) was a painter and portraitist. He was the initiator of posters (also called ‘chromos’) picturing Hindu deities and printed in Bombay in 1894. 9 For instance, one could mention the goddess rituals karinkaliyattam, ketrattam or ritual dramas kaliyum darikanum, muntiyan mukkan cattan, pakkanar vadyam, etc.

symbolising the numerous folk cults dedicated to the Hindu goddess in Kerala. A painter’s palette forms the chest and a lute, most probably

a tampura (accompanying instrument in Indian classical music) serves as the pelvis. The hands of the character are decorated with accessories usually worn by Kathakali actors. Literature and poetry are symbolised by a manuscript and a quill, and the performing arts

(nrtta) by anklets. Like a human body animated by different and limbs, a unique Hindu cultural tradition embodies the different arts. The aim of Tapasya is precisely to work towards the

components

unification of the arts, an ideology that fails to consider the specific

history of local traditions, their distinct religious background and the heterogeneity of the social settings. We will further note that leaders of Balagokulam, the second association running cultural activities, share a common conception.

The discourse indeed revolves around a rather minimalist

conception of Art, considered as the simplest adaptation of a classical text, as for instance the Puranas or the Hindu epics—

the Ramayana

and Mahabharata. Such a view limits all expressive variations and

aesthetic diversity such as singing, dance, instrumental music, drama, etc. When asked to describe the last annual programme celebrating the 30th anniversary of the organisation in 2007, M. A. Krishnan said: There were cinema reviews, a mural painting exhibition, fusion music,

Mohiniyattam (dance) which featured the Narayana story and the Krishna story (Hindu deities), poetry reciting in Malayalam, and for the concluding séance, one Patayani (ritual for the goddess) from Kottayam district. Patayani is based on Puranic stories. But purakali (collective dance from North Kerala based on non classical texts) and teyyam (possession ceremony) are non-Puranic stories, yet in a way they are in a

crude form. Ritual forms take on different types of worship. Worship by the lower layer of society is different but they have common stories. We encourage heredity (interview with M. A. Krishnan, February 2007).

This concept of art, explicitly focused on pan-Indian classical texts, emphasises the ‘Indian unity’ of Keralite art forms. Similarly, it cancels out social differences among local performers in order to

enhance their common cultural background. Several questions must be addressed in order to explore the local mediation of this ideology: How is the Tapasya project run at the local level? How do they manage to contact performers and prepare

Plate 1.2: Poster of Tapasya’s 30th anniversary: Teyyam performer as an emblem of folklore, the Tapasya logo and temple mural paintings. Courtesy of Christine Guillebaud.

stage programmes? As mentioned earlier, Tapasya has entrenched itself in the artistic milieu, mainly classical. Yet, in comparison, it failed in the areas of folk music and low-caste aesthetic forms. For instance, most of the leaders of Tapasya units are members of upper and intermediary castes. As a matter of fact, they do not have any

contact with folk performers, especially with low-caste members. Compared to most classical artists in India, appointed long ago by

government institutions and private academies, folk performers have only recently been institutionalised. And today they are less well known at the public level than classical musicians. Aware of this situation, M. A. Krishnan suggested that I meet Sureshkumar,

president of the organisation at Trichur district level, considered by his colleagues as the most experienced in folklore. Working for the promotion of Keralite arts, Sureshkumar’s profile is distinguishable from the majority of local folklorists. He

is neither a scholar nor an artist. Sureshkumar is assistant manager of the KPL Shudi Company, one of the major coconut oil factories in Kerala. Trained in electrical engineering, he told me that even if a better salary was to be obtained in another country, he would never

leave his motherland. Member of the low caste Ilava, traditionally toddy-tappers, Sureshkumar is son and the grandson of a farming family. This young man, looking like the perfect businessman, talks freely about his attachment to ‘rural life’ and his passion for fieldwork.

Compared to other district presidents and given his social background, Sureshkumar claims to be the one who is the closest to villagers and their cults. His interest in the teyyam ritual led him to stay in north Kerala for a couple of weeks to attend ceremonies and

to meet scholars and specialists of this form, as for instance the historian K. K. N. Kurup. For this 30-year-old, eager to meet folk performers, it is necessary to follow the path of his predecessors: those who studied and documented village cults, and those among

them, who established close links with local performers. We will further develop this vital point: folk art, for the last 60 years, has been the privilege of scholars, most of them leftists. Sureshkumar knows perfectly well all the classical and recent publications

dealing with teyyam, published in Kerala. While claiming to be an authority on folklore, he does not have any real expertise in local arts, though documentation has already been widely distributed on it by folklorists. Contacting local performers for stage programmes

is one thing, yet making them feel the ‘original Hinduism’ of their performance and asking them to convey this to the public is an entirely different matter. Indeed, Sureshkumar’s discourse is often to be taken at a purely theoretical level:

The ultimate aim of Tapasya is the divine art form. When you play music, you become a god as well as the music you are playing. The word for ‘God’ is ‘Bhagavan’, it means ‘the one who has capacities’.10 During the introductory performance, our custom in Tapasya is to touch the artist’s feet as a blessing. This is the reason why. The person who practises

an art form is different from normal people. For normal people, there is a gulf between themselves and God (interview with Sureshkumar, March 2007). This religious concept of art is the core of the association project. In order to unify aesthetical practices in the divine realm, several concepts are used. Sureshkumar explains them: I have organised teyyam demonstrations in Irinjalakuda. But they are only conventional demonstrations: there were (hymns to the deity) tottam, then the (introductory performance of the deity with no ceremonial make-up or dress, in front of the shrine) teyyam vellattam; 11 this is the birth of teyyam, its first shape or baby teyyam. There are different

types of teyyam for (deities) Chamundi, Gulikan, etc. but we only perform the conventional ones. The aim of Tapasya is to combine conventional and unconventional art forms on the same stage and to coordinate known and unknown artists (interview with Sureshkumar, March 2007).

In Sureshkumar’s rhetoric, the word ‘conventional’ refers to any aesthetic form that relies on classical texts. Yet the way he establishes a link with Hindu sources may vary considerably according to the art form. For example, he considers Kathakali drama as conventional; most of the song repertoire has been composed by various poets on the basis of Hindu epics and the Bhagavata Purana. The possession cult teyyam is also recognised as conventional. Some hymns to deities (tottam) and prescriptions (anusthanas) were sometimes written on palm-leaf manuscripts though never based on Puranic texts or classical Hindu epics. Indeed, Sureshkumar bases his on his recent readings in teyyam studies, those conducted by scholars having connections with the Hindutva movement. These publications are a distorted version of stories of local deities compared to the original tottam songs, in order to link the cult to

arguments

10 ‘Bhagavan’ literally means ‘glorious, blessed, Supreme being’. 11 Literally, ‘dance of the Velan’, one of the castes that perform teyyam. See Kurup ([1973] 2000: 45, 61, 97–98).

the Ramayana epic. 12 Conversely, a form such as the solo dance, Ottan tullal, is perceived as unconventional although it is effectively based on classical sources. Compared to other classical dramas composed in Sanskrit (Kutiyattam, Chakkyar kuttu) or in the classical language, manipravalam (Kathakali), such a repertoire is based in Malayalam, the local idiom. Moreover, the stories are satirical and humoristic. These criteria have led Sureshkumar to classify this art form as unconventional. More generally speaking, such filtering does not account for the historical background of each art form nor its local specificities. If they are effectively based on classical sources, they may require a very strict adaptation of the story. If they differ considerably from the sources, as for the teyyam ritual, Tapasya leaders will take it upon themselves to convey to the audience a discourse about their ‘heredity’. The term ‘conventional’ also refers to the way of representing the

deity. For example, a deity (murtti) parading on an elephant’s back is perceived as more conventional than a possession ritual (tullal), a widespread form of cult among low castes, which is usually avoided in the programmes. Performers are often asked to limit their stage

performance to certain parts of the ritual only. Now acquainted with stage programmes, they adapt their performance to this norm and consider it a necessary process for reducing the length of the ritual.13 However, Tapasya leaders never argue about a time limit.

In the case of teyyam, mentioned by Sureshkumar, the entire ritual action is deleted, though it includes precisely all aesthetic and dramaturgic components: dance, gestures, ceremonial make-up, pose of the muti headgear, moving the deity among the devotees,

drum beat, etc. Their objective is to only keep the introductory part that has an explicit textual reference. The formatting of the performance varies from one case to another, yet it is common for Tapasya leaders to invite most performers specialising in aesthetic 12 For instance, the book Let Happiness Enhanced: Folklore Studies(Eriyoru gunam varanam: folklor padhananal) published in 2005 by the essayist Vazhavalappil Govindan Komaram links the story of Sita (heroin of the Ramayana epic) to the legend of the local goddess Muchilot Bhagavati (patron deity of the Vanniya caste), depicting the story of the self-immolation of an outcaste Brahmin girl. 13 For instance, most possession cults performed in villages last several days. In the context of stage performances, a formatting process is usually carried out to fit the ritual into a one or two hour time slot.

forms based explicitly upon episodes taken from Puranic texts. For others, as teyyam ritual specialists, they usually sing their traditional

repertoire on stage, while the programme posters present a discourse about the divine experience they supposedly convey to the public. I will further mention a few examples of such a divergence between performance and discourse. In Sureshkumar’s words, it is also important to offer opportunities

to ‘well-known’ as well as ‘unknown’ performers. This word is used instead of ‘folk artist’, a category that implies a hierarchical conception; in India, classical art forms are generally considered to

be superior to folk arts. Criticising this dichotomy, Tapasya actors are more inclined to say: Classical, folk, I don’t know what it stands for! If a kalakali 14 man is fully dedicated to God, I might say that it is classical. All of them are art forms

and we consider them to be equally important. The (Sanskrit drama) kutiyattam is no bigger than the kalakali. Like tea and buttermilk, each has its own quality.

The term ‘unknown’ does not reproduce an implicit social

hierarchy between performers. It implies another criterion, that is to say,

access to public spaces. For the previous summer’s stage programme organised by Sureshkumar, some musicians were invited to perform

Carnatic music (South Indian classical music) along with Paraya specialists of the harvest ritual kalakali. Before opening the concert, an introduction and explanation were given to the public, in which the Carnatic musicians’ repertoire was introduced by the Sanskrit

word nadopasana (worship of sound). We note that such a term is not widely used by musicians in the contemporary context but that it is more common in ancient musicological treatises. Reference to canonical sources is a way of basing performance on the substrate

of classical Indian culture. Moreover, it states that music is mainly a divine art. Similarly, the kalakali ritual is announced as follows: ‘The performers carry their bull. While carrying it on their shoulders, they themselves become god’s servants. From simple worship, they

become servants’ (extract from a Tapasya programme notice, 2006). 14 This term is the name of the harvest ritual performed by the Paraya caste, one of the lowest social groups in Kerala society. The performance takes place around an edifice representing a bull decorated with fine coconut leaves (kurutolla) that is moved by porters. Songs and dance movements accompany it.

How the public is to interpret the performance has nothing to do with its components, such as the instruments, gestures, accessories

or movements, etc. What happens on stage is not the main focus of attention. According to Tapasya organisers, it is essential to only highlight the spiritual value of the show, and this dimension is seen as a feature of art in general. From this point of view, the

way performers express the musical form and its aesthetics is not considered to be of any import. As Sureshkumar mentioned earlier, the ultimate goal is to annihilate ‘the gulf between god and human beings’. According to the Hindu nationalist conception, all arts are

considered to be gifts from God or ways of accessing him. Such programmes also imply a fall in the importance of the sociological origin of the performers. For example, caste names are rarely mentioned, and the performers are only referred to as

specialists of a certain ritual. In Tapasya, we prefer to talk about ‘kalakali people’ rather than ‘kalakali of Parayas’. This project of combining the arts also tends to erase any regional differences, as Sureshkumar explains: Classical art and folklore, we always combine both. I embrace allof them! In order to prepare the monthly programmes, we prepare a list. Based on that, we select and pay the artists. For the annual festival, we always select people from the opposite region to where the programme is organised. If we are in the north, we choose arts from the south and if

we are in the south we choose northern forms! We introduce arts to the people and popularize it throughout Kerala. We select arts from every area. From Kanyakumari (city located to the south) to the Himalayas, our aim is to spread a unique stream that will emphasise the national feeling (interview with Sureshkumar, March 2007).

The organising members of Tapasya have readily adapted to the recent internationalisation of certain Keralite artistic forms. I refer to Kathakali in particular— and also, on a smaller scale, to the Sanskrit drama Kutiyattam— today widely presented at music and drama festivals throughout Europe, North America and Japan. The main performers and promoters are actually affiliated to Tapasya; even their proximity to the organisation seems more institutional than ideological. Tapasya has established itself as a cultural organisation for the promotion and dissemination of the arts, yet its ideology does not come across on stage. It stands merely at an exegetic level. In addition to the lack of knowledge of certain art forms it promotes, it also has much less influence over the performers

and the public they gather during the festivals. For instance, the internationally known artists of Kathakali and Kutiyattam dramas usually denounce ‘the loss of interest of Keralite people in their own artistic traditions’ and, more generally, in ‘their culture’. Such a discourse echoes the vocabulary used by Tapasya leaders when they claim to promote Indian culture. But this seemingly common platform is rather ambiguous. Performers object to their local arts falling into decline while the organisation blithely promotes the standardisation of culture on behalf of religion. Basing their project on this contradictory situation, members of Tapasya never forget to mention the most internationally popular keralite artists to promote their achievements: ‘we produce them all over the World, we wish to propagate them!’ But what is effectively communicated to the public, in Kerala as elsewhere, calls for a more in-depth analysis. Such an ambiguous situation might similarly be encountered with regard to the cultural activities run by the second artistic organisation, Balagokulam.

traditional

About Artistic Education: Between Informal Learning and Biological Facts The organisation Balagokulam is contemporary to Tapasya and deals with the educational dimension of Sangh artistic activities in Kerala. This institution, today run by M. A. Krishnan at the Kerala state level, is generally presented as the application ‘on the field’ of the editorial lines of the journal Kesari which belongs to the RSS. Until 1975, the column dedicated to the ‘Balagokulam page’ published poems and children songs, quiz games and drawings. Young adults, called ‘elder brothers’ (gopicettam), were also invited to organise their own workshops to educate children. The column content has always been chosen by scholars, education science professionals and by poets specialising in children’s literature, most of them members of the RSS. The poet Kunjunni Master, for instance, is well known for his large collection of children’s poetry printed by the organisation’s publishing house (Balasahiti Prakashan).15 These poems have also recently been widely circulated 15 Teacher at Sri Ramakrishnan High-school in Calicut, Kunjunni collected materials such as proverbs, small stories, folk tales and folk songs, and compiled it all for it to be taught to children. Two volumes have already been published: Nata kutti kavithakal and Kunnunikkavitakal.

by local private record companies. Balagokulam has, consequently, grown into an autonomous organisation specialising in cultural education. This project completes Tapasya’s promotional activities, sharing a common aim: ‘to guarantee the propagation of literature and cultural tradition’. The leaders of Balagokulam often insist on the novelty of their educative activities, said to be spread in a more informal way compared to other organisations belonging to the RSS.16 They even claim to provide a new learning process that offers a common platform for boys and girls alike. Setting up a Balagokulam unit consists in regrouping children from 5–15 years old, who live in the same neighbourhood for educative and leisure-time activities.17 A ‘protector’ (raksadhikari) or tutor gets in touch with their parents and organises weekly 90-minute classes on fixed dates, usually Sunday mornings. Sessions devoted to children take place at the home of a ‘patron’, usually the parent of a participant or a neighbour with enough room to cater for about 20 persons. The raksadhikari is in charge of the content of the training sessions. He generally prepares his courses using a wide selection of printed material (the Bhagavad

educational

16 On the one hand, they attempt to distinguish themselves from paramilitary organisations (sakhas) mainly focused on discipline and body training. On the other hand, they differ from the academic teaching of Sangh Parivar independent schools (called Bharatiya Vidya Niketam in Kerala). 17 In addition to artistic and literary training, children take part in ‘study tours’ in different Hindu temples (for example, the Krishna temple in Guruvayur) and other ‘historical places, for creating awareness about (our) culture and history’ (balagokulam.net, accessed 17 February 2011). According to Hindu nationalists, these tours are held in defiance of outings organised by state schools and considered as ‘stereotypes’. Balagokulam also takes part in the celebration of different Hindu ceremonial festivals such as the Rakshabhandan utsav (festival) for promoting ‘harmony, love and brotherhood’, the guru puja or acharya puja for ‘inculcating the habit of respecting the elders’ and the Vishu gramotsav where children perform stage programmes in order ‘to create national awareness through children among families, and through such families in the whole village and the nation at large’ (ibid.). Finally, Balagokulam is involved in the annual Krishna birthday festival, called Srikrishnajayanti; this deity is considered to be the ‘ideal hero’ of the organisation. For one day, thousands of children standing on colourfully decorated floats, display pictures of the deity in a procession (shobhayatra) accompanied by devotional songs (bhajans). According to M. A. Krishnan, the extent of processions in Kerala cities, especially in the capital Trivandrum, has led the Kerala government to declare this day a public holiday.

Gita, bhajans, stories, games, quizzes, proverbs etc.) published by the organisation. The latter ascertains that he has the required teaching skills. As M. A. Krishnan points out: ‘he has to be able to get the children into a listening mood. We encourage him and give classes and training.’ During sessions, an adolescent or a young student, called ‘the children’s friend’ (balamitram), is chosen as the group leader and works regularly with the tutor. In encouraging young students to assume this responsibility, the association tries to promote a relationship as anti-hierarchical as possible and in which playing and fun are encouraged. Quoting a raksadhikari teacher: Children have to develop, not merely through formal teaching. We want to bring out what they know. It has to be informal. Thus, awareness grows and children can take a part. Balagokulam has been created to develop their interests and knowledge. This is very important. Informal

teaching is best. It establishes ideas, the prestige of the Nation in the minds of children. Today, there are around 1,700 balagokulam units in Kerala. 18 In some of these units children have a weekly session of ‘cultural training’ in orphanages run by the Seva Bharati (Service of India), a charitable Sangh institution widespread throughout India. These units, which came about mainly by targeting a specific population composed of orphans and destitute children, very rarely cater to other children. Another part of these units has been set up through networking among parents, students and children living in the same area. In this context, participants are for the most part not a member of other organisations run by Sangh Parivar, a situation that allows a renewed form of recruitment. A Balagokulam session always starts by ceremoniously placing a statuette of Krishna, considered to be the ‘ideal hero’ of the organisation. The children, sitting in rows, are asked to concentrate. The very first minutes are devoted to reciting prayers, for instance the ‘sun salutation’ (surya namaskaram), and then to the reading of 18 The organisation has recently extended its branches beyond the Kerala border, to Delhi in particular and to the USA. See the website of the American branch: balagokulam.org (accessed 17 February 2011). Several educative programmes can be downloaded by teachers. Video clips of balagokulam training classes organised by Indian families in the USA are available on the well-known Youtube website.

Sanskrit verses (slokas) from the Bhagavad Gita or the Puranas. The children are required to improve their memories, with the group leader (balamitram) often asking them to copy lines of verse into their personal notebook. The leader himself does not always know these textual excerpts by heart, but leads the start of the session with the help of a teaching manual entitled Plan of Learning: A Handbook for the Raksadhikaris’ (Pathyapaddhati) published by the organisation. It consists of a 100 pages presenting a large selection of texts from the Krishna epic, bhajans, excerpts of masterpieces written by classical poets (such as Ezhtutachan and Vallathol), folk poetry for children (natan kuttikavitakal), shorts stories by the poet Kunjunni, a Malayalam alphabet chart, the national anthem ‘Vande mataram’, and a concluding verse in Sanskrit ‘Let everyone be happy!’ (sarvepi sukhinah santhu) recited as a final blessing (mangalaslokam).19 Apart from this sloka, which is imposed by the organisers for all Balagokulam sessions, the group leader and the tutor are entirely free to conduct any other educative activities according to their own wishes and artistic skills. The first part of the session is generally devoted to prayers, recitations, songs and poetry. The second part of the meeting is given over to games and/or group dances. In various quarters of the these activities are rather like any usual playtime sessions in Keralite schools, slightly adapted for the given purpose, rather than deep ideological programmes intended to indoctrinate children. As observed in many Balagokulam sessions, most of the games played are quite ordinary. One teacher mentioned that the organisation often relies on ‘what children already know’. For instance, the equivalent of the English game ‘Simon Says’ is very popular among children in Kerala. Balagokulam teachers tend to adapt some of itsrules to their own educative principles. Usually, one child (game master) tells the others what they must do with a phrase beginning with ‘Simon says’.20 Here, the name of the leader is used instead of ‘Simon’ and the type of commands limited to three types of action: raising your arms above your head (‘Heaven!’ akasa), putting your arms in a

district,

19 Prayer from the Upanishads. In this context of enunciation, the aim is to reach universality. 20 If Simon says ‘Simon says jump!’, the players must jump (players who do not jump are out). However, if Simon says simply ‘Jump’, without first saying ‘Simon says’, players do not jump; those who do jump are out.

46

Christine Guillebaud

horizontal position ('Earth!' bhumi) and placing your arms along your body ('Hell!' pattalam). These Sanskrit concepts denote the three divisions ('worlds' lokam) of the universe in Hindu cosmology. By modifying the content of the game's commands, educationists artificially try to inculcate Hindu values in children. However, their discourse does not differentiate between the children's cognitive experience (their ability to distinguish between valid and invalid commands) and the effective process of communicating Sanskrit concepts and their moral background. The explanation given by a tutor speaks for itself: The 'three worlds' game strengthens the memory, just like learning left and right. If you want to reach heaven, you have to understand the right way ... if you want to guide students towards good things; there is advice in the words. It is just like when you are asleep and suddenly you hear 'fire'! You jump, don't you? Playing the game of the 'three worlds', if you say 'heaven' (akasa) for gods, 'earth' (bhumi) for human beings and 'hell' (pattalam) for ghosts, it creates an awareness of places and what you should do. It makes you aware of the right things.

The most striking aspect ofBalagokulam ideology is the difference between the discourse on what is taught and the actual practices. The ideological image of children's actions is often greater than the actions themselves, something we have already acknowledged in performances staged by the Tapasya organisation. In Balagokulam, activities are aimed at propagating moral values and rules of behaviour that children are supposed to pass on from the training sessions to the family circle. This theory about the propagation of ideas considers the basic learning process along two successive lines, first from children to adults, then from adults to society at large. The organisation's website clearly conveys the expected impact on Indian society: Families will observe the following practices: plant a 'tulasi' 21 in front of the house; will not consume beef and preferably adopt the vegetarian diet; establish 'om' in their house; receive all guests and visitors with reverence pranam, offer a seat and treat them with due respect; install a deity in the house; pray together once a day after switching off the 21 Plant generally placed in the courtyard of a house and used for therapeutic purposes. It is widely considered as the holy place of Lakshmi, the goddess of prosperity.

TV/radio; when going out, each member will inform the others of where he/she intends to go and obtain their consent; the whole family shall take meals together at least once a week, if not every day, with meals being taken after (reciting) Bhojana mantra; donate in kind or cash for charitable work danam (extracts from the website balagokulam.net,

accessed 23 December 2010). These expectations are far from what happens in reality. Is there any real connection between a game of ‘Simon Says’ and the fact that one will adopt a vegetarian diet, or settle a Hindu deity at home? As a matter of fact, children take part in the activities offered to them, but it is still difficult to evaluate their role in the cultural mediation of Hindu values in the family circle. More broadly speaking, the organisation’s educative programmes are based on a rather caricatural conception of what should be the learning process as well as a fundamentally anti-sociological conception of culture.

Plate 1.3: Front cover of the book Malayalam Songs: Selection of Folk Songs (Malayalappattukal. Terannatutta natanpattukal) by Gopi Putukode. All rights reserved. Courtesy of Christine Guillebaud.

The book entitled ‘Malayalam Songs. Selection of Folk Songs’ (Malayalappattukal. Terannatutta natanpattukal) is rather explicit. As a teaching tool for group leaders of Balagokulam, this was composed by Gopi Putukode, Director of the Teacher Education Training Department in Calicut University. As former secretary of the Balagokulam organisation and current vice-president, he is the author of a PhD dissertation which focuses on children’s literature in Malayalam. Hence, this scholar has published this short 64-page illustrated essay dedicated to children. He is also the author of various articles about folklore in Kerala in which he exposes his own conception of culture. Gopi Putukode sums up some of its features:

compilation

The basis of a human being is folklore. We cannot change fundamental forms. Changing society cannot be interpreted; folklore always keeps its specificities. If you study tribes or groups, you can start with the songs and then dig deeper. We must carry out research; defend and

protect our culture. Folk songs are the fundamentals of culture. Balagokulam preserves our cultural bases in Kerala. That’s why I have written this book, in order to preserve the cultural heritage through children. Balagokulam catches them at a young age because they don’t know these facts. We can preserve the basic culture and through it what is fundamental to the nation. There are so many languages in folklore,

different ways of presenting it, yet the ideas are the same. They reflect the basic culture of any human being. Their basic needs are the same: food, dress, agriculture, festivals, and biological needs. It also reflects the basic singing and musical talents. There is a saying: ‘All living beings have a sort of song, even a donkey.’ Even a donkey can sing or draw a painting, make a picture and cook! (even the stupidest man can do it!).

Folklore represents basic skills. Through this learning, children can achieve the specificities of society. According to Putukode, folklore might be considered a natural fact, almost a biological skill. ‘Fundamental culture’ is perceived as activity common to all human beings, thereby erasing the sociological settings, for example, caste or regional differences. The book layout and the criterion used for song indexation have been conceived to reflect such a view. As described earlier for Tapasya activities, song items are never referred to by the name of the performers’ caste, but designated by a generic term referring to the art form or a purely invented name summing up the main contents of the song. According to him, one has to take care not to ‘cause conflicts among

people’ so that they will ‘work together’. In the book, songs are numbered and classified by subject matter following an ideological progression, giving a biological relationship between the vegetal world, animal life, the family structure and artistic forms. Indeed, the very first songs deal with agriculture, from preparing the paddy field to the rice-grinding stage. Then a series of songs presents the different vegetables, flowers, animals and birds, as well as the tribes and castes. According to this naturalist view, the flora, fauna and social groups are part of a unique line of living beings. Further in the book, one can read the songs about the family (for instance, the ‘Grand-mother Song’), then those introducing the different folk arts as a set of domestic practices. Such a way of introducing songs tends to establish continuity between the natural environment, the family circle and ritual practices, considered to be the very core of the model for reshaping the whole of society. This way of naturalising family and artistic forms is also a means of stating that groups and castes are not relevant to the general process of learning songs. They would be considered to be natural basic skills shared by any living being. Such a collection of songs is later used as educative material for the group leaders of Balagokulam sessions. However, the book does not give any practical instructions concerning the way of the written texts, in terms of tune or rhythm. It presents teachers with the difficult task of conveying its contents. Indeed, how can they teach songs that most of the time they have never heard before? How might a kalakali song be performed in a teaching if the group leader has never attended such a ritual nor met a specialist of this repertoire, member of the Paraya caste? From the time a song is compiled to the effective dissemination of its the performative aspect has been entirely forgotten, retaining only the text as a reference for teaching. Asked to comment on this observation, Putukode simply suggested:

performing context content,

Children find their own tune for each song! It is the special characteristic of folklore! Ideas are most important. A tune is nothing. When one reproduces a CD, it will create a condition, just like a novel when adapted to cinema. We see the hero from a single point of view. It is not

good at all because creativity is limited. Individuals’ thinking capacity is lessened. That’s my view as an educationist. We have to let them [the children] imagine things in their own way. The written forms always help us to think in our own way, it creates new forms!

As observed in the Balagokulam sessions, the group leader never asks the children to create new tunes for the songs. Most of the time, he usually teaches song material that he has previously learned or listened to on some occasion: in fact, any of the folk songs published in the book! Generally speaking, the volume does not attract his attention during the session and he prefers to focus the children’s attention on another style of singing, for instance the bhajans, the only musical genre that has been recorded on CD by the organisation’s publishing house.22 Finally, a very small number of folk songs are effectively performed during the sessions. Putukode’s discourse forsakes performance in order to enhance

the texts. Musical aesthetics is considered to be a simple adaptation of the written sources and never as an expressive language itself. Moreover, the authors of compilations have, so to speak, rarely been in touch with the original performers. Putukode himself told me that he aimed to make a kind of recollection from famous Keralite folklorists’ ‘old editions’. Such a statement reveals the actual difficulty of the Hindu nationalists’ task of spreading their ideology by merely promoting art. In folk art, in particular, local folklore experts appointed by Keralite universities have been fieldwork for the last 60 years. Working closely with the performers themselves, their research has been well documented and provides a lot of ethnographic data that helps the reader to contextualise the songs. 23 Apart from their academic productions, one of the main priorities is to promote musical performances (and performers) through festivals and by broadcasting audio and video productions. We will further show that their conception of culture as compared to Hindu nationalists is more explicitly focused on the notion of performance and not reduced to a collection of texts. Moreover, the cultural policy adopted by the Kerala government strongly relies on those intellectuals who take an active part in the expansion of their promotional activities. I will now demonstrate

conducting

22 The album, entitled ‘Nandalala. Sri krishnan ganannal’ is the only CD published by the organisation. The number of printed books is comparatively much higher, amounting to about 50. 23 For an annotated bibliography about oral literature, see Tarabout (1996). For a complete descriptive bibliography of folklore in Kerala, see Payyanad (2004) and Namboodiri (2004), presenting more than 600 references, abstracts and thematic indexes.

how the Kerala government, nearly 20 years before the emergence of Hindu nationalist organisations, entrenched other values (as well as other methods) through the promotion of the arts in this region.

‘Regional’ Nationalism: The Kerala Government's Cultural Policy and its Local Mediations In Kerala, music and the performing arts are firmly rooted in caste society and cause strong hierarchical splits in terms of religions24 and gender relations. They are indeed powerful media for shaping local identities. For the government, traditionally communist,25 the aim is to promote a sort of ‘Keralite’ cultural identity by spreading

social equality values. In this ideology, the performing arts are not only considered through their song texts but rather as sensitive and cognitive experiences through which performers and their audience would celebrate the common history of their region and culture. Keralite Marxists often say that a political speech does not reach people as effectively as a sensitive, aural, kinetic and visual

experience. Thus, their goal is to encourage artistic practices in their collective, aesthetic and emotional dimension. Unlike the activities run by Hindu nationalists, the government’s cultural policy has succeeded in creating new artistic spaces and in diffusing en masse numerous music and dance practices. We will highlight two areas in such a policy: first, the urban folklore festivals for promoting music

and the performing arts in the public sphere; and second, artistic competitions which attempt to renew and extend the aesthetic forms to pupils of public high schools.26 24 The population of Kerala is around 56 per cent Hindu, 24 per cent Muslim and 20 per cent Christian. 25 Marxists have headed the coalition government alongside other parties and alternatively with the Congress. On the birth of the Communist Party in Kerala, see Jeffrey (1978). For an account of the 1965 Elections, see Gough (1967). 26 The third area examined by the government’s policy is national radio (All India Radio [AIR]) and the TV broadcasting network (Doordarshan) run by central government in New Delhi. However, the programmes are fully assigned to local stations. Because of such autonomy, AIR stations in Kerala have become the most important institutions for broadcasting and promoting local music in this region, which is a very unusual situation in India. For a detailed ethnographic account of the radio production line and aesthetic criteria chosen, see Guillebaud (2008: 119–55).

Performing Culture on Stage: The Example of Folklore Festivals Since 1957, several ‘folk arts’ festivals (natan kala utsavam) have been organised in the main cities. Groups of musicians and dancers are appointed from all over the state and are paid for their stage performances that target urban audiences invited to ‘rediscover’ their cultural heritage (Tarabout 2005). These festivals are mainly held during the Onam27 celebrations, the national feast in Kerala, and have significantly grown apart over recent years. Such diversification has enabled local aesthetic practices to be fully adapted to the public sphere. For instance, the last major festival entitled ‘Dance’ (Attam) held in Trichur, the cultural capital of Kerala, testifies to the importance of those events. For a week, it gathered several hundreds of musicians, dancers

and ritual performers from all over Kerala. Everyday, over a 14-hour period, groups were presented one after the other on an open-air stage, accompanied by short announcements giving the name of the aesthetic form, the caste or tribe specialists and their group leader. Conferences were held and papers delivered twice a day in a small tent set up near the main stage. Participants were specialists of different art forms, such as literature, poetry, drama, music and folklore studies. Some issues focused on specific cultural forms; for instance, different goddess rituals such as mudiyettu and patayani, and possession cults such as teyyam. Others, regarding Kerala folk arts in general, or current economic, social and environmental issues, such as the preservation of ecosystems and local knowledge, natural resource management, social forums, and the MGO were addressed during debates. The way to gather performers and scholars together is rather

characteristic of such events. Performances mainly target city dwellers and foreign tourists yet, in fact, the public is mostly made up of the intellectual and artistic elite, such as directors of art academies, drama school teachers, novelists, poets, classical and contemporary

27 Onam (full name Tiruvonam) is a ‘constellation’ (naksatra), in fact a term applied to lunar mansions (Gilles Tarabout, personal communication, 2008). Initially a Hindu ritual, the festival celebrates the mythological King Mahabali whose reign is associated with prosperity. The date of the feast is calculated according to the lunar mansions and takes place during the solar month of the ‘Lion’ (Cinnam, mid-August/mid-September).

artists, folklorists, teachers and college students. Other persons attending the festivals are generally members of the performers’ families or some of their neighbours. As for tourists, finding out about access to these events is tricky since any communication materials (posters, press releases and fliers) are written exclusively in Malayalam, the official language. According to the president of the Kerala branch of Sangeet Natak Akademi, the national organisation for the promotion of drama and performing arts in India, such festivals lead to the revitalisation of so-called ‘old’ forms, considered to be the cultural roots of the main classical arts in Kerala: We organise that because people don’t have the opportunity to perform for this type of audience. Folk is the root of classical arts. We shall never forget it. Young generations have to know how our beautiful classical art forms came about. Sangeet Natak Akademi mainly promotes classical

arts but this has to change!

Given such an ideology, the main point is to create a cultural unity gathering different Keralite arts. Yet unlike Hindu nationalists, the adopted criteria are not concerned with the ‘divine’ dimensions of practices. Instead, it consists in establishing a cultural link between ‘folklore’, firmly fixed in peasant society and representative of castes and low-status populations, and the field of ‘classical’ arts, comparatively more urban and traditionally performed among the upper-caste milieu. In this conception, a generic and hierarchical relationship is established between folklore and classical cultures. The latter is considered to be better achieved, synthesising folk arts aesthetic resources and having developed a supposedly superior level of complexity. Such an evolutionist view, in which the historical and ideological background has been analysed by several authors in contemporary India,28 constitutes the first type of discourse on folklore festivals. Second, the artistic elite attending the public, in particular drama directors and professors, consider stage performances to be artistic resources liable to inspire contemporary creation. Whereas the Tapasya organisation aimed at associating forms of folk art with ancient classical sources, some government festival organisers intend to

intermediary

28 See note 6.

favour connections between local folklore and modern arts. According to V. Vasudevan Pillai, former director of the School of Drama in Kerala, modern theatre has failed to incorporate aesthetic elements

of folk drama. However, he notes that such festivals have changed the current creation process: ‘Opportunities for students of modern theatre to interact with folk theatre were rare compared to today. The introduction of folk elements has to be a natural process, spontaneously occurring in the mind of the director. It should not be a willful act’ (The Indian Express, 25 February 2007). Hence, not only

do theatre artists, but also modern painters and dancers now a large part of the festival audience and they all seek to absorb local folklore specificities by closer contact via live performances and to nourish their creations from this experience.29

constitute

Finally, a number of folklorists, scholars or folk music collectors hold a very central position during festivals, not only among the

public but also upstream. As a matter of fact, local folklorists take part in government festivals as the main mediators between the organising institutions and performers: they contact troupes, their travel arrangements, prepare the programme notices,

organise

and even announce into the microphone the forms performed on stage. This contrast with Hindu nationalists is also noteworthy.

We have mentioned how Tapasya leaders have encountered great difficulties in contacting folk performers for organising their own programmes. Indeed, most of them do not carry out fieldwork. Similarly, Balagokulam educationists are also forced to follow the path of leftist folklorists, by recollecting previously published song texts and to adapt a few of them to their own educational

goals. During government festivals, such as Attam, there were folklorists from all over Kerala and lecturers, and students from the main university folklore departments took it upon themselves to make announcements. Given the huge number of groups and the movement of performers going back and forth from the stage, this coordination work was crucial. However, because most programme

notices were not prepared beforehand, this task was done by of folklore from Calicut University. Placed near the stage, they would frequently provide some references to a unique document, the opus Folk Arts Directory. Natoti drsyakalasucika (1978), from

students

which they would copy ethnographic data for each performance, reproducing the style of early 20th-century British compilations. 29 For examples of contemporary creations including folk components, see, in particular, the drama productions of the director Kavalam Narayana Panicker.

Unlike the stage programmes organised by the Hindu nationalist organisation Tapasya, government festivals focus exclusively on folk and tribal arts and do not attempt to unify their heterogeneous contents, or to convey a ‘divine’ feeling. The aim is, on the contrary, to show the extreme diversity of regional cults and art forms, what they consider to be the true criterion of the ‘richness’ of local heritage. Parallel to this, both methods differ considerably in the way they stage performances. Tapasya organisers usually ask to cut out certain aesthetic components from their ritual in order to keep only the part with an explicit textual reference. During government festivals, it is not rare for each form to be broken down into different ‘items’ and performed successively by the same musicians and presented as distinct art forms. This calls to mind, for example, the domestic snake deities ritual (pampin tullal ‘shaking of snakes’), performed in Kerala by the caste specialists, Pulluvan. Usually conducted over a period of several nights, it is staged under three different names as ‘song and ritual drawing’ (kalam eluttu pattu), ‘snake songs’ (naga pattu) and ‘swirling of flame’ (tiriyuliccil), yet it corresponds to successive stages in a single ritual. Moreover, the same performers were presented three times in a row, announced each time as specialists of ‘naga worship’. Indeed, during this type of festival, the heterogeneity of Keralite folk practices is literally enhanced. Fragmenting aesthetic forms on stage impresses the public by its mere profusion. The plurality of genres, the performers’ castes and social groups are the main components explicitly displayed on stage and are seen as a way of conveying to the public the ‘greatness’ of Keralite regional culture. We shall finally note that nowadays government festivals gather together performing groups of very different status. The great majority of guest troupes are mainly made up of musicians used to performing together in their villages, or in a familial context. Other formations have recently emerged under the impetus of some folklorists, those who are politically involved. Here I mean ‘folklore troupes’, formed under the commitment of local scholars and most often from government cultural networks. One remarkable fact is that the field of research in Kerala is closely linked to culture, with scholars often accepting the title of ‘troupe director’ or festival organiser as part of their academic activities (see also Tarabout 2003). For these folklorists, mainly leftists, the constitution of folklore troupes is considered to be an alternative strategy in preserving local music. As active Marxist activists or as

performers

promoting

simple sympathisers of the ‘proletarian’ cause, they exclusively work with singers and instrument specialists from lower castes, mainly landless agricultural workers and leather workers, Paraya and, more recently, with tribal groups.30 These troupes now specialise in stage performances during government folklore festivals, but also to a larger extent in celebrations organised in neighbourhoods by town administrations, sport and art clubs with financial backing from private companies such as banks, jewellers or clothes vendors for local feast days. The public is almost exclusively made up of local inhabitants and comparatively few scholars or artists; this, consequently, leads to reaching a wider audience in the long term. For the troupe director, the aim is to promote the whole of Kerala ‘folk music’ (natan pattu), through the knowledge of a particular caste— the Parayas. According to this ideology, the status of musicians (the lowest level of the social hierarchy) is the criterion implicitly chosen to emblematically represent all Kerala folklore. By contrast, Hindu nationalist organisations claim to gather ‘known’ and ‘unknown’ artists, rejecting the terms ‘classical’ and ‘folk’ in order to establish a non-hierarchical approach to art forms and performers. Finally, leftists and Hindu nationalists significantly clash the way they conceive the process of conveying art. Indeed, I encountered the fact that Tapasya organisation did not produce any discourse on artistic education. This area is exclusively covered by a separate association (Balagokulam) which mainly conceives the transmission of art through manuals, most of the time without including original performers in the process. Conversely, local folklorists notably use festival platforms to promote young Paraya troupes, without announcing their particular status to the public. As a matter of fact, in Kerala, the number of young music troupes has considerably grown over the last three years, with Paraya performers imitating the ‘model’ invented by folklorists. These new groups are mainly made up of the same caste’s younger generation, now educated and with jobs other than the traditional activities of farming or leather working. As semi-professional musicians, they willingly introduce themselves as ‘traditional artists’ and their

regarding

30 These so-called ‘tribal’ populations mainly settle in the mountain areas of the Idukki District and Wayanad District.

address to the public is often didactic, exposing for instance the main components of their ritual (costumes, song lyrics, instruments,

etc.) and the cultural background to their music.31 Today, this of self-promoting caste knowledge is certainly on the rise. It particularly relies on cultural policy events held by the

phenomenon government, while creating new spaces for performances, as especially shown by the increasing number of music albums and VCDs recorded by these troupes and published by various private companies. The circulation of recordings, mainly in educative and artistic circles

at present, will surely guarantee wider dissemination of low-caste

knowledge beyond traditional village frontiers. A Mass Transmission of Arts: The Government ‘Youth Festival’ Apart from the folklore festivals, the second area of the government cultural policy deals with the learning process of local arts. Since 1960, major competitions called Kerala State Youth Festival (renamed in

2006 School Kalotsvam/School Arts Festival), have been organised in public high schools and colleges. While Hindu nationalists have chosen to create small educative units (balagokulam) within the family circle, for the last 50 years youth festivals have led to a mass

education project, gathering several thousand students at these events every year.32 Students are invited to form troupes and to compete in stage performances on behalf of their school or district.

31 The singer Ramesh, leader of the group Karintalakuttam, is emblematic of such a process of reflexivity, the driving force behind these groups’ musical activity. Member of the Paraya caste and a tailor, he studied for a few years at the School of Drama (Trichur) and is preparing for a Master’s degree in Folklore Studies, focusing on Paraya folk arts. 32 In 2005 the festival, held in Calicut, gathered nearly 3,000 students from 25 high-schools, pre-selected in their respective districts among 1,565 public schools (The Hindu, 11 December 2005). In 2006, the number of participants grew to 5,000 students (46th School Art Festival held in Cochin) (The Hindu, 20 January 2006). It reached a record level of 6,000 participants in 2008 (48th Kerala State School Arts Festival held in Kollam), which competed in 16 venues. A budget of ‘28.87 lakh was allocated to its organisation and ‘21 lakh for the cash prizes (The Hindu, 9 January 2008).

A committee of carefully selected experts is in charge of evaluating the troupes and awarding honorific titles and trophies. This

committee

is generally composed of artists and professors, members of the main government institutions such as Sangeet Natak Akademi or Kalamandalam Kerala State Academy of Fine Arts. Pre-selected during district competitions, enthusiastic students

reach the venues often with a single thought in mind: to excel and win. What are the stakes involved in a youth festival prize? The highest step on the podium leads to the Kalapratibha title (literally ‘intelligent in art’) for the best boy and Kalatilakam title ‘“forehead

mark/head of art’) for the best girl. The typical profile of these two winners: young people able to excel in five musical forms and/or dances, prodigies in whom Kerala society acknowledges their genius to embody the ‘cultural heritage’ of their region. Many other

students achieve satisfaction by cumulating as many ‘A’ grades as possible in different aesthetic practices. Finally, contestants can assess their performance in their annual school report. As a matter of fact, artistic and academic emulation goes hand in hand: students’ marks

are not only honorific, but really weigh in the balance regarding the future career of these students. Reaching the highest step of the podium is indeed the key to enrolling on an artistic course at university, but also to pursuing a prestigious career as doctor or

engineer. The system today is so strict that public opinion has often compared the evaluation rules for competing in youth festivals to quotas for university admission.33 In fact, such competitions encourage the creation of a new transmission of aesthetic forms rather than the promotion of local specialists in music and dance. The learning process takes place during school time. It generates a large diffusion of local and a shift in the performance’s locus from the family (and neighbourhood) context to the public sphere. Whatever their caste or religion, students learn music and dance forms collectively

knowledge

33 In 2006, the individual titles of Kalaprathiba and Kalatilakam were officially scrapped and replaced by a generalised system of marks. The competition manual gave rise to strong protests from the public opinion denouncing in particular an ‘unhealthy’ competitive spirit, conflicts between parents and teachers, financial inequalities and corruption practices toward the jury by the most influential families.

while being initiated into a wide range of unexpected performance situations.34 New aesthetic initiatives are promoted by the judges, while among participants it creates a collective imagination of social reform in terms of caste equality, religions and gender. The aim is to allow a new social category to emerge— the youth— an alternative to the caste (or religion) identity, considered in this process as the main driving force behind national culture. The festival thus participates in renewing these forms, at as well as aesthetic levels, a principle on which the has built its policy of ‘preserving’ music. As noted by the Minister of Education, M. A. Baby, in his inaugural address at the 2008 edition: ‘these festivals should help in preserving folk art forms and introducing them to the new generation’ (The Hindu, 11 January 2008). Quoting Chief Minister V. S. Achuthanandan, such an event has to be considered as ‘a reflection of Kerala’s great cultural tradition’ (The Hindu, 15 January 2008). Modification and innovation in attempting better preservation: such a sentence might be considered the motto of this national policy event. Considered to be a particular way of heritage preservation, this type of competition is based on evaluating performances not in terms of ‘authenticity’, but according to their potential degree of transformation. This innovation process, the driving force behind the learning process, sustains aesthetic forms in the long term.

competition

sociological government

Due to the popularity of school competitions and growing

enthusiasm among the young, numerous private record and VCD companies have started to sell albums of youth festival live and, more recently, of private recording sessions. Future participants buy these productions as new learning and training materials or as new inspiration for their choreographies. It is not rare for these albums to be also used as pedagogical materials in the context of Balagokulam sessions organised by Hindu nationalists! Young Balagokulam group leaders are often free to act according to their own musical tastes. As a matter of fact, they have mostly

performances

34 For instance, it is quite common for temple instrumental music, traditionally played in Kerala by specialists of the Ampalavasi caste (‘temple inhabitants, servants’), to be performed during the competition by young Hindus from other castes, and even by Muslims and Christians. During such events, girls also master several temple instruments at a high technical level, whereas in the past they were exclusively reserved for masculine and religious practices.

acquired their artistic knowledge during government school festivals. Today, artistic competitions are particularly well established in school circles in Kerala. In the political arena, objectives are now directed towards diffusion at an international level. The aim in the near future is to achieve a better consolidation of the competition by grouping schools at a fixed date, launching an official website with a permanent logo and finally, by publishing a historical review of the festival. Hence, the government of Kerala sees the internationalisation of the festival as the main way of promoting Kerala culture abroad and as a form of resistance to the globalisation process.35

Conclusion Wishing to explore the idea of local mediation of the Hindutva movement in Kerala, I have mainly focused on promoting art forms. Indeed, artistic practices have been widely covered by the regional state cultural policy nearly 20 years before the advent of Hindu nationalist organisations. Faced with the powerful cultural entrenchment of their opponents, Hindu nationalists have been compelled to base part of their activities on what had already been achieved in terms of documentation and education. However, I have also highlighted their very contrasting methods as well as the fundamental discrepancies in how they conceive national culture. The number of Hindu nationalist organisations has grown thanks to the ambiguous relationship they have cultivated with local performers and children, while spreading a discourse based on cultural unification which goes beyond the effective involvement of the people targeted. Government cultural activities have been conducted with the local mediation of folklorists and have spread immensely among local performers and students. The involvement of participants in such events is based on performance, that is to say, 35 As recently expressed by Kerala Chief Minister V. S. Achuthanandan in his inaugural speech at the festival in 2008: ‘the onslaught of the globalisation culture will not only harm our rich cultural traditions but also convert us into mere spectators of that culture (...) globalisation was attempting to convert us from producers into consumers. Mimicry and cinematic dances were part of the globalisation culture and these would not do any thing good to our cultural tradition (...) The schools’ arts festival played a big role in saving us from globalisation’ (The Hindu, 15 January 2008).

the cognitive, emotional and physical experience it implies. Indeed, while being developed according to an imagined social equality, this

regional nationalism, at the same time, generates new gender, caste and religious claims.

References Ashley, W. 1993. ‘ Recodings: Ritual, Theatre, and Political Display in Kerala State, South India’, Ph. D. dissertation. New York: NewYork University. Bakhle, Janaki. 2005. Two Men and Music: Nationalism in the Making of an Indian Classical Tradition. Delhi: Permanent Black. Folk Arts Directory. Natoti drsyakalasucika (1978) 1986. Trichur: Kerala Sangeeta Nataka Akademi. Gough, Kathleen. 1967. ‘ Kerala Politics and the 1965 Elections’,International Journal of Comparative Sociology, 8 (55): 55–88. Guha-Thakurta, Tapati. 2004. Monuments, Objects, Histories, Institutions of Art in Colonial and Postcolonial India . New York: Columbia University Press. Guillebaud, Christine. 2008. Le chant des serpents. Musiciens itinérants du Kerala. Paris: CNRS Editions. ———. 2010. ‘ Musique’, in Frédéric Landy, Samuel Berthet, Isabelle Milbert, Joel Ruet, Gilles Tarabout and Max-Jean Zins (eds), Dictionnaire de l’Inde contemporaine. Paris: Armand Collin . Hansen, Thomas Blom . 1999. The Saffron Wave: Democracy and Hindu Nationalism in Modern India. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Jaffrelot, Christophe (ed.). 2005. The Sangh Parivar: A Reader. Oxford University Press. Jeffrey, Robin. 1978. ‘ Matriliny, Marxism, and the Birth of the Communist Party in Kerala, 1930–1940’, The Journal of Asian Studies, 38 (1): 77–98. Kothari, Sunil. 1989. Kathak: Indian Classical Dance Art. New Delhi: Abhinav Publication. Kunjan , Pillai S. 1981. ‘ Onam. Kerala’s Festival of Peace and Prosperity ’, Malayalam Literary Survey, 5 (3–4): 3–6. Kurup, A. M. 1966. ‘Onam: A Festival of Kerala’, Census 1961, vol. I: Monograph Series, Part VII-B2. New Delhi. Kurup, K. K. N. (1973) 2000. The Cult of Teyyam and Hero Worship in Kerala. Calicut University: Center for Folklore Studies. ———. 1998. Nationalism and Social Change: The Role of Malayalam Literature. Trichur: Kerala Sahitya Academy. Marar, T. R. K. 1979. ‘ Onam: The National Festival of Kerala’, Malayalam Literary Survey, 3 (3): 2–10. Mitter, Partha. 1994. Art and Nationalism in Colonial India (1850–1922), Occidental Orientations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2004. Vivaranatmaka folklor granthanuci (Descriptive Bibliography of Folklore). Kottayam: Current Books.

Payyanad, Raghavan. 1999. Ideology, Politics and Folklore . Payyanur: FFM Publications, Folklore Fellows of Malabar. ———. 2004. Samksipta vivaranatmaka malayalam folklor granthanuci (Annoted Bibliography of Folklore). Trivandrum: Folklore Society of Indian Languages. Schultz, Anna. 2002. ‘ Hindu Nationalism, Music, and Embodiment in Marathi Rashtriya Kirtan’, Ethnomusicology, 46 (2): 307–22. ———. 2008. ‘ The Collision of Genres and Collusion of Participants: Marathi Rashtriya Kirtan and the Communication of Hindu Nationalism’, Ethnomusicology, 52 (1): 31–50. Srinivasan, Amrit. 1983. ‘ The Hindu Temple-Dancer: Prostitute or Nun? ’ Cambridge Anthropology, 8 (1): 73–99. Subramaniam, Lakshmi. 2006. From the Tanjore Court to the Madras Music Academy: A Social History of Music in South India . New Delhi : Oxford University Press. Tarabout, Gilles 1996. ‘ Littérature orale du Kérala. Bibliographie commentée’, in Catherine Champion (ed.), Purusartha 18: Traditions orales dans le Monde indien, pp. 433–40. Paris: EHESS. ———. 2003. ‘ Passage à l’art. L’adaptation d’un culte sud-indien au patronage artistique’, in Yolaine Escande and Jean-Marie Schaeffer (eds),L’esthétique. Europe, Chine et ailleurs, pp. 37–60. Paris: Editions You-Feng. ———. 2005. ‘ Malabar Gods, Nation-Building and World Culture on of the Local and the Global’, in J. Assayag and C. J. Fuller (eds), Globalizing India: Perspectives from Below. London: Anthem Press. Vazhavalappil Govindan, Komaram. 2005. Eriyoru gunam varanam: folklor padhananal (Let Happiness Enhanced: Folklore Studies). Payannur: Desam Publications. Vishnu Namboodiri, M. V. (1989) 2000. Folklor nighantu (Dictionary of Folklore). Trivandrum: Kerala Bhasa Institute. Weidman, Amanda. 2006. Singing the Classical, Voicing the Modern: The Postcolonial Politics of Music in South India . Durham : Duke University Press.

Perceptions

Discography Children's Poetry Kunjam Mash and Party. 1995. Kunjunni kavitakal (Children’s Poetry). 1 CD, Pratheeksha Cassettes. Kottayam. Mullaneli, Ravunni and P. K. Sanni. 2004. Kunjunni kavitakal. Poetry and Rhymes of Kunjunni Master for Children. 1 CD, Satyam Audios. Cochin.

Devotional Songs Nayar, S. Ramesan, Jayavijaya (jayan), P. Jayachandran, Sujata and Sveta. 2009. Nandalala. Sri krishnan ganannal. Orchestration K. M. Udayan. 1 CD, Balasahiti Audios/Satyam Audios. Cochin.

Folklore Troupes Karintalakkuttam: Natan pattukal, Nattarivu pattukal. 2006. 1 CD, SS Audio/Music World. Chalakudy.

Kannamuttam: Natan pattukal, Nattarivu pattukal . 2006. 1 CD, SS Audio/Music World. Chalakudy. Vayalamma: Natan pattukal, Nattarivu pattukal. 2006. 1 CD, SS Audio/Music World. Chalakudy. Vayttari: Natan pattukal, Nattarivu pattukal. 2006. 1 CD, SS Audio/Music World. Chalakudy. Kavettam: Natan pattukal, Nattarivu pattukal. 2006. 1 CD, SS Audio/Music World. Chalakudy.

Filmography Karintalakkuttam: Natan pattukal, Nattarivu pattukal. 1 VCD Metro Vision. Irinjalakuda 2006. 8th Kerala State Higher Secondary Youth Festival. 10 VCD consulted. M.C. Videos. Irinjalakuda 2005.

Websites http://balagokulam.net (Kerala). Accessed on 1 April 2011. http://balagokulam.org (USA). Accessed on 1 April 2011. General Department of Education, Kerala Government. http://kerala.gov.in/index.php?option-com#content&view=category&layout=blog&id=62&Itemid=325. Accessed on 1 April 2011. Viswanathan, S. R. Krishnakumar and Parvathi Menon. 2004. ‘ The Spread of Hindutwa in the South’, Frontline, 30 March 2004. http://countercurrents-org. Accessed on 1 April 2011. ‘ Insight into One’s Culture Needed’, The Times of India. 25 July 2001. http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/2001-07-25/bangalore/27249293_1_indian-culture-classical-music-inauguration. Accessed on 1 April 2011.

2 The Local Enactment of Hindutva: Writing Stories on Local Gods in Himachal Pradesh Daniela Berti This article sets out to examine how an RSS-affiliated organisation aimed at rewriting Indian history implements its cultural programme at a local level through the participation of people who do not necessarily have any connection with the Hindutva ideology. Though the capacity of the Hindutva programmes to penetrate different milieus is often evoked in Hindutva studies, the reasons behind this process are rarely explored. Christophe Jaffrelot (2005) touches upon this point briefly in a joint volume dedicated to the internal functioning of some of the main Sangh Parivar organisations. The author notes how the principle according to which RSS cadres have to focus on the specific issue or ‘cause’ the organisation was created for finally ended up giving them considerable autonomy, which would explain the internal differences between the Sangh Parivar organisations. He argues that these internal differences are, in fact, strategically put to the fore by Sangh Parivar leaders in order to attract support ‘from many different — even antagonist — quarters of society”. (op. cit.: 16, my emphasis). While Jaffrelot’s analysis focuses on politically committed actors (pracharaks or high-ranking RSS leaders), I will take here a more bottom-up perspective and will consider the Hindutva local network at the grassroots level. In fact, a number of RSS cultural programmes are carried out at regional level by what will be defined here as ‘local mediators’. These are people who belong to local society and to different social milieus, and who agree to become involved in an RSS organisation by implementing specific cultural projects that they consider to be ‘useful’ at the local level. The analysis presented here will thus shift attention from national representatives to regional mediators, whose involvement in the Hindutva programme is often due more to a cultural motivation than to any ideological or political commitment. The multiplicity

The Local Enactment of Hindutva

of the mediators involved in running these cultural projects at the local level are also at the root of the way in which Hindutva takes different forms and meanings according to specific local and

regional dynamics. The non-homogeneity of Hindutva is now well established among academic scholars. As David Ludden (2005: xiv) points out, not only does ‘Hindutva [have] many histories, and maybe as many meanings as locations’ but, even in the same region, it may assume different meanings according to the different organisations which may be simultaneously active in a region.1 The focus here is the case of the Akhil Bharatiya Itihas Sankalan

Yojana (The Plan for the Compilation of History of the Whole of India — hereafter ABISY), one of the main promoters of the Hindutva discourse on Indian history. Founded in the 1970s by the RSS pracharak Moropant Pingle, the organisation has its central office in Jhandewalan — the Delhi RSS headquarters. This

centre is linked to a leader, Thakur Ram Singh, who dedicated his life to invoking and propagating Hindu nationalist feelings. At its central level, ABISY leaders support and propagate all Hindutva theoretical presuppositions which have been denounced by many academic historians as ideologically biased. Although the organisation shares the same views of history as Vidhya Bharati,

another RSS affiliate, it is not directly involved in the revision of school textbooks. Since the 1970s the ABISY has created branches throughout the country with the specific aim of collecting and writing history on a very small-scale, i.e., a district, a town, a village, and to analyse this data in publications which address a wide range of audience.

This article will specifically focus on the way ABISY’s national programme has been implemented in the district of Kullu (Himachal Pradesh) and has been adapted to Kullu’s cultural specificity. In this region ABISY’s local leaders have considered the ‘Aryan issue’, i.e., the idea that local culture is the cradle of Vedic and Aryan culture,2 as the potential element for involving local people in its

‘cultural activism’. I will show how this burning issue, which has been provoking a concerted and vigorous reaction amongst many 1 On the cleavages between the RSS-affiliated organisations see Jaffrelot (2005). 2 This Aryan past, common to all ‘Hindus’, is thought to have been passed down in Vedic, Puranic or epic texts. The characters and events described in the Sanskrit epics, considered by these authors to be ‘history’, are particularly used and reinterpreted in order to represent India’s past.

Daniela Berti

Indian and Western historians, ‘fits in well’ with the cultural and geographical context of Kullu, and what form it takes in this specific region. In the first part of the article I highlight the contrast between the Hindutva-oriented position the ABISY defends as far as its central leaders are concerned and the field-oriented directives given to its local mediators for small-scale data collection. I show how ABISY’s fieldwork methodology is what gives the organisation credibility among the local population. I then focus on the activity that the organisation has in Kullu and on its local mediators — how these are selected and why they may (or may not) be persuaded to become involved in the ABISY cultural project. Finally, the analysis will show the peculiar way in which the ABISY’s ideological vision of Indian history infiltrates local conceptions of Kullu history, how it melts and becomes mixed up with pre-existing conceptions and how it encounters local forms of resistance.

National Programme and Local Directive: 'Desh Nirdes' Among the criticisms that academic writers make of Hindutva historiography is the religious or ideologically-oriented character of their theories as opposed to a ‘meticulous, strongly data-based approach’ (cf. Witzel 2005). However, the first thing that local people point out when asked about the cultural activity of the ABISY organisation in their region is precisely its systematic and field-oriented activity of data collection. In order to grasp this difference between the academic position and popular perception of ABISY, two different levels of actors and activities have to be considered within the organisation’s national network. Those who belong to the ABISY central board are personally committed not only to the ABISY but also to the RSS, and their activities within the organisation are strongly involved in pursuing the general long-term Hindutva programme of reforming the whole society. The publisher of these works is the ABISY itself — Jhandewalan in Delhi (the RSS headquarters) — and are written by Hindutva-committed professional historians or non-academic scholars. The titles of these publications show how these writers’ concerns are in line with the mainstream Hindutva view of Indian history: Discovery of Source of Vedic Saraswati in the Himalayas by V. M. K. Puri (2004), a glaciologist who was formerly appointed to

the Geological Survey of India in Lucknow, or Vedic Culture and its Continuity: New Paradigm and Dimensions by Shivaji Singh (2003), former head of the Department of Ancient History, Archaeology and Culture of Gorakhpur University and at present the ABISY’s president. These volumes are rather technical and speculative, and do not circulate beyond ABISY’s literate members.

national

Apart from these national-level projects, which the ABISY has

in common with other Hindutva organisations, the specific aim of the ABISY is to elaborate small-scale projects concerning regional, district, block and town levels — which is how the ABISY’s different units are termed. These are coordinated by local people who do not necessarily belong to Hindutva circles. The person in charge of the project (for a district or a town), in consultation with the central leaders of the ABISY, decides which topic the project has to focus on. As one ABISY leader explained, these projects must focus on what is perceived to be the main specificity of local culture likely to rouse people’s feelings and motivations. Each district has indeed its own specific project. For example, in the town of Chandigarh (in Punjab), there is a project on 23 ‘historical sites’ situated in an area ‘covering 40–50 km around Chandigarh, [where] the team discovered that the residents are sitting on 5,000 years of history’ (The Tribune, 18 September 2005). This will allow them to find an ancient Aryan-Hindu substratum to a recent, foreign urban construction. In the district of Kangra, south-east of Himachal Pradesh, the unit’s project deals with Trigarta, an ancient name for this area. One ABISY publication entitled Yug-yugin trigarta (Trigarta through the ages) translates Trigarta as ‘three valleys’ which, as explained in the Foreword, would correspond to a ‘distinct socio-cultural and political entity, [whose] history goes back to before Mahabharata’ (Gupta 2001: 2). In Kullu district (central Himachal), the project specifically focuses on village deities (devi–devta) and the place they occupy in the regional past. This is indeed how villagers associate themselves with their past, and it is therefore supposedly the topic which would interest everybody in Kullu and make them keen to become involved. 3 What is underlined in the project is not only collecting and recording first-hand material

3 It may be noted that the choice of the ABISY Kullu branch to focus on village deities rather than on a figure like the royal god Raghunath (a name for Vishnu), a god on behalf of whom the Kullu kings ruled. This comes

on local deities, but also discovering and showing their ‘forgotten’ Vedic, Puranic or epic origin. Central leaders provide those who wish to collaborate on this project with ‘manuals of instructions’, giving practical suggestions on how to collect data in an exhaustive and systematic way. In Kullu, the manual which commonly circulated among ABISY people was Nisha Nirdes (guidelines). This is a manual written by the organisation’s Committee (Shri Baba Saheb Apte Smarak Samiti c. 1990). It gives very practical suggestions on how to collect data in an exhaustive and systematic way. The mere fact of supplying a manual to instruct people on how to collect field material appears to ABISY collaborators to prove the up-to-date and wellorganised character of the programme. This ABISY manifesto sets out information about the organisation’s aims, schedule and methodology. It addresses those coordinating the project at local level to advise them on what procedures to follow. I will analyse some of these guidelines in order to throw light on the manner in which the ABISY programme is presented. In the manual, some notions of the Hindutva theoretical on history are sporadically evoked. For example, the idea of collecting data over a period of 5,000 years according to an Indian system of calculating time (bhartiya kal ganna), which is

speculations

into contrast indeed with what Pralay Kanungo (2003: 3294)observed on the Hindutva cultural activity in Orissa. Here, what has been perceived by the RSS as a ‘crucial unifying element’ through which pan-Indian nationalistic culture could be transmitted is the god Jagannath, a Vishnu incarnation who since the 12th century has been made ‘the king of Orissa’. Similar to what happens in the case of Raghunath, throughout different historical periods the god Jagannath remained ‘a potent rallying symbol, reinforcing the collective regional and ethnic identity of the territorially fragmented Orissa’. According to Kanungo, the RSS’s project in Orissa is thus to ‘channel the devotional and spiritual energy of the Oriya towards the Hindu Rashtra’ (ibid.: 3297). There may be reasons as to why in Kullu Raghunath has not been perceived as having the same Hindutva pertinence than Jagannath. It is above all the fact that Raghunath has always been identified as the personal god of the king. The relations that villagers have with him are quite distant and formal, and have nothing to do with the emotional and devotional feelings they have with village deities. We may imagine, moreover, that a different choice would have to be made if ABISY leaders came from outside, as the pracharak were in Orissa, and not, as in the present case, people rooted in local culture.

considered to be scientific, as opposed to the Western system of calculation, based on Christianity. This data collection — so the manual points out — should cover ‘every part of human life’ and information must be grouped into (geographical, religious, social, political, economic) topics, which will be written up by various writers. This multifaceted approach to history, although similar to a British gazetteer, is presented as opposed to the ‘Western vision of history’ which would be based — as the Hindutva discourse commonly goes — ‘on war facts and royal genealogies’ (Shri Baba Saheb Apte Smarak Samiti c. 1990: 5). A crucial point put forward in different passages of the manual is the need to involve local people in data collection. Local people have more information about the customs and the traditions

of their own area and they can acquire material more easily than outside people. They can understand and choose the material according to the milieu. This type of collection will be much more reliable than work done by people from outside (Shri Baba Saheb Apte Smarak Samiti c. 1990, op. cit.: 6).

The involvement of local people in these different regional projects is in keeping with the aim of extending regional history writing to non-professional historians. This is a very important item on the ABISY agenda, which is announced in the manual. A distinction is made between so-called ‘common men’ whose task would be to collect information on such subjects ‘as local traditions, festivals, geography’, and ‘trained people’, who would work on projects which are of interest at the national level.4

4 These projects are enumerated, for example, in one of ABISY’s manifestos entitled ‘ABISY: Concept and Working’. They also present the following projects: a project on the Sarasvati river which would show the existence of the Vedic river using modern scientific techniques (such as NASA satellite photographs); a project on the Mahabharata war, supposed to precede the kali yuga by 36 years, thus being ‘the sheet anchor of Hindu history’. Other projects deal with ‘The Date of Birth of Buddha’, ‘Is Samdrokottus Chandragupt Maurya?’ or ‘History of Ancient Cities through the Ages’. In another ABISY brochure 25 projects of ‘general interest’ are mentioned, most of which are on ‘distortions’: ‘distortion of Indian literature and languages’, ‘distortion of Indian chronology’, ‘distortion in modern education’, with even one on the ‘distortion of Indian nationalism’.

In addition to data collection, the ABISY requests its local workers to publish them. The manual provides detailed indications on how to edit, publish and distribute all this material while specifying that ‘at the beginning of each subject there should be a sub-subject’; that ‘mention should be given of how many words the articles should contain’; that ‘publications should be made available upon purchase’; and other similar indications. These kinds of data-based publications are published under the name Bhartiya Itihas Sankalan Samiti, the name that the ABISY uses at the regional level. A member of the Himachal Pradesh branch of the organisation defined these local publications as ‘real books’, containing more rough material than what he called ‘research books’, in which these so-called ‘rough data’ were analysed in a more speculative way (Vidhya Chand Thakur, interview). We will see how these kinds of methodological instructions are

implemented at the local level in the region of Kullu in Himachal Pradesh. I will show how the organisation works by creating a network of intermediaries operating in the different ‘units’.

ABISY's Local Mediators The ABISY’s organisational structure includes a multiplicity of roles which are assigned to people with a different kind of profile. Three important ABISY figures at the central level are RSS pracharaks: Baba Saheb Apte, in memory of whom the organisation was created; Morupant Pingle, who founded the ABISY in 1973; and Thakur Ram Singh, former national president and still considered to be crucial in ‘guiding’ the organisation.5 Over recent years, the role of president has been attributed to academic historians. Two examples are Thakur Prasad Verma, a retired professor of Benares Hindu University, and Shivaji Singh, from the University of Gorakhpur. Pracharaks and academics share the same visions of history, yet whereas the former focus more on the organisational aspects related to the implementation and visibility of the programme on the national territory, academics focus more on their research, writings and publications. The national committee also includes a number of other positions, such as vice-president, secretary, treasurer and so forth. 5 For more details about this organisation at its central level see Berti (2007b).

A similar structure is repeated at lower levels of the organisation — from ‘kshetra units’ (each grouping together different states) to state, district, block, town units and sometimes even village units. Thakur Ram Singh used to talk of all these units presenting them somehow in terms of conquests: ‘We got 350 out of 832 districts (…) we got 6 out of 11 provinces (…) we’ve got about 900 historians and we’ve got 6 full-time historians devoted to this.’ Some of these units are only on paper, they are ‘empty offices’, as Thakur Ram Singh himself admitted. Insisting on the long-term character of the project, what was of importance to him was to create a background, a structure. It is a long-term project. It may take many centuries?’ — he repeated many times (interview, RSS campus, Jhandewalan, New Delhi 2004). A local unit is officially created by selecting a president, vice-

president, secretary, vice-secretary and treasurer, etc. It therefore involves the formation of a micro-circle of local ABISY intermediaries, from where the branch’s activity can be launched. The decision to create a unit and the selection of the appointed persons is made on the initiative of the central leaders in consultation with a local network of contacts. Those appointed to these positions do not have to be from the RSS or be politically engaged. One requisite may be to have written something on regional history and traditions or to be at least personally interested in promoting and coordinating a cultural project. One example of these profiles is that of Vidhya Chand Thakur, former secretary to the Academy of Art, Culture and Language in Shimla (the state capital). Vidhya Chand, who lives in the Kullu countryside, has not been influenced by the RSS way of life. He does not attend the local shakha, the training camps, and he came to know about the ABISY only in 1990. At the time he was working for a language department and he was invited to an ABISY meeting when Thakur Ram Singh (the former Delhi leader) was giving a seminar in the region. Vidhya Chand Thakur says, I attended the meeting and I listened to Thakur Ram Singh’s (the Delhi leader) opening speech. That speech attracted my attention. His topic concerned the fact that Aryans were the real inhabitants of India and he presented it so logically that he really did impress me.

Before then, I was convinced that we came from Central Asia (laughing). Central Asia was upmost in our minds. He made his point that we are real inhabitants of here (India) in such a logical way and explained why the

concept that we came from outside was made up by English historians to dampen people’s morale. He said, for example, ‘check before 1866 that there was no mention that Aryans came from outside. It was all made up after then because they wanted to rule over us.

After listening to this speech he approached Thakur Ram Singh, who immediately made him district president. After a few years he was transferred to the Shimla academy and made ABISY general secretary for the whole of Himachal Pradesh.

Plate 2.1: Himachal Pradesh ABISY secretary, Vidhya Chand Thakur, Kullu (2002). Courtesy of Daniela Berti.

Vidhya Chand is not just an organiser. He is also author of several articles on regional culture. In 2003 he coordinated a volume on the Ramayana, where he showed how a number of stories commonly

heard in the region are nothing but versions of Valmiki’s epic. Although the search for a homogeneous basis for cultural diversities has brought his views into line with the common Hindutva discourse, there are also other elements that make his discourse more complex. On many occasions, Vidhya Chand has underlined the fact that this should not be done to the detriment of individual regional cultures. For him, local stories and customs have their own history (itihas) and any link with this history must be maintained. He set this local ABISY approach against the more radical and intolerant activity of the VHP, which was also active in the region. In his words ‘our (ABISY) approach to local history tries to preserve the original form. Local history, he told me, should not be ‘Sanskritised’.6 Our national body has given its representatives at district or village level some instructions, whereby history should be collected from ‘known to unknown’. Our culture is basically one. In the root points our customs are the same throughout India. (…) for instance, there are some gods

here who have local names but who correspond to gods whose names are in our Sanskrit epics. Nevertheless, there are many local names which have in themselves their own history. If we add to this local name a Sanskrit name we lose the links this name has with history. Thus our approach to local history tries to preserve this name in its original form. We must not Sanskritise the original name … If you discover Vedic names

how you will reach this up to grassroots? (Vidhya Chand Thakur, interview, 2004) By referring to the volume ‘Disha Nirdes’ (guidelines) mentioned above, he emphasised the difference between the two levels of ABISY activities and the need to distinguish the ‘first process of data collection’ from the ‘next stage, which is the ideological part’. He explained to me, ‘what we request of those who want to collaborate on our project is that when interviewing villagers they must not refer to whatever they themselves know about Veda or Purana, do not ask those you are questioning anything. Just write down whatever they say about local traditions or whatever is in front of you.’ He justified this pragmatic approach to data, bearing in mind the urgency in preserving information ‘that is rapidly going 6 This word is quite commonly used in the region. In Vidhya Chand Thakur’s discourse, however, the idea is that local names should not be change into Sanskrit names since local names contain like the traces of the ancient past which allow the ‘Vedic identity of the god’ to be disclosed.

to vanish because of the transformations taking place in the modern world’. He opposed local traditions to Vedas and Puranas literature which ‘is already published worldwide’. Thus, for him, the work of

connecting local traditions to ancient texts was not presented as the real priority (Vidhya Chand, interview, 2004). This kind of affirmation may partly be a rhetorical statement, especially if we consider some of Vidhya Chand Thakur’s articles where he lays particular emphasis on interpreting local culture in terms of a ‘Vedic’ or ‘pan-Indian’ framework. But they may also

correspond to a real feeling, if we consider the fact that ABISY people acting locally in Kullu, such as Vidhya Chand Thakur, belong to local society themselves and are attached to regional practices. As a matter of fact, Vidhya Chand Thakur’s idea that Vedic and local traditions are strictly interlinked coexisted with his emotional attachment to his local cultural identity. The arguments

he used to show this link were not always the same as those put forward by mainstream Hindutva, whose effort is rather to promote a ‘cleaner’ and more ‘purified’ Hinduism. One of these arguments concerned, for example, the rather widespread local

generally

practice of animal sacrifices which, instead of being condemned, was put forward to prove the Vedic character of Himachali culture.

Vidhya Chand Thakur opposed the view that animal sacrifices were widely accepted in the Vedas with the mainstream Hindutva attitude, whereby animal sacrifices are considered to be avedic. This contrasts with other members of the local elite in the same region, some of whom are Brahmins, who consider such local practices as unduly violent or ‘superstitious’ and advocate a more spiritual,

‘purified’ Hinduism. At the same time, though the latter views may seem to be more akin to the ones promoted by Hindutva, this elite insists that their own idea about what it means to be a Hindu is very different, and should be clearly distinguished from the one proposed by Sangh Parivar activists. Another important leader of the ABISY’s local branch is Davendar

Singh, the eldest son of the present Kullu raja, who in 1999 was appointed president of the Kullu ABISY. Davendar Singh’s profile is ideal for coordinating the aforementioned project on local deities. On the one hand, his father and paternal uncle are BJP leaders,which meant that a lot of people were ready to collaborate with him. Then, as the king’s son, he is considered to be close to the local deities due to

the strong ritual and political ties that his family had in the past and continues to have with these deities and with villagers in charge of

their cult. This granted him a certain authority in going from village to village and asking ritual specialists for stories about village gods. During the first seminar held in Kullu in 1998, Davendar Singh and other local ABISY members revealed how they wanted to proceed. Their project was to directly ask village people and especially ritual specialists to collect, record and write everything concerning these village deities. This includes a local repertory of gods’ stories called bhartha. These are said to be revealed by the deities themselves who, when speaking in the first person through their institutional mediums, recount the episodes in their life: where they come from, how they came to settle in their temple, what they established with the local kings, and so on. The particularity of these bhartha is that they are presented by local people as secret (cfr. Berti 2006). Most of them are recited by the medium with only the priest present and using ‘god’s language’, which makes them difficult to understand. And even in the rare cases where the recitation is performed publicly, they are recited in a very low voice that nobody can hear. During the seminar, Davendar Singh stressed the importance of giving a written support to the content of these stories which, according to him, would contribute to throwing light on India’s past. He formally requested village priests and mediums who have access to these ‘secret’ performances, to help collect their respective god’s bhartha and write it down on paper, even if they do not understand its exact meaning. As he explained during his speech at the seminar, the work of ‘ABISY scholars’ would be ‘to decipher’ these bhartha (often just some snippets of them), and reveal their similarity with Sanskrit texts, by focalising on specific words or expressions. This would reveal the Sanskrit identity of the village gods. For example, the bhartha of Katrusi Narayan Bhalayan of the Tarapur region is said to correspond to a passage from the Bhagvat Dasham Skanda, which allows them to identify this god with the (‘pan-Indian’) god Skanda. The fact that the bhartha is recited not by an erudite Brahman who knows Sanskrit, but by an illiterate and low-caste medium was presented as proof that it is directly recited by the god. In this ABISY project the bhartha represents the original source as well as proof (praman) of the deity, for the very reason that it is revealed by the deity itself. In this sense, they consider the bhartha similar to the Vedas which, being revealed knowledge, are supposed to be a discourse of ‘truth’ par excellence (Malamoud 1989).

relationships

Plate 2.2: Kullu ABISY president, Davendar Singh, paying homage to the medium of a village deity, Kullu (2002). Courtesy of Daniela Berti.

Moreover, the fact that the bhartha are pronounced in a secret or metaphorical language, only decipherable by ritual specialists, bestows on the latter special authority in proposing different kinds of parallel between, not only the bhartha and the Vedas but also — and consequently — between the bhartha and science. The ABISY’s discourse is here similar to the general claim among Hindu nationalists that ‘Hinduism is simply another name for scientific thinking’ and that the Vedas converge ‘with the contents and methods of modern science’ (criticism in Nanda 2003: 65). Let us take the example of Atthara Kardu (lit. 18 baskets) which are the object of many seminars held in the district. According to a local myth, Atthara Kardu were 18 god-snakes who lived inside a jug in Goshal village and received puja every day by a local priest.

One day the puja’s light fell over inside the jug, causing a fire which drove the snakes out so that they ran here and there in different villages where they are still now living. This local myth is not really taken into account by ABISY’s committed scholars. Instead, they base their theories on the Atthara Kardus’ bhartha. At the Kullu seminar this bhartha was presented by Bhagat Ram, an ABISY active member, as follows: There was obscurity. The world was full of water. We fell from the sky, and grew up on the earth. We made the earth, made Man. Made from gold, could not speak, made from silver could not speak, made from copper could not speak, made from god’s dirt then he was able to speak.

From one we became two. From two 10. From 10 hundreds and from hundreds many thousands and from thousands the earth was filled. The ABISY’s writers claim (without giving further details) that these passages from the bhartha have to be placed in relation to the Sanskrit ‘Ganapati story’ which would show how they are ‘Vedic gods, like Indra, Rudra, Soma who came to be by Vishnu’s power when he was lying on the Shesh nag’s body in the ocean’ (Ram 1999). The same passages from the Atthara Kardus’ bhartha are then said to correspond to something that has also been proved by geologists’ findings: According to geologists, when the earth’s temperature rose a thick mass of snow melted, the earth turned into water and creation came to an end. Then the water level dropped and a new creation came about. Atthara kardu entered the body of Manu (the first man) and made the model for the development of mankind ...(Ram 1999)

Hence a local, ‘secret form’ of a gods’ story is used here as proof — self-revealed but also ‘scientific’ — for building a national ‘Hindu conscience’ at the regional level. Moreover, the result is that the gods’ bharthas are deprived of their ‘secret’ character by those who saw in their secrecy the very condition for their authenticity. Although Davendar Singh is convinced of the Aryan-Vedic strata of Kullu village deities and presents the ABISY’s approach as an task ‘to preserve the authenticity of local culture’, he is not personally involved in this kind of speculation. He does not consider himself an ABISY scholar, nor does he personally theorise about this topic as Vidhya Chand Thakur does. He considers himself, rather, as a ‘man on the field’, who spends time going from village

important

to village, talking with people and collecting first-hand information. As a matter of fact, Davendar Singh is rather an emblematic and locally renowned figure whose task is to attract a network of people ready to help him in collecting material on local deities. He is also a fervent devotee of local deities and emotionally involved in their village cult. From his point of view, being the king’s son, he feels directly concerned by the idea of including Kullu local deities in a nationwide project.

Local Gods Versus Vedic Rishis The first project finalised by the Kullu unit since Davendar Singh was elected president has focused on rishis — i.e., local deities who are included in the same general category of village deities (devi–devta) but who are in fact identified as Vedic rishis.7 Davendar Singh, in his capacity as ABISY president, sent a letter to many village temple committees to invite people to pool together their resources in collecting data. The content of this letter illustrates the kind of argument used to encourage people to collaborate. Respected Sir, As you know, this holy place of Kullu is a place for rishis-munis (…) This

part of Kullu culture is an invaluable heritage of humanity and national culture. Today the passing of time has also affected our gods’ traditions for future generations. For this reason, the Indian History Collection Committee has decided to collect information related to devis devtas (…). Along with this programme, a letter has been forwarded to you, since this important work cannot be completed without the cooperation

of those people involved in gods’ beliefs. So with regards the work related to gods, I require your co-operation. Not only do I hope, but I am totally confident that you will join in this god-work with total conviction and will give your full cooperation and blessing to make this project successful. I must explain that whatever material you send, the committee will mention your co-operation.

The result of the rishi project was published in a volume under the title Kullu ki rishi parampara, under the Bhartiya Itihas Sankalan Samiti (the ABISY’ regional name) copyright in 2005 and edited by Surat Thakur (2005), another active member of the local ABISY. In his preface Davendar Singh focuses on 1. the fact that it has been proven (sampraman siddh hoti he) that Vedic rishis have been 7 On the importance of rishi in Hindutva rethoric seeRajagopal (2001).

wandering through the Himalayas, and that knowledge of their history in relation to the region will contribute to national history; 2. the need to collect traditions which are likely to die out — a concern often expressed by ABISY members; and 3. the method of collecting first-hand material by going out into the field: the importance of having reliable informants, of checking different points of view among informants, of discussing this data during regular seminars, and so on. The volume is, in fact, a collection of 34 articles written by different people. During my fieldwork, I met most of these contributors and became aware that the majority of them were neither concerned with RSS ideology nor with the ABISY national project. Many of them were temple specialists or administrators, who simply put into writing what they knew about village deities and temple traditions without bothering whatsoever about ABISY ideological affiliation. Others held a more ambiguous position. This was the case of Hira Lal Thakur, a convinced Gandhian, and director of the Khadi Centre in Kullu. In his office full of Gandhi portraits, he drew a parallel between RSS ideology and the Gandhi ‘svaraj’.8 Although he declared that he was not concerned with RSS programmes and their purpose, he was firmly convinced that the ABISY was doing ‘constructive and true work whose aim is to deepen our knowledge of the history of Kullu deities’. The 34 contributors to the book are the more visible part of the group of ABISY collaborators. A wide network of village data collectors has been built by Davendar Singh, and their individual work is acknowledged in the preface to the book. One of the more invisible intermediaries is Rajan Seluria, a man who runs a business near the Kullu Royal Palace. His office is constantly visited by village people who come to him to have their wool cleaned or to have oil pressed from mustard seeds. He also recently set up an annexe where people come to be cured by snake bites. He explained to me what he knew about ABISY and what his role was: ABISY is based on village deities. They want to collect deities’ traditions and customs (…). We help Davendar gather all this information and

8 The idea of an appropriation or incorporation of Gandhian idioms into Hindu nationalism, and in particular the idea of Deendayal Upadhyaya’s ‘integral humanism’, has been developed by Hansen (1999: 84–86). See also Zavos et al. (2000).

give it to him. He puts it into form and takes out some good material … When a villager comes to my office to have his wool cleaned or other work done, he has to wait so we start chatting. I just listen to what he says without taking notes to keep him talking. Afterwards, I write down what he said to me and keep the paper in my drawer. Then, when I have gathered enough material I give it to Davendar Singh (…) Davendar Singh told me to collect material. He and I are very close. He told me that I had to write this book and I need material. I said why not? I will

help you (…). He also told me to verify that what people say to me is true or not by asking different people and by crosschecking their replies. Moreover, I talk with those people I know will not lie, who will speak their minds.

Due to the presence of these mediators, the RSS programme may have a completely different effect than the one anticipated by ideologues at the national level. In fact, by leafing through the volume, what immediately stands out is the difference between

those contributors who are clearly involved in Hindutva ideology, such as Vidhya Chand Thakur, and those who are not. In the articles written by ABISY leaders, reference to the textual equivalence of the god is systematically evoked along with his local identity. In some

cases, the textual reference is introduced directly by quoting a few passages from a Sanskrit text. By contrast, in the remaining articles, the only reference to a textual identity of the god is in the title, yet no reference is made to the textual traditions. What is reported here

is just the local story of the god as well as the practices followed in its temple, similar to a detailed ethnographic report. The fact that articles with no pan-Indian references whatsoever may appear in the volume, may seem somewhat incongruent, given

the central idea behind the project of discovering a pan-Indian basis for local culture. But, in fact, ABISY leaders do not seem bothered about this. On the one hand, people like Vidhya Chand Thakur or Davendar Singh are manifestly convinced that local traditions

should be maintained since everybody in Kullu is ‘emotionally attached to them’. On the other hand, when a village god is included in a book whose aim is explicitly announced in the preface — ‘to find out about Vedic rishi’ — any god whose story is included in

the volume is supposed de facto to be a Vedic rishi. Moreover, the simple fact of including all these village gods in a volume under the ABISY name moves the programme forward and

published

increases the visibility of the organisation. As Dayanand Sharma, a Kullu Brahman, rather critical about Hindutva, explains: ‘During

seminars they gather people to discuss a topic they feel concerned about, the main leaders give their speeches … somehow they introduce a feeling of national unity.’

Convergent Stories The two main ideas behind the ABISY project in Kullu — mixing history with local mythology, or searching for a ‘pan-Indian’ equivalence to

local gods — are in fact commonly shared by most people in Kullu, independent of their ideological and political affiliation. If we consider most of the local publications that started to appear during the 1970s, the ‘history’ of the Kullu region is presented as

being completely melted down with the stories of its local deities. A comparison is also commonly made by local writers (and before them by British writers) between local stories and Sanskrit references. One example is that of Lal Chand Prarthi, a local leader from the

Congress Party and one of the first Kullu authors. Prarthi insisted, in all his works, on the specificity of Kullu culture, yet at the same time he constantly tried to show its pan-Indian substratum. The name of the ancient land of Kullu can be traced back to the

hoary past and there are several references to it in the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, Vishnu Purana etc. … There are quite a few significant legends connected with the Ramayana. It was the privilege of a Rishi from the valley, called Shringa rishi, who had his ashrama near Banjar (a local area) to act as the purohit at the ‘Putreshti yajna’ of Raja Dashratha as a result of which the great Rama was born … The valley

came into being through a number of events and incidents believed to be associated with it during the Mahabharata. The Pandavas, it is said, visited this valley as many as three times (Prarthi 1970). The affinity between previous ideas on regional culture and the

Kullu ABISY project was addressed during the first seminar held in Kullu in 1999 when Vidhya Chand Thakur underlined that ‘the reinterpretation of local tradition in the light of Vedas, Puranas and Epics is not new and it is not specific to the Kullu region but it is a

national phenomenon’ (1999). He also supported his argumentations by relying on British authors who were also concerned with finding a Sanskrit equivalence to local deities.

In spite of the convergence that some local writers may have with Hindutva’s vision of history, some of them have adopted a critical stance and do not want their work to be assimilated with this association’s programme. Their criticism, however, does not take the secularist tone of most academic historians and it is never explicitly expressed in such terms. By contrast, it is by talking with these local authors that the difference between their view and the Hindutva discourse comes to light more clearly. One example is that of Molu Ram Thakur, author of many publications in Hindi and English on different aspects of Kullu culture. He is not strictly speaking an academic, although he is often associated with Shimla academic circles. 9 From a political point of view, Molu Ram Thakur does not pursue the same ideological orientation as Vidhya Chand Thakur. Everybody in Kullu knows

him as being rather a Congress Party sympathiser. However, as far as his publications are concerned, he has no explicit position to defend. What is important to him is, as he says, ‘the study of local traditions in a non ideological way’. However, in 2000, Molu

Ram Thakur published a book entitled Vedic Arya Aur Himachal: Historical and Research Account where he defends the thesis according to which Aryans did not come from outside, but were the original inhabitants of India and he shows how to prove this by

taking Himachal Pradesh as an example. Though supporting the ABISY’s (and Hindutva’s) central idea, he denies any involvement in Hindutva ideology — and everybody in Kullu agrees on this point. He has also always refused to be a

member of the ABISY, and he defines himself as merely an ‘adviser’. What he wants, he says, is to be sure that what he calls ‘Hindutva type’ authors will not ‘corrupt the tradition’, or ‘saffronise deities’ local stories’. Notwithstanding his criticism of Hindutva, Molu Ram

Thakur approves the Kullu ABISY project as far as data collection is concerned: ABISY people are not going about it in the right way except for the first phase (of their project), that is, the collection of different deities’ stories.

I agree with their method of work but not with the results they obtain. 9 He has, for example, contributed to a volume published by Laxshmi Thakur (Thakur 2002) of Shimla’s Institute of Advanced Study which circulates in all international libraries.

Plate 2.3: Molu Ram Thakur, Kullu (2002). Courtesy of Daniela Berti.

(…) The RSS no doubt has its idea and its version (of history); but ancient material has been collected by them and as an adviser I don’t want this material to be spoilt in any way. My idea is that they need to analyse it correctly, without interpreting it in their own way. (…) The first thing we do is to collect and edit the historical background of each deity. The deities’ culture should not be corrupted. I could not tolerate

that! If ever they write anything according to their own point of view, I will be up in arms (interview, Kullu, 2004). When someone, such as Molu Ram Thakur, talks about the ‘saffronisation of local deities’, what he criticises is not the idea of looking for a Vedic and pan-Indian substratum of local tradition,

since he has also made reference many times to Vedas in his books or articles on Himachali culture. It is more the fact that this is done in a systematic and biased way for all local deities. This is a very important nuance which it is crucial to understand if one is to grasp the sometimes very subtle difference between those who accept Hindutva and those who criticise it. Indeed, it shows the local shape that resistance against Hindutva historiography may take. In order to give a better idea of this nuanced but relevant I will take as an example the debate that opposes Molu Ram Thakur to Vidhya Chand Thakur regarding the identity of Jamlu Devta, a well-known regional deity whose temple may be found in different villages of the district. According to Vidhya Chand, in all these cases the Jamlu deity may be identified with Vedic rishi Jamdagni. Molu Ram disagrees, arguing that only some of these Jamlus are Jamdagni whereas others are not. He considers that Vidhya Chand defended this idea in order to favour his ideological vision of the past. ‘Try to ask him (Vidhya Chand) how he can argue, from a linguistic point of view, that Jamlu comes from Jamdagni! — he once told me.’ The nuance which sets these two positions apart is indeed even further complicated when delving deeper into their debate. In fact, for Molu Ram Thakur, these Jamlu gods, who are not Jamdagni Rishi, are not ‘local gods’ for him either; they are not ‘simply’ Jamlu gods. They are indeed representatives of the god Yama (the god of death), who is also a pan-Indian god of the textual repertory. He gives the reason for this hypothesis in his articles (cf. Thakur 2002). Now, this hypothesis is contested by Jamlu’s devotees who honour these asaid Jamlu-Yama because, although Yama is a Vedic and panIndian god, they do not want their god to be associated with the god of death! By contrast, these very villagers were extremely pleased and proud to see their god Jamlu associated with Jamdagni Rishi. Here again a distinction has to be made in order to avoid the risk of confounding attitudes which are in fact extremely different. The acceptance by Jamlu devotees of the ‘Jamdagni Rishi equivalence’ of their god is not due to the same ‘nationalistic’ reasons behind Vidhya Chand’s statements that all Jamlu are Jamdagni Rishi. As it happens, they are both saying the same thing, but not for the same reasons. While Vidhya Chand’s search for the Ramayan substrate

difference,

of local stories may go along with the discourse on cultural unity, for other members of local society, cultural or nationalistic unity is not their problem. The issue of the greatest concern for them is to have their local god’s importance recognised, and for him to somehow acquire greater prestige (cfr. Berti 2007a). The example mentioned about Jamlu shows at least three motivations behind the search for equivalence between the textual repertory and the local deities’ names or stories. For common villagers, this textual equivalence is just a means of valorising and attributing prestige to their own local deity in relation to neighbouring ones. For Molu Ram Thakur, it is more the outcome of his erudition and of his folkloristic approach, inspired by the works of Orientalists and of British administrators. For Vidhya Chand Thakur, the folkloristic approach partly combines with his engagement as an ABISY member. However, what is common to both villagers and writers like Molu Ram Thakur or Vidhya Chand Thakur is not so much the idea of ‘globalising the local’, as is often observed for Hindutva organisations elsewhere, but rather of ‘localising globality’ (Harneit-Sievers 2002 ), an attempt to highlight the Kullu pan-Indian dimension while continuing to valorise the local specificity. Although these different processes of finding a pan-Indian equivalence to village deities may converge, what can be found in informal discussions is the presence of a discourse, mostly among the local elite, which pinpoints the difference between what is perceived as a Hindutva attitude and what is not. People’s awareness of this difference should not be neglected. Indeed, to what happens for a more official and well-known form of history, Hindutva theories on local history in a region like Kullu are not likely to become the object of a public controversial debate. Even someone like Molu Ram Thakur, who explicitly speaks about the danger of a saffronisation of Kullu gods, will hardly express such a concern in his books or articles in these terms. Another point to be noted is the specific form and meaning that Hindutva resistance takes on in Kullu. Here again the case of Molu Ram Thakur is significant, and shows a way of reacting to Hindutva history-writing other than mobilising academic The debate in Kullu is not about a communalist or a secularistic vision of the past. It is rather about what is perceived

different

contrary

historians.

to be a non-ideological investigation into a possible pan-Indian equivalence of village deities, as opposed to a Hindutva-oriented approach which systematically leads to finding a pan-Indian basis of these village gods, with a view to propagating an ideal of Hindu Rashtra.

Conclusion The ABISY project coexists with other attitudes of ‘transcending the local’ by associating local landscape and mythology with the textual repertory. This may be particularly true in a region like Kullu, where together with the idea that it is situated at the periphery of mainstream Hinduism it is also a suitable ‘imagined landscape’ for supporting the ABISY rereading of the local past in the light of a ‘pan-Indian’ textual repertory. The many references to the Himalayas in Sanskrit epic texts, as a favourite place for rishis, heroes or gods to come to, do give a certain consistence to the idea of a reinterpretation of local lore in a ‘pan-Indian’, Sanskritised framework. The textual reference to the Himalayas has indeed been taken as the starting point by Kullu ABISY leaders for their cultural activity in the area. The case of Molu Ram mentioned above shows, however, that even issues which in academic circles are considered to be marked by Hindutva are not specific to Hindutva either, but are likely to be accepted by society at large. We may note, for example, that Molu Ram’s book, where he defended the idea of an autochthonous Aryan origin and of a close link between Aryan-Vedic and Indus civilisation, received the Dr Y. S. Parmar State Award for Culture by the Congress Chief Minister of Himachal Pradesh during a solemn ceremony held in Shimla in 2007 (My Himachal 2007). Another reason why the organisation attracts the attention of local society is, as we have seen, its focus on a ‘regional project’ which is coordinated by people in the locality and whose topic is specific to the place’s cultural characteristics. This regional project enables the organisation to be less concerned with defending Hindutva speculations and more active in regional data collection. Moreover, what appears to be specific to the ABISY compared with other cultural organisations in the region is its attempt to involve in

its project not only literate people or members of the Kullu elite but people from different milieus in rural society. All villagers are

called upon here in a form of social and cultural engagement to help collect data on local traditions. Central to the project is indeed the creation of a network, rooted as far as possible in the countryside. People like Hira Lal Thakur or Rajan Seluria, as well as the numerous

co-authors of the ‘rishis’ book’, although from outside the Hindutva milieu, are crucial intermediaries for the implementation of the project. Contrary to other local works on regional culture, which are the outcome of individual writers, the idea here is to encourage

collective works, to edit books written by the largest number of participants possible. A specificity of the ABISY is the systematic attempt to give more visibility to the organisation by finding occasions to gather people

at public meetings. An important celebration in this respect is ‘History Day’, a one-day seminar organised by the ABISY once a year in its different local branches, the topic of which is chosen by the central committee. Every year, the ABISY also commemorates

the 1857 ‘Freedom War’ — this is even organised at the state level. In March 2008, for example, the celebration was inaugurated in Shimla by the Himachal Pradesh Chief Minister P. K. Dhumal. During his inaugural speech he stated that ABISY’s role was ‘to

provide the necessary information with regard to the freedom fighters (…) by collecting facts and figures for verification purpose (Merinews 2008). The respectability the ABISY is gaining from the media is also shown by an article published in The Hindu in

2006 entitled ‘Rewrite History with a Positive Outlook’ where the eulogies delivered to the organisation by the Rajasthan Home Minister Kataria at the time of the ABISY two-day symposium on ‘Jainism in Rajasthan’ was reported with no further comment

(The Hindu, 5 July 2006) What is never explicitly found in these articles is any reference to the actual link that ties the ABISY to the RSS and to the BJP in its highest spheres. This is in keeping with Jaffrelot’s observations

mentioned above about the effort made by Sangh Parivar’s organisations to tone down their ideological or political affiliations. In actual fact, the members are not all from the BJP and none of them

are from the RSS either. Although the RSS in Kullu includes quite a number of people regularly going to the shakha and participating in all local ceremonies, the two milieus are relatively separate. Even important members of the Kullu ABISY branch, such as Vidhya Chand and Davendar Singh, are far from being pracharak-like people and do not participate at all in local RSS gatherings. The case analysed here in fact shows the disparity which may exist between ABISY central leaders’ ideological proposals, which tie in with the overall Hindutva effort to ‘restructure indigenous religions into a monolithic, uniform religion’ (Thapar 1985 ), and the activities carried out by its intermediates who, at very different levels, collect detailed ethnographic reports about ritual practices and gods’ stories. People like Raja Seluria or Hira Lal Thakur a rich compilation of information concerning a region which is not, in their case, ideologically oriented. Of course, in the mind of the ABISY central leader this is just rough material, which will be used later by specialists to ‘reveal’ or ‘decode’ from the village specificities a more homogenous Hinduism. The paradox, however, is that in order to find out the ‘Aryan’ uniformity of the Kullu culture, the ABISY becomes the promoter of a project whose result is to put cultural diversity into writing, at purely village level. As a matter of fact, most people in Kullu welcome ABISY projects as an useful way of maintaining their local traditions, and even those who are aware of the unambiguous Hindutva frame in which these collections are made do not publicly criticise their activities and even appreciate the systematic and organised work of collecting data.

provide

References Berti, Daniela. 2006. ‘The Memory of Gods: From a Secret Autobiography to a Nationalistic Project, Indian Folklife, 24: 15–18. ———. 2007a. ‘ Ritual Kingship, Divine Bureaucracy, and Electoral Politics in Kullu ’, European Bulletin of Himalayan Research, 29/30: 39–61. ———. 2007b. ‘ Hindu Nationalists and Local History. From Ideology to Local Lore’, Rivista di Studi Sudasiatici, 1: 5–36. Gupta, S. K. 2001. ‘ Foreword’, in R. Arya (ed.),Yug-Yugani Trigarta, pp. 1–6. Himachal Pradesh: Bhartiya Itihas Sankalan Samiti. Hansen, Thomas B. 1999. The Saffron Wave. Democracy and Hindu Nationalism in Modern India. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Harneit-Sievers, Axel (ed.). 2002. A Place in the World: New Local Historiographics from Africa and South Asia. Leiden: Koninklijke Brill .

Jaffrelot, Christophe. 2005. ‘Introduction’, in Christophe Jaffrelot (ed.), The Sangh Parivar: A Reader, pp. 1–22. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. ———. 2005. ‘ The RSS: A Hindu Nationalistic Sect’, in Christophe Jaffrelot (ed.), The Sangh Parivar: A Reader, pp. 56–102. New Delhi: Oxford Press. Kanungo, Pralay. 2003. ‘ Hindutva’s Entry into a “Hindu Province”: Early Years of RSS in Orissa’, Economic and Political Weekly, 2: 3293–3303. Ludden, David E. (ed). (1998) 2005. Making India Hindu: Religion, Community and the Politics of Democracy in India . New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Malamoud, Charles. 1989. Cuire le monde. Rite et pensée dans l’Inde ancienne . Paris: La Découverte. Merinews. 2008. ‘ Himachal Pradesh to Pay Tribute to Freedom Fighters’. 6 May. http://www.merinews.com/article/himachal-pradesh-to-pay-tribute-to-freedom-fighters/133560.shtml. Accessed 5 January 2011. My Himachal . 2007. ‘ Himachal Honours Moulu Ram Thakur with Dr. Yashwant Singh Parmar State Award for Culture’. 3 March. http://himachal.us/2007/03/03/himachal-honours-mouluramthakur-with-dryashwant-singh-parmar-state-award-for-culture/1526/news/myhimachal-news. Accessed 5 January 2011. Nanda, Meera. 2003. Prophets Facing Backward: Postmodern Critiques of Science and Hindu Nationalism in India. New Brunswick: Rutgers University. Puri, W. M. K. 2004. Discovery of Source of Vedic Saraswati in the Himalayas. Delhi: Akhil Bhartiya Itihas Sankalan Yojana. Prarthi , LalChand. 1970. ‘ History and Legend of Kulu ’, in Kullu Dussehra Committee (ed.), Dussehra Souvenir , pp. 6 – 7 . Kullu: Kullu Dussehra Committee. Rajagopal, Arvind . 2001. Politics after Television: Religious Nationalism and the Reshaping of the Indian Public . Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ram, Bhagat. 1999. ‘ The Tradition of Atthara Kerdu in Kullu People’s Life ’, Bhartiya Itihas SankalanYojana Samiti. Kullu: Bhartiya Itihas Sankalan Samiti. Shri Baba Saheb Apte Smarak Samiti (c.1990) Disha Nirdes. Delhi: Bhartiya Itihas Samkalan Yojna. Singh, Shivaji. 2003. Vedic Culture and its Continuity: New Paradigm and Dimension. Delhi: Akhil Bhartiya Itihas Sankalan Yojana. Thapar, Romila. 1985. ‘ Syndicated Moksha’, Seminar, 313: 14–22. ———. 1999. ‘ Some Appropriation of the Theory of Aryan Race Relating to the Beginnings of Indian History’, in Daud Ali (ed.), Invoking the Past. The Uses of History in South Asia, pp. 15–35. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Thakur, Molu Ram. 2000. Vedic Arya Aur Himachal: Historical and Research Account (Vedic Aryans and Himachal: History and Researches). Delhi : H. G. Publications.

University

Thakur, Molu Ram. 2002. ‘ Some Cultural Legends and Traditions of the Kulu Valley’, in L. S. Thakur, (ed.), Where Mortals and Mountain Gods Meet: Society and Culture in Himachal Pradesh, pp. 321 – 33 . Shimla : Indian Institute of Advanced Study. Thakur, S. 2005. Kullu ki rishi parampara. Himachal Pradesh: Bhartiya Itihas Sankalan Samiti. Thakur, Vidhya Chand. 1999. ‘ Shabdon men abhivyakta kullu ki dev parampara’, inItihas Divas. Kullu : Akhil Bhartiya Itihas Sankalan Yojana. Witzel, M. 2005. ‘ Indocentrism: Autochthonous Visions of Ancient India’, in Edwin F. Bryant and Laurie L. Patton (eds), The Indo-Aryan Controversy: Evidence and Inference in Indian History, pp. 341–404. London and New York: Routledge. Zavos John, Andrew Wyatt and Vernon Hewitt. (eds) 2004. The Politics of Cultural Mobilization in India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press.

3 Casting Community, Culture and Faith: Hindutva’s Entrenchment in Arunachal Pradesh Pralay Kanungo Hindutva, in terms of strategy, shows admirable powers of adaptability — swinging from volatile and violent, to soft and silent — depending on the specificity of the context. Northeast India, which experienced strong resistance movements against the ‘hegemony’ of Indian nationalism, had never been an ideal location for the expansion of Hindu nationalism in the region. Moreover, states like Mizoram and Nagaland, with an overwhelming majority of Christian population, had been fiercely hostile to the ideology and politics of Hindutva. However, notwithstanding these adversities and hostilities, the Sangh Parivar (the RSS and its affiliates), has made inroads into the states in the northeast — Arunachal Pradesh turning out to be a Hindutva stronghold. Over the last three decades, the Sangh Parivar has been quietly, yet effectively, mediating with different tribal communities in Arunachal Pradesh through its ‘cultural’ front organisations and consolidating its support base. The major thrust of this article is to understand how Hindutva attempts to cast cultural traditions and religious faiths of various indigenous communities of Arunachal Pradesh within the ambit of its overarching ideological and political mould. Focusing on faiths like Donyi-Polo and communities like the Adi and the Nyishi, it shows how Hindutva collaborates with the elites and intellectuals of these indigenous communities, revives and reconstructs their religious/cultural traditions, promotes Hinduisation and institutionalisation, and mobilises these communities against an ‘alien’ Christianity. An apparent cultural and ideological convergence between Hindutva and indigenous communities has paved the way for Hindutva’s entrenchment in Arunachal Pradesh.

various

Pralay Kanungo

Arunachal Pradesh: Communities, Cultures and Faiths Arunachal Pradesh (Land of the Rising Sun), previously known as North East Frontier Agency (hereafter NEFA), is a horseshoeshaped Himalayan state, which stretches from the snow-covered mountains in the north to the plains of the Brahamputra Valley in the south and shares an international border with Bhutan, Burma and China. Given the paucity of recorded history and the lack of scripts within most tribes (except for the Monpas, Khamptis, Membas and Khambis), it is an uphill task to comprehend the culture, society and religion of the region in the ancient and medieval periods. However, contrary to the perception of this region as isolated, the people of this area had trade and cultural links with the people of Assam, Tibet, Burma and other parts of India, which could be corroborated from the trade routes of the medieval period. Archaeological remains reveal that northeast India served as a corridor through which Neolithic tradition from East Asia entered India. A strong presence of Buddhism (the 17th-century Tawang Monastery) suggests cultural interaction with Tibet; existence of a number of Theravada Buddhist monuments of the 18th and 19th centuries at the eastern frontier signifies contact with Myanmar. With the Anglo-Burmese War (1824–26), the British entered this

region with economic, trade, political and strategic interests. The colonial administration introduced the policy of isolation through the Inner Line Regulation of 1873 in order to prevent tea planters from encroaching on the hills. The Government of India subsequently extended this through the 1945 Assam Frontier (Administration of Justice) Regulation to safeguard the land rights of tribal communities as well as their cultures. Jawaharlal Nehru brought in Verrier Elwin as Adviser in Tribal Affairs to the Governor of Assam (1953–64), thereby making him the architect of his government’s tribal policy. Nehru and Elwin stressed the development of the tribal communities ‘along the lines of their own genius’ and encouraged in every way ‘their own traditional arts and culture’ respecting ‘tribal rights on land and forests’ (Elwin 1964; Elwin et al. 1967). The Government of India took great care not to upset the traditional social order, and from the very beginning promoted a political structure which would allow the tribals to run their own affairs within the wider Indian political system.

Casting Community, Culture and Faith

Arunachal was part of Assam and was called the NEFA. Then it was administered by the Ministry of External Affairs until 1965 and subsequently by the Ministry of Home Affairs through the

Governor of Assam. In 1972, it became a Union Territory and was renamed Arunachal Pradesh. In 1987, it became the 24th State of the Indian Union. At present the state has 16 districts and a population of 1,097,968 (2001 census). Arunachal has been a

spectacular example of how archaic societies could so rapidly come

out of a state of almost complete isolation and join the modern

world (Furer-Haimendorf 1983: 7). Arunachal Pradesh is home to 26 major tribes and over 100 small tribes and ethnic groups. Over the last few decades, this tribal homeland has seen the arrival of a large number of non-tribal populations. According to the 2001 census, non-tribals constitute about 35 per cent of Arunachal’s population. They are mostly migrants

from neighbouring states as well as other states of India; about 30,000 Chakma refugees from Bangladesh have also settled here. The tribals now constitute only 64.22 per cent. Verrier Elwin (Elwin 1958: xiii) divided the NEFA into three main cultural zones: first, the tribes of Western Kameng, such as Monpas, Sherdukpans, Khamptis and Singhpos who were close

to Buddhism; second, the central area comprising some major tribes such as the Nishing, Tagins, Apatanis, Adis and Mishmis, who followed indigenous rituals and practices; third, the eastern part comprising the Wanchos, Tangsa and Noctes, the latter being influenced by a form of Vaishnavism. The central zone may be further divided into three: the Nyishi cultural zone (Nyishis, Tagins,

Apatanis and Sulungs), the Adi cultural zone (Adis, Khambas, Membas and Mishings/Miris) and the Mishmi cultural zone (Mishmis Khamptis, Khamiyangs and Deories). Numerically, the Nyishis and Adis occupy the first two places among the tribes of Arunachal Pradesh. Though most of these tribal communities come from common

ethnic stock, each of them has its own language, culture, customs, beliefs and practices; the physical distance from each other perhaps brought out this distinctiveness. The Daflas (who call themselves Nyishis), Tagins and Miris lived in the hills; the Apatanis, who were relatively advanced, were agriculturists; the Adis (previously called Abors) lived in the valleys; the Mishmis excelled in handicrafts.

Thus, the tribal landscape of Arunachal Pradesh is fascinating and varied.

Religious Landscape According to the 2001 census, the population of different religious communities is as follows: Hindus 34.6 per cent, Muslims 1.9 per cent, Christians 18.7 per cent, Sikhs 0.2 per cent, Buddhists 13 percent and Others 30.7 per cent. Hindus constitute the largest religious community in the state; they are primarily the migrant population. Some tribes like the Noctes and Miris also follow a form of neoHinduism. Buddhists constitute 13 per cent of the population. While Tibetan Buddhism predominates in the districts of Tawang, West Kameng and in isolated regions next door to Tibet, Theravada Buddhism is practised by tribal groups living near the Burmese border. The second largest religious group classified as ‘Others’ (30.7 per

cent), belonging to various indigenous communities, include animists and nature-worshippers. These tribal communities have their own gods and goddesses like Rangfraa (worshipped by the Tangsas), Nani Intaya (the Idu Mishmis), Tamlaa (the Digaru and the Miju Mishmis), Kine Naane (the Adis: Ming Yongs Padams, Pasis), Oriah (Rang Wan-Tong — the Wanchos), Longsong Kapphok (the Noctes), Jwt Ane (the Nyishis) and Mopin (the Adis: Galos). It should to be noted that the number of ‘Others’ — followers of indigenous religions — has been declining constantly, from 88.76 per cent in 1961 to 30.7 per cent in 2001. Christians constitute the third largest religious group. There has been steady growth of the Christian population in the state as seen from successive census figures: 1961: 0.43 per cent, 1971: 0.79 per cent, 1981: 4.32 per cent, 1991: 10.29 per cent, and 2001: 18.70 per cent. Indigenous tribal leaders claim that the number of Christians is much higher than the official census figure and observe that the growing number of Christians and the declining number of followers of indigenous religions has created social tension among the communities. In this context, it would be interesting to examine the evolution of Christianity in Arunachal Pradesh. Christianity in Arunachal Pradesh In the first half of the 19th century, the American Baptist Mission was looking for a passage to China and Southeast Asia through the Shans of the northeast since seaports were closed to foreigners. It approached this region from two strategic places, i.e., Sadiya and Lakhimpur (Assam). However, an unprecedented massacre by

Khamptis in the town of Sadiya in January 1839 forced the American Baptists to abandon the Shan Mission and remain confined to lower Assam. The Sadiya Mission was reopened in 1905 with the aim of evangelising the Miri and Abor tribes. Though an Abor–Miri language dictionary was published and schools were opened, the mission could not get started as these territories were inside the Inner Line boundary. However, the missionaries continued their work from Lakhimpur under the direction of Rev. John Firth. For three decades, Firth and his wife travelled extensively, establishing contact among the Daflas, Miris and the Abors; a young Garo preacher named Tosin was sent to work among the Daflas and the Miris. The Lakhimpur Mission School, later named after John Firth, became the nerve centre for missionary activities, especially in the Subansiri region. Elwin was apprehensive that missionaries would replace the tribal culture with their own values and lifestyle and hence denied them entry into the NEFA. As the NEFA became a restricted area, the missionaries were not allowed to enter the Nyishi areas. There was even a restriction on the early Nyishi converts to preach freely in their own villages; with some of them being arrested in 1952. Despite such restrictions, the Nyshi students of John Firth School carried the message of Christianity to the Nyishi areas; the first church was opened at Talo (undivided Subansiri district) in 1962 and later at other places. Nyshi students questioned the rationale of various rituals, sacrifices, customs and practices and the priestcentred ritualistic belief system. The poor tribals, reeling under the rituals and sacrifices, which involved huge expenditure, found in Christianity a soothing alternative as it offered a simple method of worship without any financial burden (Rikam 2005). They were also greatly influenced by Christianity’s miracle of healing; people flocked to the nearest Church or Christian family with theirailing relatives. As one Likha Taba of Ziro-I area narrated, he incurred heavy expenses by offering mithun, pig, goat, fowl to cure his ailing son. One day he went to Talo village to pray and to his surprise he was cured. His family was the first in his village to embrace Christianity, and then others followed. Thus, the number of churches and converts grew. Roman Catholics entered the region around 1840 and came

into contact with the Adis (Abors) and Mishmis. They operated in the border areas of Assam and in 1934 opened a mission centre

combining schooling facilities. Unlike the Baptists, Catholics did not encounter much success through their mission schools. However, some missionaries sneaked into Arunachal, disguising themselves as carpenters, farmers, butchers, etc., and managed to evangelise some people. As late Brother Prem Bhai, who worked in Arunachal for 25 years, narrated, sometimes they had to walk more than a 100 kilometres to a village, through the mountains and snow; they were even arrested and fined (www.catholicnewsagency.com, accessed 4 January 2011). The process gained momentum after the opening of a school in 1977 in Harmutty near Doimukh. Many tribal students flocked to this school for free education. Many of them became converts to Christianity and started preaching in their villages. However, the real breakthrough came when the rules were gradually relaxed after the formation of the State in 1987, particularly in the early 1990s, and missionaries were allowed to open churches, schools and hospitals. During these years some of the converts became in the state government and encouraged missionary activites. Moreover, an economic crisis greatly accentuated migration of faith (Behera 2004). Today, there are two Catholic dioceses in Arunachal (Itanagar and Miao); 50 Catholic priests reportedly serve a congregation of 2,10,000 (www.catholicnewsagency.com, accessed 4 January 2011).

ministers

Besides Baptists and Catholics, the other Christian denomination

that is growing rapidly is the Pentecostal Church. The Pentecostal Fellowship Church which entered the region in 1993 has already set up a total of 33 churches, of which more than 20 are in the Nyishi areas (interview with K. P. Phillipose, 2007). Instead of opening schools and hospitals, it emphasises more on religious preaching/ training. For example, it organised a one-month Bible Training Camp in September–October 2007 in which 55 young unemployed boys and 15 girls took part. Preachers and resource persons came from outside and training was intensive. Most of these trainees would be recruited as pastors. Besides Catholics, Baptists and Pentecostals, about 15–20 small denominations, such as Revival, Presbyterian, Grace Convent, etc. are active in Arunachal Pradesh. Although the missionaries played a laudable role in the field of education and healthcare, and also helped preserve and develop tribal languages, the adherents of indigenous faiths perceived Christianity as an ‘alien’ faith which threatened their faith, culture

and identity. Christianity is accused of eroding the ‘cultural heritage’ of the tribes, dividing the tribal communities and destroying their

social unity (Furer-Haimedorf 1982). In this context, we need to examine the religious faith of Adis and Nyishis, the two numerically dominant indigenous communities of Arunachal Pradesh and how they revive and insitutionalise their faith called Donyi-Polo

and attempt to construct a larger Tani idenitity along with other communities like the Apatanis, Tagins, Hill-Miris and Mishings, as all of them have a common ancestor — Abo Tani.

Indigenous Communities: Adis and Nyishis During the colonial period and even earlier Adis were called Abors, which means ‘savage’ or ‘wild’. Perhaps of Assamese origin, this word

was in vogue throughout the colonial period. After Independence, the Abors rejected this derogatory nomenclature and demanded its replacement by ‘Adi’, which means ‘the people living in the hills’. The NEFA government acceded to this demand and recognised them as

Adis. Making up roughly 20 per cent of Arunachal’s population, the Adis are spread over three Siang districts and parts of Upper Subansiri and Dibang Valley districts. Broadly speaking, they are divided into two groups: the first consisting of the Minyong, the

Padam, the Pasi, and many other sub-tribes; and the second of Gallong and seven others. Despite these divisions and dialectical variations, they all share the same language and culture.

consisting

Traditionally, the socio-political life of the Adis is organised by

the village council (Kebang), which they believe owes its origins to their ancestor — Abo Tani. The Nyishis (Daflas in the Indian Constituion) are numerically the largest tribe (2001 census) inhabiting the East Kameng, Papumpare,

Lower Subansiri, Kurung Kumey and Upper Subansiri districts. The Daflas, a Palaeo-Mongoloid race, speak a Tibeto-Burman language. The Assamese term ‘dafla’ originally means ‘wild man’ or ‘barbaric’. Nyishi intellectuals find the term ‘nyishi’ more appropriate as it

derives from two words, Nyi means ‘man’ and shi (or ashi) means ‘Up Land’ or ‘High Land’. For them, nyishi means ‘Upland man’ or ‘Highlander’. Nyishi intellectuals argue that this term has been in vogue since time immemorial and they strongly plead for the

amendment of the VIII Schedule of the Indian Constitution which refers to them as Dafla.

The basic unit of the Nyishis is the household which is made up of a number of families from the same clan. Nyishis live in long houses dispersed over the hillside. However, clusters of long-houses should not be mistaken as a ‘village’ as each long-house is an autonomous, self-sufficient, and independent political unit disconnected from its neighbours (Furer-Haimendorf 1983: 56). Thus, the Nyishi settlement did not function as a corporate unit; feuds and wars normally occured not between one village and another, but between one household and another. Unlike the tolerance and stability of the Apa Tanis, Daflas were intolerant and remained in a state of flux and unrest (Furer-Haimendorf 1962: 7 and 1955). Nyishi intellectuals (interviews with Joram Begi, 2006; and Tana Showren, 2007) reject Christoph von Furer-Haimendorf’s ‘negative’ depiction of their community, resenting that foreigners never really understood them. True, some researchers may have essentialised and stereotyped community characteristics; communities have never remained static in history. However, the Nyishi intellectuals perfectly understand that their community has not been able to acquire a cohesive identity as it remained dispersed and disorganised throughout history. Hence, they give utmost importance to constructing a homogeneous Nyishi identity. Once this is achieved, a larger Tani identity could be constructed in Arunachal Pradesh by incorporating other indigenous communities like the Adis and Apatanis who believe in a common ancestry.

Indigenous Faith: Donyi-Polo The Tanis worship Donyi (Sun) and Polo (Moon). The Adis believe that Donyi-Polo is the planner, creator and preserver of all beings, including the planets in the universe. Donyi-Polo is the ever-vigilant power, which is omnipresent, omnipotent and omniscient; there is no place in this universe to hide from Donyi-Polo. And whoever commits any mischief will be punished by Donyi-Polo. They accept all gods, goddesses, spirits and deities solely as representatives of Donyi-Polo and worship them at seasonal festivals to achieve peace, strength and prosperity. Among domestic animals, the Adis respect the mithun as the sole representative of Donyi-Polo. The cock is representative of all living beings that convince the sun and moon to rise again when they stop rising. The dog is the representative of mankind, which brought food grain seeds from the land of Kiine Naane — Mother Earth. The snake is believed to be second to

Donyi-Polo, which bites a person who disobeys the social norms. The tiger is also regarded as a representative of Donyi-Polo who attacks the sinner and a man of violent character. Reviving Donyi-Poloism: Talom Rukbo Abor/Adi areas had already been exposed to Christianity during

the colonial period. Missions located in border areas continued to evangelise despite restrictions. This propelled the Adi intellectuals to organise and mobilize the community by reviving their age-old faith—Donyi-Polo. Talom Rukbo (1936–2000) took the lead.

Rukbo passed high school from Pasighat and then graduated from St Edmund’s College, Shillong. During his student days he showed a keen interest in promoting the language and culture of the Adi community. Incidentally, he joined the NEFA government

as a Language Officer and later rose to the rank of Special Cultural Officer. After the 1962 Sino-Indian War he also worked as a Sub-area Organiser in the Home Guards (SSB) for a while. To start with, he mobilised the Adis to celebrate their traditional

festivals collectively and uniformly. Thus, began the central of the Solung festival in Pangin in 1966. Then he persuaded the state government to recognise these Adi festivals

celebrations successfully

and notify them as holidays in the State Gazette. This was the first

move towards the construction of an Adi cultural identity. The next step was the revival of Bogum Bokang — the highest body of Adi local self-governance — which had remained moribund for many years. In 1973, this was organised at Along where Adi representatives

from different districts took part. This assembly drew up rules and regulations for the Adi community. Rukbo became the secretary of the Adi Literary and Cultural Society and devoted himself to collecting and compiling aabangs (oral shastras), writing songs,

poems and articles in journals and newspapers. Along with the revival of faith and the consolidation of the community, Adi intellectuals also took an active initiative in

campaigning against Christianity. In a petition to the then Prime Minister

Indira Gandhi in 1971, Adi leaders mentioned that colonialism/ Christianity used force, conversion, opium and education to subjugate the Adis. The petition also described how Christianity provoked Adi Christian converts to denounce traditional Adi institutions like

Kebang, boycott community festivals and flaunt their new faith with arrogance and superiority, thereby creating social disharmony.

The Adi leaders accused that Christianity was out to ‘crush the Adi belief’ (Dawar 2003). There was a counter petition by the Adi Christian converts as well. Thus, both sides drew the battlelines; some violent incidents against Christians were reported.

Institutionalising the Adi Tradition The process of institutionalisation was concretised in 1986 with the launch of the Donyi-Polo Yelam Kebang (Assembly of Donyi-Polo Faith), which laid down the following objectives: to reconstruct Adi traditions in the changing context; to retrieve traditional religious literature and practices and promote their usage; to institutionalise the faith and spread its message among the Adis; to construct a morally strong and self-confident Adi identity; and finally, to resist the aggression of alien culture (Rukbo 2005). In consonance with the above objectives, traditional Adi

literature and religious practices were collected, codified and published.

Prayers were composed, published and distributed. A Donyi-Polo temple was constructed at Pasighat for prayer and congregation; images of Donyi-Polo and other gods and goddesses were prepared and placed inside the temple along with traditional ornaments and healing materials. Subsequently, a Donyi-Polo Dere (temple) came up in every Adi village for regular prayer on Saturday. Images of Donyi-Polo and other gods and goddesses were put up in every temple. Priests were recruited to conduct religious rituals. A governing body, called the Donyi Polo Yelam Kebang (DPYK), was formed in every village to manage the affairs of the community and a code of conduct was prescribed for the followers (Rukbo 2002). The young people were particularly encouraged to become involved in the religious campaign. Cultural festivals were celebrated and traditional folk dances were given modern forms. Free services were offered to the needy. Emphasis was laid on the unity, dignity, self-realisation and self-confidence of the Adis so that they might take up any challenge and be ready to make a sacrifice for Donyi-Polo. Rukbo took the message of Donyi-Poloism beyond Arunachal.

In 1984, he attended the International Association for Religious Freedom (IARF) in Delhi as an observer. In 1985, he participated in the Mumbai Conference of the Indian chapter of the IARF and led the prayer on the first day. In 1990, he went to Germany to take part in the IARF.

Hinduisation of Donyi-Polo As Adi traditional faith became an institutionalised religion, a Adi temple (Gangging) has come up at Pasighat where Adis congregate every Saturday offering collective prayer at a fixed time. All devotees have to make a donation on the prayer day. Rituals are performed before Donyi-Polo’s image. Worship (puja) usually starts with collective prayer by devotees. This is followed by chanting by the priest. After sanctifying the healing material the priest sprinkles water on the heads of the devotees. Prayer then continues under the guidance of a person conversant with the scriptures. During prayer all devotees sit cross-legged on the floor in a disciplined way. Either before prayer or after, the priest ties healing thread (ridin) to the wrist of the devotees as a blessing of Donyi-Polo.

central

Plate 3.1: Image of Donyipolo with the photographs of the RSS leaders in RSS Office, Itanagar. Courtesy of Pralay Kanungo.

Most of these rituals follow the same pattern as Hindu worship though certain features like community prayer hall (Gangging), the Saturday congregation, collective prayer and compulsory resemble with the pattern followed at the Church. Thus, while

donation

institutionalising Donyi-Poloism, Rukbo emulated both Hinduism as well as Christianity though he did not owe his debt to Christianity. Instead, he stressed on the similarity between Donyi-Poloism and Hinduism on the following grounds. First, the Adi KEYUM is equivalent to the Hindu AUM. For the Hindus, AUM implies Vishnu, Brahma, Shiva; for the Adis, KEYUM implies Kaasi, Siang, Aaabo, Bomuk, Mukseng, Seedi and Meelo (Vishnu, Brahma). Second, the aabangs of Adis are equivalent to the Hindu shastras and like the latter, they are the repository of knowledge, wisdom and virtues. Third, like the Hindus, the Adis worship numerous gods and goddesses, observe festivals and taboos, erect altars, worship images, chant rituals and offer sacrifices. Finally, despite having 33 crore gods and goddesses, the Hindus believe that there is one supreme power above all of them called God (Bhagwan); likewise, the Adis believe in Donyi-Polo, the omnipresent, omnipotent and omniscient supreme power. Rukbo’s revival of the Donyi-Polo faith and incorporation of Hindu rituals and practices was applauded by the RSS. Bhaurao Deoras Seva Nyas, an RSS affiliate, at a function organised in 1996, honoured him as ‘Prakhyat Dharmik Sant aur Sahitya Manishi Shri Talom Rukbo’ (Distinguished Religious Saint and Literary Figure). The RSS citation (Abhinandan Patra) reads: ‘Due to your efforts, social harmony, love for the nation and national integration has been strengthened. Under your guidance many religious, social and national projects to build the new India have been undertaken’ (Borang 2002: 11–12).

Hinduisation of Arunachal Pradesh There has been a cultural interaction between the Brahmaputra Valley and parts of Arunachal Pradesh since the 10th century onwards. Excavations provide evidence of remains of Brahminical at Malinithan, Tamresvari (Sadia), and the chain of forts at Bhismaknagar, Rukmininagar near Tezu, Itanagar and Bhalukpung. Hindutva, on the basis of archaeological ruins, connects the region to Hindu mythologies. Tracing Arunachal’s link to the Mahabharata, Hindutva claims that Krishna’s wife, Rukmini, was the daughter of the Mishmi King of Bhismak Nagar. The site of Parshuram Kund is believed to be the place where Parshuram washed his axe and meditated. That is why the river and soil turned red, got the name Lohit and moved forward to become the Brahmaputra. While Akshya

influences

Prajapati’s abode was in West Siang, Hiranyakashyap lived in the Subansiri Hills. Malinithan is another site which is linked to the mythology of Goddess Parvati. There may be doubts over the Hindu connection in the ancient period, but in the medieval period, Vaishnavism entered through Assam and influenced some of the tribes like the Noctes. During the colonial period, Marwari businessmen moved inland and set up small shops and businesses. Being devout Hindus they displayed the images of different Hindu gods and goddesses in their shops and homes, and celebrated major Hindu festivals in public. In the post-Independence period, the Indian state, willy-nilly, promoted Hinduisation. As the NEFA came under the central government’s administrative control, the security forces and bureaucracy, mostly Hindus, came from outside the region. In some places, the defence and paramilitary forces built temples near their camps and set up statues of the Hindu gods and goddesses. Hindu festivals were celebrated and religious processions were carried out, which had some impact on the local tribal communities. Some Hindu organisations also entered the NEFA to work among the local communities; for instance, the Ramakrishna Mission started its operations in Arunachal Pradesh way back in 1964. there was an influx of various Hindu organisations, such as Gayati Parivar, Om Shanti and Swadhya. As a result, there has been a surge in temple building in Arunachal Pradesh: Shiv Mandir, Kali Mandir, Gayatri Mandir, Donyipolo Shiv Mandir, Namghar, Ram Chandra Mission, Durga Mandir, Radhe–Krishna Mandir.

Subsequently, Hindutva in Arunachal Pradesh

Incidentally, a bureaucrat of the Indian government, Col. K. A. A. Raja, brought Hindutva to Arunachal Pradesh. Raja, a Kshatriya from Tamil Nadu, worked with the Madras regiment till 1947. Then he joined the Indian Frontier Administrative Service and finally the Indian Administrative Service. He became Chief Commissioner of Arunachal Pradesh in 1971 and the first Lieutenant Governor in 1978. Raja was reportedly a ‘Hindu fanatic’ and rabidly antiChristian. He was concerned that Christianity was expanding despite restrictions and it had to be contained. Raja called some student and youth leaders belonging to indigenous communities, namely Kamen Ringu (present President of People’s Party of Arunachal), Nabam Atum (present President of Arunachal Vikas Parishad) and

Malo Tarin and asked them to come forward to safeguard their indigenous religion and culture from the onslaught of Christianity (interview with Kamen Ringu, 2007). These student leaders, who also shared similar concerns, became disciples of Raja. Being assured of state support, they vehemently mobilised students and common people and resisted the of new churches in a militant way. Thus began an aggressive anti-Chrisitian mobilisation followed by a series of attacks on Christians and churches. In early 1969, churches were reportedly burnt down by SSB Home Guards at Deed, Dem and Neelam. Subsequently, this spread to Siang and Tirap. By 1974, in Subansiri alone, a total of 47 churches had been burnt down. Even Mother Teresa was not allowed to enter the state. Aurnachal Pradesh’s Legislative Assembly introduced the Freedom of Religion Bill which subsequently became an Act in 1978 despite Christian protests. Raja quickly gave his assent. The Act made clear that ‘conversion’ means renouncing an indigenous faith, adopting another faith and religion, while ‘indigenous’ included the communities of Arunachal Pradesh that believe in Buddhism, Vaishnavism and Nature Worship, including followers of Donyi-Polo. The Arunachal Pradesh Freedom of Indigenous Faith Act, 1978 categorically stated: ‘No person shall convert or attempt to convert, either directly or otherwise, any person from an indigenous faith by use of force or by inducement or by any fraudulent means, nor shall any person abet any such conversion.’ The RSS congratulated the state government and the President for the adoption of such an Act.

construction

In the midst of this communal atmosphere the RSS made its

entry into Arunachal Pradesh. Raja was not in favour of opening the field of education to Christian missionaries and was looking for Hindu organisations to work on the education sector in the state. Hence, Raja invited the RSS pracharak (lit. preacher, here, full-time organiser of the RSS, who has dedicated his life for the cause of Hindu Rashtra) Eknath Ranade, who was the chief of Vivekananda Kendra, Kanyakumari, to open schools in Arunachal Pradesh. Thus, the RSS entered the state through Vivekananda Kendra.

Vivekananda Kendra (VK) in Arunachal Pradesh Arunachal Pradesh was the first state to be adopted in 1977 by the VK, Kanyakumari. In the beginning it sent teachers through the

government school system. Soon after, it set up six schools. Whereas the Ramakrishna Mission, which came long before, runs only three schools in Arunachal Pradesh, the VK has established a chain of 30 schools with 10,000 students. These schools include higher secondary schools for girls in Tezu, and for boys in Changlang. Vivekananda Kendra Vidyalayas (VKV) have earned a reputation for imparting quality education. VKVs have a two-fold objective, ‘Man-Making and NationBuilding’; they also claim to impart a scientific and characterbuilding education. Some key features of these schools are the following: Admission is given only to the children in the age group of 5–6 years. These are residential schools where teachers reside with the students following the ancient gurukul (ancient Indian of residential school where pupils lived with the teacher to receive knowledge) tradition and play a major role in shaping the character of the pupils. All five spheres of child development — physical, mental, emotional, intellectual and spiritual — are given equal importance. Students learn surya namskar, Geeta chanting besides reading and discussing topical issues and undertaking practical activities. As music is considered to be an integral part of a child’s education, every school has its own school band. Students also learn local arts and crafts. While imparting modern education these schools put emphasis on respecting, preserving and nurturing the traditional culture, values and customs of the people of Arunachal Pradesh. Keeping the local context in perspective, they have made some ‘suitable’ additions/modifications in the National Council of Educational Research and Training (NCERT) curriculum they have been following. Though the medium of teaching is English, Hindi has been made compulsory. Sanskrit is also taught up to the secondary level. Thus, VK claims to be imparting a holistic education in which individual, community and nation are integrated. VKVs are popular in Arunachal Pradesh primarily for the ‘quality and affordability’ of the education they offer, and a ‘value system’ and discipline they promotes among the children. During the last three decades, VKV alumni have become doctors, engineers and teachers and have occupied coveted positions in the state Incidentally, these former VKV students act as the of Hindu nationalism in the state. If John Firth School spread Christianity in Arunachal, VKVs have been instrumental in disseminating Hindutva.

tradition

bureaucracy. torchbearers

VK has another affiliate, Arun Jyoti, a cadre-based youth organisation having presence in 10 districts of Arunachal Pradesh. It runs

yoga camps and organises various festivals such as Guru Purnima, Universal Brotherhood, Sadhna Diwas, Gita Jayanti and Vivekananda Jayanti. All this is geared towards popularising Hinduism among the youth and constructing a Hindu persona, integrating Hinduism

with indigenous tradition and culture. Its youth camps focus on surya namaskar, personality development and physical training. Arun Jyoti also organises essay competitions, traditional sporting events and cultural competition-cum-puja demonstrations. Organisationally, it

is split into various branches: the non-formal education wing runs balwadis (Anandalayas for students of classes III–V); the youth wing (yuva manch) organises Chhatra Samman (commemorating Class X toppers) samaroh (youth congregation) and lectures; the

women’s wing (mahila manch) stresses women’s empowerment, capacity building, awareness on health, and promotes self-help groups; the healthcare wing (swasthya manch). Arun Jyoti runs two vocational training centres: one promoting skills such as carpet

weaving, Rangoli, food processing, and the other specialising in adopting good habits such as respecting a daily routine, health and hygiene, and nutrition. Thus, Arun Jyoti works as a grassroots youth organisation and promotes Hindutva programmes in the state.

Vivekananda Kendra Institute of Culture (VKIC) and Indigenous Faith The other important affiliate of the VK, which is very active in Arunachal Pradesh, is the Vivekananda Kendra Institute of

Culture (VKIC). The motto of the VKIC is ‘Development through Culture’. Its ‘cultural’ activities include protection, preservation and promotion of ‘indigenous’ tribal culture by organising lectures and seminars and publishing literature on the subject. However, its major emphasis is to ‘defend’ indigenous culture from the influence

of ‘alien’ culture. In this mission the VKIC has built a strong alliance with the intellectuals and elites of the indigenous communities, and has been coordinating the activities of different indigenous organisations. It would be useful to illustrate how the VKIC plays

an important role in the revival and institutionalisation of Nyishi indigenous faith.

Institutionalising and Hinduising the Nyishi Faith: Nyedar Namlo Hindutva usually launches its operations through the elites and notables (Kanungo 2003); the same practice is followed in the tribal

areas as well (Kanungo and Joshi 2009). On the initiative of the VKIC, the Nyishi Art and Cultural Society was formed in 1984, which was rechristened as the Nyishi Indigenous Faith and Cultural Society (NIFCS) in 1998. This new body laid down 11 fundamental aims

and objectives. Some of these include the following: to preserve and promote the indigenous faith and belief of the Nyishis; to the community about the values, culture and social moorings

educate

inherited from their ancestors through seminars, symposia and

festivals; to honour and preserve the institution of priesthood and promote the ‘original social life’ of the community; to document the rich oral literature, such as folklore, folktales, folksongs and to publish them; to discourage and stop the incursion of other faiths

or religions into Nyishi mythology; to discourage the misuse of Nyishi ritual ornaments and attire; to stop misrepresentation of the Nyishi tradition, culture, customs, practices and rituals in any form; and to foster Nyishi unity and brotherhood by undertaking

different service projects. The NIFCS took a major step towards the institutionalisation of the Nyishi faith by constructing a Nyishi temple — Nyeder Namlo (The Home of Pure). The central Nyedar Namlo was formally

inaugurated on 22 April 2001 in Doimukh. An image of the Nyishi goddess, Aan Donyi (The Mother Sun), and Donyi Yugang (Donyi Altar) were placed on a small raised platform. So far 22 Nyder Namlos have been constructed by the community and there is a

target to build another 28 in near future. Though the Nyishis never had any tradition of image worship, the community leaders felt that such a step would consolidate the community and strengthen their identity movement in the context of a ‘fast erosion of indigenous

religion and culture’.1 Namlo would bring the Nyishis to a common place and infuse a sense of community identity. The VKIC played an important role in this project in designing the images of the Nyishi deities — Aan Dyoni as well as of Jwt Ane.

Traditionally, the Nyishis believed in the spirits — Uei — which might be either benevolent or malevolent. This spirit-worshipping

Plate 3.2: Jwt Ane, the Nyishi goddess bearing the message of the VKIC ‘Development through Culture’. Courtesy of Pralay Kanungo.

tradition is now being substituted by the worshipping of a deity — Aan Donyi, who would protect her worshippers from the harmful Uei. Some other changes have also been introduced. Sacrifice has been at the core of Nyshi religious tradition and animal sacrifice has been very common. Now the Namlo movement discourages this ageold practice; sacrifice is allowed only at a few major rituals like Yullo. Increasingly, animal sacrifice is being substituted by regular prayer at Namlo. Thus, the imprint of Hinduisation is very much evident. As R. Tana Tara, President, Central Executive Council, Nyder Namlo, observes, there are only two religions in the world: Christianity and Islam. The rest, including Hinduism, come under paganism. Nyishis, like Hindus, are pagans/Sanatani. Hindus worship Surya as their father, Nyishis worship the sun as their mother. Like Hindus, Nyishis do not have any specific god/goddess (interview with Rekki

Tana Tara, 2007). Thus, like the Adi indigenous leaders, the Nyishi community leaders demonstrate their proximity towards Hinduism quite unambiguously.

Plate 3.3: Nyedar Namlo (Nyishi Temple), Doimukh. Courtesy of Pralay Kanungo.

Priests played an important role in the Nyishi tradition. Nyishis believed that communication between the god and the human being is a two-way process and the priest mediates between the two. However, the institution of priesthood gradually lost its credibility due to complex and costly worship, which encouraged exodus to Christianity. The Nyishi leaders now attempt to revive the of priesthood, as much of the traditional Nyishi knowledge system was a secret and confined to the priest alone; now hymns are collected from the priests, translated and recorded for the benefit of the community at large. However, unlike the earlier period, rituals have been simplified and worship hardly costs anything. Along with priesthood, prayer is given utmost importance. Usually, the priest recites prayers, but this can also be done by any pious person well-versed in hymns. The Namlo Council has prepared small prayer booklets and made these available to the followers at a

institution

nominal price. Besides daily prayers, collective prayer is conducted on Sundays. Namlo prayer is recited in chorus and the priest/leader takes the lead. When the prayer is over, devotees are given special instructions on Namlo affairs in a session called the Agam GominSonam. Thus, prayer occupies a central place in the revived Nyishi religion. Apart from the spiritual aspect, they do also have curative value. It is claimed that since the inception of Namlo more than 500 patients have been cured by prayer (interview with Rekki Tana Tara, 2007). Indeed, both with regard to Sunday assembly and therapeutic value of prayer, competition with the church is very much evident. While institutionalising Nyishi traditional faith, the NIFCS creates an awareness among the Nyishis about the proselytising activities of alien religions and cultures and warns them against their ‘ulterior motive’ of conversion. The Namlo movement’s main agenda is to preserve indigenous culture which faces a serious threat from Western/Christian culture (interview with Rekki Tana Tara, 2007). Thus, the NIFCS campaigns that Nyshis would lose their identity and culture by embracing an alien religion and motivates them them to take pride in their own traditions. As the president of NIFCS asserted, … in this universe no religion is superior or inferior. Instead, all religions are equal in the eyes of the Creator. In no way can being indigenous mean being inferior. Instead, we should boast about being indigenous, because the indigenous character and nature is pure and holy. It remains superior

and unpolluted above the line of pollution …’ (speech delivered on the inaugural day of Central Nyder Namlo, 22 April 2001). Thus, NIFCS arrived at an innovative mantra: ‘indigenous is for purity of heart and get rid from being polluted’. Nyishi intellectuals believed Tanism suffered due to the absence of a centralised to control and organise religious affairs. Nyedar Namlo would fill this gap by standardising and systematising faith and offering social and cultural perspectives. A code of behaviour and social etiquette has been introduced. The Namlo Council organises training camps periodically; so far 41 youths have been trained as full-timers. The objective is to eventually develop a Nyeder Namlo cadre, observes Tana Showren, a young Nyishi intellectual (interview with Tana Showren, 2007). Showren, who teaches history at Rajiv Gandhi University, Itanagar, is committed to the construction and

institution

consolidation of a strong Nyishi identity. Incidentally, the university has become the hub of the indigenous identity movement. Although all these developments have taken place under the initiative of Nyishi intellectuals and elites, the VKIC has always an inspirational force behind them, continuously directing, co-ordinating, mobilising and strategising to build a strong Nyishi identity which would conform to the ideology of Hindutva. Ms Pranjali Yerikar, in-charge of the Arunachal chapter of the VKIC, is a Maharashtrian in her early 30s. She obtained her diploma in civil engineering and worked with a software company for a year before joining the VK, Kanyakumari. Inspired by Vivekananda and encouraged by her mother, she worked for a year with the Kendra as a trainee and later became a life worker (jeevan brati). Yerikar coordinates the activities of different indigenous organisations, indigenous study circles mobilising indigenous intellectuals and elites and organises seminars and conferences on related issues. She has excellent liasioning and communication skills. Her over the local dialect is praiseworthy; she recites indigenous prayers quite comfortably.

remained

convenes command The RSS in Arunachal Pradesh

While the RSS primarily functions through its affiliates like the VK, it does not forget its core activity of running shakhas in Arunachal Pradesh; it runs 35 shakhas with an average attendance of 25–30 (interview with Sandip Kavishwar). These shakhas are spread all over the state including some the areas close to the border with China. The RSS organised an Eternal Faith Conference at Koloriang (border area) in 2006 which was attended by 700–800 people. There are 12 RSS pracharaks deputed in Arunachal; while five of them are with the RSS, seven work with the VK and the BJP. In addition, the Sangh Parivar has about 100 full-timers. The RSS-affiliate Arunachal Shiksha Vikas Samiti (ASVS) was

formed in 1994 under the chairmanship of Jokim Riba with its headquarters located in Naharlagun. Its motto is ‘Social through Education’ and the objective is to achieve allround development of the state through education based on the Bharatiya culture. By 2007, the Samiti had opened 21 schools which have 2,500 students and 250 teachers. All the schools are co-educational, with English as the teaching medium, and they follow the CBSE syllabus. Most of them are residential. In disseminating

Transformation

education based on the Bharatiya culture and values, these schools lay special emphasis on local indigenous faith. Its curricula focus

on physical education, yoga, music, Sanskrit and moral/spiritual education; it also puts special stress on celebrating festivals and observing days of national and cultural importance, and organsing the Sanskriti Gyan Pariksha (Sanskrit Knowledge Test). The ASVS

provides free education to 450 students at Kasturaba Gandhi Balika Vidyalaya, East Siang district with free meals and clothing. It also picks up talented students from economically challenged backgrounds and sends them for free education to Delhi, Ranchi,

Vishakhapatnam, Haflong, and other places. Unlike other states where RSS schools are called Saraswati Shishu Mandirs, in Arunachal Pradesh they are known as Abotani Vidya Niketan. Strategically, the Hindu goddess of Saraswati has been replaced by the

indigenous goddess Abotani. The modest school network of the RSS

has been a big success in the state. The rise of the BJP, the political affiliate of the RSS, has been another significant development for the Parivar. It took the state’s

two parliamentary seats in the 2004 elections and also had nine members elected to the 60-member legislative assembly. Gegong Apang, who left the Congress and merged his group with the BJP, made it possible for the BJP to head its first government in

the northeast, enhancing the political credibility of the party and the Parivar. However, this excitement was short-lived as eight of the nine MLAs deserted the party to join the Congress. The BJP faced a major setback in the 2009 parliamentary and assembly elections

when it lost both the seats in parliament and could win only one seat in the state assembly. Arunachal Vikas Parishad (AVP) Another affiliate of the RSS is the Arunachal Vikas Parishad (AVP). Curiously, instead of opening a branch of its affiliate Vanvais

Kalyan Ashram (VKA) which works among the tribals/Vanavasis, the RSS set up a new organisation, the AVP. There could be many reasons for this: first, the term ‘vanavasi’ does not fit in well into the social and cultural context of northeast India. Second, with a

predominantly tribal population, it would be an advantage to have a more inclusive rather than a sectarian nomenclature, as the RSS enjoys support from a large segment of non-tribals. Third, this new organisation has to appear to be independent and autonomous to

attract indigenous intellectuals and elites, even though in practice the RSS calls the shots. Incidentally, Talom Rukbo, the architect of the Donyi-Polo became the founding president of the AVP. Nabam Atum, the present president of the AVP, belongs to an influential clan. Under the auspices of the ABVP’s ‘My Home is India’ programme, he went to Maharashtra for his schooling. He became the first graduate in the Nabam clan. Atum apparently has a strong RSS connection. The present secretary of the AVP, Techi Gubin, comes from a poor family background. He completed his school education in Doimukh and then went to Chandigarh to study architecture. After receiving the degree he joined the Arunachal Pradesh government as an architect. His strong commitment to Nyishi identity brought him to the Nyshi elite society and he became its president (interview with Techi Gubin, 2007). Thus, some committed indigenous leaders have been successfully co-opted to the Hindutva organisations like the AVP. The AVP’s Annual Report (2006–2007) and interview with Techi Gubin indicate the strong presence of the organisation in the state. It is active in 14 of the 16 districts and among 18 of the 26 major tribes with a workforce of 47 full-time workers and 52 health workers. The AVP runs 92 Projects: balwadi: 58 (2,094 students, 118 teachers); Bal Sanskar Kendra: 8; sports centre: 16; cultural centre: 5; Saptahik Milan Kendra: 1; medical centre: 2; schools: 2 (16 teachers and 350 students). It publishes a magazine called Heritage Explorer with a circulation of 600 copies and also runs 110 weekly prayer centres. The AVP acts as an umbrella organisation that is committed to safeguarding the indigenous faith and culture of the people of Arunachal Pradesh. It organises and coordinates the activities of different indigenous organisations such as Nyishi Indigenous Faith and Cultural Society (NIFCS), Donyi-Polo Yelam Kebang (DPYK), Central Nyedar Namlo, Rangfraa Faith Promotion Society (RFPS), Meder Nello (Apatanis). The AVP organises training camps for its activists and invites functionaries from the RSS and Ramakrishna Mission as resource persons. In 2006–2007, it organised youth awareness camps in 42 places in which 1,400 youths participated. The major topics discussed in these camps included the ‘role of youth in the development of Arunachal’, ‘need to protect the age-old culture and traditions to

movement,

keep the Janjati identity intact’ and ‘national integration’. The AVP celebrated the 69th birth anniversary of the founder of the Donyi-

Polo movement, Talom Rukbo, and extended support to the DPYK held in Pasighat. It led a delegation consisting of 975 youths to the Guwahati Youth Convention held in December 2006, which was organised by the RSS-sponsored Janjati Faith and Culture

Protection Forum. The convention took a hard position against the

infiltration of foreign nationals to the northeast. The AVP acts as an intermediary between Arunachalis and the Sangh Parivar. It celebrates RSS/Hindu festivals such as Rakshabandhan

(lit. bond of protection; north Indian Hindu festival in which sister ties thread on her brother’s wrist seeking protection) on a grand scale. For instance, in 2006–2007, it organised 23 Rakshabandhan functions in 10 districts of Arunachal Pradesh which were attended

by 3,288 persons. On this day, the AVP volunteers made house to house contact and distributed 11,076 rakhis. Thus, Hinduisation and Hindutvaisation go together in Arunachal Pradesh. The AVP sends children to the RSS-run institutions outside the

state for schooling. At present, a number of Arunachal students are studying at Vanvasi Kalyan Ashram, Bhiwani; Seva Samarpan Sansthan at Kanpur and Gorakhpur; Seva Prakalp Sansthan, Rudrapur; Rashtra Sevika Samiti, Nagpur; and Vanvasi Vikas Samiti, Raipur.

It also sends sports and cultural teams to the events organised by the Sangh Parivar in different parts of India. Thus, the AVP has been consciously exposing the youth of Arunachal to the Hindu nationalist landscape and has been inculcating Hindutva among

the Arunachalis. As Joram Begi, the Prant Pramukh of the VK and a prominent Nyishi elite observed, ‘The more we look at the inner core of culture, the more distinctly we perceive India’s underlying unity’ (interview with Joram Begi, 2006).

Conclusion Various factors facilitated Hindutva’s penetration into Arunachal Pradesh; a significant role was, however, played by the Indian state. Indigenous tribal communities like the Adis and the Nyishis were opposed to both colonialism and Christianity. Ironically, the secular Indian state willy-nilly reinforced their perception on Christianity by restricting the entry of Christian missionaries into Arunachal on the pretext of saving the tribal culture. On the other hand, it

never applied the same norms for Hindu religious and ‘cultural’ organisations. More surprisingly, a top-ranking central government administrator, Col. K. A. A. Raja, played the communal card by mobilising indigenous tribal leaders and inviting the RSS to start its operation in Arunachal Pradesh. Second, being a frontier region, Arunachal first remained under the NEFA, then became a union territory, and finally became a state in the Indian Union. Thus, Arunachal’s trajectory to statehood experienced a unique process which reinforced Indian national identity as well as Hindu identity simultaneously. Third, it is the only state in the north-east which uses Hindi as an official language besides English. Arunachalis, unlike their counterparts in the northeast, love to communicate in Hindi for various reasons: besides their antipathy towards the hegemony of Assamese language, continuous interaction with Hindi-speaking central administrative and security forces and the government’s policy of teaching Hindi in schools greatly contributed to this development. Hindi made Hindutva’s acceptance easier and progress faster. Finally, China’s offensive in 1962 and its periodic claims over Arunachal’s territory have created a sense of insecurity among the Arunachalis. Rebutting these claims with strident rhetoric, Hindutva organisations have been accusing the Government of India (the Congress) for sloppiness, thereby strengthening the bond between Hindu nationalism and the Arunachalis. Besides the state, the expansion of Christianity helped Hindutva in a big way. Despite government restrictions and adverse Christian missionaries continued to proselytise and convert and created a sense of insecurity and indignation among the elites and intellectuals of various indigenous communities. Thus, the state witnessed sporadic attacks on the churches in the 1970s. When Christianity grew rapidly in the 1980s, Hindutva seized a great opportunity to mobilise indigenous communities against the ‘alien’ Christianity in more systematic manner. Thereupon, it co-opted indigenous elites and intellectuals into its fold and made them convince that both had to collaborate to fight the common enemy — Christianity. It opened educational institutions and undertook various welfare programmes endearing the local communities. Hindutva affiliates and organisers provided a helping hand in the process of institutionalisation and Hinduisation of different indigenous faiths like Donyi-Polo. This close collaboration and networking not only gave way to a systematic entry of Hindutva

conditions,

into Arunachal Pradesh, but also established a strong bond indigenous identity movements and the Hindutva forces. some indigenous leaders also became strong votaries of Hindutva politics. Besides mobilising the indigenous communities, the Sangh Parivar has also been working among the non-tribals who are primarily outsiders and constitute around an impressive 36 per cent of the population of the state. A strong section of them, Hindu religious groups, government employees, teachers and businessmen, are favourably disposed towards Hindutva. Arunachal Pradesh has thus emerged as Hindutva’s major sphere of influence in northeast India.

between Subsequently,

particularly References

Behera, M. C. 2004. ‘ Development Distortions and Conversion: The Case of Arunachal Pradesh’, Man & Development, XXVI (3): 155-66. Borang, Kaaling (ed.). 2002. Golgi Bote Talom Rukbo: His Thoughts and Deeds. Pasighat: Central Donyipolo Yelam Kebang. Dawar, Jagdish Lal . 2003. Cultural Identity of North-East India: Movement for Cultural Identity Among Adis of Arunachal Pradesh . New Delhi: Commonwealth. Elwin, Verrier, B. Shastri and I. Simon. 1967. Important Directives on of NEFA. Shillong: NEFA Administration. Elwin, Verrier. 1958. Myths of the North-East Frontier of India, North-East Frontier Agency. Shillong: NEFA Administration. ———. 1964. A Philosophy for NEFA. Shillong: NEFA Administration. Furer-Haimendorf, Christoph von. 1955. Himalayan Barbary. London : John Murray, 1955. ———. 1962. The Apa Tanis and Their Neighbours: A Primitive Civilization of the Eastern Himalayas. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. ———. 1982. Tribes of India: The Struggle for Survival. Berkeley: University of California Press. ———. 1983. Modern Development and Traditional Ideology among Tribal Societies (4th D. N. Majumdar Lectures). Lucknow: Ethnographic and Folk Culture Society. Kanungo, Pralay. 2003. ‘ Hindutva’s Entry into a “Hindu” Province: Early Years of RSS in Orissa’, Economic and Political Weekly, 38 (31): 3293-3303. Kanungo, Pralay and Satyakam Joshi. 2009. ‘ Carving out a White Marble Deity from a Rugged Black Stone?: Hindutva RehabilitatesRamayan’s Shabari in a Temple’, International Journal of Hindu Studies, 13 (3): 189-228. Rikam, Nabam Tadar. 2005. Emerging Religious Identities of Arunachal Pradesh: A Study of Nyishi Tribe. New Delhi: Mittal.

Administration

Rukbo, Talom. 2000. ‘Donyipoloism — A Tribal Religion’, in M. C. Behera (ed.), Tribal Religion, Change and Continuity . New Delhi: Commonwealth Publishers. ———. 2002. Directive Principles of Donyipolo Yelam (Faith): The Code of Conduct. Pasighat: Central D.P.Y.K. ———. 2005. ‘ Institutionalization of a Tradition: Donyipolo Yelam Kebang — A Case Study ’, Traditional Systems of North-East India: Papers from Pasighat Seminar. Guwahati: Vivekananda Kendra Institute of Culture. Showren, Tana. 2007. The Nyishi of Arunachal Pradesh: Brief Ethnographic Outline. Itanagar: All Nyishi Students’ Union. Vivekananda Kendra. n.d. Annual Report — 2003–2004: Vivekananda Kendra, Arun Jyoti, Arunachal Pradesh. Kanyakumari: Vivekananda Kendra. ———. n.d. Arunachal: An Ornament of Bharat. Kanyakumari: Vivekananda Kendra.

Personal Interviews Philipose, K. P., Pastor, Pentecostal Fellowship Church, Doimukh, 2007. Begi, Joram, Prant Pramukh, Vivekananda Kendra, Arunachal Pradesh, Nahrlagun, 2006. Tara, Rekki Tana, President, Central Executive Council, Nyder Namlo, 2007. Kavishwar, Sandip, RSS pracharak, Itanagar, 2006, 2007. Yerikar, Pranjali, Jeevan Brati, Vivekananda Kendra, Itanagar, 2007. Gubin, Techi, Secretary, Arunachal Vikas Parishad, Itanagar, 2007. Borang, Kaaling, Adi ideologue, Pasighat, 2006. Ringu, Kamen. President, People’s Party of Arunachal, Naharlagun, 2007. Showren, Tana, Academic and Nyishi activist, Itanagar, 2007. Teti, Tana, Nyishi Nyibo , Midpo Village, Doimukh, 2007.

4 The Shakha and the Mandal: The Shiv Sena, 'Popular Culture' and People's Associations in Mumbai Djallal G. Heuzé Since its inception, the Shiv Sena has been perceived as being 80 per cent movement and 20 per cent political party. This perception has induced the organisation to maintain special relations with the milieu it represents; the lower-middle classes and the working classes constitute the majority of Shiv Sena members and sympathisers. This article focuses on the Shiv Sena’s relationship with Mumbai’s urban culture. My investigations on the subject were carried out over a fairly long period (1986–2006), the process of conceptualisation taking place between 1993 and 1999 when I made a number of visits to local-level groupings, learnt much about the daily life of the various branches (shakha), stayed in the mill districts for months, and was introduced to family life out there. Several examples dealt with here are located in a working-class stronghold called ‘Girangaon’, an area of 4 sq. km, where the textile industry flourished for 130 years in what is currently central Mumbai. Other examples are taken from the northern suburbs. The Shiv Sena was primarily a nativist movement (KatzensteinFainsod 1979), yet its pro-Maharashtrian stance was always intimately associated with ‘Hindu culture’ through the idealisation of Shivaji. Culture lies at the core of the Hindu nationalist project. Formulated between the end of the 19th century and the 1960s, Hindu nationalism considers that Hindu culture cements the Hindu nationalism seeks to unite Hindus which, according to its views, is the prerequisite for the birth of a strong nation-state. It engineers a simplification and uniformisation of culture. It also induces a ‘modernisation’, with a fascination for techniques. The aggressive posture, developing confrontation with the enemy communists, Muslims, foreigners) is based on the idea

nation.

(nonbelievers,

The Shakha and the Mandal

of cultural unity. In this framework, culture has a strong political aspect. The importance of organisation building and militancy induces

the emergence of symbols, considered as the basic elements of culture. Among Hindu nationalist tendencies, the Shiv Sena brand is particularly inclined to attribute importance to symbols. The Shiv Sena is centred around young people and symbols of youth. It is

masculine and heroic, urbane and mundane. It is a culture of and fight. It gives a positive connotation to every kind of action if it is made by ‘the Maharastrian people’. Regarding caste, Shiv Sena is a mix, where OBC1 and middle castes such as the Maratha show a good proportion, with the Dalits and higher castes also being well represented. Though there are some common features in the cultures of the Shiv Sena and the RSS, there exist strong differences

confrontation

between them as well; the RSS has a strictly national perspective.

This article investigates the processes that inform the Shiv Sena’s ‘fabric of culture’, raising the following questions. First, what is the importance of the Shiv Sena in the Mumbaiite cultural fabric? To which extent does it reflect Mumbai’s youth culture and how far

does it contribute to it? Second, what is the relationship between the movement (Shiv Sena movement) and the lower-middle/workingclass milieu? Similarly, what are its relations with the middle class and upper middle class? Third, how does it relate to the mass media,

especially Mumbai’s film cult of youth heroism? These questions will be dealt with by looking at the interplay between the Shiv Sena and the youth clubs, which is one of the defining features of Mumbai sociability. As a movement wanting

to speak the language of ‘the people’ (50 per cent of the population belongs to the youth), but also as a new organisation which had to battle to make a space for itself, the Shiv Sena became deeply involved in youth assertion.

Through the study of clubs, I concentrate on the concrete and multifarious ways that the shakha and the universe of the young overlap. I also explore diverse situations and types of clubs, with the aim of highlighting their relationship with the Shiv Sena and the

way they mutually influence one another.

1 An official category comprising more than 4,000 jatis of peasants and craftmen. There are reservations for OBCs.

Djallal G. Heuzé

Clubs Galore Having gained importance since the 19th century, puja samitis (puja committees) grew at a considerable rate during the 1950s. In

many cases, their leadership slipped from the hands of aged notables to the control of youngsters whom education had rendered self assertive. In addition, many mandal (clubs) emerged. These were local youth associations. In this article, despite the connections

between the two worlds of associations, we will differentiate here between mandal, working class and lower middle-class associations and the ‘clubs’ of the ‘bourgeois’ classes. The basic mandal were multipurpose associations revolving

around the neighbourhood. They focused on culture and sport. The severing of relations with the village, which took place on a massive scale in the 1980s and 1990s, accentuated the importance of mandal and samiti. At the beginning of the 1990s, an estimated 10,000

ganapati puja samiti were to be found in a city of 10 million people. On the whole, puja samiti and mandir samiti (temple committees who often had the same membership) might have concerned 15,000 associations and about 500,000 people. There were at least just

as many mitra mandal (friends clubs) and krida mandal (sports clubs). Thus one tenth of the city’s population took part in local association. In 1985, the Shiv Sena boasted 30,000 members. In the old industrial centre, the network of mandal and samiti was

particularly impressive. The existence of large puja samiti was made official under the Charity Trust Act, 1920. Yet a majority of mandal and samiti were not institutionalised. Clubs lasted as long as the

leaders, young workers or students were interested in promoting

social activities. Seven years was the usual span of life for a club. There were also clubs that survived for decades. Mandal and samiti were based upon firm relations made at chawl (Mumbai’s workingclass dwelling[s]) or ‘staircase’ level. They were made up of people

who mutually knew each other, shared the same space, lifestyle, community and religion, often had roti-beti viavahar,2 shared the same cultural ethos and, last but not least, lived in an oppressive but nevertheless secure industrial milieu. 2 Relations with people with whom you can eat and marry.It is still a central notion in Mumbai.

Clubs were open from late morning till nighttime, longer, therefore, than the shakha of the Shiv Sena. Youngsters used to chat about movies and music. In the morning, newspapers arrived. Members and neighbours would read and comment on them. Life at the mandal was not limited to the small room which was its main asset (Heuzé 1995; 2001). A large part of its activities took place, especially in the evenings, under the banyan trees. Mandal were commonly implicated in events such as small communal tensions, struggles against price rise and protests concerning public facilities. Having ample time and being young, their members were the first to react. In a sizable minority of mandal, there were local dada,3 who associated their career as small patrons with ‘social’ ventures. The attitudes that the Shiv Sena adopted and systematised and the personalities, around which it engineered its action, were equally present in the mandal.

Mandal and Samiti Influenced by the Shiv Sena The Shiv Sainik were commonly implicated in the life of associations which had no direct connection with their movement. They tried to influence them, especially when issues such as the public of space, communal encounter and the lack of essential commodities arose. These associations were also influenced by the party symbols and festivals, and by its press, the weekly Marmik which was buttressed, from 1989 onwards, by the daily Saamna (Confrontation).4 Let us consider the case of two local mitra mandal (friends’ clubs) in Yogeshvari, a large shanty town located 20 km north of Mumbai city. Both associations, eight and 10 years old, were created by Maharashtrian and non-Maharashtrian young men from this overcrowded locality. Mandal members were involved in theatre and music productions. One of the mandal had a small library. Both had cheap TV sets in their quarters and they subscribed to newspapers. One of the mandal shared its premises with the temple trust (mandir samiti). There were two different clubs, not because of jati or community differences, but because of the self-assertion of

appropriation

3 The dada (lit. ‘elder brother’ but commonly a kind of rowdy) is an age-old presence in Girangaon (Chandavarkar 1994). 4 A Dopahar ke Saamna (Afternoon Saamna), in Hindi, was created in 1993.

the two leaders. The offices were opposite each other on a tiny public square. In each club, there was a bureau but no elections, treasurer or other associative apparatus. One ‘secretary’ had a degree. For this reason, he enjoyed respect from the others. Leaders, as well as members, denied having any direct connection with the Shiv Sena. This was contradicted by the presence of the saffron flag and the roaring tiger, distinctive symbols of the organisation. There was no portrait of Bal Thackeray,5 yet several members insisted on showing his photograph which they carried in their wallet. The premises were kept clean but without ‘sacred’ connotations like in the Shiv Sena shakha. However, the organisation of space on the premises, with a desk, chairs and a small Hindu altar, was similar to the Shiv Sena branches. Indeed, the implication of the clubs in the Shiv Sena was deep, with an emotional dimension. About one-fourth of the members of the clubs took part as members and, in one case at least, as cadres in the activities of branches 83 and 84, located a few hundred metres away. During the large riots of 1992–93 I saw of the mandal in the streets, mixing with Shiv Sena activists. In January 1993 one young male member of the Maha Kripa Yuvak Mandal6 was killed by the police. The two mandal and the temple committee had erected a small marble commemorative monument. Members of the Shiv Sena came to this ceremony in large numbers, even though they did not organise it. Members’ parents explained to me that this was the realm of the young. They felt that mandal were moral (naitik) and socially-minded (samajik) associations, useful for the mohalla (neighbourhood) and for the young. However, as far as the Shiv Sena was concerned, their opinion was mixed. Many felt that the organisation was necessary in order to protect the people. A large minority described the movement as an ambiguous and manipulative entity, ‘proposing a handkerchief after having beaten people’ (a local expression). Around about the same time in Dharavi, the largest concentration of slums in Mumbai city, there was a sanskrti mandal (cultural club) run by a Koli. He had been ward representative (nagarsevak) for the Shiv Sena for five years and was from the local notable. His association had connections with several others, which dealt

members

5 The ‘Sena Pramukh’, Bal Thackeray is an upper middle-class cartoonist from a middle-caste background (Purandare 1999). 6 All names are changed.

with culture, the struggle against alcohol addiction, cleaning the mohalla and managing Hindu temples. Koli are a so-called backward community mainly made up of fishermen (or people from a fishermen’s

background). From the very beginning, they boasted an intimate relationship with Shiv Sena. For the latter, Koli fishermen represented the original community of the land, the most authentic of the ‘sons of the soil’ (Weiner 1989). Their Hinduism is of a particular nature, with the presence of specific priests and a prominent goddess’ cult. The Shiv Sena penetrated the Koli community through youth clubs

but also by influencing notables. The Dharavi mandal is an example of both processes. It was under the leadership of a middle-aged ‘big man’ who came to the Shiv Sena at its inception. Members looked upon the man as their guardian. The former numbered at least 200 and they were very devoted to the leader. The mandal was also a community centre of the Koli caste, located in the leader’s

own house. He was an advocate of the backward classes and a follower of Dr Ambedkar. The office, located on the ground floor of the house, had a rich iconography. There were representations of the goddess and Ganapati, numerous photographs of community meetings besides smaller symbols of Shiv Sena influence. These examples help to understand Shiv Sena connections with

the network of local associations. The movement was able to exert a strong influence over different kinds of setups. Ideologies were not a stake in the matter. The Shiv Sena gained importance through tensions and riots as well as through social services. When

explaining their attraction for the Shiv Sena, members of the mandal

there unanimously cited the Yogeshvari shakha ambulance system

and the riots of 1993. In Dharavi, the club’s social and community services and Shiv Sena social service activities were intimately associated. In this framework, the Shiv Sena cadres and members were confronted on a daily basis with the sensibility of the young The mandal influenced the Shiv Sena and the organisation

generation.

in turn tried to influence it. In one occurrence, at least, the mandal was more radical than the shakha in the course of communal riots. Yet, the mandal were often debarred of any political responsibilities. They were places to gather and socialise. If the Shiv Sainik had poor long-term strategies, mandal members had no interest at all in political strategy. They were more prone to privilege emotions and

actions in their own street, in front of their own house, and these tendencies were also characteristic of the Shiv Sena.

The Case of Autonomous Mandal Mandal could be very large entities. Some of them represented economic power. They were also political assets that every actor

tried to dominate or instrumentalise. The Shiv Sainik were convinced that it was their prerogative to influence large cultural associations. However, things were not that simple. The Triveni Mahamandal was created in 1970 in Dadar by rich

people from the Maratha community with a clear Hindu and ‘social service’ bias. It promoted sport on a large scale, giving precedence to koshti and kabaddi sports, which are considered to be expressions of the ‘sons of the soil’ culture. It organised important events. It

headed a 600-strong federation of kabaddi mandal. It was involved in religious festivals. It promoted health-related ventures. It wanted to give a sense of pride to the people. It organised numerous

antialcoholic campaigns despite the fact that the founder and main leader of this enormous institution, of more than 5,000 members in 1995, was a well-known and large-scale seller of alcohol. The destiny of this man, U. Naik (interview, 1996), was for a long time associated with the Shiv Sena. He was active on behalf of the

Marathi-speaking people at the time of the Movement for the Unity of Maharashtra (SMA 1954–60). 7 He helped the Shiv Sena but never joined it. He was crorepati (millionaire) and could influence thousands of voters, through Triveni Mahamandal activities but also

because he was a notorious moneylender. The club was managed by a board of trustees to whom Naik insisted on introducing many ‘big men’ among whom there were members of the Congress Party, the RPI (Dalit Ambedkarite entity) and the BJP. BJP members

were shopkeepers and invited because they were rich and Hindu, yet hardly what you would call Maharathi-speaking. A group of Maharastrian upper-caste fellows were members of the RSS. The political situation of the Triveni Mahamandal was rather

complicated. RSS people took an active role in the sports section and this support was much appreciated. However, they refused to associate the Triveni with the Shiv Sena, which was the dominant political entity in the area. There thus emerged an association of

7 This movement led to the creation of the state of Maharashtra with Bombay (Mumbai) as the capital city. It was one of the sources of the Shiv Sena.

RSS elements with Congress supporters aimed at reducing the Shiv Sena’s influence. During sports competitions and other meetings of the Triveni Mahamandal, saffron flags were flown but there were no tigers or portraits of Bal Thackeray. Naik knew everybody and was able to play on the contradictions of others, for his own benefit but also for the promotion of his Mahamandal. The Tin Mills Kalyan Mandal was a smaller organisation located in a sector of dilapidated ‘chawls’, in Chinchpokli, Girangaon. At the beginning of the 1980s, about 400,000 people worked in the ‘mill village’ (Girangaon) and 2 million people lived there. 13 years prior to that, there had been strong agitation among the working classes. By asserting that it had solutions to any problem, the Shiv Sena leadership tried to win over the district. It was at the core of popular Mumbai and the biggest concentration of the Marathispeaking population. The Shiv Sainik sought to attract the attention of everyone through the use of flags, posters and so on. They insisted on growing local roots. Their main battlefield was the neighbourhood, not the factory. All over Bombay, there was a shakha in every ward (municipal constituency). In Girangaon the organisational network became denser, with gatashakha springing up in ‘chawls’ and slums. This was the way the movement made its first contact with youth culture in the city. The organisation channelled a great deal of energy into the promotion of Hindu mass festivals. This seemed perfectly ‘natural’ to activists. The move coincided with the aspirations of the young generation that was looking for new means of expression. Young men from Girangaon were influenced by mass education. They believed in science. They were the first generation who spoke a rather uniform version of Marathi, influenced by city life and newspapers. They had a quest for identity and security in a troubled world (Heuzé 2001; Kosambi 1986). There was also a growing emotional relationship with Hindu symbols, associated with a rapid destructuration of the way of life of their parents, so local and excessively (calendars,8 local cultures, music, etc.). Religion itself seemed endangered. The result was a religion and a culture associated

(subbranches)

complex

8 The central government decided to extend the principle of reservations to the OBCs. There was a revolt of the upper caste youth. The Shiv Sena opposed the move as ‘casteist’. This was not appreciated by the lower-caste following in the organisation.

with noise and mobs, standardised through languages, beliefs and symbols, strongly linked to the neighbourhood, with a more or less homogenous jati and community background. As a movement wanting to speak the language of ‘the people’ (50 per cent of the population was young), but also as a new organisation which had to battle to make a space for itself, the Shiv Sena became deeply involved in youth assertion. Created in 1985, the Tin Mills Kalyan Mandal was able to mobilise 200 youths from a population of about 1,600 people. Almost every young man from the chawls aged between 15 and 27 years was a member of the mandal. The main jati were mali and agari (OBC), with a minority of kunbi. The social fabric of the place was threatened by the closure of the mills, which had started in the 1970s and which turned into a real crisis after the historic strike fiasco (1981–83) (van Versch 1992). Alcohol addiction and violence were rife and housing conditions were poor. The place, located on mill lands, had been rehabilitated, cleaned and equipped (temple, public toilets, trees) through the intervention of the Shiv Sena and the mandal during the 1980s. In 1989, the Shiv Sena took over the mandal. It set up its icons, the tiger, portraits of Shivaji and so on. A gatashakha was created. The mandal was multipurpose, with a specific interest in sports, drama (theatre), poetry and religion. It organised Ganapati and Durga festivals. However, the Shiv Sainik failed to capture the Mandir Samiti, an organisation of elders that dealt exclusively with religious issues. The members opposed the move, arguing about the necessity to keep politics away from religion and the community. The street was part of the political fiefdom of Chhaghan Bhujhbal, a mali by caste and a ‘big man’ in Maharashtrian politics. He figured among the Shiv Sena founders and had for decades represented a particularly harsh and aggressive brand of ‘Sons of the soil’ ideology (Weiner 1989). Then came the Mandal Commission (this Mandal has nothing to do with mandal!) and the events of 1990. 9 Sticking to his anti-caste credo, the leadership refused to accept the Commission’s recommendations. Bhujhbal became totally dissatisfied. He received proposals from the Congress Party. He resigned in 1992, opening the first major

textile

9 Varkari are a kind of religious order of the bhakti tradition, located in Pandharpur (SW Maharashtra).

breach in the Shiv Sena. In the mandal itself the result was terrible, despite the unifying power of the Ayodhya campaign, led by the Shiv Sena in Mumbai. Half of the young members left to create another association. There were actual physical fights and the office was burnt down. Things went on that way for several years. Finally, elders on both sides, supported by members of the temple committee (Mandir Samiti), helped the younger ones put a stop to the war. It was decided to finish with political symbols, except for the saffron flag that was considered to be ‘the Maharashtra one’. Hindu nationalists had borrowed this flag from Shivaji through the mediation of Tilak at the end of the 19th century. The feeling was that politics had spoilt a culture of brotherhood. This distancing from the Shiv Sena did not prevent members from expressing strong anti-Muslim feelings and parochial pro-Maharashtrian stances. The Shiv Sena was also interested in smaller organisations, where it tried to exert a direct influence or through which it attempted to transmit its message. Small mandal and samiti also called on the movement for help. After having distanced itself from people’s daily religious activities, at the end of the 1960s and the beginning of the 1970s, the Shiv Sena became more and more involved in templerelated activities during the 1980s. The Sani Mandir Sarvajanika Mahamandal in Mahalakshmi (Girangaon) was created at the end of the 1980s. It was the result of the encounter between two religious men and a local youth club interested in body building. The young men had succeeded in procuring some land belonging to the municipal corporation and in erecting a makeshift structure. The religious men are vagrant sadhu. One was a varkari10 from Pandharpur, a Maharashtrian interested in bhakti and possession. The second one was a Brahman Jha, from the northern part of Bihar, who had acquired knowledge of Sanskrit and rituals. They started to receive people there. They founded a rather informal mandir samiti. The young boys keen on body building had received the support of the Shiv Sena. They did not dare admit this because the area was communally sensitive, with the political leaders and neighbours being Muslims. The presence of the religious men, who rapidly 10 Sundar Mumbai, Marathi Mumbai (beautiful and Marathi Mumbai). This slogan was a response of the Shiv Sena to the beautification and cleansing campaigns launched by the elites during the 1980s. It shows approval of them.

earned the reputation of being powerful bhagat and kinds of saints, opened a way for the Hindu nationalist organisation. The sant used to read Saamna and have it read. The Shiv Sainik donated

money for the erection of the temple and the carving of statues — by artisans from Rajasthan — which were large elegant sandstone creations, contrasting with the tiny, crude murti of Sai Baba which had previously taken pride of place in the street. Another mandir samiti, with a formal structure, was created. Slowly but surely, the temple took on impressive dimensions. The Shiv Sainik, who

ran the municipality, helped when the question of land property arose. After 15 years of existence, at the beginning of the 2000s, the nearest crossroads was renamed Sani Mandir Chowk, by the Shiv Sena-dominated municipal corporation (BMC). It is difficult to ascertain the extent to which Bal Thackeray’s organisation could use the mandal for its political and social ventures. The

relationship seems to have been a rather equal one, with the temple committee allowing the Sena to raise its voice and the Shiv Sena globally helping the temple. Yet, the members of the Mahamandal opposed any direct association with the Shiv Sena. The sant felt

that religion was far superior and ‘cleaner’ than politics... The Shiv Sainik accepted their secondary role. They were obliged to accept

the religion developed by the sant, which was accepted by a local Hindu population of mixed origin (the non-Maharashtrians being the majority). Religious resistance to the politicisation of religion does not seem to have occured. It could be more aptly interpreted as an attempt at practicing another form of politics, taking into account the specificities of the place and trying to assert the status

of religious men. There are many mandal, some of whose members belong to the Shiv Sena yet succeed in asserting their autonomy. The biggest of these are connected to enormous jati associations such as the Maratha Mahasangh, which for decades thwarted attempts by the Shiv Sainik of trying to take control or influence them. Their

insertion in large cultural and sporting federations is also noticeable. They often claim a certain aloofness from politics yet play their own political game. Some are able to mobilise the energies of Shiv Sena activists for their own purposes and they are as old as the Shiv Sena itself. The importance of a common culture, through films and sports, but also in the framework of a ‘sons of the soil’

ideology, is an essential feature. These potent and prestigious mandal introduce standards, thoughts and habits in the shakha’s world.

Mandal with Less Autonomy There were numerous instances of mitra mandal and puja samiti created by the Shiv Sena shakha or by more or less prominent members of the organisation. They donated the flag and the tiger. Their name was associated with Shivaji, militant Hinduism or Maharashtra. Some of them were sleeping entities that were sporadically revived for festivals. More commonly, a structure, with premises and activities, existed. They were associations with an open membership and non-political activities. One revealing trend was the move by part of these structures towards a more or less assumed differentiation from their mother organisation, with some of them becoming totally independent. Lalbag (Girangaon), a Shiv Sena stronghold during the 1980s and 1990s, housed many such clubs. Some of them held part of their activities in gatashakha though autonomous locations were preferred. There was always a bureau distinct from the Shiv Sena apparatus, despite the fact that the Shiv Sainik could dominate it. In 1994, opposite shakha 46, near the Kalachhowki police station, we found the Jay Shivaji Matribhumi Mahamandal (Long Live to Shivaji’s Motherland Great Club). It had been founded six years before by members of the Shiv Sena. In the small room where members used to congregate hung a saffron flag and a tiger was displayed on the noticeboard near the entrance. The mandal was ‘multipurpose’ and ‘open to all’. One of the foremost activities was the cleaning of dirty places and the planting of trees. Planting trees had been popular among the Shiv Sainik since the 1986 Mumbai beautification campaign.11 It had aimed at providing shade and producing more oxygen but also at changing the image of the working-class districts. These ventures were unlawful. The Shiv Sainik wanted to demonstrate that people’s power (janshahi) was above any municipal corporation rules. 12 Trees were associated with symbols of the organisation. The map of Maharashtra, associated with a saffron flag, was a must.

permanent

11 Yet the Corporation was in the hands of the Shiv Sena after 1992. Shiv Sainiks went against the rules that they had also to promote. See Hansen (2001). 12 Bhumi pujaare common in India. They have been an ideological background to the surge of ‘sons of the soil’ movements (Weiner 1988).

The Mahamandal used to organise weekly meetings but

plantations and ceremonies associated with them were grouped around

the monsoon season and the months following. When I visited them, they had already organised two such plantations, on the large Ambedkar Road and on a smaller galli (small road). The club invited local Shiv Sena notables and cadres from the shakha. As an independent association, it invited other people, representatives of mandal, thus young people, but also elders, citizens devoid of any party affiliation. I witnessed the third campaign, in 1996. The members of the Mahamandal had made holes inthe pavement and prepared a bhumi puja.13 This was conducted by the secretary of the club, a not quite so young Shiv Sainik working in the corporation. A little later, trees were planted and speeches were made. Tea and biscuits were served. On another occasion, the ‘beautification’ operation was combined with a cultural programme. The themes were patriotic or related to development and city cleaning with many songs from the filmi culture. Interestingly, the club distanced itself from the Shiv Sena a little later, due to factionalism and the poor performance of the Shiv Sena-controlled government. The tiger was rubbed off the board. The Sthanya Samskritik Mitra Mandal (Local Cultural Friends’ Club) of Lower Parel (Girangaon), which was also operative during the 1990s, belonged to the same category of associations promoted by Shiv Sena elements, introducing Shiv Sena emblems and onto the scene, but distinct from the organisation itself. One particular feature was its membership made up of a sizable minority of young girls, who had one day a week allotted for their meetings and who were engaged in specific pursuits, especially the promotion of ‘patriotic Maharashtrian food’. The girls, perhaps 20 per cent of the members, stood out because of their singing. Young men did sport, despite the fact that this activity was not mentioned in the title of the club, mainly cricket and kabaddi. There was also a female kabaddi squad. The club had a single room in a chawl, with a desk, posters of the Shiv Sena, the saffron flag, representations of Hindu gods and goddesses, some chairs and a small library. It was a common type of association, strongly rooted in its neighbourhood, inspiring trust among elders, poorly doted

programmes,

personalities

13 The Sthanya Lok Adhikar Samiti (Committee for the Local People’s Rights) of the Shiv Sena, created in 1968, is a specific organisation (Gupta 1982). It tries to give employment to the Marathi-speaking cadres.

but aspiring deeply to ‘petit bourgeois’ respectability. Its secretary was a 26-year-old student vaguely committed to his business studies course. The president was the local nagarsevak, a member of the Shiv Sena, the owner of a large shop who did not interfere with the club’s life. The members of the mandal, boys and girls alike, used to meet several times a year. During the Shivajijayanti period, at the beginning of May, the young men staged a play, about the Maharashtrian hero. They were assisted by the female members. Male members also used to participate in local sports A great day for both men and women was the Makarsankranti festival in January. There was a cake competition where the cakes were prepared by the girls but eaten by the boys, after having been marked by a jury constituted of Shiv Sena members and elders, women and men, with no affiliation. In 1996 the theme was the nation. A young married woman from Kalachowki won the prize, a trophy, and was awarded a certificate carrying the tiger, for having prepared a cake in the shape of the nation’s map. There was a clear attempt at luring non-politicised people. A large part of the membership had no Shiv Sena connections and no intention of becoming involved in it. The non-politicised elements gained more influence after 1999, when the organisation became weaker at the regional level.

tournaments.

The Shiv Sena as a Club Numerous instances of the Shiv Sena’s direct interventions were presented as mandal or ‘middle class’ (Heuzé 2006) club activities. A great meeting was organised in March 1996 on the roof of a large building in Lalbag to initiate the youngsters in computing. This was on the initiative of the local branch. Some 200 youngsters, mainly boys, turned up. Most of them had little to do with the Shiv Sena. Yet a sizable minority had been encouraged to come by the wing of the organisation which dealt with unemployment. No symbol of the organisation was visible, but the main speakers were the local nagarsevak, the shakha pramukh and cadres of the Sthanya Lok Adhikar Samiti (SLAS).14 They talked about computers, about the venture being sponsored by a large local computer hardware retailer, who was an opportunist member of the Shiv Sena, one 14 After the 1992 riots, many Shiv Sena trade unions cadres called for Muslims to be dismissed from companies but this policy was never an official one.

of those people who systematically keep well in with the locally dominant party. They urged the youngsters to undergo training and to learn English. A long speech detailed the reasons for fighting for a strong Maharashtra, during which the audience, comprising a large number of non-Maharashtrians, drank tea and ate biscuits. The cadre of the SLAS explained the importance of having certain skills. The computer retailer was heard much more attentively. He explained how to use a computer. At the end of the one-day session, 40 young people, including three girls, were awarded attesting to their participation in the course and asserting their ‘skill’ (yogyata). Others received flowers and stickers. The certificates and the banners bore the name of Lalbag Computers Chetna Club (Lalbag Club for Computer Awareness), which had been created for this occasion and was subsequently shelved. There were numerous instances of the Shiv Sena acting in such a manner. This was seen in the suburbs, in places where the organisation did not have such a stronghold. The Shiv Sainik tried to hide behind neutral associations. The mandal culture seemed to be so strongly ingrained in the Shiv Sena that in many circumstances it appeared quite natural for the Shiv Sainik to be mandal organisers. This kind of attitude was common as far as front-line organisations were concerned. The Bharatya Kamgar Sena and other trade unions organised workers and participated in collective negotiations. Their cadres were not very different from those of other wage-earning organisations. Yet it was interesting to attend a local meeting of one of these unions during the 1990s. Other than the name of the trade union written on a large banner and the presence of the Shiv Sena tiger, which is drawn on the ‘logo’ of the BKS, there were few symbols of the Shiv Sena. Trade union cadres resolutely insisted on the fact that their organisation was open to every wage earner, whether Hindu or Muslim, Maharashtrian or non-Maharashtrian15 The culture promoted by the Shiv Sena trade unions was very similar to the culture of most mandal in popular districts of Mumbai; with a ‘petit bourgeois’ touch and presented as a ‘club’. There was the same love for long speeches. There was the same family-like atmosphere, with women turning up in their silk saris. The tendency to valorise every member, by serving tea

certificates

15 There are also extremely posh clubs, such as the Gymkhana, in the south, that clearly belongs to another world.

and offering recordings and flowers and awarding certificates, was clearly inspired by the mandal and the anglicised ‘club’ culture.

Taking photographs, filling albums and chatting were essential activities. The presence of a large majority of people not belonging to the Shiv Sena had considerable impact on the milieu. The same trend was observed in the women’s branch, the Mahila

Aghadi or Women’s Front. It was created in 1985. Many women from Shiv Sainik families had been through high school. Many had been influenced by the mandal culture. They came to breathe new life into the Aghadi. The purpose of the front was to mobilise

activists and to attract other women. It was located on the shakha premises, but it was not rare for them to organise meetings in the homes of the better-off members. The Aghadi branches were commonly run by the wives of shakha pramukh or nagarsevak

(Corporation-elected members). The pursuits of the Women’s Front were distinct from other Shiv Sena activities. The main programmes were cultural, with discussions about knitting and sewing, singing bhajan and poetry recitals. Local meetings of the Women’s Front

were occasions for women of conservative Hindu milieu to broach a specific feminine realm. The Aghadi activities allowed women access to the public space. One of the most enjoyable ventures was a journey to the city. It was

customary to visit Hindu shrines and places of Maharashtrian pride (Raigarh, Pune). Many mandal organised the same kind of trip. The Aghadi women would talk a lot, take many group photographs, go on walks, eat ice cream and relax. They were quite happy with

this kind of activity which kept them away from daily chores, opened their minds and prevented them of being suspected of any immoral conduct. There was a significant mixture of a family-like atmosphere and mandal-like organisation. Many women who went

on these trips, which were organised on a regular basis during the 1990s, hardly noticed that the Aghadi was associated with the Shiv Sena.

About Mandal and Shiv Sena Mandal are very influential within the Shiv Sena and in its close circle. In certain situationsthe Shiv Sena and the mandal appear to be an overall cultural and socio-political entity. The utterances of Shiv Sena cadres, who stress the fact that the Shiv Sena is first and

foremost a movement, and only second a political party, are partly substantiated by these trends. Street and street culture is essential in the mandal as well as in the Shiv Sena. The mandal has a local dimension. This is also essential in the Shiv Sena. The shakha pramukh are chosen for their ability to understand the social appropriation of urban space. The Shiv Sena admittedly strives to curry support in different strata of society, while mandal are not interested in expanding. I nevertheless feel that, in many cases, the Hindu nationalist movement aped the mandal. The framework for interpreting space was deeply and often unconsciously influenced by an all encompassing mandal culture that shaped the mentalities of youngsters before their entrance into the political arena. Globally speaking, the Shiv Sena is inconceivable without its mandal-like relationship with the local environment (Kumar 1988). ‘Bourgeois’ elitist clubs exist along with local popular mandal and transitional structures. Every member of a mandal is aware of what makes his association different from the numerous, wellorganised clubs.16 Mandal belong to an informal sector of ‘clubism’, the Rotary Club and the Lions Club representing the formal sector. Yet mandal in Girangaon and the suburbs try to emulate the clubs of the bourgeoisie. Their bureaucratisation, though kept to a minimum, quest for respectability and offer of social services are an indication to their fascination with ‘middle-class’ values. In this respect, the Shiv Sena’s role is ambiguous; dominated by highercaste upper middle-class people, it is infused with bourgeois values that permeate the mandal which is influenced by the organisation. There are also instances of mandal utilising the the Shiv Sena’s authority, its apparatus, its money and its classless ideology in order to appear more respectable, that is to say, in the context, more or less ‘middle class’. These become transitional structures. The role of the Shiv Sena in the making of successful careers has already been underlined (Eckert 2003). It should be added that mandal also play a role in the process. Mandal and Shiv Sena were closely associated with the cinema, the main culture among young males during the time of our fieldwork. Filmi culture emerged from the metropolis, 16 The Shiv Sena’s relationship with the world of films, a central one, illustrates the trend. There is an independent organisation (Chalchitr Samiti) that deals with the industry (Gupta 1982).

with Mumbai being the central topic of many stories. Through this medium, youngsters from the mandal maintained an ongoing of reenacting life as an adventure. Among mandal members, the dada (Chandavarkar 1994), incarnating a brutal, close leadership, and the ever-present violence constituted ‘cherished scares’ to which they were ‘addicted’. This was no different among the Shiv Sainik. Thus, the fantasies of social violence served as a continuous set of references, bothin the mandal and in the Shiv Sena. The situation which arose through this process was one of replication but also of the sublimation of violence. The Shiv Sena is thus reminding of a film sequence. It is also exaggerated, passionate and colourful. In a more or less confuse manner, the Shiv Sainik wanted to act, to play in the film. The mandal members were like the spectators, despite the fact that they also acted at times, while the Shiv Sainik were the would-be actors, despite their obvious tendency to play very poorly, if not miserably, and to take on the role of onlooker.17 An unsettling relationship between the Shiv Sena’s world and the mandal universe was the importance of a ‘culture of congratulation’ (the expression is mine). It was made up of several elements. Long meetings were the craze, where notables, cadres and simple members held forth about particular issues and general topics. This love of endless chatter for hours and hours, known as shibir in Maharashtra and northern India, was a basic part of the ‘culture of congratulation’. The Shiv Sena and the mandal adapted to the metropolis and ‘massified’ an important part of rural Indian centred around genealogies, story-telling and rhetoric. A strong culture of commemorating special dates (birthdays of the leaders and heroes) was another part of the set-up. The Shiv Sena and mandal liked to organise events where everybody was cared for and received a great deal of attention. They both enjoyed prize awarding sessions, the aim of which was to help members to gain self-respect and to acknowledge their gratitude for the organisation (mandal or Sena). The Hindu nationalist organisation and the mandal also shared reverence for a heroic masculine view of culture, the balvir. Bal is the energy of the young. Vir is the emanation of masculine strength. Both are Hindu conceptualisations. They were valued both in the mandal and in the Shiv Sena, but to degrees. The Shiv Sena wanted to incarnate action, whereas

process

culture,

different 17 Only one of them, Acharya, was known as a Hindu bigot.

bal and vir were supposed to be the spirit of this action. In its framework, balvir became a distinct ideology. It systematically overvalued Maharashtrian and Indian youth, yet exhorted it to resemble the best of the young people: the Shiv Sainik. Young nonpoliticised members of the mandal had probably fewer identity problems than the Shiv Sainik who always wanted to prove their virility and youth. Mandal members were not bothered about such matters (Naipaul 1990). The mandal ‘were the youth’. They had more members who were better educated than ever. They subscribed to general ‘macho’ views, but they did not feel it necessary to dwell on them. Two important processes help to understand better the between the Shiv Sena and the mandal during the period in question. The first is the ‘saffronisation’ of the Shiv Sena (Lele 1995). The movement was created by young ‘middle-class’ men of the metropolis in the wake of the Samyukta Maharashtra Andolan (SMA). They were not staunch Hindu believers. 18 The Savarkar brand of Hinduism (Khar 1988), to which several cadres subscribed, was devoid of any religious belief, with the fatherland (pitrabhumi), not god, being ‘sacred’ (Savarkar 1966). The nascent organisation was divided between a materialist point of view, associated with progressive conceptions of economic development, and a set of belonging to the Shivaji mythistory19 (Heuzé 1999). A Hindu content was added because it included convenient mobilising symbols. The choice of Dasara as a day for mass mobilisation, the saffron flag, the relationship to the goddess, which is symbolised by the tiger, became just as important as the Shivaji justice, the secular reference represented by his darbar (court). Nevertheless, a proper religious culture was lacking (Heuzé 2000). Long with Shiv Sena activists and mandal members revealed that, at the beginning of the 1970s and even 10 years later, local associations had a more religious culture than the Shiv Sena. The mandal organised pilgrimages to Shirdi (near Nasik, the abode of Sai Baba), Pandharpur and Alandi, when many Shiv Sena cadres

relationship

references

discussions

18 Mythistory exists when historical preoccupations and perspectives meet legend and religion. It is a proliferating dimension in present India. 19 The Ganapati festival is a legacy of Maharashtrian Hindu nationalism. It was created by Tilak in 1893.

poured scorn on these ‘superstitious’ and ‘demobilising’ activities. It was under pressure from mandal members in the Shiv Sena that

the Shiv Sainik became interested in organising Makar Sankranti and other festivals.20 This was a gradual process. Thus the shift towards ‘saffronisation’, associated with the dissemination of the Shiv Sena throughout India after 1984, was not, or not only, the

result of the manipulative practice of an ageing leadership fascinated by the successes of the RSS in the wake of the post-1983 Saffron Wave. It also reflected a long-term change in the minds of the people of Mumbai and especially of Girangaon, who progressively

abandoned the patronage of the leftist forces and invented, in the course of the SMA and through the mandal culture, another set of cultural and religious references. The turning point was not the creation of the Shiv Sena (1966), but the handing over of local

associations from the hands of notables to the younger generation, which carried on throughout the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s. Strained relations with the Muslims (1970) induced the Shiv Sainik to insist on only using Hindu symbols but, at the beginning

of the 1980s, they lagged far behind the clubs in this respect. The first Shiv Sena Mayor of Bombay (1973) was elected, backed by the Muslim League. Bal Thackeray began to make speeches from the bhakti centre of Pandharpur in 1984. The current downtrend in

the Saffron Wave, accompanied by the decline of the mandal culture, has reintroduced on the scene the primitive plank of the Shiv Sena, the ‘sons of the soil’ issue. It is a significant turn of events.21 The question finally arises as to whether the Shiv Sena controlled

the mandal. The movement had a global policy regarding mandal. Its cadres believed that they controlled mandal and puja samiti. In 1996 P. Navalkar, Culture Minister of the Shiv Sena–BJP regional government, asserted that three out four Ganapati puja samiti

(that is 7,500 out of 10,000) were ‘in his hands’. This is indeed of interest, but there is no reason to subscribe to the Shiv Sena propaganda. The situation is more complicated than that. Mandal and the Shiv Sena emerged at the same time in the same milieux,

20 The 2008 winter riots against north Indians were not engineered by the Shiv Sena itself but by a splinter faction led by Raj Thackeray, Bal Thackeray’s nephew.

based on the premise that an educated youth is the vital cog in the community. For both structures, the habit of considering everything at neighbourhood level prevented any long-term development strategies. Indeed, the Shiv Sena, which resents this problem, and the mandal, which do not care about the issue, have not determined any strategies. They only offer tactics and, more often, reactions, at street level for the mandal and at town level for the Sena. It would be tempting to depict a politico-cultural practice for the Shiv Sena, revolving around fight and violence, and a more classical Hindu mandal culture, made up of festivals, pilgrimages and so on. Yet that would be simplistic. The Shiv Sena was influential among mandal as long as it did not upset their habits and exceed their limits. The mandal’s ways of thinking and limitations have pervaded the movement. It proved itself unable to overcome the cultural inhibitions of mandal youth. This is the reason it stayed popular. It is also why it stayed local.

Conclusion: Shiv Sena and Culture This approach to mandal and the Shiv Sena leads to several There is indeed a cultural dimension in the Shiv Sena. It comes partly from the mandal institution and from the petit bourgeois urban culture. Culture in the Shiv Sena is definitely not unified. As a fabric of culture, the mandal appears just as much a mediation — between the mass-media culture industry and the younger generation — as a creator of local, but essential, cultural practices. Shiv Sainiks and their leader wish to transform this youth culture by adding a twist of heroism, masculinity, fight and pride. With this aim in mind, they have invented practices, such as the Dasara celebrations. Yet basically they are mainly borrowers, very much influenced by the world of media. They sometimes succeed in transforming the mass media ready-made culture and its mandal interpretation into a powerful tool for a public awareness This does not last long; it eventually proves unviable since it risks causing civil war, because Shiv Sainiks have no forwardlooking strategies and because they are, in many ways, doubly impeded by their petit-bourgeois respectability and the mandal.

conclusions.

campaign.

In the Shiv Sena, there is a trend towards the destruction of

every kind of culture that manifests itself when violence erupts, but also through the acceptation of modernisation, urbanisation and change, with no criticism of the ‘dehumanising’ aspects of these

processes in present-day India. Although mandal people are exposed to un-employment, a rise in violence, the poor housing situation, etc., for political reasons, the Shiv Sena has frequently aggravated the situation. It has engineered violence on so many occasions. However, it is impossible to give the exact extent to which mandal has or has not ‘tamed’ the Shiv Sena. However, it should be emphasised that there are numerous actors involved in Mumbai’s cultural fabric. There are the ‘cosmopolitan’ elites that fascinate Shiv Sainiks, who also dare to criticise them, especially regarding cultural issues, without forgetting the large-scale culture industry, the newspapers and cinema, influenced by the rich who are eager to please the poor, but who also assume a very distinct character. Then come numerous communities with their more or less subaltern elites. There is the ‘petit-bourgeoisie’ imbued with nationalism and a sense of respectability. There are the dada and gunda of the streets. There is finally this very particular youth subculture confined to the mandal universe diversely related to communities, dada and the petit bourgeoisie. Shiv Sena culture is definitely a mishmash of these diverse influences. Is there a ‘popular’ culture within the Shiv Sena? The use of the terms ‘popular’ and ‘people’ (as well as culture) belongs to the realm of Shiv Sena propaganda. Shiv Sena leaders and cadres believe or would like to believe that such a popular culture exists; a global, casteless and classless assertion of the Marathi manus, the Maharashtrian common man. However, there is nothing of the sort. Popular and cultural unity is, at best, a dream, at the very worst, a nightmare. The mandal youth sub-culture, so essential for establishing the Shiv Sena’s cultural practices, is also a mixture of interposing community influences, residual village and regional elements, old working-class and leftist sub-cultures, very local and petit bourgeois influences. The potent element which induces an apparent cohesion of the whole seems to be the mass media culture of the metropolis. Shiv Sena culture is not a virtuality. It exerts influence and it changes, yet it is neither united nor stable. Its very strong internal contradictions lead the organisation to engage itself in numerous confrontations. There are other motives for this trend towards action and fight, noticeably political ones, and tensions created by the striking contrast between the different milieus mobilised by the Shiv Sena. The Bal Thackeray movement is run by aspiring dominant, ‘second-rate’ elites, who want to acquire

specificities

greater power and status by playing on the influence of the masses. Since the time of the SMA, they have realised the importance of references for inculcating a sense of identity in people and for developing a sense of loyalty to their leadership. Hindu culture is greatly instrumentalised, as happens in the larger nationalist Hindu movement. It is used as an ideology — every religion is represented as an ideology — and it becomes a set of symbols organising time, space and the fight with the enemy. Yet, the mandal universe has helped us to grasp the fact that the Hindu religion’s relationship with the Shiv Sainik is more complicated than mere instrumentalisation. The people who invoke it come into close contact with its practices and representations. Those who want to make use of religious symbols have often become, in a sense, ‘Hinduised’. I observed this trend among the older generation of Shiv Sainiks. Bhakti has, slowly but deeply, gained status in the Shiv Sena. If Shiv Sena cultural practices are more often than not a ‘patchwork’ and a makeshift arrangement, Hindu views and are more resilient. This phenomenon is particularly in the case of the Shiv Sena, because it has not developed, as the RSS did, an autonomous sectarian subculture.

cultural

traditions accentuated References

Banerjee, S. 1998. ‘ Political Secularisation and the Future of Secular Democracy in India, the Case of Maharashtra’, Asian Survey, 38 (10). Chandavarkar, R. 1994. The Origins of Industrial Capitalism in India, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Eckert, J. 2003. The Charisma of Direct Action, Power. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Gupta, D. 1982. Nativism in a Metropolis. New Delhi: Manohar. Hansen, Thomas Blom. 1999. The Saffron Wave. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. ———. 2001. Wages of Violence. Naming and Identity in Postcolonial Bombay . Princeton: Princeton University Press. Heuzé, Djallal G. 1995. ‘ Cultural Populism: the Appeal of the Shiv Sena’, in S. Pateland and A. Thorner (eds), Bombay (II). New Delhi: Oxford University Press. ———. 1999. ‘Shiv Sena: History, Myth and Shivaji’, in J. Assayag, The Resources of History. Paris and Pondichery: EFEO & Institut Français de Pondichery. ———. 2000. ‘ Populism, Religion and Nation in Contemporary India’, Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East, XX (1–2). ———. 2001a. ‘ Le déclin des quartiers ouvriers du centre de Mumbai’, Les annales de la recherche urbaine, 90.

Comparative

Hansen, Thomas Blom. 2001b. ‘ L’armée de Shivaji à Mumbai. L’identité comme champ de bataille’, in J. L. Racine (ed.), La question identitaire en Asie du Sud, Collection Purushartha vol. 22. Paris: Editions de l’Ecole des hautes études en sciences sociales. ———. 2003. ‘ La Shiv Sena et la métropole de Mumbai: parcours tumultueux pour ville traumatisée’, in M. C. Saglio (ed.), Le Maharashtra entre tradition et modernité. Paris: Publications Langues O’ . ———. 2007. ‘ La violence et la ville: le cas de Mumbai durant les deux dernières décennies du vingtième siècle’, in V. Dupont, and Djallal G. Heuzé. La ville en Asie du Sud, Collection Purushartha vol. 26. Paris: Editions de l’Ecole des hautes études en sciences sociales. Jaffrelot , Christophe (ed.) 2005. The Sangh Parivar . New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Jehanno, A. 2003. L’influence de la Shiv Sena sur le territoire de Mumbai. Rennes: Université de Rennes II et Sciences po. Kanungo, Pralay. 2002. RSS’s Tryst with Politics. New Delhi: Manohar. Katzenstein-Fainsod, M. 1979. Ethnicity and Equality . Ithaca: Cornell Press. Khar, D. 1988. Veer Savarkar. London: Sangam Books. Kumar, N. 1988. The Artisans of Banaras . Princeton: Princeton University Press. Kosambi, M. 1986. Bombay in Transition. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International. Lele, J. 1995. ‘ The Saffronisation of the Shiv Sena and the Political Economy of Bombay-Maharashtra’, in S. Patel. and A. Thorner (eds), Bombay, II. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Menon , M. and Neera Adarkar. 2004. One Hundred Years, One Hundred Voices. Calcutta: Seagull Books. Naipaul, V. S. 1990. India. London: Minerva. Omvedt, G. 1976. Cultural Revolt in a Colonial Society . Bombay: Scientific Socialist Education Trust. Patel, S. and A. Thorner. 1995. Bombay, I Mosaic of Modern Culture; II Metaphor for Modern India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Patel, S. and J. Masselos. 2003. Bombay and Mumbai . New Delhi : Oxford University Press. Purandare, V. 1999. The Sena Story. Mumbai: Business Publications Inc. Rudolph, L. and S. Hoeber Rudolph. 1987. In Pursuit of Lakshmi. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Savarkar, V. D. 1966. Hindutva. Bombay: Veer Savarkar Prakashan. Van der Veer, Peter. 1996. Religious Nationalism. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. van Versch, H. 1992. Bombay Textile Strike 1982–1983. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Weiner, M. 1988. Sons of the Soil. New Delhi: Oxford University Press.

University

Part

II

Convergence, Gurus and Sects

5 Health, Yoga, and the Nation: Dr Karandikar and the Yoga Therapy Centre, Pune, Maharashtra Anne-Cécile Hoyez Today, Indian yoga has acquired a worldwide reputation and popularity. This ancient Indian practice, which reappeared during and after the colonial period, further emerged in the recent context of globalisation. The growing popularity of yoga in India is largely contingent upon its national and transnational development the 20th century. Scores of Hindu religious/spiritual such as Swami Vivekananda, Swami Yogananda and Maharishi Mahesh Yogi1 set up important organisations and institutions to yoga and/or to spirituality not only in India, but also in North America and Europe, while building networks of influential people and places in India and abroad. Consequently, yoga has become a real object of interest for social scientists (Alter 2004; De Michelis 2004; Strauss 2005) in the sense that it affects many aspects of contemporary life, such as social relationships between globally connected individuals, cultural constructions among communities or groups, new religious movements, political of the integration of yoga in the construction of an Indian or Hindu identity. Yoga has also become a manifestation of an Indian national– cultural identity. In India, yoga appeared in the public realm at the turn of the 20th century when Hindu social reformers started turning their attention to this Indian-born practice. Seeing yoga

during personalities dedicated

diverse aspects

1 For more details and considerations on the emergence and transnationalisation of these groups, see, for example, Robert D. Baird (ed.), Religion in Modern India (4th edn), New Delhi: Manohar, p. 626; Günther-Dietz Sontheimer and Hermann Kulke, 2001 [1989],Hinduism Reconsidered, Delhi: Manohar, p. 359.

Anne-Cécile Hoyez

as a means of disciplining people and enabling them to stand up to the coloniser, they used yoga as a tool to serve their quest for social reform. During the 1920s, some Indian nationalists started insisting on the specifically Indian corporal and physical practice of

yoga, which they thought could be developed beyond its spiritual aspects as a sort of ‘national fitness’ (Alter 2004). Though this idea never materialised on a national scale, it has nevertheless always remained an underlying theme in Hindu nationalist rhetoric. Hindu nationalism, in a rather subtle way, has presented yoga as

a common reference for all Indians, which has great potential for attracting an international audience and fame. Consequently, yoga

has been instrumentalised in order to reinforce ideas about the Hindu identity (MacKean 1996). Yet, very often, these types of discourse on yoga are not directly related to politics. Those who believe that yoga manifests a Hindu identity and serves it use diverse tactics to shape discourses and

diffuse practices that pertain to nationalist positions. notions of health and healing are often used to move away from formal politics and to embrace medicine. Yet, in the context of an international upsurge of yoga, some valorise the so-called

Furthermore,

‘ancient Hindu knowledge’ of medicine and health in contemporary

times. This article analyses the manner in which contemporary cultural promulgation of Hindu nationalist ideas and practices is

achieved through the medium of yoga, by focusing specifically on Dr Karandikar, a yoga teacher in Pune. Dr Karandikar’s ‘yoga therapy centre’, called Kabir Baug, is located at Pune. In this centre, the ‘Sun Jeevan Yoga Darshan’, and more specifically the ‘Therapeutic Restorative Yoga’ (T. R. Y.) is

taught. The founder and leader of the centre, Dr Karandikar, has been an active member of the RSS since a tender age. He set up this ‘yoga therapy centre’ 20 years ago with financial and material help from the RSS. For the layman, no direct link exists between Dr Karandikar’s own political views and his professional commitment.

Yet on closer examination, his discourses and practices show that, beyond running a yoga centre devoted to therapy, Dr Karandikar

takes part in developing the means of projecting the nationalist ideology onto people’s yoga practices. As a consequence, the growing number of people practising yoga with him and his various instructors, even if they do not share the Hindutva ideology, becomes the object through which Hindutva’s cultural entrenchment goes on.

Health, Yoga and the Nation

As J. Alter observes, Dr Karandikar’s ideological and medical conception of yoga uses the Hindu nationalist rhetoric: ‘With reference to RSS ideology, it is fascinating to see the complex

mimesis of the organic body as a diseased entity and society as a diseased organism: both can be cured through disciplinary reform and regimented training on the most basic, elemental level. In Karandikar’s formulation, the cells are subject to a sakha-like routine so that they will manifest prana sakti and thereby provide service to the body as a whole’ (Alter 2004 : 156). Stepping on Alter’s study

on Dr Karandikar’s approach to health and the body with reference to the nationalist foundations of his discourses, this article sets out to observe diverse mediation processes used by Dr Karandikar to diffuse and secure Hindutva ideology in the population’s daily practices, via health and therapy. How are patients’ activities and managed? How is knowledge disseminated between

monitored administrators who are members of the RSS and patients who are not, and do not necessarily wish to be? What kind of strategies and tactics are utilised by the centre to secure Hindutva ideology in Pune, and to gain certain forms of legitimacy in civil society? Ideas developed in this article are based on ethnographic

material collected during fieldwork conducted in Kabir Baug. A series

of 89 semi-structured interviews with patients and instructors was conducted in this centre between 2001 and 2006. These interviews revealed that most people frequenting the yoga centre were attracted by the therapeutic aspects of yoga, and by the healing techniques invented by Dr Karandikar. Moreover, most of the persons I met came for very practical and functional reasons: convalescence, curing

or preventive medicine. In addition to these, we conducted in-depth interviews with Dr Karandikar and his closest administrators in the yoga centre (in 2001, 2002, 2003 and 2006) where they exposed their personal histories, the ideas and ambitions they project in Kabir Baug, and their evolutions. This material is used not only to compare the application of discourses and practices in this yoga

centre, but also to understand the processes of mediation used by Hindu nationalist ideologist to target a larger audience. This article begins by an overview of Dr Karandikar’s life story, followed by an examination of the kind of activities he developed in his centre. Then, it examines the relationship between health issues and the Hindutva rhetoric in Dr Karandikar’s theories, before analysing

the various ways of mediation he uses to anchor his yoga practice locally.

From Dr Karandikar to Yogananda Acharya Dr Karandikar’s biography is something that every administrator and instructor in Kabir Baug knows and recounts to the visitor. Dr Karandikar’s formal biography contains his familial and background, as well as his personal health problems, which justify and legitimate his position as an ideal person, in his function as doctor of medicine and/or guru. Besides, a more or less hidden part of his biography relates his long-term engagement in the local political landscape, in the local branch of the RSS. This part of Dr Karandikar’s activities is rarely put to the fore, and only comes up if one knows the local political life, or if one has read the booklets published by the yoga centre. Dr S. V. Karandikar was born in 1939 in a Brahmin family from Pune. He studied medicine at the Government Medical College of Pune, and obtained his M.B.B.S. diploma in 1962, at the age of 23. Right after that, he started his career as a doctor in the Indian army. However, his engagement in the army ended in 1967, when he had to resign due to health problems: he suffered from high blood and could no longer manage his work properly. In order to pursue his medical career, he opened a surgery in Pune and started his practice as a family doctor. In the meantime, he began to practise yoga on his own. In 1974, the state of his health worsened and he started suffering from eyes problems. In 1978, on learning that a friend suffered from the same problem, he enrolled in the RIMYI to train in yoga alongside B. K. S. Iyengar.2 Thereupon a close relationship grew with the internationally known professor, with the two men working together on health and yoga-based research projects. Dr Karandikar took the opportunity to present their work on health and yoga at some international symposiums. From then on, Dr Karandikar benefited from a scientific platform and audience, which helped him to publish and carry out research in the medical field, and to travel on many occasions to Canada and

educational

pressure

2 B. K. S. Iyengar (1918–) is one of the most famous yoga teachers in the world, and he is said to be the founder of the ‘most-practiced yoga in the world’. Now settled in Pune since the 1970s, he has created a specific method to practice yoga: using benches and ropes, he invented techniques to practice asanas. His method is health- and body-oriented. It has attracted millions of people around the world, who practice ‘Iyengar yoga’ in recognised schools, with qualified teachers.

the USA, with all the honours that such a position brings. However, these details of Dr Karandikar’s reputation as an international must be moderated because in reality he published very few articles, and these have not been published in scientific journals. But the simple fact of benefiting from such contacts serves an official discourse, elevating him to the rank of ‘scientist’ and granting him certain legitimacy back in Pune. With his status and medical practice finally locally recognised, he created Kabir Baug in 1989, under the auspices of B. K. S. Iyengar, who was guest of honour at the opening ceremony. But a closer look at Dr Karandikar’s biography reveals that behind these wellknown elements is not only his dedication to medicine and to science, but also his personal allegiance to the nation. Indeed, Dr Karandikar has been an active member of the Pune branch of the RSS since a tender age, and his father was even its president during the 1950s and 1960s. The Karandikar family is very wellknown in the activist milieu in Pune. Moreover, the creation of Kabir Baug is not thanks to Dr Karandikar only, insofar as he received financial support and approval from the RSS. The history of the yoga centre is also linked to the implication of another militant. M. Bidhe was a fervent nationalist activist and former secretary to the RSS branch in Pune. He decided to finance the construction of the centre through this organisation out of political and personal interest. M. Bidhe suffered from an acute disease and urgently needed a heart transplant. As he could not afford surgery, he decided to try yoga therapy with Dr Karandikar. The story goes that, while doctors gave him two months to live, Dr Karandikar extended his life expectancy to eight years. This anecdote is used to legitimise the yoga centre, and appears as a ‘miracle’ or a ‘founding myth’. From then, the effectiveness of the therapy proposed by Dr Karandikar was extended to on the so-called superiority of Hindu knowledge on medicine over ‘Western medicine’. Thereby, this blurs the limit between yoga practice and the nationalist project held by the RSS. Besides, in a booklet circulating only for internal information, we note that the opening ceremony held in Kabir Baug, in 1989, was also staged ‘in the memory of P. P. Dr Hedgewar’s birth centenary’ (Karandikar 1997). Also, instead of basing his discourse and practice on strong and clear political and ideological positions, Dr Karandikar uses two main

researcher

ideological

considerations

actions or means to distil his thoughts: homage to Hindu nationalist personalities, and development of health and healing theories, both biomedical and ancient knowledge.

spanning

Little by little, new developments at the centre, regular staffing

and the rising number of ‘patients’ have brought about many changes, including transformations in Dr Karandikar’s personality itself. There have been increasing changes in his external appearance. Since 2000, he has totally changed his way of being, of moving and of talking. Until recently, he looked like any ordinary well-established doctor, with a moustache, neatly combed hair and classical clothes. Today, his head is shaved, with only a choti, he wears only white clothes, has a tilak painted on his forehead, and a heavy rudrashka necklace. As his visiting card and as Kabir Baug’s website3 Dr Karandikar does not immediately use his civil name: he introduces himself as Yogananda Acharya. At the same time, he keeps his title of doctor of medicine. Today, Dr Karandikar cumulates two statuses: doctor of and Acharya. These two statuses legitimise his positions and his actions on diverse sides — medicine and yoga — and, to a certain extent, health and religion or philosophy, modern and ancient knowledge. So, Dr Karandikar is endowed with good qualities, and recognised for his successful cures. Dr Karandikar thereby combines his various functions to develop a practice which does not serve the RSS ideology directly, but which nurtures positive or ‘romantic’ images of Hindu elements when they are combined, thanks to a simple logic linking his knowledge on medicine and on yoga therapy, and positive results he obtained on the health of thousands of yoga practitioners, called patients. The ‘formula’ is simple, and it conceals his actions from the direct links entertained with the RSS and the nationalist ideology at large. But the situation is more complex than it appears because this kind of position and practice serves a cause thanks to indirect means (healing, teaching).

indicates,

medicine

Kabir Baug: A Subtle Ideology in Practice Kabir Baug’s clientele comes from a modest background, from the surrounding area (90 per cent of the people interviewed were from 3 http://www.kabirbaug.com/home.htm, accessed 7 January 2011.

Pune) or from other Maharashtrian cities. The low rates certainly attract those who cannot afford to pay for first-rate yoga classes or private teachers. Kabir Baug has as many yoga practitioners as any other important yoga centre in Pune, with the difference that they mostly target locals while other yoga centres target an international audience. Kabir Baug’s central location also helps to encourage people to come. Consequently, in Pune, and in Maharashtra, Kabir Baug counts among other big yoga centres. At Kabir Baug, people who come to practice yoga are called ‘patients’, and teachers ‘instructors’. When they join the centre, patients are required to come every two days to practice yoga, alternating with practice on their own at home. In all there are approximately 160 instructors who have not received specific training. They usually do not have a regular professional activity; most of them are retired or housewives. Instructors are all unpaid volunteers who have learnt yoga at Kabir Baug and who, after a period of regular practice, wish to impart their knowledge. At Kabir Baug, voluntary work is and is done in the name of ‘bhakti’ (a notion of devotion translated at the centre as ‘service rendered’). Instructors as well as administrators at Kabir Baug state that this ‘service’ is carried out for those who practise yoga and, by extension, for the nation. to the centre’s precepts, transmitting yoga to fellow citizens is a duty in order to improve the well-being of society and its global order. Dr Karandikar judges that his yoga centre (also designed as the ‘sanstha’, a Sanskrit word for ‘organisation’) and the running of it are in keeping with ‘the programmes and activities’ that would nurture ‘the plan for cultivating a better society’:

praiseworthy According

‘The declared objective of the Sanstha is to improve the Nation through social enlightment by means of cultural enrichment. The plan for cultivating a better society rests on the creation of a range of programs and activities staffed by a cadre of devoted and strong volunteers’

(Karandikar 1997: 21).

The nationalist ideology, praising social services and cultural is clearly outlined. Yet these objectives are not made public; they are only mentioned in a booklet intended for In fact, this ideology is never put into practice directly, but is circumvented by discourses on the need to share knowledge on yoga’s benefits for public health purposes. This is also noted by

developments instructors.

Alter, who writes that ‘The Sanstha is directly modelled on — if not directly affiliated with- the RSS. (…) the Sansta’s activities are clearly ‘nationalist’ in keeping with the cultural priorities of the RSS’ (2004: 149). Furthermore, other elements associated with the actual location of the centre mark the proximity between Kabir Baug, Dr Karandikar and the RSS. Kabir Baug is situated on a land that, until 2003, was the property of the RSS. In addition, between its creation in 1989 and the year 2003, Kabir Baug received funds from the RSS, shared its premises, and consequently became part of it, as far as the land tenure was concerned. After 2003, the RSS moved to new premises and the land was given to Kabir Baug. From then, Kabir Baug could extend its and develop new ones. The given new religious objectives are orientated towards religious projects. Since 2003, Dr Karandikar and his close administrators in Kabir Baug decided to reorganise the ground floor of the main building around Parakh Saheb Guru’s Samadhi, the owner of the land it became the property of the RSS. Other than recalling the memory of a local personality, this new fixture aims at attributing a new function to Dr Karandikar: to perform satsang ceremonies.4 Therefore, more than a doctor and specialist in yoga therapy, Dr Karandikar intends to become a spiritual leader. Nowadays, this room houses all the conferences, lectures and satsangs given by Dr Karandikar. Furthermore, Kabir Baug proposes additional actions to target a larger audience. For example, every afternoon, from 4 pm onwards, kids play in the main area, under the supervision of teenagers, who themselves are supervised by adults. For two hours children learn to crawl, to fall down, to fight with wooden sticks, to salute the saffron flag and to sing hymns in line. This kind of activity is linked to the RSS, and the teenagers running the group claim that they belong to the RSS. This conscious affirmation, at the yoga centre, is certainly one of the two definite expressions of the link between the RSS and Kabir Baug. The second is the presence of a

activities before

directly

4 Satsang means, literally, ‘the company of truth’, and usually designs an assembly meeting during which a guru formulates a spiritual message and answer questions from his disciples. It may also include meditation or chanting sessions.

group of RSS activists, every morning and evening. They come to execute their ‘RSS Shakha’: they perform a series of physical sing hymns and salute the saffron flag. Then, they spend time

exercises, talking among themselves, before going back to their civil activities. Though the RSS moved its office to the next block, members

of the organisation still come to execute the Shakha, morning and evening. They justify their daily presence by the fact that the land was ceded free of charge by the RSS to Kabir Baug in 2003, but that they have an arrangement for the Shakha.

The convergence process between Kabir Baug and some RSS

activities is revealed by the use of the yoga centre where a subtle mix

operates between political activists, the ‘new religious leader’ and yoga practitioners. This is also expressed through the symbolic marking of space. Indeed, in Kabir Baug, there is a cafeteria where instructors can get something to eat and drink between two classes. In 2001, the portraits of two active BJP figures hung here: A. B. Vajpayee’s, the

then Prime Minister of India, and L. K. Advani, Minister at the time. In 2002, a new portrait was added: that of Dr Karandikar. As long as these politicians were in charge of national functions, from 1999 to 2004, they remained in full view of the instructors. In 2006, the

politicians’ portraits were removed, though not the one of Dr Karandikar.

Here, the physical closeness between the yoga centre and BJP

leaders, symbolised by the use of these photographs, illustrates the

link between Kabir Baug and Hindu nationalist activists and However, the link is not that obvious and is revealed only after reconstituting the interactions between different personalities, their abilities and the influence they have over the public. In the case

ideologues.

of Dr Karandikar, interactions between his skills and his political

commitments pass by specific health and healing theories. Dr Karandikar's Health and Healing Theories Dr Karandikar has been largely inspired by Iyengar’s method: he uses benches, ropes and bricks as props to practise asanas. Indeed, according to this technique, performing asanas is facilitated and made more comfortable, while the duration of the exercise is extended, for an overall better result. However, Dr Karandikar also created his own techniques for carrying out classical asanas. According to his theory, these techniques are used to create space in the body to eliminate the supposedly harmful gravity which weighs upon the joints or organs. This importance attributed to ‘space in the body’

is specific to Dr Karandikar and called for an adaptation of yoga practices. Furthermore, according to Dr Karandikar, asanas should not be performed in sequence as is the case in Hatha Yoga. That is why he chose to ‘freeze’ the asanas. The idea is to ‘suspend’ the in a given position for a certain length of time to help the person to recover. Through this method, Dr Karandikar seeks to improve the of yoga in general, by integrating certain medical principles he knows:

posture

practice

I use cellular intelligence, and all that goes through the nervous system. Everything is actually very natural. I apply some principles of physics to yoga. To find all these theories, I dissected all different yoga postures and the different parts of the body in action. Also, I could understand what

is happening in the body during different moments of the postures. These theories are reusable by people who are not medically qualified,

like her [he designates an instructor who was in his office at the time]. Here, instructors are not people from the medical field. I impart knowledge on them as wisdom’ (interview, 22 September 2006).

Moreover, Dr Karandikar questions the effectiveness of Hatha Yoga. According to him, Hatha Yoga is too westernised; to boost a real development in yoga’s therapeutic, physiological and biological functions, a return to yoga in its ancient forms, as exposed in Sanskrit texts, is needed while adding to this knowledge contemporary and medical improvements. Dr Karandikar considers himself to be a visionary figure, yet the medical field hardly pays him any attention. Nevertheless, he is still working on reinforcing his theories. Dr Karandikar formulates on health based on his knowledge and combines it with his political views. His theories emanate from his own experience in the medical and political fields. Yet instead of making a clear political stance from the very start, he turns this combination of his ideas and experiences into a multi-levelled discourse and practices, not intended to actually comply with Hindutva ideology, but to serve it. At Kabir Baug, a few people cumulate the titles of RSS member and Kabir Baug administrator or instructor. From my observations, this is only the case of Dr Karandikar, Kabir Baug’s key and a handful of instructors. Others may be sympathisers, yet they generally keep their distance from the RSS. Moreover,

observations

theories

administrators

Dr Karandikar and his associates do not directly convey RSS ideology to people, but distil it into daily body practices for good health and

healing. Mediation Kabir Baug leads a number of actions independently in order to reinforce and mark its presence in and around Pune: it develops

education programmes, communicates through the media, and publishes in local newspapers as well as through its own editing company. Education Programmes Dr Karandikar is developing a project called ‘Ancient India Healing

University’, to concentrate all Indian knowledge on health, including yoga, ayurveda and astrology. This project is not quite complete, but all the programmes and objectives are now ready to be submitted to relevant authorities for administrative accreditation. Nevertheless,

it is already possible to do a ‘graduation in yoga’ in Kabir Baug. The curriculum includes disciplines such as meditation, the Bhagvad Gita, Vedic chanting, yoga practice and postures, ayurveda,

philosophy and biomedicine. For biomedicine and ayurveda classes,

two medical doctors from outside the centre, who have their own surgery, ensure part of the curriculum. Dr Oak, Dr Karandikar’s daughter, is in charge of the philosophy class. The centre would like its students to spread their knowledge and

set up practice in their own schools, by their own means. Their role is different from the instructors’. Whereas the instructors did not specific training but work in the centre in the name of ‘bhakti’, the

receive students trained at Kabir Baug are supposed to spread formal knowledge in the name of ‘Sun Jeevan Yoga Darshan’, Dr Karandikar’s

brand of yoga practice. The students’ presence helps spread Dr Karandikar’s knowledge outside Pune. This dissemination is two-sided and has modalities:

1. the transmission of Dr Karandikar’s method that consists in a set of practices and ideals; and 2. the growing wealth of medical experiences. Indeed, patients registering with branches opened by new students will first undergo a medical check-up by Dr Karandikar

in Pune, then regularly throughout their practice. Besides, yoga teachers trained at Kabir Baug have no authority to check on their patients’ state of health.

Moreover, since 2001, Kabir Baug, known as the ‘self-deemed university’, convinced Pune University’s administration, and more specifically the Centre for Advanced Studies in Sanskrit (CASS) to send it all the students wanting to study ‘yoga philosophy’. So far, two students have received the title of ‘Doctor’, including Dr Karandikar’s daughter. Education seems to be the most effective way of reinforcing the legitimacy of Dr Karandikar’s yoga centre in Maharashtra. It is indeed a way of securing Dr Karandikar’s ideas and ideals beyond Pune.

Media Parallel to this, Kabir Baug applies a communication policy that requires advertising in various newspapers. For the past two years, the centre had publicly announced its activities and the proposed curriculum. Adverts for activities and education are published in the Marathi press to target the locals. As the Dean of the university explains, students enrolling on courses must have some knowledge of Marathi: We have only two or three students from Pune. Others come from

outside. But they are all from Maharashtra. In fact, they all come from

Maharashtra thanks to the advertising in Marathi newspapers and on Marathi television. It is important that they speak Marathi because we give classes only in Marathi. […] We recruit students without testing them. Those who want to register come here, and we observe their and attitudes (personal interview, 27 September 2006).

aptitudes

It is difficult to define what is meant by ‘aptitudes and attitudes’ in this woman’s speech, but we understand that students are recruited on a case-by-case basis. The students I met all originated from Maharashtra, not from Pune. When asked about their future career objectives, they all responded that they would open a yoga centre in their home town. The centre also makes use of English newspapers. The articles in English are largely devoted to results, testimonies of cured patients and to the ‘social activities’ of the centre. Yet, most of the time, these articles are meant to highlight its reputation and to fuel debates. For instance, on 20 September 2000, an article was published in the local edition of The Times of India about the centre: ‘Try Yoga for Knee Pain, RSS Centre Tells Vajpayee’ (Vaidya 2000). The title of

this short article labels Kabir Baug an ‘RSS centre’. This association between Kabir Baug and the RSS, formalised by the journalist, in no way alarmed Kabir Baug’s administration. Moreover, this did not stop them from sticking photocopies of the article on the wall in

reception. In the article, the journalist reports that ‘a reputed RSS yoga centre […] has urged Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee to give yoga a try’. BJP and RSS members met in Pune to discuss the eventuality of curing the Prime Minister of osteoarthritis using Dr Karandikar’s

method, but the Prime Minister turned the proposition down. It would seem that disappointment was at its height at Kabir Baug

and at the RSS branch. RSS members are said to regret that the BJP interlocutors do not give enough importance to healthcare as described and depicted in the so-called ‘yoga tradition’. This debate on how and why yoga should be used for healing purposes is mostly based on political and cultural elements. While

BJP advisors are looking for a quick solution for their leader, RSS members are putting forward their cultural and identity-based approach to health and healing. Publications Those patients interested and all students have access to literature on yoga, health and philosophy from Kabir Baug’s library. Moreover, to disseminate their knowledge and works, Kabir Baug’s administrators have created their own publishing house (Manava Sansadhan Vikas Ani Sanshodhan Mancha). A few books and booklets on yoga and health, written by Dr Karandikar and his daughter, are available at reasonable rates. These publications do not have a large public. They are sold to

students or instructors at Kabir Baug, and do not circulate outside this circle. These books all deal with yoga philosophy, in relation to health and to society. For example, ideas developed in Dr Oak’s thesis relate to the Yoga Sutras, the Upanishads and their contribution to certain aspects of medical philosophy. She frames her objectives within a larger social and cultural project, exploring the anteriority and superiority of Hindu knowledge: Yoga philosophy was an inseparable part of human society, or human existence as such in ancient India […]. This is the greatest contribution of Indian scriptures to the entire society of the whole world (Oak 2001).

Rather than being ideological or dogmatic, her position highlights some values and ideas which appear to be exposed in such a simple way that they come out as innocent. However, in the Foreword to this book, written by Dr Karandikar, Dr Oak’s father, the discourse becomes more politically engaged and closer to the Hindu rhetoric. Dr Karandikar clearly marks out the differences the Indian and foreign way of understanding, interpreting and practising yoga. For him, yoga is both a discipline derived from its Indian roots by heteroclite groups of non-Indian origin, who ‘westernised yoga’, and a discipline which was abandoned by Indian intellectuals who were ‘more fascinated by the development of western technologies and the grandeur of English language’. He also states that Indian culture started on its decline with India’s Independence while placing the responsibility on Indian politicians:

nationalist between

The government administration and political thinkers totally disregarded to nurture Indian culture and branded it as Hindu fundamentalism. It appears over all world politics was interested to suppress Indian culture and its ancient healing arts like yoga, ayurveda, astrology, sculpture …

(Karandikar 2001).

Here, Dr Karandikar does not refer to his innovations and ideas, as he usually does, but sets out on a discourse of victimisation. He blames his countrymen for not paying attention to ‘Indian culture and its ancient healing arts’ and for wrongly appropriating medical knowledge. In addition, he rejects the idea of being branded a ‘Hindu fundamentalist’, in spite of maintaining positions that can always be connected to the ideological rhetoric of Hindutva. Indeed, this categorisation could ruin all his efforts to keep away from formal politics and to remain ‘politically correct’ in his (informal) engagement for the RSS.

Conclusion In Kabir Baug, yoga is conceived as merely a health practice related to Indian culture, yet underneath is presented as the force behind national culture. This results in the local entrenchment of Hindutvarelated discourses and practices. However, close analysis of the at Kabir Baug reveals that people’s practice and the Hindutva ideology are not directly linked, but pass through a web of complex

situation

interactions between a local personality (Dr Karandikar) with his commitments to two structures (Kabir Baug on the one hand and the RSS on the other hand). Dr Karandikar plays the role of interface between these two structures, which are apparently different, but which converge, through Dr Karandikar’s join efforts to develop yoga as a form of therapy and to enhance ‘Indian culture’. Dr Karandikar has spent all his life between medicine and his

political engagement in RSS activities. He has succeeded in bringing the two together through the development of his own yoga centre where he teaches his own theories. His personal endeavours account for a lot in the extent to which Kabir Baug has developed: Kabir Baug, nowadays, specialises in yoga therapy and, more recently, in ‘ancient Indian knowledge’ (astrology, ayurveda). It meets the RSS cultural priorities, and is locally and internationally recognised for its yoga therapy. Among the different means of mediation used by Kabir Baug to promote its activities, none is linked to the local RSS branch. Indeed, no particular effort is made by the local RSS branch to promote yoga: there is no official backing such as sponsoring, and no privileged public relations. Dr Karandikar considers that India does not have the monopoly regarding yoga, but that it is a heritage from Humanity that has to be learnt at its source. This idea of ‘source country’ fits in very well with the international imaginary on yoga. Indeed, we note some sort of attraction on the part of the international community. On the Internet web sites dedicated to yoga (including the famous magazine Yoga International), certain authors, in describing Indian yoga centres, always mention Kabir Baug. And mention is always made of the friendship between Dr Karandikar and B. K. S. Iyengar and Dr Karandikar’s official medical title. Thereupon the centre achieves outside an international ‘support’ or legitimacy. No critical version or opinion of Kabir Baug’s activities is mentioned. We also suspect that not many journalists or magazine correspondents have ever visited the centre. Indeed, the inherent ideology that reigns at Kabir Baug can only be seen and experienced through its strong emphasis on discipline. This argument brings us back to the question regarding the

conditions and means used to create a Hindutva-oriented version of yoga. The type of entrenchment taking place at Kabir Baug comes from diverse tactics meant to blur the direct link between Hindutva ideology and yoga practice. Without totally denying

Western medical theories (a field in which Dr Karandikar is himself a scholar), without fully seeking to be proselyte (in the religious sense) or propagandist (in the political sense), and without seeking a compromise between Hindutva ideological rhetoric and nationalist activities, Dr Karandikar introduces us to an uncertain and complex practice where the embodiment of an ideology appears to be harmless, though it serves the cause of Hindutva with derived means and interpretations.

References Alter, J. 2000. Gandhi’s Body: Sex, Diet and the Politics of Nationalism . University of Pennsylvania Press. ———. 2004. Yoga in Modern India: The Body between Science and Philosophy. Princeton: Princeton University Press. De Michelis, E. 2004. A History of Modern Yoga, Patanjali and Western Esoterism. London: Continuum International Publishing Group. Hoyez, Anne-Cecile. 2005. ‘ L’espace-monde du yoga. Une géographie culturelle et sociale de la mondialisation des paysages thérapeutiques’, PhD thesis in Geography, University of Rouen, France. Karandikar, S. V. 1997. A Life Saver: An Illustrated Manual. Pune: Kabir Baug Matha Sanstha. ———. 2001. ‘ Introduction’, in A. Oak , Yoga of the Millenium: Based on Comparative Study of Yoga-Upanishads and Yoga Sutras. Pune: Kabir Baug Jaswant Prakashan. MacKean, L. 1996. Divine Enterprise. Gurus and the Hindu Nationalist Movement. Chicago: The University Chicago Press. Oak, A. 2001. Yoga of the Millenium: Based on Comparative Study of YogaUpanishads and Yoga Sutras. Pune: Kabir Baug Jaswant Prakashan. Strauss, S. 2005. Positioning Yoga: Balancing Acts across Cultures. New York: Berg Publishers. Vaidya, A. 2000. ‘ Try Yoga for Knee Pain, RSS Centre Tells Vajpayee’, The Times of India (Pune edn). 20 September.

6 On the Margins of Hindutva: The Krishna Pranâmî Sect in Nepal and India Gérard Toffin Religious sects constitute an important target for the Sangh Parivar, the ‘family’ of the Hindu nationalist movement. In this respect, the creation in 1964 of the Vishva Hindu Parishad (World Hindu Organisation, hereafter VHP), the religious wing of the Sangh Parivar, proved to be a crucial event. This group, one of the leading organisations in the Hindutva (‘Hinduness’) family, has been instrumental in the homogenisation of a national Hinduism and the of a specific Hindu self. The VHP has specifically attempted to rally together the various sâdhûs (ascetics) and sampradâyas (sects) constitutive of the Hindu world and to popularise its ideas among them. Its intention was to set up an anti-Muslim and anti-Christian front, two religions which, according to its ideology, represent a threat to Hinduism. This policy did not meet with the same success in all geographical regions and sects. Some sampradâyas or maths (‘monasteries’) accepted this ‘saffronisation’ either out of religious conviction or interest in order, for instance, to strengthen their in districts greatly influenced by Hindutva ideas. Yet a majority of them preserved their independence and kept clear of these ideas. Whatever the case may be, a number of ascetics played an important role in the mass-based processions rath yâtrâs organised by the VHP throughout India, which criss-crossed the country in the 1980s. Indeed, they actively participated in demolishing the Babri Masjid (Babur’s Mosque) in Ayodhya (Uttar Pradesh) on 6 December 1992. In addition, renouncers were and still are well represented within the structure of the organisation (Jaffrelot 2005b).1

construction

position

1 An earlier version of this article was presented at a seminar at the CNRSVillejuif (25 April 2007). I am grateful to Catherine Clémentin-Ojha, Gilles Tarabout and Véronique Bouillier for a number of useful suggestions on the

Gérard Toffin

There are striking similarities between the two worlds — the sects and the RSS. In an article published in 2005, Christophe Jaffrelot explicitly compared the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) to a Hindu sect. Among their similarities, he stressed a certain religiosity, a common spiritual dimension: links between guru and student (shishya), the relevance of the notion of celibacy (brahmacârî), the weight of the initiation ceremony model, etc. In this context, Keshav Baliram Hedgewar’s statement: ‘all (RSS) prachârak missionaries must be sadhus’2 comes to mind. Jaffrelot also mentioned the idea of equality among members of the Sangh irrespective of one’s caste — epitomised by meals taken in common. According to him, even the RSS’s paramilitary style recalls the akhârâs (regiments of monastic orders), such as those of the Dasnami Yogi, fighting with each other on ritual occasions (kumbh melâs, for instance). None of these points can be contested, even if, of course, the RSS is not literally a sect: it draws members from many Hindu sects as well as non-sectarians Hindus. Madhavarao Golwalkar himself, the second RSS historical leader, had clear ascetic features with his beard and long hair. He was named ‘Guruji’ by his followers. Meanwhile, it is worth considering the significant influence of 19th and 20th century neo-Hindu ideas on the Hindu nationalist ideology. The links between the RSS and the Ramakrishna mission are well known. Golwalkar himself was a disciple of Swami Akhandananda, an important figure of that Mission. Gwilym Beckerlegge (2006) has pointed out how the RSS, particularly Golwalkar, borrowed the idea of humanitarian action in favour of the oppressed and the victims of natural catastrophes from the Ramakrishna Mission and from Swami Vivekananda. Indeed, disinterested actions (sevâ) humanity were already a clearly defined notion in the Ârya Samâj. However, it was expanded by the second generation of RSS leaders, in the 1970s. This article focuses on a specific reformist Hindu sect, the Krishna Pranâmîs, which I have studied during field trips to Nepal and India, and

towards

original spoken text. Thanks are also due to Arjun M. Shah (Vadodara University) for his substantive comments on the first draft, to Pralay Kanungo, Nicolas Jaoul and Daniela Berti. In addition, I benefited from remarks made by researchers from the Centre for Social Studies, Surat (in particular Kiran Desai) and some Pranâmî devotees from this town during a lecture I gave on Pranâmî brotherhood at the Centre in February 2009. 2 Cited in Jaffrelot (2005: 61).

On the Margins of Hindutva

aims at providing a better understanding of the areas of interaction, convergence, and possibly resistance between the Hindu nationalist movement and what can be called modern Hindu civil society. These

relations are extremely complex and address the more general issue of the heterogeneity of Hinduism — its different facets, the various

ways of being Hindu and their possible restructuring — along new lines and concepts well suited to the contemporary period. Besides, I argue that the ideology of the proponents of Hindutva was used during the twentieth century by the Shah royal dynasty in Nepal to strengthen the power of Hinduism and kingship in their country.

My article further suggests that in many other cases the spread of ‘Hinduness’ is not only a question of politics, of the manipulation of public opinion, but also of sharing a common cultural identity and background, albeit very vague, independent of any political patronage.

The Krishna Pranâmî Sect: A Hindu Reformist Movement The Krishna Pranâmî (also called Nijânanda) sampradâya originated in Gujarat in the 17th century. The main founder (âdya guru) was Devchandra Mehta (1581–1655), born in the Sindh region (now

part of Pakistan) to a rich merchant family belonging to the Kâyastha caste. This charismatic sant was supposedly granted by Lord Krishna the mantra of the major religious text specific to the religious congregation — the Târtam Sâgar — after studying and meditating for 14 years over the Shrîmad Bhâgavat, a purâna

focused on Krishna. The spreading of the sect is, however,

associated mainly with the name of Prânnâth (1618–94), student and chief

disciple of Devchandra, born in Saurasthra (also called Kathiawar), in Gujarat, western India, to an affluent Kshatriya family. His father held the position of a dîwân, i.e., chief minister of a king. He himself was given this position at Jamnagar. Prânnâth founded two important temples, one in Surat (south Gujarat) and the other

in Panna (north Madhya Pradesh), and formulated the Nijânanda doctrine through a series of religious texts which have so far been the group’s foundation stone. These two sants (saints) attained their religious status partly through their reputation for performing miracles.3 3 Historical information on the Pranamîs can be found on the website of the sect: http://www.pranami.org, accessed 10 January 2011.

Plate 6.1:

Mangaldham temple in Kalirnpong (India), Courtesy of Gerard Toffin,

one

of the main Krishna Pranâmî centres in West

Bengal (2006).

Krishna Pranâmîs follow a non-orthodox form of Hinduism

belonging to the sant tradition from medieval northern India. Theoretically, they reject the usual Hindu domestic rituals, the hierarchy

of caste, and iconic (anthropomorphic) forms of deities (saguna), which they consider to be a form of idolatry. They belong to the nirguna bhakti school of the devotional sant family, oriented imageless devotion and worship of the guru (Devchandra, Prânnâth) as a manifestation of transcendent reality. Their religious book, Târtam Sâgar (or Kuljam Svârup Sâheb), is the main object of worship by the congregation in temples. It is said to represent the spiritual body of Prânnâth, and embodies Râj-Shyâmâjî, i.e., Krishna and Râdhâ, the two being merged into one. Devotees the book as the fifth Veda.4 The Nijânanda doctrine originated at a time when the Mughals were in power in northern and western India. This explains why most sant groups have adopted Muslim religious conceptions. The influence of Islam has been of utmost importance among the Pranâmîs. Prânnâth explicitly intended to create a universal beyond Hinduism and Islam, and even beyond Hinduism and Christianity. This universalistic message is still present among most Pranâmi intellectuals and religious teachers. According to them, there is only one religion, and all gods are the same except for one. The Pranâmî doctrine postulates numerous equivalences between Hindu and Muslim words or religious ideas. Prânnâth considered himself not only the last of the avatârs (incarnations) of Vishnu (Kalki avatâr), but also the Imam Mahdi and the last Mohammed. Moreover, Nijânanda sampradâya presents points of commonality with Islamic Sufism. Its ritual text, Târtam Sâgar, full of Urdu words, is characterised by its eclecticism. In its contemporary setting, the sect is sparsely distributed over western and northern India, as well as Nepal and the eastern Himalayas where it has met with great success. The exact number of its is not known, though it is low compared to other powerful Vaishnava sects such as Pushti Mârg (founded by Vallabhâcârya) or Swâminârâyan. In Nepal, the estimated number of Krishna Pranâmîs is quite high: around 300,000 persons. However, the main centre

towards

consider

religion,

followers

4 The idea of worshipping a book as a deity seems to have been borrowed from Sikhism. The Pranâmî cult shares many other striking similarities with the Sikh ritual.

of the movement is located in Jamnagar, Saurashtra (Gujarat). The original temple (Khijrâ mandir) constructed there was built by Devchandra in V. S. 1687, Kârtik 14th, bright fortnight (1630 AD).

It is the mul gaddî, original seat, throne, of the sect and the of the group’s mahârâj. The Pranâmî temples are called mandir or dhâm. They are built in a Hindu-Mughal style, even in Nepal, with domes and spires (gummat, coming from the Persian

residence

word gumbad). Some house a grave where a saint belonging to the sect has been buried. This tomb (samâdhî) is an object of great

veneration by devotees. Two other sites are of particular importance, and part of a of religious places visited by Pranâmîs in India. One is Panna, in Madhya Pradesh, where Prânnâth expired and where his

network mausoleum is located. The other is Surat, in Gujarat, where Prânnâth lived for some months and taught his religious doctrine. Haridwar

is another chief locality, much visited and highly revered, where Prânnâth is supposed to have been confronted in 1678 with the heads of other religious orders including Dasanâmî Sannyâsis and where he succeeded in achieving recognition for his ideas. In the Kathmandu Valley, a major temple (Navanthandhâm) is under at the top of a small hill, in Gautathar, in the vicinity

construction

of Tribhuvan International Airport and River Bagmati, in an area populated by Jaisi Bahuns. The followers of the sect are called sundarsâth (from Sanskrit sundar, ‘beautiful’, and sâth, ‘companion’) or Pranâmî. In Panna, there are specifically named dhâmis, from dhâm, ‘spiritual abode’. They form a brotherhood, a fellowship in all the meanings of the term.

Pranâmî comes from pranâm, the mutual greeting which members of the sect use when meeting each other, as they join both hands and bow their head simultaneously. The much older expression Prânnâthi, from the name of the founder of the sect, is hardly used today. Devotees are strictly vegetarian and non-smokers. Non-violence (ahimsâ) is a basic principle within the sect. Taking intoxicating

substances is prohibited, and highly orthodox adherents do not eat garlic or onion. The initiation (dîkshâ, also called jâganî, jâgane, meaning ‘spiritual awakening’) is performed at an early age among boys as well as girls. The guru whispers the târtam mantra (made up of 16 letters) in the devotee’s ear. This formula is believed to wipe away all their sins and to fortify relationships with transcendental

realities. The initiation ceremony marks the new follower’s entrance into the sect. It sometimes includes giving a new name.

From a Syncretistic Sect to a Traditionalist Hindu Movement One cannot understand the present affinities, however vague they are, between Pranâmîs and the Sangh Parivar without briefly summarising the historical evolution of the sect and its transformations over the centuries. We have little information concerning the way in

which the first Pranâmîs saw themselves in the 17th–18th century religious Indian landscape. It may be assumed that the bulk of the first followers were genuine twice-born Hindus, even if Prânnâth succeeded in attracting some Muslim devotees. The others might have belonged to syncretistic (partly Hindu, partly Muslim) groups, which is common in Sindh and Gujarat. As far as we know, the

boundaries between Hindus and Muslims were less rigid at that time than today. It must be remembered that, on a number of this sect follows a heterodox form of Hinduism. The identity of the first followers in these matters was most probably plural and

subjects,

could not be simply reduced to Hinduism. Until recently, the Arabic word momin (a devotee, especially an Islamic follower) was often

used to designate followers of the sect. Whatever the case may be, for a long time sundarsâths were, and still are today in some cases, charged with or suspected of being Muslims (din-islam) in disguise. Brahminical Hindus were highly suspicious of the large number of Islamic words in their religious texts, and of their custom of burying the dead in graves, very often

in a lying position. In India, Prânnâth is sometimes said to have been a Muslim râjâ. In Nepal, where an orthodox and anti-Islamic Hinduism dominated at national level from the end of the 18th until 1950, Pranâmîs were pursued and persecuted. They were

century

forced to bow down to Brahmins, to take the leftovers, prasâd, of the main Shaivite and Devî deities, including the ones who accepted

meat and alcohol. The monotheistic aspects (ek dharma) of their religion and their critical appreciation of the role of the Brahmins were particularly singled out by the authorities of the Hindu The fact that Prânnâth was not a Brahmin, and that their

kingdom.

religious texts were not written in Sanskrit, the original language of the gods, but in various vernacular Indian languages, were other

controversial elements which led Pranâmîs to be rejected, like the Christian and Hindu reformist movements. They had no other way of following their faith except in secret. As a matter of fact, sundarsâths were not considered to belong to sanâtana dharma, the ‘eternal, pure Hindu religion’, or to the all-India Sanskrit tradition.

The situation has radically changed since the fall of the Ranas (1951) and the restoration of a multi-party democratic system in 1990. At present Nepalese Pranâmîs are allowed to establish foundations in their own name (under NGO status) and to spread their message openly. They are recognised as a pure Hindu group, sanâtana dharma, and have developed a solid relationship with Pranâmî sites in India. Hence, the number of followers of the sect has considerably risen, in particular in Nepal and in the eastern Himalayas. New temples have been built and old ones renovated. This growth has been remarkable not only among the eastern ‘tribal’ groups of the eastern districts of Nepal (Kiranti), but also within the Hindu high-caste people of the hills and of the Tarai plains. The sect perfectly matches the new aspirations of a large number of middle-class Hindus to an egalitarian, devotional, often charismatic form of religion, with a number of welfare activities and in world affairs — representing what can be called a new face of Hinduism (Williams 2001). It attracts very few members from ‘untouchable’ castes. This development has progressively transformed the religious movement into a more orthodox Hindu sect, even if its original anti-hierarchical stance is still very much alive, often in with the social realities which exist within the group. It has turned out to be more respectful of Brahminical values. Its Islamic components have been progressively forgotten, and even rejected. At present the Pranâmîs explain these elements by historical i.e., the necessity to disseminate the message of the organisation at a time when the country was under Mughal dominance. In India, this process seems to go back to a very ancient period. Meanwhile, over the years the sect has adopted a number of saguna features. The movement has become more or less the same as any other Krishnaite sampradâya worshipping statues of divinities. Nowadays, major temples are decorated with paintings or of Krishna as a herdsman surrounded by gopis (cowherd girls), as well as of the main founders of the group (Devchandra and Prânnâth in particular). The Târtam Sâgar sacred book placed in the sacred room of each temple is venerated daily as if it were a statue (mûrti). It is woken in the morning, offered food and drink, presented ârtî six (sometimes only five) times a day, starting at 6 am (mangal ârtî) and ending at 9 pm (ârtî-paudhauni). In the evening, the book is covered with a sheet and blankets as Krishna

religious

involvement

contradiction circumstances,

chromolithographs

is at bedtime. Such change is not specific to the Pranâmîs and to Nepal, but also affects many Vaishnavite Hindu nirguna reformist groups and the subcontinent as a whole. In spite of this, the sect has preserved its singularity. Areas of Affinity: Sevâ and Prachârak Very few Krishna Pranâmîs are supporters of Sangh Parivar organisations, and their religious doctrine has nothing to do with the one conveyed by Hindu nationalists. There are, however, some areas of affinity, mainly due to the fact that the members of this are both intensely Hindu and religious persons. As such, they share with Hindu activists a related set of social, moral and religious norms and goals. This common ground, both religious and social, is exceedingly important. Convergences are more of a structural rather than purely strategic nature, i.e. linked to the interest of a specific guru. They are particularly evident on four specific matters. The performance of sevâ, serving humanity in a totally way,5 is the first common notion. This ancient conception was reformulated by neo-Hindu movements at the end of the 19th and beginning of the 20th century, partly to imitate Western Christian activities. It rapidly became one of their main objectives. Serving suffering humanity was the hallmark of Vivekananda’s religion. A few decades later, the RSS laid similar emphasis on these ideas. These types of organised philanthropic activities are at present common in India, particularly within the Hindu world and neo-Hindu religious movements, such as Mâtâ Amritanandamayi in Kerala (Kollam district) (Warrier 2003). Sevâ permeates all the activities and the whole life of contemporary Krishna Pranâmîs, as well as of many other sects, in sharp contrast to the old renouncer ideal of the sâdhû/sannyâsi theoretically completely unattached to material affairs. The main activity of the trusts, which are locally associated with each Pranâmî temple or âshram, is centred round the building and running of hospitals, orphanages, schools, etc. In Gujarat, Krishna Pranâmîs launched a series of programmes to assist people who suffered as a consequence of the severe earthquake in 2001. Their ability to help those in

congregation

disinterested

philanthropic practical

sectarian

5 The key word ‘sevâ’ has, in fact, several meanings. Among the Prânamîs, the term ‘sevâk’ is often used as an alternative word for ‘pûjârî’, and daily ritual service to Râj–Shyâmâjî (Râdhâ–Krishna) is considered a sevâ. Similarly, the act of worship in Pushti Mârgis is called sevâ, not pûjâ.

distress in particular by distributing blankets and clothes in refugee camps added greatly to their prestige. Such philanthropic actions are undertaken not only to recruit new adherents, but also mainly for individual self-enhancement. It is a way of behaving in a religious manner, of bringing happiness to one and all, and of respecting the ideals of the sampradâya. It is a meritorious action for the one who accomplishes it. This life naturally concentrates on altruistic activities which imply fund-raising and publicity campaigns in line with modern voluntary social service agencies. The large number of widows and lonely women living in the temples and âshrams must also be seen in this light. By welcoming all those rejected and in dire straits, Pranâmîs actively serve society. The missionary activities expected of the more advanced and learned members of the sect are a second point of commonality. This is a point of singular importance. Pranâmîs and RSS svayamsevâks have the same objective: to convert new disciples to their ideas and establish networks for this purpose. They are both part of ‘missionary Hinduism’, a new expression of this religion in the South Asian modern world (Beckerlegge 2004). Such a dimension obviously contrasts with traditional and older forms of Hinduism where the notion of conversion was not quite so present. Interestingly, the selected for these activities are in both cases called prachârak (or more specifically for the former: dharma prachârak). Within both kinds of organisation, the relationship between the preacher and the disciple is of the same sort of fascination, love and personal attachment. Similarly, conversion is a matter of self-improvement and spiritual enlightenment among Pranâmîs as within the RSS. In addition, both types of prachâraks often come from the same social milieu (high or middle Hindu castes) notwithstanding the fact that they have the power to recruit irrespective of caste. The networks however are different, except in some cases where there are obvious interconnections.6

persons

missionary

The Pranâmî prachâraks are generally of intermediate age (30–35),

a clear sign of the vitality of the sampradâya. Prestigious gurus and shâstris (theological scholars) train them for years (sometime the sect), in India or in Nepal. They are fluent in reading the Târtam Sâgar and are progressively becoming experts in animating explanatory sessions held within the Pranâmî community. These

outside 6 For general information on this subject, see Kanungo (2002).

preachers are more often women than men. They can choose to marry or to remain a spinster. Most of those I met were still with the status of brahmacâri, and explained this status by their desire to devote their whole life to religion and to preaching activities. Significantly, the sampradâya comprises only a small number of sâdhû renouncers (less than 200) who reside more or less permanently in one of the three main seats of the movement (Surat, Jamnagar and Panna). By and large, the whole sect is composed of lay devotees, and characterised by its active involvement in world affairs. The Pranâmîs prachâraks are mostly Nepalese by nationality and come from Nepal. These preachers play an exceedingly important role in strengthening and expanding the sampradâya.

unmarried,

Protection of the Cow and Anti-Muslim Sentiments All Pranâmî temples and âshrams have their own distinctive stables, go-sâlâ, where cows are bred and carefully tended. These sites are proudly shown to visitors and contribute to enhancing the spiritual message spread by the sect. The cattle are usually gifts given to Brahmans at funerals (go-dân). Some cows have been taken in because they were sick. The milk from these animals plays an important role in the vegetarian diet of the sect’s members. It is also used to feed children when an orphanage is annexed to the temple. The cult of the sacred cow, a ubiquitous symbol of India, is depicted everywhere on the walls of the temples. As previously stated, Krishna is not only conceived in the form of the Târtam Sâgar book, but is also worshipped in a less abstract manner in the form of Krishna among Gopâla herdsmen. This cult is enforced regularly on festive occasions throughout the religious year. The Govardhan pûjâ in particular, celebrates the legendary lifting of the Govardhan Mountain by Krishna in order to protect both the people and cattle of Brindâvan 7 from the rain-giving storm provoked by Indra (Vaudeville 1996). During the festival, held on the day after Divâlî, the sundarsâths sing and dance, carrying a tray (nânglo) on their head filled with offerings. This dance imitates Krishna rescuing the Brindâvan locality and its surrounding area. Such rituals are, of course, common to a large proportion of Hindus, especially those linked to the Krishna cult. Nevertheless,

winnowing

7 Brindâvan is a small part of Braj region, Uttar Pradesh. Govardhan is now a small hill located in Braj, not in Brindâvan.

such devotion to the sacred cow contributes to turning Krishna Pranâmîs into traditionalist Hindus.8 In addition, it calls to mind the emphasis given by Ârya Samâj, and later by Hindutva activists, to the cult of the cow and to the protection of this sacred animal from members of other religions who butcher and eat it. Crusades against cow slaughter have been an important element of these Hindu-centric movements (Katju 2003: 40–43). They were directed at defining and mobilising the Hindu community against outsiders (Muslims and Christians). This leads us to the sensitive issue of Islam. In spite of their Muslim heritage dating back to their beginnings in Gujarat and in Madhya Pradesh, most Pranâmîs today express violent animosity towards Islam. Muslims are seen as the dangerous Other, the enemy. Such hostility is clearly more intense in India than in Nepal. In the latter, antagonism between the two communities has never reached such a dramatic point as in India. Anti-Muslim riots took place in the Himalayan kingdom, but they cannot be compared with, for instance, the large scale 2002 massacre in Gujarat where more than a thousand people were killed. Repeated attacks on Hindu temples, cow-eating and the alleged lubricity of Muslims endangering the purity of Hindu women are the grievances most often mentioned. Terrorism and bombings also spread a sense of insecurity and fuel communalism. During communal conflicts, Gujarat Pranâmîs side with other Hindus, whatever their political affiliation may be. But history is also invoked, and in particular one episode which occurred in the 17th–18th centuries. Prânnâth, it is recalled, suffered greatly due to the ‘fanatic’ anti-Hindu policy introduced by Aurangzeb (1618–1707), the Mughal sovereign. His disciple, Chatrasâl (1649–1731), king of Bundelkhand, raised an army with the diamonds bestowed on him by his religious guru, and fought victoriously against the armies of Aurangzeb. This act of Hindu resistance against what is today called the ‘Muslim invader’ is often quoted by Pranâmîs when they want to stress their Hindu identity. Significantly, the same episode is quoted by RSS propaganda, for instance on their website Organiser (1 May 2005). This act of bravery confirms the Pranâmîs as defenders of Hindus. It is seen as ‘a contribution to the struggle for freedom from Mughal imperialism’.

generally

8 However, followers of other (sagun) Krishnaite sects underline the fact that Pranâmîs do not make use of any cow products during rituals.

Chatrasâl is compared with the heroic Shivaji. Aurangzeb, in fact, has become a symbol of Muslim political bigotry and anti-Hindu fanaticism in the Hindu nationalistic narrative. Unfortunately, it is not known if this episode has been the subject of a recent process of rewriting history or if it has been a constituent of Pranâmî identity since the beginning. There is less hostility toward Christians, except in north-east India and in North Bengal (Kalimpong and Darjeeling particularly), where Christian missionaries are in competition with Pranâmîs. In these districts, the usual picture of Christians as beef-eaters is commonly depicted. However, no communal violence involving Pranâmîs has been reported.

Hindutva and State Hinduism in Nepal Political organisations associated with the Sangh Parivar are much less powerful and influential in Nepal than in India. There is no Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) or RSS in the Himalayan country. The most important group, the Hindu Swayamsevak Sangh (HSS), considered as the chapter of the RSS in Nepal, is weak and does no figure among the country’s main political organisations. It wields some influence only in a dozen tarai districts, near the Indian border. Until now, HSS leaders have never presented candidates at national and municipal elections. They do not belong to the main political movements running the country. Other rightist groups, such as the Pashupati Kshetra Mandir, Ekal Bidhalaya Bajandra and Bajrang Dal, are even smaller, with few activists and militants. Generally speaking, these groups are much more active in the tarai plains than in the hills. Nepal also has a branch of the Shiv Sena (called Nepal Shiv Sena) established in 1990, currently headed by Arun Subedi. It specialises in rallying anti-Muslim feelings. This group took part actively in the riots against the Gulf travel agencies and against mosques and madrasas in 2004 when a dozen Nepalese workers were assassinated by Al Qaida in Iraq. The Nepal Shiv Sena participated in the 1990 elections, with-out winning a seat. Similarly, this movement put forward candidates for the Constituent Assembly election (April 2008), though with no success. The weakness of Sangh Parivar parties in Nepal might be explained, at least partly, by the annexationist views of most RSS and BJP leaders, according to which Nepal is just a part of India. These stances, common among Indian Hindus, go against Nepalese

usually

nationalistic feelings. Finally, the Rashtriya Prajatantra Party (RPP), founded in 1992, is a conservative party, gathering most of the elite that served during the panchayat period (1960–90), a time when the king ruled as an autocrat in the name of democracy.

political

Its members were and still are to a great extent in favour of the monarchy and institutional Hinduism, though most of them have

recently converted to democracy. They are divided into various factions led by different figures, often panchayat prime ministers, and do not defend Hindutva’s nationalist ideas. Nepal was a Hindu kingdom, proud of being the last of its type in the world (ekmâtra Hindu râjya), until 2006 (i.e., the declaration of the country as a secular state). Since the beginnings of the Shah

dynasty (14th–15th century), Hinduism has been totally in the statecraft and the conception of royal power. These values were instilled in the institutions and legal texts (Muluki Ain) after the unification of the country at the end of 18th century. The

incorporated

respect for Brahmins, sacred cows, caste hierarchy and the of the tutelary gods and goddess of the royal family were the

celebration

basis of the symbolic structure of the Nepalese royal polity. The participation of the Shah King in national Hindu festivals, Indra jâtrâ and Dasain, in particular, was a crucial part in his exercise of power. Coronation rituals according to old Hindu rules, which claimed to go back to the Vedic period, transformed the king into a divine or semi-divine person, the equivalent of Indra and Vishnu.

Such symbiosis between Hinduism and politics at the highest level of the state was also epitomised by the all-pervading importance of royal astrologers in fixing the date and hour of all important events in the country. Besides, royal priests occupied high ranks in the kingdom’s hierarchy, and the royal council (Râj Sabhâ), a crucial instrument of power, was made up of Hindu conservatives.

The whole of the country (Nepal) was seen as a religious kshetra (territory), placed under the tutelage of some state deities such as Pashupatinath, Guhyeshvari, Bhadrakali, Gorakhnath, etc., of whom the king was the main devotee. The Shah kings have been prompted to use Hindu nationalist ideas emerging in India around the RSS and the VHP to unify the country

around a common body of religious values and to defend themselves against democratic forces. King Mahendra (1920–72) tried to rally the support of Hindu fundamentalist activists and religious leaders

to resist the internal anti-royalist forces. In 1965, he insisted on participating in a Hindu rally organised in Nagpur, India, the of the RSS. He was obliged to cancel his participation at the last moment because the Indian government expressed its

headquarters discontent of such an intrusion in domestic political affairs. Mahendra

supported the very traditionalist Yogi Naraharinath, a famous

Kânphatâ Yogi intellectual and historian in Nepal, and his the Karmavir Mahâmandal, established in Gorkha in 1959, before the 1960 general elections, to fight the Congress Party. Yogi Naraharinath was also one of the main instigators of the 1960

association,

royal Mahendra coup, which dissolved the democratically elected government, banned all political parties and re-established central

monarchical rule, because of the growing anti-Brahmin riots in the hills around Kathmandu Valley. Some prime ministers or ideologues of the panchayat period, such as Tulsi Giri and Kirti Nidhi Bista, were very close to the RSS. It even seems that Tulsi Giri was a RSS prachârak in India, before undertaking his political career in Nepal.

Institutional Links between Krishna Pranâmîs and Sangh Parivar in Nepal The main organisation propagating Hindutva ideas today in Nepal is the Vishva Hindu Mahâsang, the World Hindu Organisation (hereafter VHO), established in Birganj (Nepal’s tarai) in 1981. Its chairman, Major General Bharat Keshar Simha, was formerly

Nepalese Ambassador to the UK and King Birendra’s aide-de-camp (ADC). Yogi Naraharinath is still considered to be a founding member of the organisation, although he left it after a few months because of internal disputes. The VHO encourages activities which maintain Hinduism as a dominant religious force in Nepalese culture and affairs. The organisation has close ties with the Vishva

Hindu Parishad in India. It was patronised by the Shah kings from the very beginning. In 1988 King Birendra, in particular, warmly welcomed the second conference (sammelan) of the Visvha Hindu Mahâsang in Kathmandu on the occasion of the bratabandha initiation ceremony of his son. King Gyanendra, who succeeded Birendra in 2001 after the slaughter of the royal family in the Narayan

Hiti Palace, renewed his patronage of this organisation on several occasions. During the last years of the monarchy (2005–2007), the VHO organised a third Hindu Conference in Birgang, in close

collaboration with Yogi Adityana, an extremist Kânphatâ Yogi from Gorakhpur and a former member of the BJP local government. It

clearly supported King Gyanendra’s direct rule. After the Interim declaration of Nepal as a secular state in 2006, B. K. Simha warned of starting a dharma yuddha (religious war) against communists

Assembly

and secularists.

From a religious viewpoint, the Vishva Hindu Mahâsang intends to embody, according to its own terms, Omkar Parivar, ‘the OM family’. As is known, this sacred syllable, which has both a written and a sound form, is one the preferred symbols of the unity of

Hinduism, though it is more common among Shaiva and Shakti worshippers than among Vaishnava sects. It was much used in India during the Vishva Hindu Parishad’s rath yâtrâ (procession) from Somnath to Ayodhya in the 1990s and it is taken as the

uniform Hindu mantra. Consequently, the VHO is an international organisation aimed at defending Hindus all over the world and spreading their values, as the Vishva Hindu Parishad does in India. Half the members of its Mahâ Sabhâ (assembly) are Hindu

representatives from the various countries (49 in 2007) throughout the world where Hindus are settled.9 This transnational character has been the keystone of the group since the very beginning. As other Hindu organisations in Nepal, Krishna Pranâmîs have

two permanent representatives at the Federation’s Mahâ Sabhâ (out of a total of 439 members). This apparently represents a nominal participation. As a matter of fact, all major sects (Swâminârâyan, Kabirpanthî, Sikh), associations (such as Ârya Samâj) and even

Buddhist representatives (mainly Tibetan) are also present in this assembly. The main locus of power lies in the management made up of nine members, all Nepalese, chosen according

committee,

to other criteria. However, Krishna Pranâmîs have one or two more

members in another intermediate executive committee, which is a more decisive level within the federation, and comprises about a hundred members.

9 The VHO has national chapters in 11 countries (Nepal, India, Bangladesh, Malaysia, Indonesia, Thailand, Canada, the USA, the UK, South Africa and Mauritius). I owe this piece of information to Dr Keshav Prasad Sapkota, a member of the organisation’s Executive Committee.

The Pranâmîs, An Independent Religious Group Krishna Pranâmîs are willing to remain independent from most Hindu nationalists. My interviews conducted among a wide range of sundarsâths show that the sect is made up of devotees professing

various political opinions, spanning from right to left. Among them are active members of the VHO, rightist activists, communists, as well as high-ranking Maoists (of whom Ram Prasad Acharya is often given as an example). The Pranâmî sampradâya’s reformist

ideology must be taken into consideration in this respect. Obviously, the anti-hierarchical stances of the movement, its criticism of gender discrimination and of caste hierarchy, have attracted some democratic

and left-wing Parbatiya or Madhesi people, many of them from communist ranks. It is not by mere chance that the Pranâmî sect is widespread and occupies a strong position in the Jhapa district of the eastern Nepalese tarai, the very district where Naxalite emerged in the 1970s. Parbatiya Mainali Brahmans were at

movements

the forefront of these movements. They were similarly very active in the formation of the Nepalese communist party. Significantly, they are many Mainali Brahmins in the sect. Very often they were, and still are, both communist and Pranâmî. The former accusation concerning the Pranâmîs during the Rana period because of their links with Islam, their deviant form of

Hinduism, and the fact that their texts were written in vernacular languages, not in Sanskrit, have also to be taken into account. in the eyes of many Hindus, this heterodox background has induced a major conflict with Yogi Naraharinath, the leading

Interestingly,

Nepalese Hindu nationalist previously mentioned. The Yogi blamed the Krishna Pranâmîs for the destruction of a Shiva temple on the

outskirts of Dharan city (Sunsari district, in the tarai). The accusation provoked great emotion within the Pranâmî brotherhood. The Pranâmîs objected to this attack and defended their case. According to them, the Shiva temple, situated on one of their parcels of land, collapsed naturally from lack of restoration. A commission was appointed by the royal palace in Kathmandu to establish the truth.

Finally, on Kârtik, 11 ghate 2033 B.S. (1976 AD), the commission exonerated the sect. This decision largely contributed to definitively reincorporating Pranâmîs within sanatâna dharma in Nepal.

The Pranâmîs shâstris (religious teachers) and gurus are keen to draw a line between religion and politics. They see these two spheres as being autonomous. Their sect is not a political party, they convincingly claim. It has no political ends. Its objectives are merely spiritual. The Pranâmîs’ aim is to disseminate their dharma, their religion, and to live according to the rules fixed by the founders of

their movement. They have continuously received donations from individuals and VDCs (Village Development Committees), in one place or another. Yet, they have never been patronised or financed by the Narayan Hiti Royal Palace of Kathmandu. The Pranâmî mahârâjs were occasionally received by the Shah Kings of Nepal in their palace, but these visits were quite normal, if one considers that

Pranâmîs are a Hindu group and that their members consider the king to be their natural protector, as well as an avatâr of Vishnu. The sundarsâths unexpectedly give different answers when the issue of republicanism versus monarchy is raised. Most devotees are at odds with the secular nation-state concept and the secularist ideas advocated by the 2006 ândolan (movement) in Nepal which

precipitated the fall of the monarchy. Generally speaking, they support Hindu kingship to the detriment of republicanism. ‘What will happen to the freedom of propagating our religion,’ they say, ‘in a republican country in which Hinduism is not officially recognised.’ The ongoing secularisation of society is clearly a challenge for them. It introduces different values. But opposite opinions are also

sometimes heard. ‘How can we, sundarsâths, worship and respect a Hindu king who, like the Shahs in Nepal, practises blood sacrifices all over the country and offers goats to the deities at Dasain and other festivals?’ For all Pranâmîs, the spreading of blood on the divinities’ altars is a revolting sight. The deep ahimsâ (non-violence) anchored values reject this ‘butchery’.

As far as I am aware, a similar diversity of political opinions within the sect characterises the Krishna Pranâmîs in India too. As Mohan Priya Acharya, President of the Mangal Dham trust, Kalimpong, West Bengal, declared in 2002: ‘Pranâmîs are not directly involved in any political movement, and thus feel that political parties should stop taking mileage out of the Gujarat carnage.’ ‘The religious sects

should sit at the table to find a solution,’ he added. (The Telegraph, Calcutta, 24 October 2002). Significantly, I met a number of Pranâmîs in India who are actively associated with the Congress

party. A Nepalese member of the sect I met in India reported: ‘In Nepal, most Pranâmîs are against the current king and monarchy, whereas Indian Pranâmîs are in favour of maintaining the monarchy in Nepal.’ This assertion is fairly consistent with reality.

Conclusion: Paradoxes and Resistances Historically, the Krishna Pranâmîs emerged at first as a reformist anti-caste movement propagating a monotheistic and egalitarian doctrine transcending caste and other social distinctions. They aimed at intermixing Hindus and Muslims and creating a link

between their respective religions. In Nepal, they have been persecuted for years by the Hindu authorities. In recent times, their values have often been a focus for rebel social activists affiliated to socialist and communist parties and rejecting the orthodox values of Hinduism. Yet the Pranâmî sampradâya has gradually become a sect comparable to other Krishnaite groups and has integrated

within it contemporary forms of Hinduism. Sundarsâths, whether Nepalese or Indian, can be depicted at present as traditionalist Hindus. They have developed an ecumenical form of attachment to Hindu dharma (religion) and a sense of solidarity with all other Hindus, including those of Sangh Parivar groups. Even today, these two contradictory forces — the reformist and the traditionalist —

coexist within the sect. Similarly, nowadays Pranâmî devotees share many common with other sampradâyas, especially Vaishnavite ones: the sect’s seat (gaddi), forms of worship, the notion of brahmacârî,

features accommodating the caste system, internal factions, privileged relationships between student and teacher, etc. On entering a Pushti Mârg

(Vallabhâchârya), a Swâminârâyan or a Kabirpanthî temple or âshram, one is struck by the similarities between these religious movements, regardless of the obvious sectarian differences. The devotional prostration of the whole body on the ground, worshipping

gestures,

procedures (ârtî and pûjâ), respecting the footprints and wooden sandals of holy men (pâdukâ), priestly dress, circumambulation of

the sacred places in a clockwise direction and liturgical instruments are more or less the same. Most Pranâmî followers feel they belong to the same spiritual family as members of Vaishnavite sects or any other bhakti-oriented religious organisations.

The situation is thus paradoxical. On the one hand, religious tenets of the Krishna Pranâmî sect are today affiliated to an organisation,

the Vishva Hindu Parishad (or Mahâsang), which is part of the Hindu nationalist family. They have a set of norms and values in common with this group. On the other hand, the members of the brotherhood recount at any given opportunity that Mahatma

Gandhi’s mother was a Nijânanda devotee in Gujarat, and that her son used to visit Pranâmî temples regularly during his childhood.10 They argue that the ecumenical vision of religion and faith of the Mahatma is derived from their sect. Now, one cannot fail to

recall that Gandhi was assassinated by a member of the Rashtriya Svayamsevak Sangh (RSS) because of Gandhi’s benevolent attitude towards Muslims and indeed all religions other than Hinduism.11 How can the Pranâmîs conciliate these historical events with total

involvement in the Hindu nationalist movement? On the other hand, the Pranâmîs are not centrally concerned with Hindutva. Their main interest lies in their religious organisation, their religious teachers and leaders, and their texts: the Târtam Sâgar,

Shriˆmad Bhâgavat and Bhagavad Gîtâ. What concerns them most is the expansion of the Pranâmî doctrine in new regions, the private altar they maintain in the household precincts, their sect’s religious message, the festivals in the liturgical year, etc. When discussing

the outer world, i.e., beyond the boundaries of thesampradâya, one is struck, as mentioned above, by the immediate anti-Muslims feelings. As a matter of fact, any factor which strengthens the boundaries of their sect, and therefore the differences with other

10 There is no reference to Pranâmî in Gandhi’s autobiography (either in English or in Gujarati). The mahâtmâ mentioned only his Vaishvana familial milieu and frequent visits to havelîs [probably Vallabha sect] during his childhood. Yet, the biography of his grandson, Rajmohan Gandhi (2007: 5), and the study of Pyarelal (1965: 213–14), the secretary of Gandhi, corroborate Pranâmîs statement. More precisely, it is the fourth wife of the father of Gandhi, Putli Bai, who was a Pranâmî follower and belonged to this sect. 11 It must, however, be recalled that the RSS has tried to appropriate a Gandhian idiom. It developed a set of concepts under the name of ‘integral humanism’, which captures significant elements of the Gandhian discourse, related particularly to morality in politics and swadeshi (Indian manufacture and consumption). This model would build up an indigenous pattern clearly differing from both capitalism and communism (Hansen 1999: 84–86).

religious groups, is underlined. For instance, despite the common feelings referred to above, rivalry exists with other Vaishnavite sampradâyas, in particular with Iskcon (International Society for Krishna Consciousness) which benefited from the support of many Westerners and is said to be very wealthy.12 The Pranâmîs consider that the members of this sect are motivated mainly by financial

gains, not by religious purposes. These communal, centripetal forces maintain the cohesion within the group and periodically reinforce its frontiers between insiders (sundarsâths) and outsiders. They are not compatible with complete integration in ‘Hinduness’ as defined by Hindutva. Moreover, the more explicit Hindu identity of the sect and its

recent

accommodation of the saguna philosophy of other Vaishnavite movements are the object of internal debates among the sampradâya’s religious elite. A small group of Pranâmîs openly criticise the gaddipâti construction around some sites, especially in Jamnagar, with an all-powerful mahârâj at its head, and advocate a return to the original teachings of Prânnâth which were first spread three centuries

ago. They recall the universalistic message of Prânnâth, beyond Hinduism and Islam. They decry the contemporary mega-festivals and gatherings organised by Pranâmîs from time to time in various Nijânanda temples of India for the sake of religious discourses and for reading sacred books (pârâyana). Furthermore, they advocate a more personal, internal approach to religion, more respectful of the

beginnings of the sampradâya. Such feelings have even provoked a resistance movement in the Surat Mangalpuridhâm temple. The head of this major temple, Shri Suryanarayan, born in Bihar, no longer participates in the group’s major events and no longer pays respect to the mahârâj of the sect, based in Jamnagar. He is in the process of building a new sacred line of tradition, guruparamparâ,

with a distinct line of holy persons within the sect, parallel to the main one. The main reason for the quarrel is the colour of the dress. Shri Suryanarayan contests the red-brown (geru) or saffron colour adopted — only recently, according to him — by the religious

12 Since the beginning of the 21st century, the Pranâmîs have been experiencing a steady expansion abroad (USA and Canada), as part of a transnational religion. But the dynamics of this development is greatly limited compared to Swâminârâyan. The sect is open to Westerners and to all motivated persons.

pandits of the sect and its mahârâj.13 White, he says, is the colour of Prânnâth, not saffron which is adopted by other sampradâyas, especially Shaivite sects. White, he added, is the only nirguna colour, with no attribute. The case of the Pranâmîs is no exception on the subcontinent. Most Hindu sects display ambiguous relations with the BJP and RSS. Two broad conclusions can therefore be drawn from this study. First, the attempt of the Vishva Hindu Parishad (and its in Nepal, the WHO) to rally them under its umbrella and to portray all Hindus as a homogenous world has largely failed. The contradictory response of the Prânamî brotherhood towards the Hindutva thesis reproduces the ambiguity of Hindu society itself. In spite of recent efforts towards homogenisation, the Hindu identity on the subcontinent continues, in many ways, to be fragmented. With their own books, temples and theology, the sundarsâth devotees this plurality. By and large, the world of the sampradâyas remains extremely heterogeneous, just as Hinduism itself. It has centralisation in a noteworthy manner. Second, I have shown that the relationships between the Sangh Parivar and Hindu sects are complex. In some parts of India, such as Gujarat, Hindu nationalist ideas are not far removed from mainstream Hindu society, even if the organisation’s political objectives are not followed and even openly rejected. In this state, we may label as ‘soft Hindutva’ some attitudes and concerns pertaining to the Pranâmîs and other Vaishnavite sects. Elsewhere, Hindu nationalism has much less influence. Yet, anti-Muslim stances are a widespread attitude in all districts and states where I worked, both in India and Nepal. It contributes to creating a common language and a sense of community between all religious Hindus, beyond the Hindutva nationalist propaganda proper, from ‘orthodox’ groups to adherents of more modern forms of Hinduism.

representative

exemplify resisted

13 In fact, sâdhus and religious heads within the Pranâmî sect wear saffron dresses. Yet most younger teachers and nearly all prachârak missionaries are dresses totally in white. The dress can also be mixed. Some pûjârîs wear a white dhoti and a saffron kurta. Such differences in colour within the group also exist among Swâminârâyan sampradâya. The Swami Chinmayananda, founder of the VHP, used to say that there was absolutely no difference between a swayamsevâk and a sannyâsi, save the fact that one dresses in saffron, the other in white (Organizer, 11 February 1979, cited by Jaffrelot 1995: 201.)

References Beckerlegge, Gwilym . 2004. ‘ The Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh’s ‘Tradition of Selfless Service’, in John Zavos, Andrew Wyatt and Verbon Hewitt (eds), The Politics of Cultural Mobilization in India , pp. 105–35. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. ———. 2006. Swami Vivekananda’s Legacy of Service: A Study of the Ramakrishna Math and Mission. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Copley. A. (ed.), 2003. Hinduism in Public and Private. Reform, Hindutva, Gender, and Sampradaya. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Gandhi, Mohandas Karamchand. 1993. An Autobiography: The Story of My Experiments with Truth. Boston: Beacon Press. Gandhi, Rajmohan. 2007. Mohandas: A True Story of a Man, his People, and an Empire. New Delhi: Penguin. Hansen, T. B. 1999. The Saffron Wave: Democracy and Hindu Nationalism in Modern India. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Jaffrelot, Christophe. 1995. ‘ La Vishva Hindu Parishad. Structures et stratégies’, in M. L. Reiniche and H. Stern (eds), Les Ruses du salut. Religion et Politiques dans le monde indien, pp. 183–217, Collection Purushartha, vol. 17. Paris: Editions de l’EHESS. ———. 2005a. ‘ The RSS: A Hindu Nationalist Sect’, in idem (ed.) The Sangh Pariwar: A Reader, pp. 56–102. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. ———. (ed.), 2005b. The Sangh Pariwar: A Reader. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Kanungo, Pralay. 2002. ‘ The Navigators of Hindu Rasthra: RSS Pracharaks’, Contemporary India, 1 (2): 171–97. Katju, M. 2003. Vishva Hindu Parishad and Indian Politics. New Delhi: Orient Longman. Lochtefeld, J. G. 1994. ‘ The Vishva Hindu Parishad and the Roots of Hindu Militancy ’, Journal of the American Academy of Religion, 62 (2) 587–602. Lorenzen, D. N. 1987. ‘ Traditions of Non-Caste Hinduism: The Kabir Panth’, Contributions to Indian Sociology (n.s.), 21 (2): 263–83. Mukharya, P. S. 2006. Religious Conflict between Mahamati Prannath and Aurangzeb. Jamnagar: Shri 5 Navtanpuri Dham. Pyarelal, N. 1965. Mahatma Gandhi: The Early Phase , vol 1. Ahmedabad: Navarijan Publishing House. Schomer, K. and W. H. McLeod (eds). 1987. The Sants: Studies in A Devotional Tradition in India. Berkeley and Delhi: Berkeley Religion Studies Series and Motilal Banarsidass. Shah, A. M. 2006. ‘ Sects and Hindu Social Structure’,Contributions to Indian Sociology (n.s.), 40 (2): 209–48. Sila Khan, D. 2002. ‘The Prannathis of Rajasthan: Bhakti and Irfan’, in L. A. Babb, V. Joshi and M. W. Meister (eds), Multiple Histories: Culture and Society in the Study of Rajasthan, pp. 209–31. Jaipur and Delhi: Rawat Publications. ———. 2003. ‘ The Madhi of Panna: A Short History of the Pranâmîs’, Indian Journal of Secularism, 6 (4): 45–82.

Toffin, Gérard. 2006. ‘ The Politics of Hinduism and Secularism in Nepal ’, Studies in Nepali History and Society, 11 (2): 221–40. ———. 2011. ‘ Brotherhood and Divine Bonding in the Krishna PranāmīSect’, in J. Pfaff-Czarnecka and Gérard Toffin (eds), The Politics of Belonging in the Himalayas: Local Attachments and Boundary Dynamics, pp. 144 – 66 . New Delhi: Sage Publications. Van der Veer, Peter. 1988. Religions and Nationalism: Hindus and Muslims in India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Vaudeville, C. 1996. Myths, Saints and Legends in Medieval India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Warrier, M. 2003. ‘ The Seva Ethic and the Spirit of Institution Building in the Mata Amritanandamaya Mission’, in A. Copley (ed.), Hinduism in Public and Private: Reform, Hindutva, Gender and Sampradâya , pp. 254–89. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Williams, R. B. 2001. An Introduction to Swaminarayan Hinduism . Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

7 In the Image of Jhulelal: Sindhi Hindus, Humanitarian Action and Hindu Nationalism Frédérique Pagani Sindhi Hindus frequently claim that they come from the cradle of Indian civilisation.1 To support their claim, they rely on the idea that Sindh gave birth to the ‘Civilisation of Indus’ and that the very name of Hinduism is a Persian derivation of the Sanskrit sindhu, which designates the Indus river. The paradox is perhaps that the region which gave the name ‘Hindu’, first understood as an ethno-geographic designation and eventually as a religious one (von Stietencron 1989: 11–12) had been ruled by several Muslim dynasties since the early Arab conquest of Sindh in 712 until the British annexation in 1843. Moreover, for several hundred years, Sindh was a Muslim-majority province. 2 Besides, for almost a century (1843–1936), Sindh was a part of the Bombay Presidency; but this ‘hunting ground’ that was the north-westernmost province for the British was separated from the Presidency through the 1935 Government of India Act, to the displeasure of the Sindhi Hindus who feared being only a religious minority on the margins of India. In this article, I wish to examine the religious identity of these Hindus who, when Sindh became a part of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, fled en masse to India and subsequently to various other countries. 3 1 Likewise, the Sindhi BJP leader R. K. Malkani emphatically wrote: ‘Sindhu is Divine. In the beginning was the word.The first recorded word was the Veda. And the Veda is just ecstatic about the Sindhu, the cradle of Indian civilisation. (…) This is the Great Sindhu that gave Sindh — and Hind! — its name. It is the oldest name in Indian history — and Indian geography’ (Malkani 1984: 1). 2 On the eve of Partition, Muslims are estimated to have constituted 70 per cent of the Sindhi global population, whereas Hindus were living in towns where they constituted up to 29 per cent of the population. 3 Dispersal is one of the main features of Hindu Sindhis. Thus, present-day Sindhis can be found in India (in the Bombay area, in Gujarat, Madhya Pradesh

Frédérique Pagani

Hindu Sindhis in pre-Partition Sindh were very eclectic (Anand 1996; Kothari 2007; Malkani 1984; Markovits 2000; Thakur

1959). Sufism was particularly strong in the region and the worship of pir widely spread among Hindus. Devotional forms issued from the bhakti movement and those coming from neighbouring Punjab — the cradle of Sikhism — particularly enriched Sindhi Hinduism

as well. C. Markovits explains that most Sindhi Hindus were Nanakpanthi (non-Khalsa or Sahajdari Sikhs) and he adds that ‘their Nanakpanthi faith blended harmoniously with non-sectarian forms of both Saivaism and Vaisnavism’ (2000: 48). U. T. Thakur,

also using this term of nanakpanth-ism, describes it as a ‘blended faith’ that allowed Sindhi Hindus to worship the Guru Granth Sahib, venerate the Hindu Gods and perform Hindu rites and ceremonies (Thakur 1959 : 21). The influence of Sikhism was so strong that

it was sometimes perplexing for the British to conceptualise the religious boundaries and determine if Sindhis were Hindus or Sikhs. This religious eclecticism fits in well with 19th-century Sindh where religious boundaries were extremely porous.

Though Sindhi Hindu religious conceptions and practices still remain eclectic to some extent (as shown in the community as well as the community’s promotional websites with

publications representations of Hindu and Sufi saints along with Guru Nanak), since

Partition Sindhis tend to make a stronger claim to their sense of belonging to Hinduism (Markovits 2000). My aim in this article is to examine the process of the growing self-awareness of the Hindu identity among Sindhis and the potential

role of the Sangh Parivar in this process. I wish to examine this process by a general review of Sindhi Hindus’ religious identity and through a case study of a particular local Sindhi charitable organisation located near Bhopal. What explanations can be given to this

process? Does it affect the whole Sindhi community in the same way? How does this process fit in with other processes of constructing a and Rajasthan), in the Canary Islands, Nigeria, Hong Kong, Singapore, New York and London. In India, Sindhis are estimated to number around twoand-a-half million. They mainly live in ‘Sindhi colonies’ in the suburbs of big towns such as Bombay, Ahmedabad or Ajmer. Sindhi Hindus primarily belong to merchant castes and their occupational activity corresponds to their caste belonging: most Sindhis are businessmen (merchants, traders, bankers, etc).

In the Image of Jhulelal

Sindhi religious identity? How do Sindhis accommodate their claim of belonging to the Hindu fold with their assertions of a specific

Sindhi identity (sindhiyat)? I have set out to answer this series of questions with regard to the role Hindu nationalism might have played within this process. Hindutva aims at fixing a clear Hindu identity and religious boundaries; yet through the example of the

Sindhis, I wish to show that the relation of Hindutva to eclecticism is more flexible than what a simple eclecticism/anti-eclecticism might suggest at first glance.

opposition Sindhi Hindu religious conceptions and practices: Trends and Variations

My data comes from short periods of fieldwork carried out in 2008 among Sindhis living in Delhi, Ajmer and Bhilwara, from contacts

made since 2007 with Sindhis settled in Toronto and from a survey conducted in Bairagarh (Bhopal) from 1996–98 and in 2008. Bairagarh, where I conducted my main period of fieldwork, is a Sindhi township on the outskirts of Bhopal which was set up during

World War II as a Royal Air Force cantonment and subsequently became a Italian Prisoner of War camp,4 a rehabilitation camp for Muslims and eventually a Sindhi refugee camp in 1948–49 (Malhotra 1964 ). Sindhi refugees who had fled Sindh the previous year had

been given shelter in a refugee camp near Ajmer. Their

rehabilitation at Bairagarh was part of the government’s policy to transfer

Sindhi refugees from the Gujarati and Rajasthani congested camps. In 1951, Bairagarh was inhabited by 13,816 Sindhis (1951 census),

whereas the town’s population now numbers 80,700 inhabitants (2001 census), about 80 percent of whom are Sindhis.5 Sindhi Eclecticism Sindhis conceive themselves as Hindus. They indeed accept the of the Veda, worship Hindu deities and celebrate the main Hindu festivals. They are also increasingly involved in guruheaded neo-Hindu religious movements such as the Radhasoami,

sacredness

4 These Italians were in particular prisoners of naval battles. I have been in contact with an Italian whose father was a soldier in an Italian navy submarine and who was imprisoned in Bairagarh from 1939–45. 5 Estimations given by the Sindhi panchayat.

Sadhu Vaswani Mission or the movement created around Satya Sai Baba. At the same time, present-day Sindhi Hindus are at least to some extent eclectic in their religious practices and conceptions and show a high capacity to adapt. The influence of Sikhism is still particularly strong among Sindhis. In foreign countries, for instance, Sindhis go and pray regularly at gurdwaras which they sometimes finance and a few also visit Sikh holy places, 6 such as Nankana Sahib in Pakistan, the birth place of Guru Nanak. 7 In Bairagarh, my own interlocutors do not use the term ‘Nanakpanthi’ to describe themselves, they nevertheless attend to gurdwara. They also attend to their own places of worship, where the Guru Granth Sahib is displayed along with Hindu sacred texts (the Ramayana for instance) and representations of Hindu deities. Sindhis may also maintain strong links with the Udasi tradition, a sectarian tradition which has maintained complex relationships with Khalsa Sikhs (Oberoi 1997). The term ‘udasi’ is derived from the Sanskrit ‘udasin’ which means ‘to be detached from worldly things’. My own Udasi informants claim that the tradition arose from Sri Chand (1494–?),8 Guru Nanak’s elder son.9 The Udasi worship the Guru Granth Sahib and their own sectarian lineage which begins with Sri Chand, conceived as an avatar of Shiva, and subdivides itself into several branches. Steven Ramey explains that Sindhis face many difficulties in India, because their own understandings of religious boundaries clash with the predominent ones (2004). Similarly, if my informants no doubt conceive of themselves as Hindus, they are also aware of challenging the usual definitions of Hinduism, Sikhism and Sufism. I was, for instance, repeatedly told that the Guru Granth Sahib and Guru Nanak were Hindus and acccording to this theory, Guru Gobind

6 Conversation with the President of the Sindhi Cultural Association of Toronto (SCAT). 7 Christine Moliner brought this point to my notice. 8 In the story of Sri Chand’s life, his death at a very old age is systematically mentioned. Several dates are given for his death: 1612, 1629 or even 1649. 9 According to H. Oberoi, the context and the date of birth of this sectarian tradition are discussed among historians (Oberoi 1997: 81). The more common conception traces this birth back to Sri Chand. Another hypothesis also suggests that Baba Gurditta, the elder son of the sixth guru, Guru Hargobind (15951645, 1606) was the founder of this tradition.

Singh created a separate religion with the institution of the Khalsa. Several interlocutors told me: ‘Guru Gobind Singh created the Sikh dharma separately. But in reality Sikhs were Hindus before’. Another man, a follower of the Udasi panth told me: ‘Sikhs create trouble for us. They don’t want us to use the Guru Granth Sahib. But we reply: the Guru Granth Sahib is Hindu. Guru Nanak was Hindu. Sikhs don’t have more rights over the Guru Granth Sahib than we do.’ This conception of an inclusive Hinduism which understands the tradition founded by Guru Nanak within Hinduism, is very frequent among Sindhis. Among my informants, practices associated with Sufism are less directly manifest than those related to Sikhism. However, Sufism is very present in background discussions about Sindhi religion. My interlocutors, such as K. V. Lakhani, a Sindhi woman from Bairagarh, often mentioned famous pir, such as Mangho Pir, Lal Shah Baz Qalandar and Shah Abdul Latif. In fact, references to Sufism are used as a way of highlighting Sindhi religious eclecticism and broadmindness shared by Hindus as well as Muslims. The people I regularly suggested that Sindhi religious tolerance could be explained by the influence of Sufism in the region. Sufism is therefore presented as a particular way of conceiving the divine and a general encompassing religious philosophy as epitomised in the concept of Wahdat-al Wujud (the unity of being). Religious eclecticism blurs Sindhi Hindu identity. Consequently, during my fieldwork, non-Sindhis sometimes asked me if Sindhis were Sikhs, Hindus or Muslims. As I see it, two facts prompt this question: 1. the fact that Sindhis are still not well known in India and are strongly stereotyped as bania (i.e., in this context: businessminded, greedy and materialistic individuals); and 2. the fact that Sindhi practices and conceptions have been challenging the usual (the ‘hegemonic’ to talk like Ramey) 10 boundaries between religions. This blurred identity is sometimes valued by my non– Sindhi informants: a man married to a Sindhi woman told me with some admiration that Sindhis ‘are some way between Hindus and Muslims’, as if Sindhis were able to transcend religious dissensions and build bridges. This blurred identity has, however, also caused

interviewed

10 About this concept of hegemony, first used by Antonio Gramsci, see, in particular, pp. 24–26 (Ramey 2004).

trouble for the Sindhis. Rita Kothari explains, for instance, that when Sindhis arrived in refugee camps in Gujarat, they were not

perceived as Hindu by their Gujarati coregionalists because they came from a Muslim region, ate meat and drank alcohol (Kothari 2007: xi). On this matter, some of my informants, like the writer Jayant Relwani quoted by Kothari (Kothari 2011) also refer to the

fact that when they arrived in India, they prayed to god in the name of Allah.

Jhulelal and the Plasticity of Sindhi Hinduism Since Partition, a recomposition of Sindhi Hindus identity seems to

have been at work. A Sindhi interlocutor from Delhi explained that when Sindhis arrived in India, they prayed to god in the name of Allah: We say god in the name of Allah, now we say to Jhulelal.’ Here, my interlocutor was referring to Jhulelal, the Indus River

worshipped under various names by Hindus as well as Muslims. This mention of Jhulelal needs to be understood within the of sindhiyat. This concept which refers to the Sindhi culture,

context

the ‘Sindhi-ity’, was invented in the 1950s by Sindhi intellectuals

from Bombay to resist the threat of a decline of the Sindhi culture. The concept of sindhiyat is articulated around strong identity such as the Sindhi language and, most of all, around Jhulelal.

elements

At this period, a Sindhi intellectual, Ram Panjwani, revived

Jhulelal as the Sindhis’ tutelarian divinity and institutionalised the Chetichand Festival to commemorate his birthday.11 Nowadays, many Sindhi associations celebrate Jhulelal’s birthday with great pomp. This emphasis on Jhulelal is precisely conceived as the main

link connecting all the Sindhis dispersed throughout the world. Before Partition, sindhiyat emerged in Sindh. After Partition, Sindh was lost for the Sindhis. Jhulelal was thus conceived to replace Sindh. Jhulelal is Sindh; it is a somewhat symbolic territory where

Sindhis can gather to celebrate their common identity. The figure of Jhulelal is of great interest because this divinity and its interpretations illustrate the plasticity of Sindhi Hindu religious 11 This intellectual follows the example of Tilak who instituted the Ganesh Charurthi Festival in Bombay. For an extensive study of Jhulelal, read Parwani (2011).

practices and conceptions. The story of Jhulelal is closely linked to the River Indus. In each of the versions recounted, Sindhis, who risk being converted by a Muslim king, go to the riverside and decide to put their fate into the Indus’s hands by praying or by committing collective suicide. After some time, Jhulelal comes out of the Indus. After being reincarnated as a child (who has the power to transform himself as a warrior and as an old man) born to a modest family, he urges the Muslim king to leave the Hindus in peace. The Muslim king declares that Hindus are free to follow their religion. In the myth relating the circumstances of his birth, Jhulelal

appears in times of troubles for the Hindus. Most of the time, he

appears during the reign of the Muslim king Marakh Shah who would have ruled in 11th-century Sindh. Jhulelal is said to have been born in 1007, the day of Chetichand. However, in the version given by Richard Burton, Jhulelal appears during the rule of the zealous Moghol Emperor, Aurangzeb (Burton [1851] 1973: 329). Beyond the fact that the myth of Jhulelal, like all myths, is flexible and may refer simultaneously to different periods, it is interesting to see that Jhulelal specifically appears when the Hindus are a great danger. He appears to restore order on earth, the myth of his birth has a somewhat messianic tone and his appearance is likened to Vishnu’s ‘descent’ to earth. This assimilation can be seen as a part of a Sanskritisation process: Vishnu is conceived as the protector of dharma, he is a pure god, venerated by high castes; through his assimilation to an avatar of Vishnu, Jhulelal becomes a respectable god.

facing

Extremely flexible, Jhulelal can be understood as the Indus deity,

a Vishnu avatar and the deity around which the concept of sindhiyat revolves. Jhulelal enables the Sindhis to gain a strong identity as Sindhis which sometimes transcends the cleavage between Sindhi Hindus and Muslims. One episode upon the death of Jhulelal was endlessly repeated by my interlocutors and can also be seen on some Sindhi web sites. Here, I quote an edited version on a Sindhi website called Young Sindhi Adults: As soon as Uderolal’s soul left his body, they (the Muslims) took over its charge and said, ‘Under the instructions of Mirkhshah (Marakh Shah, the Muslim king) we will build a ‘Turba’ and ‘Quba’ (a tomb) according to the dictates of Islam.’ The Hindus resented this stand. They said:

‘We shall build a Samadhi according to the Hindu customs’; while the debate was going on, heavy rain started pouring in. There came a

voice from heavens: ‘Behold, make my shrine acceptable to both Hindus and Muslims; let is one part be like a temple and the other like a Dargah (shrine). I belong to all of you [sic].’12

This episode highlights the idea that Sindhis are Sindhi before being Hindu or Muslim. Simultaneously, however, Jhulelal as the Sindhis’ tutelarian divinity and Vishnu’s avatar enables them to acknowledge their specificities and present themselves as good Hindus. Depending on the circumstances, the flexible character of Jhulelal’s image helps develop different aspects of this divinity. It can be referred to as a more ecumenical or, on the contrary, more divinity. Jhulelal can indeed be described as a kind of superhero with the gift of magical powers (assimilated to Vishnu) who helped the Hindus resisting Muslim attempts to convert them. I have in my possession a message from a Sindhi leader implicitly urging the Sindhis to vote for the BJP in some general elections. This message was written on Chetichand:

warlike

In Shrimad Bhagavad Gita, Lord Krishna expounded, ‘WHENEVER DHARMA (RELIGION) IS SUPPRESSED AND CRUSHED, I

INCARNATE MYSELF OF THE EARTH FOR ITS RESTORATION [sic].’ 13

Civilisation has witnessed since time immemorial such incarnations of the Lord in various human forms. Such a legendary incarnation was LORD JHULELAL who saved religion from the clutches of the groups in Sindh. Religion being the very soul of a person is the most

villainous precious not only to be kept intact but also nurtured further. The miraculous feats of LORD JHULELAL are still remembered by the Sindhi

Community and with utmost reverence they celebrate His birthday on CHETI CHAND with jubilation. Similar is the need of the hour now, in our Nation. We, as a Nation are known by our culture and heritage. Adharm (Injustice), Abhav (Insufficiency), and Agyan (Ignorance) are swallowing the very strength of our people, particularly the young making them insensitive to the forces attacking our religion. Such forces

become more fierce at the time of general elections which are no less than a ‘Dharma Yudha’. In democracy the opinion of the majority, even if wrong, becomes a rule. Therefore, if right persons are elected, more

12 www.youngsindhiadults.org/Documents/Jhulelal.pdf, accessed 3 October 2003. 13 I reproduced the style of the quotation.

in number, they will definitely strive hard for preserving one’s religion and take this country to the newer heights of prosperity, knowledge and power. In the process, the entire world will be benefited [sic].

This rich text is built around a series of meaningful references to Hinduism, where the BJP is assimilated to Jhulelal and Krishna whereas the general elections are likened to the ages of the Mahabharata War. These assimilations are possible by the use of the expression ’dharma yudha’, the war fought to defend the dharma. General elections are presented as a dharma yudha to save India and its religion (i.e., Hinduism).

Growing Hindu Awareness and Sangh Parivar Influence The Jhulelal–Vishnu assimilation appears to come within a larger movement of strengthening the Sindhi Hindus religious identity. Indeed, some scholars such as Markovits (2000) have pointed out the fact that since Partition, Sindhis have tended to claim more their sense of belonging to Hinduism, while authors such as Kothari and Marc-Anthony Falzon raise the question of whether Sindhi Hinduism is going to perpetuate its eclectic feature. Indeed, Kothari explains that since Partition, Hindus have ‘hardened their religious identity’ (2004) whereas Falzon explains that Sindhis tend to show themselves as more and more Hindu and less and less Sufi and Nanakpanthi. In Malta, for example, women no longer recite the Shri Sukhmani Sahib and Akhand path. They now read the Bhagavad Gita whereas, according to one of his informants from Bombay, the Sindhi do not visit any Sufi saints (Falzon 2004: 56). In particular, Kothari explains that the third Sindhi generation in Gujarat is ashamed of being Sindhi and has tried at all costs to become Gujarati Hindus (see, for example, abandoning the Sindhi language) (Kothari 2007, forthcoming). Data collected by Ramey in Lucknow and my own data describe a more fluctuating situation than the observations presented by Kothari in Gujarat. Can these differences be explained by the wider socio-political context? The fact remains that, upon arrival in India after Partition, the Sindhis had to face a paradoxical situation: they had fled Pakistan because they were Hindus, yet in India they were not recognised as such by their coreligionists and consequently had to redefine themselves as Hindus.

vehemently

Kothari14 dates the strengthening of the Hindu identity to well

before Partition. According to her, whereas earlier Hindus and Muslims

defined themselves from a territorial point of view, according to the language and the affiliation to some Sufi masters, from the end of the 19th century onwards, Sindhis gradually defined themselves according to more and more polarised religious identities. She this process by several factors: to begin with, the penetration of neo-Hindu movements such as the Brahmo Samaj, then Arya Samaj and RSS in Sindh. The Brahmo Samaj and Arya Samaj appeared very early on in Sindh, as early as the 19th century. Arya Samaj penetrated Sindh at the end of the 19th century. This strong presence was a direct answer to the threat of a massive series of conversions to Islam feared by certain Hindu reformers. It can be explained by an attempt to ‘purify’ Hinduism in Sindh, i.e., to bring back converted Hindus into the Hindu fold through the shuddhi ceremony and to give to the Hindus a ‘proper’ Vedic Hindu identity ‘as opposed to a nebulous one that had hitherto prevailed’ (Kothari 2004: 3887). 15 The attempt carried out by the Arya Samaj to purify Hinduism in Sindh was the beginning of a process towards a more polarised religious identity which intensified over the decades. The polarisation of Hindus and Muslims intensified when Sindh split from the Bombay Presidency in 1936: the Hindus represented by the Hindu Mahasabha were against the separation; as mentioned earlier, they feared becoming a mere religious minority on the margins of India. The Hindu identity also further established itself following the Manzilgah Mosque episode. At the Muslims’ demand, the Muslim League decided to a 15th-century mosque at Sukkar which had been transformed into a dwelling-place by the British. This mosque was located in front of an Indus island where there was a Hindu temple (Boivin 2008: 88). During the summer of 1939, riots broke out between Muslims and Hindus who came to pray. According to Kothari, it was the beginning of a period marred by communal violence.

explains

rehabilitate

14 Kothari has dealt with these issues in several articles (2004, 2006a, 2006b, 2007). Michel Boivin also mentions these issues in two articles (2008 and Boivin and Cook forthcoming). Regarding the Manzilgah issue, refer to Khuro (1998). 15 For a general interpretation of theshuddhi, refer to Jaffrelot (1994), Jones (1989) and Clementin-Ojha (1994).

The RSS emerged in Sindh at the beginning of the 1940s.

According to sources quoted by Kothari, the RSS had a great following. Jayant Rewani explains that there were, for instance, 47 shakhas in

Karachi alone, and one of the main members of the RSS, Jhamatmall Whadwani, estimates that were 75 pracharaks in Sindh. These estimations are perhaps excessive though it does appear from collected by Kothari that the RSS enjoyed an extremely strong

stories

presence in Sindh before Partition. According to Kothari, the RSS also served as one of the few common links between the Sindhis who

had scattered after Partition because they relied on its network built before and reinforced after Partition, and because the RSS was a good place for socialising. The Sindhis had been swayamsevaks before Partition — they ‘had a shared view of history’ and they were bound by the ideals of self-reliance, physical exercise and the brotherhood in saffron (Kothari 2007: 62–63).

What about present-day Sindhis? It is obvious that Sindhis are particularly sensitive to the Hindu nationalists’ discourse. One of Kothari’s informants explains that as far as he is concerned, 90 per cent of Sindhis vote for the BJP (Kothari 2007: 172). This estimate is probably excessive outside Gujarat. In Bairagarh, for instance, 60 per cent of the inhabitants vote for the BJP. My Sindhi

interlocutors justify this choice by the resentment that was strongly felt after Partition and the subsequent exodus. They feel that they were expelled from their motherland because of politicians (Jinnah) and the Muslims (the Mohajir in particular, the image of Sindhi Muslims being more ambiguous). They mention the idea, quite widespread in India, that the Congress Party supports the

Muslims, while Hindu nationalists, represented politically by the BJP, work for the Hindus. The presence of L. K. Advani in this party is also regularly mentioned: being a Sindhi himself, Advani is supposed to be favourably disposed towards his community. Regarding the presence of Sindhis more specifically within the RSS, my interlocutors explain this by the fact that the RSS became very

much involved in organising the departure of Sindhis from Sindh and eventually in the refugee camps. Now, I must point out that if this shows a general trend, it does, however, have strong nuances: during my fieldwork I encountered some notable counter-examples, in particular some Sindhi Congress party militants. At any rate, the ‘Hinduisation’ of Sindhi Hindus and, in particular, the role of the

Sangh Parivar should not be understood as a linear process as we are now going to see with the example of the Jeev Sewa Sansthan.

The Jeev Sewa Sansthan In the following pages, I examine the ideology and practices of the Jeev Sewa Sansthan (JSS, the Institute for the Service of Life), a Sindhi benevolent association located in Bairagarh. I wish to highlight the complexity of the set of values of such an organisation. I examine, in particular, how the Sangh Parivar, whether explicitly or not, the association and how this involvement merges with the programme. The JSS, which was set up in 1978 under the name of Nav Yuvak Parishad (Association for the New Generation), is engaged in a wide range of activities such as celebrating mass marriages, running schools, organising eye camps, providing naturopathic treatment, etc. The association is mainly financed by wealthy NRI Sindhis established in Hong Kong, Dubai, Singapore, the Canary Islands, London, New York, etc. It is placed under the spiritual guidance of a Sindhi guru, Sant Hirdaram (1905–2006), who is conceived as the instigator of all its activities and creator of its motto: ‘Service to Mankind is the real service of the Lord’. In 1995, this ethnoreligious movement was reorganised and an apex body, the Jeev Sewa Sansthan, was created to run the activities of the different branches. The same year, Bairagarh was renamed Sant Hirdaram Nagar after the name of the guru. The JSS defines itself as a devotional movement dedicated to the guru, Sant Hirdaram. This man is described as an individual and has something to do with the ‘solitary sant’ as described by D. Gold who ‘stands out as an original and holy man’ and ‘who sometimes produces no successors at all’ (1987: 85). Sant Hirdaram was born to a merchant family in 1905 in Bhiria, a small town in Nawabshah district in Sindh. As a child, he was given to an Udasi darbar of Bhiria. This Udasi lineage had been founded by Baba Atmaram (1789–1869), a Punjabi Udasi who had set up the darbar in Bhiria in 1829. At the time of Sant Hirdaram, the gaddisar of the darbar was Baba Hariram (1904–47) and at the age of 18, Sant Hirdaram took diksha from him. Later on, Sant Hirdaram became a solitary sant and partly dissociated himself from the tradition upon the death of Baba Hariram in 1947 when the gaddi was given to another disciple, Baba Shewaram. 16 In 1948,

penetrates association’s

extraordinary independent

16 After Partition, Baba Shewaram migrated to Bhilwara in Rajasthan where he set up a darbar now called ‘Hari Shewa Dham’.

Sant Hirdaram left Sindh and settled in Ajmer and Pushkar. From 1962, he shared his time between Pushkar and Bairagarh. In 1983, Sant Hirdaram gave the JSS — called the Nav Yuvak Parishad at the time — his blessing (ashirvaad) and became the guru of the Sant Hirdaram was then placed symbolically at the head of the JSS. Moreover, he was described as the ‘spiritual head’ of the association with his two brahmachari disciples. If the JSS is described as a movement dedicated to Sant Hirdaram, it does not define itself as a sampradaya and individuals do not need to be formally initiated by Sant Hirdaram to take part in its activities. Alternatively, it can be described as one of the numerous ethno-religious movements that exist in contemporary India which focus on humanitarian activism. These movements, built around the figure of a charismatic guru, keep their distance from the Hindu traditional sectarian affiliations and allow a more flexible They emphasise the need for empathy and compassion for the deprived as the path to salvation from the cycle of rebirth. such faith-oriented organisations, like their ancestors in the 19th-century social reform movements, usually provide an combination of universalism, nationalism and a call to defend Hinduism.

association.

participation. Moreover, ideological

In the case of the JSS, this ideological combination has not been

developed in a particularly accomplished way and there is nothing that resembles an elaborate breviary. One also should bear in mind that the association does not define itself as ‘Hindutva-ite’ and when asked, members strongly reject any kind of affiliation to a political party or to a movement. However, as we shall see, if the JSS’s encompassing ideology cannot be considered ‘Hindutva-ite’, there are indeed some hints of a ‘Hindutva’ influence. More specifically, several ‘ideological trends’ can be identified in the association: mild form of universalism, strong patriotism, sometimes Indian, sometimes Hindu, and some references to the Sindhi identity. A Double Message: Serving Mankind and Transmitting on Indian Culture Members of the JSS say that they all became involved because of Sant Hirdaram and they describe him as an inspiring person who has the capacity to attract thousands and thousands of people. Yet, unlike some modern guru, Sant Hirdaram is not a very voluble and communicative character. He is, for instance, very different from another Sindhi Sant, Sant Asharam (Asharam Bapu) who attracts

huge crowds with his inflamed discourses. On the contrary, Sant Hirdaram’s charisma seems to revolve precisely around his nonsophistication — which is often compared to Ramakrishna’s — and the simplicity of his message embodied in the JSS’s motto.17 This concept of service (seva in Hindi) has been inherited from the social reformers’ message and more specifically from Vivekanand’s (Beckerlegge 1998). It is derived from a new interpretation of the Advaita Vedanta which regards all forms of life as manifestations of the Absolute (Brahmin). According to this concept, serving all forms of life, since they are a manifestation of the Absolute,18 may bestow spiritual merit and lead to salvation. Leading on from this philosophy, it was repeatedly explained to me that Sant Hirdaram does not believe in temples, but in service to mankind. Consequently, since its inception the association has not built any sacred places except Sant Hirdaram’s samadhi. any action carried out in connection with Sant Hirdaram is pervaded by the dual idea of devotion and immediate concern. This combination can be seen, for example, on Sant Hirdaram’s birthday which is celebrated through signs of devotion (recitations of Sri Sukhmani Sahib) and through gestures of (distribution of clothes and food to the poor). Within this context, devotion is expressed through humanitarian actions. Based on this conception, the JSS has developed a mild form of universalism. It defines itself, for instance, as a movement which accepts any ‘caste, race and creed’. This universalistic tone can also be seen in the objectives of the association which are:

Moreover, humanitarian

philanthropy

1. To carry out activities relating to morality, culture, sociality, education, health; to help economically those registered or unregistered organisations 19 working in these areas; and to collect funds.

17 Thanks to recent studies (such as Beckerlegge 2003), it appears that in certain contexts, the notion of seva itself can be closely linked to Hindu (for a critical interpretation of the concept, see Srivatsan 2006), even if this is not always the case (see Juergensmeyer and Mc Mahon 1998; Warrier 2003). 18 Though the JSS’s motto talks about service to mankind, the very name of the association emphasises the term ‘jeev’: living beings, which is much broader than ‘human beings’. 19 This refers to the different branches of the association.

nationalism

2. To extend need-based help to the poor and hapless and to put in every possible effort to meet their minimum requirements. 3. To extend any possible help to the needy to bring about their overall betterment. 4. To seek/extend help from/to the organisations as described above. 5. To carry out every activity relating to serving children, patients and the elderly. These objectives are described in relatively vague terms: for

instance, there is no mention of any Sindhi characteristics. The same

tone is used in the brochures published by the association which highlight the fact that its activities are open to anyone.20 The tone has been adjusted in respect of the clause to register an as a charitable trust, specifying that its activities must not be reserved for a religious community, caste or credo. These also enable the association to present itself as fully open to the outside. This pervading mild form of universalism is combined with which is vividly demonstrated by the help offered to the families of soldiers fallen during the Kargil war.21 This patriotism is also expressed in the motto which sometimes has a double meaning: in addition to the ‘service to mankind’ objective, it also claims that the association has a ‘nation-building mission’. This patriotism is also particularly perceptible in the schools run by the association where India is celebrated in various ways; for instance, in dressing up children as great national figures. This strong feeling of patriotism is not without pragmatism, as expressed in the top-rate schools that have been built since the 1990s. While these schools are supposed to teach Indian values, they are also supposed to provide high-quality education, i.e., in English. Members of the association explain these combined values as follows: English is the most spoken language in the world, so speaking English is consequently an important criterion when looking for a good job. That is why these schools are part of the English-medium education system. However, Indian

association assertions

patriotism,

20 Besides, this accessibility has become a reality: the activities are indeed open to Sindhis as well as non-Sindhis. Furthermore, some of these activities, such as eye camps, are almost exclusively attended by non-Sindhis. 21 The association gave money to these families.

English-speakers should not try to assimilate English people and forget their own culture. What is interesting is the ambiguous way the ‘Indian culture’ is

conceived within the association: Should we talk about Indian or Hindu culture here? The answer is both: Vande Mataram and Jana

Gana Mana are regularly sung and the ‘great names of the country’ may be Vivekananda, Dayananada Sarasvati, but also Nehru or Mother Teresa. In many cases, India really means ‘nation of the Indians, all Indians’. However, there is sometimes a subtle shift when India means ‘nation of the Hindus’ and is then referred to

as Bharat Mata by JSS members. Bharat Mata can often be seen in schools run by the JSS. Within this context, the association tends to refer to a kind of very common Hinduism, entirely taken for granted, inclusivist and non-aggressive, where there is no enemy or where the enemy is not explicitly named.

Sometimes, however, the tone becomes firmer. For instance, I

attended a school’s anniversary celebrations. This birthday was celebrated with a series of speeches, songs and playlets. One of these

playlets introduced a little girl disguised as Bharat Mata. Bharat Mata was shown at three periods in her life: chained up during the British Raj, happy and free at Independence and in

contemporary India, sad again because of the poverty that is still rife in

the country. The words used during this playlet were very strong, especially when they were referring to the pre-Independence period. To give just an example, the girl playing Bharat Mata screamed at the British ‘What did you do? You stained my soul with blood!’ while the children playing the Indians replied: ‘We promise today

that we are going to set you free. We are going to perfume you with the blood of our corpses. We are going to perfume you and make

you happy.’ In some official speeches, members of the association may also use radical words, very similar to the Hindu nationalists. In these speeches, for instance, they may criticise Hindus for their lack of courage and their apathy, and they may systematically criticise Muslims and Christians whose aim is to ‘convert the whole world’.

Sangh Parivar Makes Inroads: A Favourable ‘Atmosphere’ and Individual Networks I would now like to analyse how the Sangh Parivar has penetrated the JSS, both at the level of ideology and at the level of persons. This ‘penetration’ is made possible because of an overall favourable

‘atmosphere’ surrounding Hindutva. I use the term ‘atmosphere’ as described by T. B. Hansen and commented on by C. J. Fuller, that is, the taken-for-granted assertiveness of the Hindu religious identity in the public space (Hansen 1999: 4, 161; Fuller 2004: 149). Within the JSS, which is supposed to be an apolitical organisation, people are not very forthcoming about their political and their potential affinities with Hindu nationalists. Some JSS members can even be very defensive about this matter. We know, however, that since they settled in Bairagarh, the Sindhis have been voting massively for the Jana Sangh and subsequently for the BJP: 22 up until 2008, Bairagarh belonged to the Govindpura constituency along with the huge industrial complex, Bharat Heavy Electrical Ltd (BHEL). Since 1974 the senior leader of the BJP and former chief minister Babulal Gaur has been elected nine times in a row within this constituency. The larger context is also favourable for the BJP: since 2003, Madhya Pradesh has been ruled by this party. The Chief Minister, Shivraj Singh Chauhan, succeeded Uma Bharti and Babulal Gaur. What is even more manifest is a kind of proHindutva ‘atmosphere’ as revealed by the recent ‘Priyanka–Umar episode’. In April 2007, a Muslim boy, Umar, married a Sindhi Hindu girl, Priyanka Wadhwani, after Umar had converted to Hinduism and changed his name to Umesh. In reaction to this, the Bajrang Dal in Bhopal created a Hindu Kanya Suraksa Committee (Committee to Protect Hindu Virgins) to prevent the recurrence of such an The Sindhi panchayat called a meeting. They interpreted this situation as a consequence of modern life. They tried unsuccessfully to ban young Sindhi girls from riding two-wheeled vehicles and using mobile phones as well as to get them to abandon the fashion of covering their head and faces. ‘They [the girls] say they do it to protect themselves from the heat and dust,’ said Madhu Chandwani, general secretary of the Sindhi panchayat. ‘But it’s clearly a fashion picked up from some Muslim girls. We Sindhis left Pakistan to

affiliations

incident.

22 Christophe Jaffrelot notes: ‘The capital of a former Muslim princely state, Bhopal had not been a place of early implantation for the RSS. (…) However the Jana Sangh benefited from an influx into the area of refugees from Pakistan, many of whom (and Sindhis in particular) considered that Congress was responsible for Partition and approved of the Hindu nationalist ideology regarding the Muslims’(Jaffrelot 1996: 204, n. 108).

protect our daughters, and here in India they are moving around with their heads covered.’23 Another argument was that they were not readily identifiable. The underlying argument was that they could not keep an eye on girls who covered their heads, and that these girls might take the opportunity to misbehave. Even if there is no direct link with the JSS, this episode demon-strates the general context of a pro-Hindutva atmosphere. Mention may also be made of the action of the Vivekananda Kendra and the JSS in this context. The Vivekananda Kendra is an offshoot organisation of the RSS, even if it is not explicitly as such. On this matter, the Madhya Pradesh organiser of Vivekananda Kendra, Mukul Karnitkar,24 told me: ‘Vivekananda Kendra is an independent organisation. I know that some people say that it is a part of Sangh Parivar, but this is not true. It is OK, we keep in contact, we send them yoga teachers. But it is not part of the Sangh Parivar.’ The Vivekananda Kendra was founded in 1972 by Eknath Ranade, General Secretary to the RSS. Vivekananda Kendra is a lay order of men and women dedicated to promoting Vivekananda’s teachings. Today, it has 271 branches throughout India and around 300 ‘life-workers’, brahmachari. It organises numerous yoga personality development camps (PDC). These camps strongly recall the shakhas where the young practise physical exercises and listen to religious sermons. As in shakhas, these practices are aimed at transforming and perfecting from a global point of view, i.e., physical as well as moral and spiritual. In Madhya Pradesh, the Vivekananda Kendra, with the backing of the Madhya Pradesh government, essentially organises huge Surya Namaskar (sun salutation) ceremonies each year with children from numerous schools. ‘The most important motive behind this sun salutation ceremony is that here should be all-round of the personality of children and a feeling towards the country [sic]. And Guinness Book of World Records officials were informed so that yoga can be advertised worldwide’, said Mukul Karnitkar.25 These ceremonies are part of a very efficient communication strategy.

recognized independent.

children

development

23 outlookindia.com April 30 2007, accessed on 16 March 2010. 24 Mukul Karnitkar is an important leader of the Vivekananda Kendra. He is the secretary of the Vivekananda Kendra International in Delhi. 25 Quotation extract from http://sify.com/news/fullstory.php?id=13570208, accessed on 12 December 2008.

The Vivekananda Kendra runs personality development camps on a sporadic basis on behalf of the JSS for young people from Bairagarh’s school. Here they sing devotional hymns and learn yoga or self-defence (karate, judo). About 50 young boys and girls from the ages of 12–20 gather in these camps which last several days. During these camps, the young listen to religious sermons taken from the Bhagavad Gita or songs described as Vedic and patriotic, they participate in debates, learn asanas or practise techniques for personal development — for example, to develop trust in oneself. On the last day, parents are sometimes invited to come and the personality of their children. Occasionally, Vivekananda Kendra also organises camps on different themes such as karate or judo which target young girls (these sessions are organised as selfdefence camps) or music camps. Mukul Karnitkar explained how the Vivekananda Kendra involved in the Jeev Sewa Sansthan:

discuss

became

I was based in Ajmer. In Ajmer we set up a personality development camp for children. Some disabled children from the Jeev Sewa Samiti take part in the camp.26 After the camp, parents asked them about the camp and they recited what they had learned. Sidh Bhau (the chief

disciple) and Sant Hirdaram got interested in our activities and decided to ask us to set up personality development camps in 1996–97. He added that, at the beginning, he was very suspicious. He thought: ‘yet another sadhu …’, then saw who Sant Hirdaram was and found him really unique. ‘Sant Hirdaram could live with God. You could feel it. I was very close to Sant Hirdaram and I know Sidh Bhau very well.’ This raises an important aspect. The penetration of the Sangh

Parivar relies on individuals, on individual relationships. I was told, for instance, that the leaders of the association had a very good relationship with Babulal Gaur who enabled them, for instance, to change the name of the town from Bairagarh to Sant Hirdaram Nagar. This is due to the JSS’s structure which involves thousands of persons but whose power is centred round a small group of persons who set the ‘tone’ for the activities. This also recalls the description of the ‘brotherhood in saffron’ by W. Andersen and S. Damle which is based on friendships and personal relations (1987). 26 A branch of the JSS based in Ajmer.

The fact that individual networks are very important in the JSS has its consequences: it is not a homogeneous association; some members may develop an ideology very close to Hindutva, whereas other members may cherish much more secularist values. The JSS ideology is rather broad and consequently the association can people from different ideological backgrounds. As I see it, the association’s ideological expansion depends on influential people within it who set a broad agenda for its activities. This expansion may also depend on important donors. The role the Hindu diaspora plays in financing Hindutva is well known, and as far as the JSS is concerned, some of its donors seem to be involved in ‘Hindutva’ neo-Hindu movements such as the Chinmaya Mission and the VHP. Regarding this ability to set up various networks, once again one should be careful about making sweeping statements about too clearly-cut ideological trends. In present day India, we may indeed face paradoxical situations when the Organiser mentions the Mahatma Gandhi award ceremony which honoured Jeev Seva Sansthan in 2005 ‘for rendering health, education and social services’.27 One should also bear in mind that in becoming too radical there is the risk of shutting oneself off from more ‘secularist’ donors and participants.

attract

Conclusion Thus, this article unfolds a rather complex picture of the Sindhi Hindu identity. Though Sindhi Hindus do not present a fixed, and homogenised face, since Partition, a restructuring of the Sindhi Hindu identity seems to have been at work in the context of displacement from Pakistan to India, where they felt the need to emphasise their Hindu-ity. The Sangh Parivar seems to have played a role in this process of constructing and consolidating their identity. Hindu nationalism has never been alien to Sindhi Hindus since the early penetration of the Arya Samaj in Sindh which tried to purify Sindhi Hinduism. Instead, the Sangh Parivar has been indeed strongly entrenched in the Sindhi community since its formation, with numerous shakhas and dynamic pracharaks present in the region (Kothari 2007: 62), whereas in present-day India, the BJP–RSS seems to be looked upon

unified

27 13 March 2005.

favourably by many Sindhis. However, the influence of the Sangh Parivar over time has not been a linear process because it is, in fact, a non-monolithic movement and does not affect the whole Sindhi community in the same way. The Sangh Parivar’s entrenchment among the Sindhis is perceptible at different levels: 1. through the ‘atmosphere’ in which the Sindhis live; 2. through the regional context — while on this subject, let us consider, for instance, the grim situation described by Rita Kothari in the highly orthodox Gujarat; and finally 3. through the community and local context and individual networks (see the example of the Jeev Sewa Sansthan). To conclude, one question regarding the ideological of the Jeev Sewa Sansthan still needs to be addressed. Why is so much emphasis laid on the ‘Hindutvaite’ set of values in an NGO which cannot be considered globally as ‘Hindutvaite’? The general context, ‘atmosphere’ in Madhya Pradesh is one of the Hinduisation of society which is ‘taken for granted’, to quote Fuller (2004). However, in the Jeev Sewa Sansthan, this process has to be understood as a kind of synthesis of ‘typically’ Sindhi practices, like the reading of the Shri Sukhmani Sahib and a more ‘Sanskritised Hinduism’ (recitation of the gayatri mantra, for example) more to ‘Hindutva’. For instance, in a sanskar school where girls are taught how to become ‘ideal wives’,28 they learn the Gurmukhi script, read the Guru Granth Sahib and the Bhagavad Gita. This is not seen as contradictory by my interlocutors, since Sikhism is included in Hinduism. With regard to this topic, how is a certain religion defined and who defines it, what can be included in a religious tradition and what has to be rejected? In fact, this inclusivist conception of Hinduism is not far from the one by Hindu nationalists. Sikhism is indeed conceived by the Sangh Parivar as an Indian religion and as such is incorporated in Hinduism unlike Islam and Christianity, which are depicted as

orientations

conducive

promoted

28 This school has been in existence since 1978. It is designed for young girls who have to learn how ‘to be good wifes and to make their house happy’ (K. V. Lakhani, former president of the JSS). The school was founded with the aim of helping young girls to adjust to their new environment. According to the founder of this school, young girls ‘have too big an ego’, they cannot adjust to life at their in-laws’. To avoid divorce, young girls must consequently act and not let their anger get the better of them. Above all, they must have a keen sense of modesty. This particularly implies teaching them to practise purdah.

discreetly

foreign religions. This conception of Sikhism, which is relatively common in India, can probably also explain the fact that in my field for research any practices associated with Sufism were less directly manifest than those related to Sikhism. Here again, caution is necessary, because we do not have enough data to draw any yet it would seem that the Sindhi differentiated approach to religious influences in my fieldwork, can be explained because some are probably more acceptable (Sikhism) than others (Islam).

conclusions; References

Anand S. 1996. National Integration of Sindhis. New Delhi: Vikas. Andersen W. and S. Damle. 1987. The Brotherhood in Saffron: The Rashtryia Swayamsevak Sangh and Hindu Revivalism. New Delhi: Vistaar Publications. Bawani S. 2007. ‘ Beyond Hindu and Muslim: Rethinking Iconographic Models and Symbolic Expressions in Sindh a Case of the Tradition of Rama Pir’, Nukta Art , 1–2: 64–71. Beckerlegge Gwilym . 1998. ‘ Swami Vivekananda and Sevâ: Taking ‘Social Seriously’, in W. Radice (ed.), Swami Vivekanand and the Modernization of Hinduism, pp. 158–93. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. ———. 2003. ‘ Saffron and Seva: The Rastryia Swayamsevak Sangh’s of Swami Vivekananda’, in A. Copley (ed.), Hinduism in Public and Private: Reform, Hindutva, Gender and Sampraday , pp. 158–93. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Bénéï, V. 2001. ‘ Teaching Nationalism in Maharashtra Schools’, in C. J. Fuller and V. Bénéï (eds), The Everyday State & Society in Modern India, pp. 194–221. London: Hust & Company. Boivin, Michel and Matthew A. Cook (eds). 2010. Interpreting the Sindhi World: Essays on Society and History. USA: Oxford University Press. Boivin Michel. 2003. ‘ Islam, langues et identités régionales dans l’Inde coloniale: l’exemple du Sindh (1851–1939)’, Revue du Monde Musulman et de la Méditerranée, no. 123: 69–91. ———. 2008. Sindh through History and Representations: French Contributions to Sindhi Studies. Karchi: Oxford University Press. Burton R. F. (1851) 1973. Sind and the Races that Inhabit the Valley of Indus. Karachi: Oxford University Press. Clementin-Ojha C. 1994. La Suddhi de l’Arya Samaj ou l’invention d’un rituel de (re)conversion à l’hindouisme, Archives des sciences sociales des religions , 87: 99–114. Falzon Marc-Anthony. 2004. Cosmopolitan Connections: The Sindhi Diaspora, 1860–2000. Boston: Leiden, Brill . Fuller C. J. 2001. ‘ Vinayaka Chaturthi Festival and Hindutva in Tamil Nadu’, Economic and Political Weekly, 36 (19): 1607–16. ———. 2004. The Renewal of the Priesthood: Modernity and Traditionalism in a South Indian Temple. New Delhi: Oxford University Press.

Service’ Appropriation

Gold D. 1987. The Lord as Guru: Hindi Sants in Northern Indian Tradition. New York: Oxford University Press. Gottschalk P. 2000. Beyond Hindu and Muslims: Multiple Identity in Narratives from Village India. Oxford : Oxford University Press. Hansen, T. B. 1999. The Saffron Wave: Democracy and Hindu Nationalism in Modern India. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Jaffrelot Christophe. 1994. ‘ Les (re)conversions à l’hindouisme (1885–1990): politisation et diffusion d’une “invention de la tradition”’, Archives des sciences sociales des religions, 87: 73–98. ———. 1996. The Hindu Nationalist Movement and Indian Politics: Stategies of Identity-Building. Implantation and Mobilisation (with Special Reference to Central India). C. Hurst & Co. Jones, Kenneth W. 1989. ‘ The Arya Samaj in British India’, in R. Baird (ed.), Religion in Modern India, pp. 27–53. New Delhi: Manohar Publications. Juergensmeyer M . and D. M. Mc Mahon. 1998. ‘ Hindu Philanthropy and Civil Society’, in W. F. Illchman, S. N. Katz and E. L.Queen (eds), Philanthropy in the World’s Traditions, pp. 263–78. Bloomington, Indiana : Indiana University Press. Kanungo, Pralay. 2002. RSS’s Tryst with Politics: From Hedgewar to Sudarshan . New Delhi: Manohar. ———. 2006. ‘ The Navigators of Hindu Rasthra: RSS Pracharaks’, in Mushirul Hasan and Satish Saberwal (eds), Assertive Religious Identities, pp. 233–54. New Delhi: Manohar. Khan, Dominique-Sila. 2000. Conversions and Shifting Identities: Ramdev Pir and the Ismailis in Rajasthan. New Delhi: Manohar. ———. 2004. Crossing the Threshold: Understanding Religious Identities in South Asia. London: I. B. Tauris. Khuro, H. 1998. ‘ Masjid Manzilagah, 1939–40: Test Case for Hindu–Muslim Relations in Sind’, Modern Asian Studies, 32 (1): 49–89. February. Kothari R. 2004. ‘ Sindhis: Hardening of Identities after Partition’, Economic and Political Weekly, pp. 3885–88. 28 August. ———. 2006a. ‘ RSS in Sindh: 1942–48’, Economic and Political Weekly. 8 July. ———. 2006b. ‘ RSS and Sindhi Hindus’, Economic and Political Weekly. 30 December. ———. 2007. The Burden of Refuge: The Sindhi Hindus of Gujarat. Chennai: Orient Longman. ———. Forthcoming. ‘ Unwanted Identities: The Sindhis of Gujerat’, in Michel Boivin and Matthew A. Cook (eds), Interpreting the Sindhi World: Essays on Society and History. USA: Oxford University Press. Kumar K. 1992. ‘ Hindu Revivalism and Education in North-central India’, in Martin E. Marty and R. Scott Appleby (eds),Fundamentalisms and Society: Reclaiming the Sciences, the Family, and Education , pp. 536–57.Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Malhotra P. C. 1964. Socio-economic Survey of Bhopal City and Bairagarh . London: Asia Publishing House. Malkani K. R. 1984. The Sindh Story. Delhi: Allied Publishers. Markovits C. 2000. The Global World of Indian Merchants, 1750–1947: Traders of Sind from Bukhara to Panama. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mayaram S. 1997. ‘ Rethinking Meo Identity: Cultural Faultine, Syncretism, Hybridity or Liminality ’, in Mushirul Hasan (ed.), Special Issue on Muslim Identity in South Asia and Beyond, Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East (formerly South Asia Bulletin), 17. Oberoi H . 1997. The Contruction of Religious Boundaries: Culture, Identity and Diversity in the Sikh Tradition. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Parwani L. 2011. ‘Myths of Jhuley Lal: Deconstructing a Sindhi Cultural Icon’, in Michel Boivin and Matthew A. Cook (eds), Interpreting the Sindhi World: Essays on Society and History. USA: Oxford University Press. Ramey Steven. 2004. ‘ Defying Borders: Contemporary Sindhi Hindu of Practices and Identification (Indian-Pakistan)’, unpublished PhD dissertation. The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Ramey S. 2011. ‘ Recreating Sindh: Formations of Sindhi Hindu Saints in New Contexts’, in Michel Boivin and Matthew A. Cook (eds), Interpreting the Sindhi World: Essays on Society and History. USA: Oxford University Press. Srivatsan, R. 2006. ‘Concept of ‘Seva’ and the ‘Sevak’ in the Freedom Movement’, Economic and Political Weekly. 4 February. Shaw, Rosalind and Charles Stewart. 1994. ‘ Introduction: Problematizing ’, in idem (eds), Syncretism/Anti/Syncretism: The Politics of Religious Synthesis, pp. 1–26. London and New York: Routledge. Thakur U. T. 1959. Sindhi Culture. Bombay: University of Bombay. Van der Veer, Peter. 1994. ‘ Syncretism, Multiculturalism and the Discourse of Tolerance’, in Rosalind Shaw and Charles Stewart (eds), Syncretism/Anti/ Syncretism: The Politics of Religious Synthesis, pp. 196–210. London and New York: Routledge. Vaswani J. P. 2008. I am a Sindhi: The Glorious Sindhi Heritage: The Culture & Folklore of Sind. Delhi: Sterling Publishers. von Stietencron, Heinrich. ‘ Hinduism: On the Proper Use of a Deceptive Term’, in G. D. Sontheimer and Hermann Kulke (eds), Hinduism Reconsidered, pp. 11–27. New Delhi: Manohar. Warrier M. 2003. ‘ The Seva Ethic and the Spirit of Institution Building in the Mata Amritanandamayi Mission’, in A. Copley (ed.), Hinduism in Public and Private: Reform, Hindutva, Gender and Sampraday, pp. 31–65. New Delhi: Oxford University Press.

Constructions Movements

Syncretism

8 Social Services, Muscular Hinduism and Implicit Militancy in West Bengal: The Case of the Bharat Sevashram Sangha Raphaël Voix The Bharat Sevashram Sangha (Bhārāta Sevāśrama Saṇgha) — literally ‘the community of service to India’ and referred to here as ‘BSS’ — was founded in 1923 in Bengal by a religious leader named Pranavananda (1896–1941). Nowadays, by combining the institution of a monastic order and the dispensing of social services the BSS, together with the Ramakrishna Mission, is the most famous Hindu organisation among contemporary Bengali elites. In this article, I question the role the BBS plays in the entrenchment of Hindutva ideology in West Bengal. By showing how the BSS’s discourses and actions fluctuate according to the political context in the state where it is expanding, I argue, in this article, that the ambivalence the BSS shows towards the Sangh Parivar can make it both an agent of resistance to Hindutva ideology and an instrument for the cultural entrenchment of Hindutva in West Bengal. In the first part of this article, I will show how the BSS is inscribed in Bengal culture and will present its activities in the social services sector. In the second and third parts, I analyse its activities to reform pilgrimage sites and the way it positions itself in the realm of politics. Last, I discuss what I call the BSS’s ‘implicit militancy’: an attitude where militancy is constantly euphemised through muscular rituals and discourses. The data used in this article is based on first-hand fieldwork conducted in 2007 on the BSS’s premises, and has been completed using the organisation’s literature in Bengali.1 It is also supplemented with interviews given by leaders of 1 During a first two-month period of fieldwork (January–February 2007), I stayed at the group’s headquarters in Kolkata. During a second 10-day period of fieldwork, I attended all the activities conducted at the group’s ashram in Banaras for the celebration of Durga¯ Pu¯ja¯. Along with simple observations of the group’s daily activities, my fieldwork consisted of informal interviews in

Raphaël Voix

Hindutva organisations in West Bengal and by civil servants who have worked directly with this group. By taking the BSS as a case study, I hope to contribute to the ethnographic knowledge about West Bengal contemporary religious life and to add to what we know of traditionalist movements outside mainstream north Indian ones. More specifically, I wish to provide a better understanding of the regional cultural entrenchment of Hindutva in West Bengal.2

Pranavananda and the Bharat Sevashram Sangha Although it is always difficult to find out exactly how the founder of a sect recruited lay followers (Shah 2006: 225), hagiographies published by the BSS reveal that Vinode Dāsa, the founder and guru of the BSS, was born in 1896 to a kāyastha family from East Bengal (Smarta 2001: 6).3 He was initiated to brahmacharya by the abbot (mahanta) of the nātha-sampradāya of Gorakshapur in 1913, and 11 years later to renouncement (saṃnyāsa) by a Daśnāmī saṃnyāsi and renamed Pranavananda (Chakravarty 1992: 247, n. 43).4 From 1923 onwards, as an admirer of Vivekananda, by whom he claims to have been influenced, Pranavananda gathered around him a group of youths to conduct relief work in East Bengal, work that was open to both communities even in times of communal tension Bengali with lay people and ascetics of the movement. I completed these with visits to different centres belonging to the group in West Bengal, Orissa (India) and London (England). I wish to thank Swami Buddhanandaji Maharaj, Secretary General to Bharat Sevashram Sangha, who gave me his full consent to conduct this research. 2 In West Bengal, I would like to thank Pr. Suranjan Das who provided me with contacts from his address book. Within the BSS itself, my sincere thanks go to all the ascetics who welcomed me and agreed to speak to me. I would like to thank Gwi Lym Becker Legge, Catherine Clémentin-Ojha, Elinor W. Gadon, Sophie Huguet, Sebastien Mayor and the book’s editors for comments on an earlier version of this article. 3 Called Bazitpur, Pranavananda’s home village is located in the Madaripur subdivision of the district of Faridpur in Bangladesh. Nowadays, it still houses the BSS’s former headquarters where a fair is held annually on the occasion of the Guru Pūrṇimā. 4 The organisation does not comment on this change of religious affiliation, although according to the specific rules of each sect, these two initiations would not be sufficient to be considered a full member any of either of the two sects (Bouillier 1997: 152); contemporary BSS renouncers claim to belong to thegiri order allegedly created by Śankarācārya (8th–9th century).

Social Services, Muscular Hinduism and Implicit Militancy

(Chakravarty 1992: 232). Pranavananda’s youth is closely

associated with early 20th-century Bengali political life. His village district was at the very heart of the revolutionary movement in East

Bengal (ibid.: 229), and he himself is described as acting as confident for local leaders to whom he paid great respect for their ‘courage’ and ‘self-sacrifice’. However, he did not implicate himself directly in this trend and even weaned some militants away from the path of revolutionary terrorism (ibid.: 247, n 42).5 From the 1930s onwards, Pravananda lent a more militant emphasis to the group. The wider context for this development was the increasing polarisation of the religious communities in India, partly due to the British government’s introduction of representation in politics which spurred on the attempts by leaders to seek the unification and expansion of their respective communities (Gooptu 2001: 230). Though Pranavananda did not consider himself a social reformer, he wished to ‘reorganise, reunite and revitalise the disintegrated and disrupted Hindu masses into a well-knit Hindu society’ (Smart 1985: 102). Striving to unite Hindu society constitutes the ideological basis for all Hindutva defenders. To that end, Pranavananda advocated the creation of temples supposedly open to all Hindus in order to unite the Hindu population (Hindu milana mandira). He joined the Hindu Mahasabha, and the BSS even claims that Shyama Prasad Mukherjee (1901–54) — the Hindu Mahasabha’s working, president from 1944–48 — was Pranavananda’s devotee, a claim that shows the BSS’s moderate militancy, as we shall see later.6 However, before the Hindu Mahasabha’s decision in 1948 to

communal

fulltime

5 Like leaders of most traditional Hindu sects, neither did he directly participate in the national struggle, nor did he overtly condemn it (Sinha and Saraswati 1978: 206). However, all the group’s leaflets present him as an important national freedom fighter. 6 As a top-ranking member of Bengali society, Shyam Prasad Mukherjee belonged successively to the Congress, the Hindu Mahasabha — he resigned from the latter in November 1948 when it decided to limit its membership exclusively to Hindus — and the Jana Sangh. However, he is known for his moderation. The national press has always treated his public statements with considerable respect and he benefited from a broad following among the middle classes, well-educated and English-speaking groups which dominated the professional, business and industrial life of India’s modern towns and cities (Graham 1990: 9–13, 55–57).

suspend its political activities, with the death of Pranavananda in 1941 the BSS focussed exclusively on sangathan work: relief work, the rehabilitation of refugees and a solution to diverse social, cultural and religious problems. It abandoned its political struggle and concentrated on the group’s prosperity through the worship of the guru. Early in the history of the BSS, Pranavananda was believed to be a divine manifestation Hagiographies describe an peaceful (khubai śanto) child, spontaneously inclined to meditation (dhyāna). From a more original point of view, they depict Pranavananda’s body as being particularly strong and energetic (Smarta 2001: 8) and represent it as huge, muscular and physically trained. Emphasis is also given to the fact that he acquired such strength through living on a lean vegetarian diet (śākahari) and through the practice of celibacy (brahmacharya). This emphasis on the physical potentiality of Pranavananda’s body illustrates the quest for masculinity that was the driving force behind the Bengali Hindu elite in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. In opposition to the hardy, masculine, imperial British ruler, the Bengali man had been constructed as ‘effeminate’ and ‘inept’ (Rosselli 1980; Sinha 1995). Though it was the condition for their existence within the British Raj, the Hindu elite of Bengal challenged this archetypical figure of the effeminate Bengali bābu, or government clerk, usually considered responsible for the degradation of society. Realising that they had never had a culture of political virility compared to other Indian Hindus (Rajputs, Sikhs and Marathas) they launched a physical culture movement that aimed at recovering what was seen as a loss of manliness (Banerjee 2005; Basu and Banerjee 2006; Chowdhury 2001). The Vivekananda ‘man-making mission’ reformulated a Hindu masculinity in terms of a heroic ascetic — the saṃnyāsi icon — whose strength lied in its selfdiscipline in opposition to the ‘insensitive virility’ exemplified by the colonisers (Chowdhury-Sengupta 1996). The core value of this Hindu nationalist masculinity lies in the celibacy and vegetarianism believed to confer manliness (Alter 1994a). Like many Bengali ascetics and saints, Pranavananda’s charisma revolves around the Goddess (Clementin-Ojha 1990; Hallstrom 1999). According to his hagiography, when young, he was so ill that his mother offered him to the Goddess and since then he to Her. Another story goes that the founder was attending a

extraordinarily (avatāra).

belonged

pūjāand that he prayed to the Goddess to show herself, which she did by entering his body (Parameshananda 2002: 61). As a matter

of fact, records state that Pranavananda always had, together with a ‘huge and physically trained body’, a ‘motherly grace, charm and coolness’, a detail that would have led some people to mistake him for a lady while others considered him ‘the divine mother (mātāji)’

(Yatiswarananda 2005: 198). His image incarnates this duality by representing Pranavananda simultaneously with the physical of a strongly built ascetic and a feminine appearance — long

attributes

hair falling loose over his shoulders and a feminine smile — of a

motherly goddess. This representation underlines Bengali Shaktism’s influence on the BSS: the Mother Goddess having always been a symbol of martial strength and prowess. Nowadays, among its ascetics, the BSS claims to include 400

Bengali male renouncers, and several thousand volunteers (sevaka).7 Besides their religious duties — a number of rules, of which the most important is the vow of celibacy believed to confer spiritual and mundane power — renouncers usually fulfil an administrative task

which consists of providing a service according to the organisation’s needs and one’s seniority. The oldest and most senior renouncers hold a seat on the governing body, the supreme authority that rules the group. 8 Though all of them pay their respects to the current BSS president — Tridivananda, the 5th since the founder — they consider themselves to be disciples of Pranavananda, whose sayings they regard as the revealed truth (brahmavāṇī), just as much an authority as the Vedic revelation (vedāvāṇī) (Ashokananda 1995 :

71–72).9 The most important ritual of all the group’s ashrams is the daily cult to the guru (gurupūjā): three times a day, disciples worship Pranavananda’s divine image (mūrti). 7 The words ‘renouncers’ and ‘ascetics’ are not synonymous: renouncers are one specific type of ascetics, those who have literately renounced sacrificial rites. For details about this distinction, see Clementin-Ojha (2006). 8 The governing body rules over four committees — the ‘general committee’, ‘Ashram Management Committee’, the ‘moving ashrams’, the ‘householders ashrams’ — they all meet annually at the BSS headquarters after Śiva’s Night (śivarātri). 9 Many stories are told to prove his divinity and any remark questioning it is firmly condemned within the group by either expulsion or punishment (Parameshananda 2002: 9).

The BSS’s laity divides itself between ‘devotees’ (bhakta) who often come to the ashram, take prāsada and can make donations to BSS and ‘disciples’ (siśya) who incarnate a higher degree of commitment: they have been initiated (dīkśā) by one of the BSS’s renouncers and practise pūjā regularly to Pranavananda. While disciples are mostly women, devotees may be of any sex. Like ascetics, the BSS’s laity comes from Bengali high-caste gentry (bhadraloka) and originates predominantly from East Bengal.10 It usually comes from an urban lower-middle class. The men’s dominant occupation is clerical office work (cākure) and, to a lesser extent, local entrepreneurship while women are mostly housewives. Significantly, the BSS’s headquarters are situated in Kolkata, in the exclusive area, Ballygunge, known for being a centre of high-caste Hindu Bengali culture and the native place of a number of Bengali educated intellectuals (śikṣita buddhijīvīrīa), artists and politicians — with a strong Trinamul Congress presence.11 Of the BSS’s 63 ashrams in India, most are located in West Bengal, the rest being in other Indian states. Outside India, BSS runs three centres in the USA (Chicago, New Jersey and New York); two in Canada (Toronto and Ontario); and one in England (London), Guyana (Nigg), the West Indies (Trinidad), Bangladesh (Bazitpur) and Fidji (BSS 2006: 4). However, in all these places, disciples have remained almost exclusively Bengali Hindus, and the BSS’s ashrams are usually considered to be a haven of Bengali culture and religious traditions.12 The importance the BSS has acquired among Bengalis can only be understood when reviewing the actions it carried out in Bengal. The BSS is primarily known for its ‘organised social service’ (sevā).13 Since its creation, it has undertaken extensive relief and rehabilitation work in times of natural disasters and has offered various services to pilgrims. Although these are not the only social services provided by the BSS, it is mainly through them that Bengalis rub shoulders

10 For a discussion of the concept of bhadraloka with a complete bibliography see Chatterji (1994: 3–12). 11 Situated between the Gariahāt commercial district and the Bijan Setu bridge, the address of the BSS’s headquarters is 211, Rasbihari Avenue. 12 One exception to the rule is the Guyanese ashram of BSS, where laity mostly comprises Caribbean Hindus (Hawley 2004: 121–25). 13 On sevā as ‘organised social service’ see Beckerlegge (2006).

with BSS activists.14 In all its official papers — fliers, website — the BSS describes itself as ‘a worldwide organisation of selfless workers dedicated to relieving the sick and the distressed, and to providing basic necessities and comfort during natural disasters’. The BSS is reputed to react rapidly in times of natural disasters by providing teams of volunteers and supplying the population concerned with the basic necessities. In many cases, it has proved its efficiency by being the very first Hindu humanitarian organisation to arrive on the spot.15 Greatly appreciated in West Bengal — an Indian state known to be prey to regular floods — this work has led the BSS to play an active role in the different calamities that have hit Bengal since the beginning of the 20th century.16 Besides its relief work, the BSS has concentrated its efforts in the field of healthcare: it runs 64 free medical centres — some of them are mobile and thus able to access places in the state where the government’s presence is still a pipe dream. This activity has rapidly increased since the 1990s and BSS now runs a few well-known high-tech hospitals — including one situated in West Bengal’s capital — as well as centres for cancer patients, etc.17 Freely available to anyone, these services enable the BSS to come into contact with a sizable number of Bengalis and be looked upon favourably by the population at large. Nowadays, it benefits from a very positive global image.

14 The BSS is also very active in education: the group claims to own 100 schools and to take charge of 32,000 students. However, with 650,000 dollars spent in 2006, education comes as third in its expenditure, after medical care and relief work ($3,200,000), and pilgrim services and guest houses ($720,000). Still, education is of strategic importance since most BSS renouncers are former students of schools run by the group (Parameshananda 2002: 67). 15 See ‘Devastation Continues’, The Statesman, Kolkata, 24 October 2005, or ‘Chief Minister Declares West Midnapore Flood-hit’, The Statesman, Kolkata, 8 July 2007. 16 The Midnapore BSS’s headquarters’ cyclone (1942), the Bengal famine (1942) and the numerous seasonal floods due to monsoons that have struck the Bengal region due to its low elevation (1978, 1998, 2001, 2008). It has also conducted relief work after other disasters in India, such as the Bhopal gas tragedy (1980), Andhra Pradesh cyclone (1996), Orissa cyclone (2001), the tidal wave (2004), floods in Mumbai and Gujarat (2005) (BSS 2005: 11). 17 For an up-to-date list of all BSS activities, see its main website: http://www.bharatsevashramsangha.net/, accessed 3 April 2009.

For historical and cultural reasons — its emergence during a

strategic period of India’s history and its grassroots in Bengali religious

life — the BSS has forged a highly respectable image that has enabled it to reach a Bengal public beyond mere pro-Hindutva militants. More especially, the travel agency created by the BSS, specialising in Bengali pilgrimages, has been the most effective way for the group to win popularity among high-caste Bengalis. Nevertheless, this undertaking has led to certain paradoxes, as we shall now see.

The Building of a Bengali Hindu Community The importance that pilgrimage networks gained in the late 19th and early 20th centuries for constructing a sacred Indian and for forging a national Hindu identity is well known. It is believed that by sharing religious activities with fellow pilgrims from all over India, pilgrims may sense that they belong to a larger cultural tradition, that is, Hinduism. Taking part in a pilgrimage became a key element for enacting one’s Hindu identity. data suggests that in the case of pilgrimages promoted by the BSS, the effect might not unify the population to the extent these studies have suggested. During his lifetime, Pranavananda denounced the malevolent environment of pilgrimage centres as the reason why Hindus undertook few pilgrimages. In his view, Hindu pilgrims were afraid to go on a pilgrimage because of the priest’s (pāṇdā) well-known habit of cheating. Pranavananda’s most popular hagiographies — an illustrated life-sketch — explain how priests in Gaya had dragged and caught his hands and how this made him furious. He is shown punching and throwing one priest, while denouncing the priests’ violence, outrage and oppression (juluma). The scene is particularly violent: two other priests who witnessed it are depicted as looking scared and running to flee the place. According to the legend, Pranavananda took the terrifying form of Śiva (rudramūrti) and this enabled him to throw the priests one by one from the site. From that day on, he decided to reform the pilgrimage sites. In his opinion, this would incite pilgrims to go on pilgrimages in greater numbers without being subject to any harassment, and would thus contribute to Hindu unity. Thereupon, within a few years his disciples had built several rest homes and infirmaries in different places to encourage pilgrimages, which he

geography Ethnographical

Plate 8.1: Image of Swami Pranavananda, revered as ‘the King of the Hindus’. A saṃnyasin from the BSS practicing a ritual aspersion (abhiṣeka) to the divine image of his guru on the occasion of ‘the great night of Śiva’ (MahāŚivarātri). Kolkata, February 2007. Courtesy of Raphaël Voix.

thought necessary to boost Hindu unity. Although this criticism of the malevolent environment surrounding pilgrimages was made in the 1920s, many of today’s educated Hindus would still agree with it. Priests at pilgrimage sites are largely seen as cheats and indeed as using a secret dialect — known only to them — designed to trick, cheat and dupe clients (Caplan 1997: 230–31). This explains the success of the BSS’s ashrams at different pilgrimage sites. In fact, as mentioned earlier, the BSS literally created a travel agency for Bengali pilgrims. Nowadays, it provides accommodation, transport information, ritual worship and circuits to any Bengali Hindu wishing to go on a pilgrimage. Among the hundreds of Indian Hindu pilgrimage sites, the BSS has concentrated its efforts on those places accessible to Bengali pilgrims after an overnight train journey at the most: Gaya (Bihar); Gangasagara and Tarapitha (West Bengal); Puri (Orissa); and Banaras (Uttar Pradesh). At each of these sites, the BSS has built large ashrams where it offers accommodation for a maximum of three consecutive nights, and provides ‘proper guidance’ for religious rituals, a vegetarian canteen and facilities for families who wish to cook their own food. Everyday, dozens of people — not necessarily disciples — seeking information on contact the BSS’s headquarters in Kolkata. Divyananda, along with a few dedicated volunteers, answers the pilgrims’ questions and provides them with all the practical information necessary: train and bus timetables, map of the site, contact number of the local person in charge, leaflet-giving advice, etc. Receipts are given for any expenses and all rates are fixed on a donation basis as is the usual practice in Hinduism. If the BSS’s ashrams are so successful among Bengali pilgrims it is because they provide an ideal physical and linguistic environment for them. Ashrams are usually spacious, very clean, and the Bengali volunteers always helpful and considerate. All communication and exchanges are in Bengali, the mother tongue of most pilgrims, rather than in the local language spoken at the pilgrimage centre. The extraordinary capacity to organise, coordinate and help Bengali pilgrims in their religious duties is well known among the Bengali urban middle class: the BSS’s pilgrim guesthouse registration books show that almost only Bengalis use BSS services for pilgrimages.18

pilgrimages

18 The registration records do not tell us whether the guests would have gone on a pilgrimage in the absence of BSS services.

Considered a sacred space, the pilgrimage site is nevertheless described as a ‘malevolent environment’, full of local priests and tour operators who try to ‘rip them off’. According to the BSS, the only way to avoid being cheated would be to make exclusive use of the BSS’s services, i.e., to stay in their ashram, perform rituals with their priests and avoid contact with any other people.19 The BSS warns pilgrims about using services offered by any other It supplies details to ensure that pilgrims reach the BSS’s ashram directly, with no undue inconvenience: photographs of the main gate of the ashram are provided along with specific details to avoid people having to depend on any intermediaries. Once inside the ashram, while checking in, the pilgrim is again told to be wary of the dangers associated with the local community, a warning that is reiterated by a sign on the wall. Newcomers are advised to carry out any activity on the site through BSS, including sightseeing and ritual worship, all at a reasonable rate (Vedananda 1999: 10). I argue, therefore, that, rather than reinforcing the Hindu in a wider sense — the pan-Indian Hindu — the BSS’s pilgrim-age services contribute to creating a community in a much narrower sense, a Bengali Hindu community. Not only, as has been emphasised, are BSS’s ashrams specifically designed for Bengali pilgrims, but they are designed to make sure that the BSS’s pilgrims will use the BSS’s services exclusively. The usual homogenising effect associated with pilgrimages, which ‘occurs because pilgrims, from diverse linguistic areas and representing different castes and occupations, participate together in a standardised set of activities’ (Caplan 1997: 210) is reduced to a minimum here. Except for the strict ritual time of the pilgrimage, Bengali pilgrims using the BSS’s services have little opportunity to meet any nonBengali pilgrims. Once in the BSS ashram, Bengali pilgrims usually attend rituals inside it, even when they are neither acquainted with the BSS nor with the cult of Pranavananda. Many of the Bengali pilgrims I met in Gaya explained that the BSS monks’ dedication had so impressed them that, after their pilgrimage, they had become

community.

community

coming religious

19 For example, the leaflet for Gaya (Bihar) stipulates that pilgrims should to go to the BSS office — situated on the main platform — as soon as the train reaches the station. If the pilgrim does not do this, he is sure ‘to be ripped off’ (Vedananda 1999: 15) and to become the prey of the ‘machination of thieves and rogues’ (ibid.: 10), as the BSS call local guides and priests.

devotees and, more recently, disciples. Similarly, Indrajit Ray, head of a Bengali family living in Guwahati (Assam) came to Puri to visit Lord Jagannath’s temple. He explained that without the BSS ashram where he was lodging, he could not have ‘taken the risk’ of bringing his family. He now considers himself a devotee of Pranavananda. Another Bengali explained that, because he did not have much money, he went on a honeymoon with his wife to the BSS’s ashram, since both of them are regular devotees of the BSS. Henceforth, the importance of the BSS’s regional identity must not be underestimated. As we can see, in many cases, the cultural factor was determinant in its disciples’ trajectory. Most relevant to this particular focus are the cases of former RSS activists. While, like all Hindu sects, the BSS mainly recruits new members from the vast number of non-sectarians (Shah 1996: 209), there are a few cases of disciples who come from other Hindu groups. Such is the case of Salil Kapat, a Bengali ex-RSS activist who recently joined the BSS. He explains that he withdrew from the RSS because he found it ‘overbearing, regimented, unscrupulous and dehumanised’, and also because of its pro-Hindi stand. What bothered him most was the RSS’s Bengali leaders’ preference for Hindi even when speaking amongst themselves. ‘They ridiculed Bengalis for lagging far the Marwaris and Gujaratis in religion’, writes Kapat. Then he recognises the glory of Bengal with regard to its religious ‘Having been brainwashed, they forget that Chaitanyadeb, Bijoykrishna Goswami, Vivekananda, Sri Ramakrishna and Sri Aurobindo were Bengalis!’ To his eyes, the BSS showed more respect to the different Bengali religious leaders. Indeed, as above, the BSS’s founder was very much influenced by Vivekananda. Therefore, Kapat encountered an assertive Hinduism in BSS that was deeply entrenched in his culture, the culture of Bengal.20 Another disciple speculated that the RSS was not part of the ‘cultural ethos of the State’, an argument also put forward by politicians against Hindutva. In this discussion, the disciple claimed that the RSS’s culture was too Brahminic, while that of the BSS was more ‘Kṣatriya’. The cultural distinction between the BSS and other militant Hindu organisations is also reflected in the different

behind leaders:

mentioned

20 ‘Kaneo āmi RSSera samparka tyāga korlām’ (Why I Left RSS). See ‘Modi Ilk’s Bigoted Pogrom’, The Statesman, Calcutta, 9 April 2002.

locations for these organisations. Whereas, as mentioned earlier, the BSS’s headquarters are situated in a Bengali neighbourhood of Kolkata, mainstream Hindutva organisations (the RSS, VHP, Ārya Samāj) are located right on the other side of town, in the Lalbazara area of north Kolkata which is mostly inhabited by Hindi-speaking merchants from northern India and usually referred to in Bengal as Marwari.21 The BSS is seen by its disciples as an autochthonous organisation, while the RSS is seen as foreign to Bengali culture. It is well-known that one of any sect’s major challenges is regularly to convert new disciples. In the case of the BSS, building ashrams at different Hindu pilgrimage sites not only contributes to its nationalist agenda by encouraging pilgrimages, but it attracts Bengali non-sectarian Hindus and eventually prompts their initiation into the sect. While the BSS professes an idea of unity in Hinduism, at the same time it asserts its own vision of Hinduism. This vision condemns ‘the contemporary depraved practices (ācārabhraṣṭa) of Hindus (bartamāna Hindu) and errors (bhrānti) of religious leaders (dharmīya netbarge)’, thus condemning all other Hindu groups (Nirmalananda 2000: 41) and suggesting that ‘real Hindus’ are BSS Hindus, read Bengali Hindus. This attitude leads to more fragmentation among Hindus. Thus, during the group’s gathering, a cry to the glory of ‘the eternal religion’ — a concept associated today with Hinduism — is always given in between shouts of glory to the group or to the guru.22 This association again suggests that only the BSS and Pranavananda are capable of defending ‘real Hindus’ and ‘real Hinduism’. Setting up the BSS’s ashrams in major northern Indian centres provides opportunities for spreading the BSS’s ideas and beliefs rather than a vision of Hindu unity. Whereas a pilgrimage usually reflects a supra-local level of integration, here pilgrimages contribute to reinforcing the number of devotees in the sect. there is another reason that explains BSS’s success in the realm of Bengali religion.

pilgrimage

However,

21 The RSS headquarter, known as Keshava Bhavan, is located at Abhedhananda Road, not far from the Arya Samaj and the VHP’s headquarters. 22 ‘Hail to the Bharat Seva Ashram! Hail to the eternal religion! Hail to Swami Pranavananda!’ (Bhārāta sevāśrama sagha Kī? Jāy ! Sanātana dharma Kī? Jāy! Svāmī Pranabānanda Kī? Jāy!).

Social Services and Communal Harmony Although they have made great efforts to penetrate West Bengal, organisations such as the RSS and VHP, usually recognised as major agents of Hindutva ideologies, have not gathered as large a following as in other states.23 In fact, the BSS’s overt dissociation from politics has contributed to the group receiving support from the Bengali elite. Very early in its history, the BSS distanced itself from electoral politics. Since it withdrew from the Hindu Mahasabha in the 1940s, it has not taken part in any political party and claims to be a purely philanthropic organisation. Tridivananda, the current head of the organisation, recalls in each of his public discourses that the BSS is ‘a non sectarian, non communal and non political organisation’.24 Renouncers who insist on the BSS’s independence relay this message. They criticise electoral politics as belonging to a ‘vile’ and ‘impure’ realm.25 Texts published by the group denounce India’s politicians as regularly being ‘in favour of the Western material culture and ideals’ (Vedananda 1950: 11), a culture that he calls the ‘demon’s culture’ (āsurik saṃskṛti), identified by the ‘material scientific culture’ in comparison to ‘dharma’s culture’ (dharma saṃskṛti), identified as an ‘Indo-Aryan spiritual culture’ (ibid.: 4). Their criticisms do not spare the Sangh Parivar’s movements. Although the RSS and VHP are officially non-political organisations, the BSS considers that they fraternise too much with electoral politics which, as we will see later, does not prevent the BSS from joining forces with these organisations at certain times and places. Members of BSS are proud to publish the fact that their organisation is totally independent from these groups: even the BSS’s website has no link to any sites affiliated to the VHP. This is the main argument they put forward to set themselves apart. As one disciple declared, ‘the RSS is more into political power,

23 The Sangh Parivar is hardly present in West Bengal. For instance, the VHP held its first-ever meeting in West Bengal in 2004. The leaders of the Sangh Parivar explained the meagre prescence in the meeting as being due to the left coalition ruling the state since 1977. See ‘VHP to Hold first-ever Meeting in Red Bastion’, The Times of India, 11 June 2004. 24 See, for example, ‘Steel Unit’s Gift to Bharat Sevashram’, The Statesman, Kolkata, 20 February 2007. 25 Conversation with different ascetics, Kolkata (January 2007).

whereas (BSS) is working towards the betterment of all people’.26 And to demonstrate its secular basis, the BSS claims that its relief work activities are open to every confession and that since its foundation it has always treated Hindus and Muslims equally.27 If the BSS pretends not to take part in electoral politics, it is not necessarily apolitical in the broad sense of the term. In fact, it is not so much that the BSS is apolitical, but that it considers itself to be above electoral politics. Nevertheless, the BSS’s main ritual carries heavy political overtones. Every year in West Bengal, at the full moon of the second month of the Bengali calendar (māghi purnimā), disciples gather at the group’s headquarters in Kolkata. They attend the anointment (abhiṣeka) ceremony whereby Pranavananda is consecrated ‘King of the Hindus’. Afterwards, disciples attend a coronation ritual where they remain seated for hours gazing at the god-king’s image on its royal seat (siṃhāsana, rājāsana) while chanting devotional songs.28 The striking feature of these rituals is the strong political symbolism — of a Hindu state (hindurāṣṭra) ruled by a god-king 29 — that they convey. Nirmalananda recalls that his guru’s life is a foretaste of the future coming of royal rule in India, when Hindu glory and the socio-cosmic order will be and in which religion and politics would not be separate, but encompassed in a larger vision of the world (Nirmalananda 2000b: 68). However, these rituals are not associated with any political demands: Nirmalananda immediately disclaims any contemporary political implication in the organisation’s aspirations, stressing their inspired nature: ‘they are purely imagined plans (prakalpa) and the Guru himself did not consider them as a political demand of the day’ (ibid.). This shows us that the BSS considers any struggle in the political sphere to be of an impure nature and that change in society will only come about by an inspired change.

restored,

26 Discussion with a disciple, Banāras (November 2007). 27 It is seemingly asserted that in 1926 — a period marked by increasing communal riots between Hindus and Muslims in West Bengal — early members of the movement offered food to people independently of their confession and that a great number of Muslims participated in these bhog offerings (Chakravarty 1992: 232). 28 The description comes from the author’s participation in this ceremony on 2 February 2007 in Kolkata. 29 These two rituals suggest that the guru is considered as the ruler of all realms both as a king and a personification of the deity, an association that has always been accepted by the masses in India (Gonda 1956: 36).

Paradoxically, through its sharp criticism of electoral politics, the BSS has gained great respect from the political elite. Politicians from all parties and at all levels — from the national to the local — have been flaunting themselves at the BSS and have paid to the social work it has organised.30 Even the members of the Communist Party of India–Marxist (CPI-M), a party that the Sangh Parivar consider to be its strongest opponent, praise the BSS’s social work by stressing its non-political and non-communal stand. In the address he gave at the Annual Celebration Day of BSS in New Delhi on 24 October 2008, Somnath Chatterjee, House Speaker (ex-CPI-M), declared how ‘inspiring’ the BSS’s commitment to ‘secularism and national integration’ was. He presented the BSS as ‘one of (India’s) greatest socio-religious organizations’ which propagates ‘the great human values of fraternity, tolerance and in a ‘growing communally polarised environment’. He called upon the BSS to remain a secularist force within India. The BSS’s commitment to ‘secularism, national unity and harmonious co-existence is more important than ever’. Moreover, Chatterjee presented the Bengali group as being a potential actor in the struggle against Hindutva in the state. ‘While some groups work to try to create a chasm between different religious groups, BSS has always remained concerned about Secularism and National Integration’, he says.31 Through this comparison, he clearly distinguished between the BSS and the Sangh Parivar’s associations, and showed that he has established his own distinction between the two movements as put forward by the BSS’s renouncers. To a large extent, by strategically avoiding making any political claim but also by refraining itself, unlike the RSS–BJP combined, from targeting the communists as ‘anti-Hindus’, the BSS has been able to curry political support from a state government known

tribute

inclusiveness’

30 A tribute that the BSS proudly displays. At its headquarters are photos of politicians presenting awards to the BSS. Among the latter are national leaders from the Congress (Dr Rajendra Prasad, Nehru, Indira Gandhi, Atulya Ghosh, Zail Singh) as well as from the BJP (Atal Bihari Vajpayee, L. K. Advani, Narendra Modi, Arjun Munda). For an online version of some of these photographs see http://www.bsstoronto.org/press.htm/, accessed 7 April 2009. 31 Extracts from the address he gave at the BSS Annual Celebration Day in New Delhi on 24 October 2008. See http://speakerloksabha.nic.in/Speech/SpeechDetails.asp?SpeechId=283/, accessed 12 April 2009.

for the rigorous secularism of its politics (Chatterjee 2004: 121; Jaffrelot 1992: 44).32 Every year, the BSS receives large public from the West Bengal government and the same amount from public charities, a privilege that Sangh Parivar Hindu groups or any politically motivated — in the traditional sense — parties do not benefit from.33 The Indian administration has also granted the BSS the statutory registrations that exempts it from tax on the donations it receives and authorises it to receive foreign funds. 34 Moreover, state agencies collaborate regularly with the BSS. The West Bengal State Health Department often subcontracts the BSS to run health schemes in remote areas.35 As declared by a Bengali administration high-ranking official, the police administration works ‘hand in hand’ with the BSS to control the masses at sites during religious fairs. In Gangasagar, where over 35 local organisations, associations or committees (samiti, saṇgha, club) ensure maintenance of the site, the BSS has the most important role after the state government. While West Bengal government erects pilgrim shelters for free accommodation, the BSS ashrams lodge thousands of pilgrims and its volunteers help control the crowd. More importantly, the West Bengal government feels that the BSS’s nationalist ideology does not interfere too much with its relief

donations

pilgrimage

32 See ‘Left’s Culture is Only Maligning Hindus’, The Indian Express, 21 May 2005. Needless to say, this official position did not prevent disciples from the two groups from entertaining personal links with Sangh Parivar organisations or personalities (Copley 2003: 32). 33 The BSS’s main source of funding comes from donations from devotees and public foundations (>$3 millions) but it also receives a large financial support from the state authorities (>$800,000) (Sangha 2005: 30). Although the BSS is not the only Hindu organisation to receive public donations, if it were to have the slightest political agenda or communal agenda, it would not enjoy such support: in West Bengal, the RSS and VHP organisations do not receive any government donations because of their political stand (interview with Dr Alapan Bandhyopadhyaya [CPI-M], Municipal Commissioner of Calcutta Municipal Corporation, Kolkata (January 2007). 34 See the dispensation under Section 35AC of the Income Tax Act. 35 The State Health Department has, for example, decided to extend the services of five NGOs, among which is are the Bharat Seva Ashram, to a on Mobile Health Care Services. This would provide basic healthcare services, including the supply of medicines, in remote areas of the Sunderbans. See ‘Healthcare Project Extended in Mangrove Land’, The Statesman, 21 January 2005.

project

work.36 It also considers the group as playing an important role in the public life of Bengal.37 While BSS leaders publicly insist on their secular stand, the government administration uses their rhetoric to appoint them as agents of neighbourliness. For example, in some cases, the West Bengal State Government has made use of the BSS to promote ‘communal harmony’ in the state’s communally sensitive areas. In Beldanga, Murshidabad district (West Bengal), the Hindu cult to the Goddess of knowledge (sarasvatīpūjā) had been an occasion for regular communal conflict. Pradiptānanda, head of the BSS’s local ashram, explains that these conflicts were caused by drunken Hindu youths who used to interrupt the Muslims’ religious during the immersion ceremony. To prevent any violence, the West Bengal government devised a set of rules and asked the BSS to ensure that they are properly implemented. The BSS thereby ordered Hindu residents in Beldanga to handover their divine images a few days before the actual immersion ceremony. In exchange it organised, supervised and bore the cost of the procession for the latter. Thousands of locals participated, accompanied by groups of musicians and decorated rickshaw-vans carrying their divine images; the immersion ceremony took place in a lake next to the BSS temple. The BSS authorities invited both Hindu and Muslim children to participate and perform (dance, theatre) as part of a programme inside the BSS temple. According to Pradiptananda, all this went towards both ‘restoring (Hindu) cultural values’ and ‘ensuring the peaceful co-existence of different religions’. It has since then been put forward as a ‘fair example of communal harmony’.38 The role imputed to the BSS by the West Bengal government is, in fact, paradoxical when one looks at how the BSS’s position converges with that of the Sangh Parivar, yet even more so when we look at the BSS’s discreet partnership with the Sangh Parivar in other Indian states.

practices

cultural

36 Interview with Dr Alapan Bandhyopadhyaya (CPI-M), Municipal

Commissioner, Calcutta Municipal Corporation who supervised the work of the BSS in Gangasagar for nine consecutive years, first as Additional District Magistrate (1995–2000) and then as District Magistrate (2000–2004). 37 BSS monks take full part in Bengal’s public life. See, for example, ‘Crusader with a Heart of Gold’, The Statesman, 31 July 2005. 38 The Statesman, Kolkata, 7 February 2004.

Muscular Hinduism and Implicit Militancy Founded in the 1920s in the context of the broader sangathana movement, the BSS has a lot in common with other Hindu groups that emerged at the same period in terms of practices as well as in terms of rhetoric. Among these, we find some of the leading themes of the 1920s Hindu resurgence: activities boosting martial fervour, militant expansion of religious festivals and of lower-caste groups into the Hindu fold (Gooptu 2001: 230). Influenced by the caste consolidation programmes launched chiefly under the Hindu Sabha and Hindu Mahasabha, the BSS tries to convert low castes and tribes to Hinduism in order to achieve greater Hindu cohesion and unity. Within the BSS, martial fervour is propagated through Hindu manliness. The group’s maxim (saṇgha vāṇī) — which all disciples know by heart and display on placards when making public at religious fairs — celebrates qualities such as virility and manliness. Though it was written in the mid-1920s, these different qualities perfectly reflect some of the qualities put forth by VHP today.39 This cult of strength can also be seen in the group’s various rituals. In the BSS, anypūjā — whether the daily pūjāto the guru or the annual pūjāto Durgā— includes a cult to weapons. Monks perform a frenetic dance (dhūnici) while brandishing weapons — a trident (triśūla), sword (khaḍga) or discus (cakra) — accompanied by the sound of drums (dhāk) and ritual hymns. However, worshipping physical strength is not limited to the ritual sphere. Proclaiming the need for the Hindu community to master self-defence, the BSS has developed an important of martial arts and physical education. It has built fully equipped modern gymnasiums next to almost every ashram, where any Hindu male adult can come and practise body-building on modern machines; it also offers courses on stick-fighting (lāṭhikhelā) for young boys.40 All practitioners form what the BSS calls

militant

integration

demonstrations heroism,

programme

39 See for example, the new organisation initiated by the VHP and in which BSS participates called ‘Hindu Solidarity’ (hindu saṃhati). The motto of this conference is ‘courage’ (sāhasa), strength (śakti) and action (sakriata)’, three qualities that we find in the BSS’s 10 divine messages. http://hindusamhati.blogspot.com/, accessed 7 May 2009. 40 The ashrams claim to run 76 centres with fully equipped gymnasia and 55 temples where stick fighting is performed.

the ‘defence committee’ (rakṣa dāl), a group of Hindu men ready to protect ‘the Hindu community in case of danger’ (Ashokananda 1995 ). Hindu power expresses itself through a physically fit

culture, inverting the 19th-century British officials’ stereotype about

Bengali Hindus being cowards and physically weak (Rosselli 1980: 121–23). Like the wrestler’s akhārā in north India, these gymnasiums provide a social environment where a moral masculine Hindu culture can be disseminated among male village and communities. With as its basic values, celibacy for unmarried

neighbourhood

young men (or chastity for married men) and vegetarianism, this culture is struggling against the popular hedonism of modern life (Alter 1994b). The BSS’s militant agenda is particularly perceptible during its religious festivals. The BSS has transformed them into militant gatherings called ‘great assemblies of Hindu Religion and Culture’

(Hindu dharma saṃskṛti sammelan). In Banāras, for example, it turned the Durgā Pūjāinto an exceptional ‘Nation-building ritual’. 41 Not only does its celebration represent one of the city’s oldest and largest public pūjā (sārvajanīna) — both in terms of the number of people involved and the size of the goddess’s image — but it is the only one that carries such militant emphasis.42 Besides the actual

ritual of worship, the BSS organises a great number of public Bringing the goddess’s image to its place of worship (pūjālaya) on the Mahāsaptamī— the great seventh day of navarātra — and bringing it to the riverbank (ghāta) for ‘immersion’ on the 10th

activities.

day (daśamī) are both occasions for impressive and colourful processions.43 On these occasions, the gendered roles of Hindu

nationalism are enacted: one can find the figures of the ’Warrior 41 The description comes from the BSS celebration of DurgāPūjāin Banaras in October 2007. The quotations are from an excerpt from Hindi and Bengali leaflets distributed to the crowd on that occasion. Let us note that, on the contrary, the BSS celebrations of Durgā Pūjāin Kolkata are not accompanied by five days of conferences and are carried out with deepest sanctity (Chalila and Gupta 2005: 332). 42 This celebration has been taking place since 1936, and the BSS claims to have first introduced this Bengali religious festival in the Hindustani city. Though this claim does not stand as historical proof, the BSS certainly holds one of the oldest public pūjā(sārvajanīna). See Rodrigues (2003: 21–22, 321, n. 51) and Kumar (1988: 218). 43 In classical iconography, it consists of Durgāatop her lion engaged in the act of slaying the buffalo demon Mahisa. She is represented as flanked by the four divinities identified as her children: Ganeśa and Lakśmīon her right,

Monks’ leading the procession followed by ‘Hindu Soldiers’ and ‘Chaste Wives’ (Banerjee 2005). Head-renouncers riding elephants, camels and horses and brandishing weapons are followed by an

army of renouncers holding sticks (lāthi). Then come boy-troops wearing military outfits (stick fighting, sword, etc.) followed by thousands of lay devotees — mostly women and children — distributing leaflets and invitations to a conference to people standing on both sides of the streets. This impressive procession not only asserts the group’s presence in the city but also publicly

announces the abduction of the religious ceremony for a militant reunion. Not only do the protagonists seem to defend the nation, but they look as if they are the nation. It is well-known that this kind of symbolic activity in the public space has played a

significant role in constructing communalism in colonial northern India (Freitag 1989).

The climax of the BSS’s DurgāPūjā’s celebration in Banāras takes place at the organisation’s headquarters when its Hindu defence committee makes a theatrical demonstration of a riot.44 It starts with a tussle between two boys, one dressed in blue and one in a white loincloth (dhoti). After a few minutes, two other boys join in with the first one to overpower the second in a very violent manner: they

strangle him with two sticks, seize him between them and throw him to the floor; then stamp on his face and body. Other boys join in and yell ‘victory’, holding the victim in the air. They leave the stage, the victim acting as if half-dead, alone, lying in the middle of the stage. Then along comes Budhananda, a renouncer and secretarygeneral to the organisation. Armed with a large sword, he starts

dancing around the boy in exaltation, holding his arm high and spinning around as if possessed. Suddenly, while the drum beat gets faster, he strikes a heavy blow to the boy’s stomach: his body starts shaking and blood runs from it. Budhananda resumes his dancing, his sword held high in the air and shouts victory. In the meantime, helpers bring the victim’s body directly to the nearby medical unit.

More than a simple demonstration of martial ability, this ritual clearly displays the BSS’s trained youths’ physical capacity in Kārttikeya and Sarasvatīon her left. This complex image is typically Bengali. It is made of a single unit, called kahamo topped with a decorated arch (chala). In the non-Bengali image each divinity is made up of a different unit. 44 This celebration takes place on the last night before the of the icon. On this day the ashram sees the greatest coming together of people because Durgā is believed to be fully manifested within the clay image and thus completely accessible to her devotees.

immersion Mahānavamī,

communal fights. The whole ritual can be understood as a ‘ritual of provocation’. During its proceedings, a renouncer explains over the microphone to the crowd that the ritual reminds Hindus that

‘worship is not only giving incense, flowers, bilva leaves, or crying before the Goddess’ but that the main aim of ‘Durgā’s worship is to achieve victory and kill the enemy’. ‘Only such worship of strength (Śaktipūjā) — according to Pranavananda’s ideal — is able to ‘destroy Demon Power’. The cult of the Mother Goddess is seen here as a symbol of martial strength and prowess. Beyond any spiritual

vigour, it is the idea of a muscular and martial Hinduism that is put to the fore. By converting this religious metaphor into a riot between two gangs of young Indians, the BSS seems to acknowledge that the ‘enemy’ lies within the nation and should be conquered by brute force. Though mention is never made of Muslims or Christians, all these allusions suggest that it is the non-Hindus who are

the real enemy. In fact, the strength of the scene lies in its ambiguity. Although it is mere play-acting, it involves a real mastery of group violence, and the apparent violent frenzy makes it differ totally from the usual martial ability displayed by the young man in the group.45 In fact, the audience had been warned that it was for real and that it could cause injury involving the shedding of blood. By

this play-acting, not only does the BSS’s defence committee show their perfect mastery of stick fighting, but they display their ability to undertake violent collective action in the event of riots. In the knowledge that when the disciple undertakes initiation he makes the pledge to ‘protest against (…) any injustice done to any Hindu, even at the cost of (his) life’, this demonstration implicitly affirms

the readiness of youths trained by the BSS to participate in rioting if the situation so requires.46 The same inferred political symbolism is again used the following day. At the immersion ceremony—which takes place on Daśāśvamedhaghāta, the city’s most popular central riverbank site — the BSS renouncers deliver discourses with a heavy

(ghāṭa)undertone to the thousands of people attending the ceremony. militant

45 When they display their ability, all the participants greet each other by tapping the other’s hand before and after the combat. It is not allowed to hit the feet, and hits are exchanged with precision as if respecting a pre-planned choreography. 46 Let us note that, traditionally, the violence means that the Goddess must be fed with blood from a sacrificial victim, usually a goat, which is nothing like an enemy (Togawa 2006: 138).

Using the typical discourse on security that offered the forces of Hindutva as a tool to legitimise violence as non-violence (Anand 2005), Jivatmananda, a BSS renouncer calls upon Hindus to be strong and to cultivate their power to resist Christians and Muslims.47 Referring directly to the Rāmjanmābhūmi issue for which the BSS shared a common platform with the BJP (Shah 2001: 252), he underlines the threat made to Hindus religious sites.48 Providing a nationalist of the worship of the Mother Goddess, Jivatmānanda assimilates the goddess with the Hindu nation. The clay represents Durgā’s embodiment as the nation and its class (varṇa) system: Sarasvatī, the goddess of learning, is said to represent the brāhmanas; Kārttikeya, the god of war, represents the kṣatriyas; Lakṣmī, the goddess of wealth and good fortune represents the vaiśya class and its specific power (dhara); and Ganeśa, the Lord of Obstacles who is propitiated before laborious undertakings, the śūdras or what he calls the common people. Durgā integrates all these varṇas, providing a balanced and harmonious image of nationhood.49 While the BSS policy is to remain separate from the Sangh Parivar, leaders of both groups do, in fact, maintain cordial relations with each other. Top-ranking leaders of the Sangh Parivar, including

interpretation image Durgā

represents

47 It must be recalled that the denegation of violence, from which this discourse proceeds, is deep-rooted in the Hindu tradition. Extreme acts of violence committed in specific contexts or by legitimated actors are not considered as violence. Such is the case of the Brahmin in the sacrificial context (Biardeau 2003), the king or theavatāra in the context of preserving dharma (ClémentinOjha 2003) or even the ascetic while combating (Bouillier 2003). For an overall perspective on violence and non-violence in India see Vidal et al. (eds) 2003. 48 ‘We (the ascetics) travelled from village to village and we saw a decline of Hindus. (…) We hundreds crores of Hindus, our Gods do not have their houses, they had to leave their houses. What is the reason for this? This is an example of our cowardliness! There is need for unity to set up our Gods at their rightful place!’ ‘India today is ruled by demons.’ Though it is not specified whom the word ‘demons’ designates, this sentence provokes a great amount of applause within the crowd and ululu from women. It could be either reference to political corruption or to low castes accessing power. 49 See also the BSS’s Durgā Pūjā’s leaflet: ‘The mission (neibeda) of the worship of the goddess is to assemble (milan) and unite (lit. the bonding of a community) (saṇghabandhata) millions of Hindus (koi koi).’ The brochure also affirms that ‘the real form of the Goddess is Hindu society’. Millions of Hindus will wake up and unify — that is the symbol of the waking (bodhana) of the Goddess.

former Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee, are regular visitor to the BSS’s ashrams, while the BSS’s renouncers often attend RSS functions.50 As Vidyananda explains, it is a matter of cordiality: ‘we know what each other does and invite each other to our respective celebrations’. Although he acknowledges the differences between the BSS and RSS, he also emphasises their unity. ‘We are Hindu brothers (Hindu bhāī): although we are different, we share many ideas, we find each other in different places and we respect each other’s work, we are both Hindus’. Both groups attend common conferences and Svastikā, the RSS’s Bengali weekly publication, is available in all the BSS’s ashrams and schools. 51 However, in some cases, cordial relations lead to close collaboration between the RSS–VHP and BSS. Not only does this occur occasionally, usually in times of natural disasters, for relief work purposes,52 but it also happens on a regular basis in a few BSS infrastructures within which Sangh Parivar agents operate. RSS training (śākhā) units and VHP programmes for conversion (parivartana) to Hinduism have allegedly been seen to operate in BSS temples or BSS schools at various places around India and abroad.53 In both cases, on behalf of the BSS administration, the renouncers in charge deny such links.54 50 These common meetings are not secret as evidenced by the presence of BSS monks at Golwalkar’s birth centenary celebrations organised by the BSS in 2006 with their chief, K. S. Sudarshan. See, for example, ‘RSS Chief Calls to Foil “Evil Designs” of Maoists’, The Hindustan Times, 23 April 2007. 51 For the online version of Svastikā, http://www.eswastika.com/, accessed 4 June 2009. 52 In 2005, during relief work in the tsunami-affected areas, the Seva Bharati, the RSS mission, announced that the BSS was working under its coordination: thus, the BSS appeared to be part of the Sangh Parivar. Official website of the RSS, accessed January 2009. 53 To my knowledge, at least, two BSS schools or temples serve as training centres for the RSS: in India, the high school run by the Bharat Sevashram Sangh in Diamond Harbour (South 24 Parganas, West Bengal) and in the USA, the Minnesota Hindu Milan Mandir (Eagan, Minnesota) through the RSS’s American branch (American Branch-H.S.S.). The ‘Pluralism Project’ at Harvard University [ www.pluralism.org] shows us the history and activities of the ashram. Concerning the VHP’s conversion programme see ‘Conversion Yagna with Sangh Blessings’, The Telegraph, 23 August 2002. 54 Jivananda, the head of the ashram, denies the implication of its organisation in this conversion, saying he hosted it at the VHP’s request, but did not organise it. ‘VHP “Reconversion” Drive in West Bengal’, The Hindustan Times, 23 August 2002. Information concerning the RSS branch working inside BSS places has been taken from a discussion with Purnananda, Kolkata, February 2007.

They emphasise the BSS’s independence and claim that any link is only the consequence of cordial relations between the BSS and Sangh Parivar. According to these representatives, the BSS merely provides the VHP with a place from where it can undertake action, but in no way can it be held responsible for the acts committed by the VHP on its premises. In this sense, the BSS’s militancy is not explicit, but constantly suggested and denied. It is only at the local level and, more particularly, in the proSangh Parivar states that any mutual cooperation is acknowledged. A few cases of overlapping membership between the RSS and BSS exist, as well as some witness accounts of converting to Hinduism in exchange for a free education at BSS schools. But in pro-Sangh Parivar states, the BSS renouncers openly assert their partnership with Sangh Parivar. In Gujarat, where the BSS has been active since the 1970s,55 only after the rise of the BJP in the state and its to power in 1995 has the organisation stood firmly on the side of the Sangh Parivar. Reports say that during the 1991 House of the People (Lok Sabha) and the 1995 Assembly elections its leaders issued a public appeal to Hindus to vote for the BJP, a party that they claimed ‘works to protect their interest’ (Shah 2004: 252). Later, in 2004, the BSS directly associated itself with the VHP to transform the yearly processions celebrating the birth of Kr.s.n. a (Kṛṣṇa janmāṣṭamī) into a ‘national security’ promotional venue. Ganeshananda, of the BSS ashram in Ahmedabad, together with Ashwin Patel, the VHP’s city secretary, explained in a joint press conference that their newly created alliance — the BSS had been organising this celebration since 1979 separately from the VHP — was necessary because ‘the country and the (Hindu) religion (was) under threat from all quarters’. The two organisations decided to unite and pay homage not to Kṛṣṇa the child (bālakṛṣṇa) nor to Kṛṣṇa the cowherd who plays the flute (Kṛṣṇa gopāla), but to Kṛṣṇa the avatāra: the fighter (sudarśana cakradhārī) who, armed with his disc, ‘fought people who were against dharma’. This, they argued, would ‘inspire people to ‘fight elements that are against (Hindu) religion and (India)’. By portraying Krishna not as a bonny baby in a cradle but as a ‘tough guy’ wielding the powerful sudarśana cakra, they

accession

secretary

55 It owns a popular ashram in the state capital, Ahmedabad, an average high school with a boys’ dormitory, medical clinic, mobile units and guesthouse. It became known for its relief work during the Gujarat earthquake.

clearly militated for an offensive Hinduism and the procession clearly illustrated the union between the two organisations: it left the BSS office in direction of the VHP office and returned to the

BSS office by evening. Moreover, Narendra Modi — then Gujarat chief minister known for his firm pro-Hindutva stand — himself headed the whole procession. In some cases, the BSS seemed to approve the Sangh Parivar’s communal rhetoric and even some of the communal clashes it led to. During a joint press conference with the VHP in Gujarat, the BSS’s Gujarat secretary denounced

the central government’s decision to set up a high-level panel to probe the Godhra train carnage which triggered riots between Hindus and Muslims in Gujarat, as being a ‘politically-motivated move’. He accused the central government of going ‘after Hindus’. This declaration, in fact, seems to contradict the BSS’s official stand of non-political involvement as well as its condemnation of

any communal clashes.56 Similarly, when at the end of the Kṛṣṇa janmāṣṭamī procession, the BSS offered an idol of the god Kṛṣṇa, armed as in its warrior image (sudarśan cakradhārī), to Narendra Modi, it may be interpreted as a pledge of allegiance to the controversial Gujarat chief minister and principal politician responsible for the clashes.

Conclusion This article has shown that while provocative speeches hinting at an unspecified ‘enemy’ may appear to have brought the BSS close to Hindi–Hindu nationalism, they have also been an attempt to promote a Bengali, linguistic and regional variety of muscular Hinduism, drawing on the early 20th century’s political project of recovery of physical prowess. Very much rooted in the Bengali

setting and culture in which it was born, this militant form of Hinduism has been able to gather a large following in West Bengal not only through organised social services but also through a wellplanned organisation of major pilgrimage sites for Hindu Bengalis. Moreover, through its policy of non-involvement in electoral

politics it has avoided controversies and has gained financial support

from national and state authorities. It nowadays holds the rank of one of the most celebrated Hindu institutions for the modern Bengali elite. 56 ‘“Macho” Krishna to Boost VHP Image!’, The Times of India, Ahmedabad, 3 September 2004.

BSS’s misgivings about its place within the Sangh Parivar enables it to play a pivotal role in the entrenchment of Hindutva in West Bengal. Being independent in terms of organisation, finance and membership, it follows its own institutional logic and sets itself

aside from Sangh Parivar organisations. Thus, in some cases it can be seen as the latter’s main competitor. In West Bengal it has, in fact, been able to occupy the public space that neither the RSS nor the VHP have been able to occupy despite their many efforts to penetrate the state. However, when necessary, it does in fact

negotiate a partnership with these same organisations. In other contexts, the BSS can be seen to collaborate actively with them,

although always implicitly: as we can see, the dividing line between ‘self-

protection’ and active organisation of rioting is not always clear. By never openly committing itself to violence, by denying any link with the Sangh Parivar and keeping its militant tendency in its implicit form, quite paradoxically, the BSS has been able to gain wide

support in West Bengal, while at the same time partly promoting an ideology that the state government has always vehemently rejected. It nowadays serves as a vital mediator between the government and the Sangh Parivar’s Hindu core groups. Depending on the party in power, it can be seen and/or utilised either to promote Hindutva or

to resist it. This demonstrates the decisive role of the political will to promote or obstruct Hindutva entrenchment in India or not.

References Alter, J. S. 1994a. ‘ Celibacy, Sexuality, and the Transformation of Gender into Nationalism in North India’, Journal of Asian Studies, 53: 45–63. ———. 1994b. ‘ Somatic Nationalism: Indian Wrestling and Militant Hinduism’, Modern Asian Studies, 28 (2): 557–88. Anand, D. 2005. ‘ The Violence of Security: Hindu Nationalism and the Politics of Representing ‘the Muslim’ as a Danger’, The Round Table, 94 (379): 203–15. Ashokananda, S. 1995. Divine Message of Pranavananda. Centenary Edition. Calcutta: Bharat Sevasram Sangha. Atmananda, S. 2000. ŚrīŚrī Pranavānanda Upadeśa. Kolkata: Bharat Sevashram Sangha. Banerjee, Sikata. 2005. Make Me a Man! Masculinity, Hinduism, and Nationalism in India. New York: State Universirty of New York Press. Basu S. and S. Banerjee. 2006. ‘The Quest for Manhood: Masculine Hinduism and Nation in Bengal’, Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East, 26 (3).

Beckerlegge, Gwilym. 2006. Swami Vivekananda’s Legacy of Service: A Study of the Ramakrishna Math and Mission. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Bharat Sevaashram Sangha. 2006. General Report and Statement of Accounts. Kolkata: Bharat Seva Ashram Sangha. Biardeau, M. 2003. ‘ Ancient Brahmanism or Impossible Non-Violence ’, in Denis Vidal, Eric Meyer and Gilles Tarabout (eds), Violence Non-Violence: Some Hindu Perspectives, pp. 85–104. New Delhi: Manohar. Bouillier, Véronique. 1997. Ascètes et rois. Un monastère de Kanpatha Yogis au Népal. Paris: CNRS Ethnologie. ———. 2003. ‘ The Violence of the Non-Violent, or Ascetics in Combat’, in Denis Vidal, Eric Meyer and Gilles Tarabout (eds), Violence Non-Violence: Some Hindu Perspectives, pp. 27–64. New Delhi: Manohar. Caplan , A. 1977. ‘ The Role of Pilgrimage Priests in Perpetuating Spatial Organisation within Hinduism’, in Robert H. Stoddard and Alan Morinis (eds), Sacred Places, Sacred Spaces: The Geography of Pilgrimages, pp 209–33. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University. Chakravarty, Papia. 1992. Hindu Response to Nationalist Ferment: Bengal, 1909–1935. Calcutta: Subarnarekha. Chalila, J. and Gupta B. 2005. ‘ Durgā Pūjāin Calcutta’, in S. Chauduri (ed.). Calcutta, The Living City, pp. 331–36. New Delhi: Delhi: Oxford University Press. Chatterjee, Partha. 2004. The Politics of the Governed. New York: Columbia University Press. Chatterji , Joya. 1994. Bengal Divided: Hindu Communalism and Partition, 1932–1947. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Chowdhury-Sengupta, Indira. 1996. ‘ Reconstructing Spiritual Heroism: The Evolution of the Swadeshi Sannyasi in Bengal’, in Julia Leslie (ed.) Myth and Mythmaking, pp. 124–43. Richmond: Curzon Press. Chowdhury, Indira. 2001. The Frail Hero and Virile History: Gender and Politics of Culture in Colonial Bengal. Kolkata: Oxford University Press. Clémentin-Ojha, Catherine. 1990. La divinité conquise. Carrière d’une sainte. Nanterre: Société d’ethnologie. ———. 2003. ‘The Initiation of Devi: Violence and Non-Violence in a Vaishnavite Tale’, in Denis Vidal, Eric Meyer and Gilles Tarabout (eds), Violence NonViolence: Some Hindu Perspectives, pp. 127–42. New Delhi: Manohar. ———. 2006. ‘ Replacing the Abbot: Rituals of Monastic Ordination and Investiture in Modern Hinduism’, Asiatische Studien/Etudes Asiatiques, LX (3): 535–73. Copley, Antony. 2003. Hinduism in Public and Private: Reform, Hindutva, Gender and Sampraday. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Freitag, Sandria. 1989. Collective Action and Community: Public Arenas and the Emergence of Communalism in North India . Berkeley: University of California Press. Gonda, J. 1956. ‘ Ancient Indian Kingship from the Religious Point of View’, Numen, III: 36–71.

Gooptu Nandini 2001 The Politics of the Urban Poor in Early Twentieth-Century India London : Oxford University Press Graham B. D. Hindu Nationalism and Indian Politics: The Origins and of the Bharatiya Jana Sangh Cambridge : Cambridge University .

,

.

.

.

Development ,

.

Press

.

of Bliss: AnandaniayīMā (1896-1982) New York : Oxford University Press Hansen , Thomas Blom 1999 The Saffron Wave: Democracy and Hindu in India New Delhi : Oxford University Press ' ' Hawley, J. S. 2004 , Global Hinduism in Gotham in Tony Carnes and Fenggang Hallstrom , L. 1999 Mother .

.

.

Nationalism .

.

.

.

Yang (eds), Asian American Religions: The Making and Remaking of Borders and Boundaries , pp. 112 40 New York : New York University Press -

.

.

'

Jaffrelot Christophe 1992 Les émeutes entre hindous et musulmans (partie 2) ', Cultures & Conflits 5 : 44 55 Kinsley David R. 1988 Hindu Goddesses: Vision of the Divine Feminine in the Hindu Religious Tradition Berkeley and Los Angeles : University of .

,

.

-

.

,

.

,

.

California Press Kumar, Nita

.

1988

.

.

The Artisans

Banaras:

of

Popular

Culture and

Identity,

1880-1986 Princeton : Princeton University Press ' ' McKean , L. 1996 Bhārāt Mātā, Mother India and Her Militant Matriots in .

.

.

John Stratton Hawley and Donna M. Wulff (eds), Devī, Goddesses of India pp. 250 80 Berkeley and Los Angeles : University of California Press Nirmalananda Swami 1915 Kanbe kanhe karuā kathā (Sad words of compassion)

,

-

.

.

.

,

.

Kolkata : Sethkuri Press

.

.

2000 a. Hindu, husiyāra ! (Hindu, Be Aware!) Kolkata : Sethkuri Press 2000 b. Cetanāra ake hindu (The call to Hindu consciousness) Kolkata : Sethkuri Press Olson , Carl 1989 The Mysterious Play of Kālī: An Interpretive Study of ——.

.

.

——.

.

.

.

.

Rāmakrishna Atlanta : Scholars Press Parameshananda , S. 2002 The Making of .

.

an American Yogi: Glorification of World Spiritual Teacher Pranabānanda Maharaf Kolkata : Bharat Sevashram .

.

Sangha Rodrigues Hilary P. 2003 Ritual Worksbip of the Great Goddess: The Liturgy of the Durga Puja with Interpretations New York : State University of New .

.

,

.

York Press ' Rosselli , J. 1980 The Self-image of Effeteness: Physical Education and Nationalism in Nineteenth-Century Bengal ', Past and Present , 86 : 121 48 ,

.

—

.

Sarkar, S. 1996 Ludden (ed.)

'

Indian Nationalism and the Politics of Hindutva ', in David Contesting the Nation: Religion Community, and the Politics of Democracy in India , pp. 270 93 Philadelphia : University of Pennsylvania .

-

.

Press

.

'

Ghanshyam 2001 The BJP's Riddle in Gujarat: Caste, Factionalism and Hindutva' in Christophe Jaffrelot and Thomas Blom Hansen (eds), The BJP and the Compulsions of Politics in India , pp: 243 266 Delhi : Oxford University

Shah ,

.

.

-

.

Press

.

Shah, A. M. 2006. ‘ Sects and Hindu Social Structure’,Contributions to Indian Sociology, 40 (2): 209–48. Sinha, Mrinalini. 1995. Colonial Masculinity: The ‘Manly Englishman’ and the ‘Effeminate Bengali’ in the Late Nineteenth Century . Manchester: Manchester University Press. Sinha, Surajit and Baidyanath Saraswati. 1978. Ascetics of Kashi: An Exploration. Banāras: N. K. Bose Memorial Foundation. Smarta, N. and Purnananda, S. 2001. Nabae Hindu Yugera Avatāra (The Divine Manifestation for the New Hindu Era). Kolkata: Klāsika Press. Smart, Ninian. 2008. Nineteenth Century Religious Thought in the West, I–VII. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Togawa, Masahiko. 2006. An Abode of the Godess, Kingship, Caste and Sacrificial Organization in a Bengal Village. New Delhi: Manohar. Van der Veer, Peter. 1996. ‘ Riots and Rituals: The Construction of Violence and Public Space in Hindu Nationalism’, in Paul R. Brass (ed.), Riots and Pogroms, pp. 154–76. New York: Macmillan Press. Vidal , Denis, Eric Meyer and Gilles Tarabout (eds). 2003. Violence NonViolence: Some Hindu Perspectives. New Delhi : Manohar. Vedananda, S. 1950. Re-organisation of India . Calcutta: Bharat Sevashram Sangha. ———. 1999. Sri Sri Gaya-Mahatmya and Gaya Kritya. Kolkata: Bharat Sevashram Sangha. Yatiswarananda. 2005 [ 1969]. Reflections on Hinduism . Calcutta: Bharat Sevashram Sangha.

Anthropological

Part III Entrenchment amidst Resistance

9 The Symbolism of Krishna in Uttar Pradesh Politics in the 1990s: Understanding the ‘Normalisation’ of Hindutva in North India Lucia Michelutti In the 1980s and 1990s, two novel major political trends developed in north India: the upsurge of Hindu nationalism and the political mobilisation of lower castes. Both political movements gained popular support and are a by product of electoral politics (see Hansen 1999; Jaffrelot 2003). The rise of popular democracy or ‘the second democratic upsurge’, as it has been labelled by the Indian political scientist Yogendra Yadav (2000) sees members of lower castes and classes participating more vigorously in electoral politics than those of higher caste-classes. This trend has also involved the emergence of political leaders from amongst those defined officially as backward communities whose caste-based political parties (like the Samajwadi Party [SP] and Bahujan Samaj Party [BSP] in Uttar Pradesh [UP] or Rastriya Janata Dal [RJD] in Bihar) have socialist-like political manifestos which strongly oppose the BJP and the Sangh Parivar’s agenda. Caste-based politics is viewed by nationalist politicians as one of the main obstacles to the creation of a Hindu India. In this article, however, I show that, paradoxically, some forms of caste politics have been fed and legitimised by the very same religious–political strategies which have so successfully promoted the diffusion of Hindu nationalism over the last three decades. The capacity of the Hindutva language to be used by people who may not necessarily share the Hindu nationalist agenda has been noted in other studies (see, for example, Fuller 2001). In particular, Edward Simpson’s work on Hindutva in Gujarat shows how ‘certain aspects of the nationalist agenda can no longer be associated with a single political party’ (2006: 131) and that, as a matter of fact, ‘Hindu nationalism was never just a special

exclusively

Lucia Michelutti

asset of the BJP’ (ibid.). Building on this argument here, I argue that Hindutva should be studied as another product of what I call ‘the process of vernacularisation of democratic politics’ (Michelutti 2008), meaning the ways in which values and practices of democracy become embedded in particular cultural and social practices; they acquire, so to speak, ‘socio-cultural roots’ and in the process produce new social relations, values and political languages which in turn go to energise popular politics in a variety of ways. By examining the use of the symbolism of the god Krishna by one of the UP BJP’s opposition party, the SP and its main supporters, the Yadav caste/community (a powerful political OBC caste in north India), I will explore Hindutva though the prism of vernacularisation, and show not only how a political idiom is creatively produced by the encounter between society, culture and politics (cf. Hansen 1996), but also how this dialectical process affects domains of life which are not conventionally thought as political per se. Vernacular political languages and projects such as Hinduvta have, for example, profoundly affected the way ordinary people relate to their deities and the way they worship them and how in turn these changes shape caste identity politics and the formation of caste-based political cleavages. The political ethnography of the Ahir/Yadavs collected in the neighbourhood of Ahir Para/Sadar Bazaar in Mathura town (western UP) between 1998–2000 and 2002, illustrates these complex dynamics. Significantly, it highlights the extent to which ‘Hindutva’ propaganda has become ‘normalised’ in the everyday life of ‘ordinary’ people, and as a consequence how Hindu nationalist symbols and strategies have become equally ingrained in the political rhetoric of a community which strongly opposed Hindu nationalism and its political organisation locally.

Mathura, the Krishnajanmabhumi Issue, the Decline of the BJP in Uttar Pradesh Mathura town lies in the so-called Braj area of western UP. This area is well known as the mythical homeland of the god Krishna, who is also the main patron caste deity of the Yadav community. Mathura is also significantly recognised as one of Hinduism’s seven sacred cities. One of the most profitable industries of the town is, in fact, religious tourism. Pilgrims come to Mathura throughout the year to bathe in the Yamuna and visit temples, particularly the one erected on Krishna’s birth-site. The Hindu religious character of the town

Symbolism of Krishna in Uttar Pradesh Politics

makes Mathura an important site for Hindu nationalist leaders and their followers to gather and prepare for political action. Hindu religious images, in particular of Krishna, are deployed to forge and popularise Hindu nationalist agendas and attract support for rallies and electoral campaigns. Hindu nationalism and religious business feed each other in a complex and effective way. As shown in the literature, Hindu pilgrimage centres are often ideal places where ‘activists publicise Hindu nationalist ideology and organise support for the movement’ (McKean 1996: 43). In 1984, the VHP decided to ‘liberate’ three temple sites in north India: Mathura, Varanasi and Ayodhya. Much has been written about the Ramjanmabhumi issue in Ayodhya (the liberation of Ram’s birthplace) which led to the demolition of the Babri Masjid in December 1992 (Nandy et al. 1995; Van der Veer 1994) and how the Ramjanmabhumi movement (the liberation of Ram’s birthplace) has remodelled Ram as a symbol for demarcating geographic, territorial and spiritual boundaries (Pollock 1993). Ram is said to have been transformed into a national ‘hero’ and a ‘militant’ god (Kapur 1993). The new images depict him in an aggressive posture, striding forwards with a bow ready for combat. He is heavily armed, ugra (angry), ready for war, with a muscular body (ibid.: 75). In short, he represents a virile and militant Hinduism. However, little attention has been paid to similar transformations which have been (and are) occurring to another important avatar of Vishnu: Krishna and, more generally, to the liberation movement of Krishna’s birthplace. Krishna is one of the most celebrated deities in the Hindu

pantheon and one of the most popular heroes of Hindu mythology. Krishna is a complex figure (see Singer 1968) and is not an ‘ideal king’ like Ram. He has a royal pedigree but was brought up by low-caste cow-herds. He is mainly worshipped as a mischievous boy who plays tricks and as the adulterous lover of the gopis (the cowherdesses). However, by end of the 19th century, the deity had undergone a puritaniation and martialisation process similar to the one experienced by the god Ram. ‘Krishna as the god of erotically mystical love, has virtually disappeared from the public sphere of Reformed Hinduism’ (Lutt 1995: 152). Krishna, the ‘lovable- but-untrustworthy' god (Davis 1996: 34–45), has hence been gradually transformed into a ‘quasi ideal king’. And it is precisely Krishna— the warrior, the struggling hero of the Mahabharata (the Great Epic)

and the adviser of Arjun in the Bhagavad Gita— who welcomes pilgrims into the Krishna nativity complex in the sacred town of Mathura. This complex was constructed in the late 1950s. It stands opposite the Shahi mosque which was allegedly constructed in the 17th century on the ruins of a Krishna nativity temple, the Kesava Deo temple. Hindu nationalist narratives tell the story of how a series of Muslim invaders, on passing an agreement with the Emperor Aurangzeb in the 17th century, demolished the Kesava Deo temple and built a mosque in its place. Hindu nationalists state that Krishna was born 3,500 years ago in a prison cell where his parents were held captive by the tyrannical king Kamsa. This cell is supposed to be located under the present mosque. Today, against the rear wall of the mosque is an underground chamber representing the cell in which Krishna is said to have been born. After riots in 1954, local Hindus and Muslims came to a legal agreement in 1968 signed by the Muslim trust and the Krishna Janmasthan Seva Sangh about the boundaries and organisation of what is now called by the VHP a ‘disputed’ site (Wilkinson 2004: 166). Although the Sangh Parivar has focused on the Ramjanmabhumi issue in Ayodhya, over the last 20 years, the Hindu organisation has also regularly taken up the issue of the liberation of Krishna’s birthplace. In particular, on the yearly occasions of Krishna’s birthday celebrations (Janmashtami) and the anniversary of the demolition of the Babri Masjid in Ayodhya, the VHP has organised demonstrations and protests but without much local support. The Krishnajanmanbhumi issue was raised by the BJP in the pre-election campaign in 1995. The BJP tried to mobilise Hindus around anti-Muslim issues as it had done in 1989–91 by mobilising the Ramjanmabhumi movement. In August 1995 the Sangh Parivar organised a Vishnu mahayagna (religious offering to the Hindu god Vishnu) and a parikrama (circumambulation) around the ‘disputed’ complex that houses both the Hindu Keshav Das temple and the Muslim Shahi Masjid Idgah. The manifestations coincided with the religious festival of Janmasthami which attracts thousands of pilgrims to Mathura every year. The BJP focused on the sacred town of Mathura and on the god Krishna also because it was seeking to win the votes of the ‘backward’ castes’ and in particular of the Yadav community. As a Hindu activist reported to a journalist, ‘though Lord Krishna cannot be compared with Lord Ram as a role model for the Hindu way of life, and though the Mathura deity does not

have as much popular appeal as Rama, we (VHP) had thought it would generate enthusiasm at least among the Yadav community in UP who consider Krishna as their ancestor’ (Ramakrishnan 1995: 11). However, the mobilisation of Mathura’s ‘disputed’ site by the Sangh Parivar was strongly opposed by BSP and its leader Mayavati (at the time of the government in alliance with the BJP). The BSP aimed at gaining Muslim votes which would be lost if it had supported the VHP programme of ‘religious’ events. In the end ‘electoral incentives’, as Steven Wilkinson argues (2004: 165–69), prevented the Krishnajanmbhumi movement and communal taking off in Mathura in 1995 and, I would add, the same trend has remained stable throughout the last decade and parallels the political rise of Hindu–Muslim low caste/communities based parties, such as the SP and the BSP.1 Throughout all the 1990s Mathura was a ‘BJP town’. The Hindu nationalist party won the 1991, 1996, 1998 and 1999 Lok Sabha elections and dominated in the five Vidhan Sabha constituencies (Goverdhan, Chatta, Mat, Mathura-Vrindavan and Gokul) in the state elections. However, over the past 10 years, the BJP has been steadily losing votes and seats both in the national and state assemblies.

violence

1 Wilkinson’s study on the relation between electoral politics and communal violence shows that ‘As party competition increases, especially if the new parties focus on redistribution from forward to backward castes, majority politicians will have greater incentives to appeal to Muslim voters who can provide them with the margin of victory. The effect of the decline of the dominant Congress Party and the resulting party competition in recent years has not, as some have argued, been to increase the level of communal violence. On the contrary, the increasing party competition for minority voters has led to a reduction in Hindu–Muslim violence, as politicians are forced by electoral incentives to take firm action to prevent Hindu–Muslim riots’ (2004: 170). Despite the fact that the demonstrations organised by the VHP never achieved the expected success in recent times the city has been under curfew in December 1992, August 2000 and March 2002. In all these instances Muslim–Hindu or Christian–Hindu ‘potential’ tensions were the cause. Hindu nationalist anti-Muslim rhetoric is present in the everyday life of Mathura residents. Regardless of apparent calm, local people are aware that violence can be sparked off in the town at any moment. There is a permanent military command, ‘the black cat’, whose duty is to protect the temple and the mosque 24 hours a day, a constant reminder of such a possibility.

Those gaining most from this decline have been the SP (which governed the state from 2002–2007) and the BSP (which has been

in power since 2007). The decline of the BJP, however, does not parallel a lost of strength of the ‘Hinduvta’ socio-cultural language. As I will show in the following section, the SP used and reshaped a martial Krishna to support a muscular socialist rhetoric by drawing

on ‘Hindu histories’ and ‘Yadav caste narratives’. However, the translation of Hinduvta rhetorics into Yadav martial values and muscular politics did not feed communal violence. On the contrary, it helped to prevent it by contributing to the rise of the SP in the state.

The Political Recruitment of the God Krishna: Yadav Histories and Hindu Histories The 20th century and, in particular, the 1920s and 1930s, witnessed a gradual and significant transformation of Hinduism (see Freitag 1989; Dalmia 1997). By the interwar period the major UP cities emerged as sites at which ‘an increasingly militant and public

expression of both Hinduism and Islam’ (Gooptu 2001: 185; see also Jaoul 2007b) took place. These changes were prompted by the mercantile castes who, through the patronage of religious festivals,

temple construction and sponsoring of festivals, used religion and

religious practices to project their power and status (Bayly 1983). Marginalised groups, often considered as Shudras, like the Ahirs (Yadavs), Kurmis and the Gujars, began to redefine their emerging political and economic role in society by fighting on the same

‘religious’ grounds. In so doing, they refashioned their status as warriors and kings who had played a special role in history as guardians of Hinduism (Gooptu 2001: 195; see also Pinch 1996: 118–38). Gyanendra Pandey (1990: 66–108) describes how, since the

end of the 19th century, such processes of Sanskritisation (adoption of ‘higher’ forms of Hinduism) among lower castes have joined up with Hindu nationalist movements, such as the cow protection movement, and how these interrelations have been central to the

formation of a Hindu and a Muslim community in northern India. I will add that such socio-political processes have significantly to the creation of powerful caste-ethnic discourses which

contributed

ended up opposing the Hindu nationalist project of creating a

majority Hindu religious community by reintegrating lower castes into the traditional hierarchical order.

For example, the Ahir/Yadav caste historiography (see Michelutti 2008: Chapter 3) shows that by the end of the 19th century, a (religious) discourse of patrilineal descent emerged as a very powerful source of identity. The model had the potential of transcending the diversity of religious practices, marriage patterns, spoken languages and regional cultures of different pastoral castes (Ahirs, Gopas, Goallas) who defined themselves as Yadavs. ‘Yadav-ness’ is, in Yadav caste rhetoric, primarily defined as a matter of descent. In short, a specific folk descent theory legitimises the formation of the Yadav community. Accordingly, all pastoral castes in India are said to descend from the Yadu dynasty (hence the label ‘Yadav’) to which Krishna (a cowherd and a prince by legend) belonged. The main aim of the religious descent theory supported by the All India Yadav Mahasabha (their national caste association; henceforth AIYM) has been to promote the creation of a numerically strong Yadav community by including more and more castes, clans and lineages into the Yadav category or, according to their rhetoric, into ‘the Yadav race’. I call this process Yadavisation. Indeed, Yadav caste associations have followed the path of ‘Sanskritisation’, and social reformers have thus encouraged the adoption of a diet and teetotalism and the rejection of ‘evil customs’ such as blood sacrifice, spirit possession, female infanticide, child marriage and widow remarriage. However, Yadav caste reformers did not exclusively think of ‘social purity’ as an expression of higher rank. The adoption of pure norms and values has also been understood as necessary for the re-establishment of the ‘pure’ Yadav (Aryan) original essence and to create relatedness within a highly heterogeneous community. By transforming all the Ahirs, Goallas and Gopas into vegetarians and followers of a Sanskritic form of Hinduism, the purity–pollution barriers and cultural differences existing within the community have supposedly been eradicated and thus inter-subcaste marriages have been rendered theoretically possible. The Ahir/Yadav process of Sanskritisation should hence be understood as complementary to the elaboration of a powerful ethnic discourse. Contrary to other caste movements which chose either the path of Sanskritisation or the path of ethnicisation (see Jaffrelot 2000), Ahir/Yadavs simultaneously attempted to forge a community front and to uplift themselves in the caste hierarchy. In the process of Yadavisation, Krishna is not only an ‘ethnic’ unifying symbol and a ‘community deity’ but the god/ancestor also

extreme

vegetarian

retains his legitimacy as a vehicle of traditional upward mobility. As a consequence, traditional processes of Sanskritisation are not disjoined from the constitution of a separate collective identity. The adoption of Krishna as a common ancestor has been by a redefinition of the deity as a masculine, martial, social justice ruler and democratic politician. Thus, Krishna’s mischievous childhood has been partially dismissed or reinterpreted by Yadav historians and politicians. The authors of the Yadav are usually academics, retired academics, teachers, civil servants, social workers or local politicians. Over the years, I have had the pleasure of meeting many local experts of Yadav history and culture who shared their knowledge and their personal archives. Yadav scholars played a key role in assuring that their community’s demands addressed to the state were (and are) properly legitimised and hence successful. In fact, their role is often one of providing authoritative documentation to be attached to petitions and memorandums sent to local and national government bodies, and in the process they also contribute to the creation of a Yadav collective past. In the 1910s and 1920s, Yadav caste organisations sent their memorandums to the census authorities in order to be classified into upper varnas, such as Kashatriyas. They petitioned the British representatives by demanding separate enumeration for their community and asked for the merger of several pastoral subdivisions into the Yadav caste appellation (see Census of India 1921: 231–32). In post-colonial India they petitioned the state to be recognised as a ‘backward’ caste and hence to benefit from the OBCs’ reservation policies. They continue to send memorandums to the Minister of Defence and ask for the constitution of a Yadav regiment in the Indian army. The creation and diffusion of Yadav caste historiographies is conducted through the publication of caste literature (books, pamphlets and newsletters), local newspapers and caste meetings at local, regional and national levels.

accompanied

historiographies

During the colonial period, the number of caste publications that

portrayed ‘the glorious and noble Yadavs’ was already impressive. Such texts cited early colonial ethnographies (especially census reports) in order to show their audience how numerous the Ahir/Yadav caste was. Moreover, Yadav historiographies simultaneously quoted and paraphrased Hindu epic works such the Mahabharata and the Bhagavad Gita and the ethnographic and the ethnological works of Bingley ([1892] 1937), Crooke (1890), Elliot ([1844] 1869) and

Ibbetson (1916). These dynamics are still present and contemporary Yadav historians still use colonial ethnography and mythology to support their claims (see, for instance, Pandey 1968; Yadav 1992; Swami Sudhannad Yogi Yadav 1997). Mythical events (in this case also religious beliefs, see Michelutti 2008: Chapter 5) inform the text with an aura of religiosity. Yadav caste historiographies are marked by a similar structure, language and content. Repetitiveness, which is so characteristic of essentialist rhetoric, is another constant (see Pandey 1995: 371). The authors tend to accumulate as much available data as possible to prove that the Yadavs are an ‘ancient’, ‘successful’, ‘numerous’ and ‘historically relevant’ community (or race) with exceptional qualities and characteristics, which in some places and times has become poor and backward and hence needs ‘reservation policies’ to improve its wellbeing. These contemporary texts generally begin with the history of the Aryans and their social system; 2 they move on to describe the history of the mythical Yadavs and the life and achievements of their most famous member, the god Krishna. Finally, they describe the history of the Abhira tribe, of the Rewari Ahir kingdom and the achievements of contemporary Yadavs. Sections are also devoted to the Yadavs’ social system, social life, rituals, and family life and Yadav cultural achievements and their outstanding characteristics (Khedkar 1959: XI). The brave acts of Lord Krishna are by the heroic actions of Yadav historical figures. The texts tell the story of how contemporary Yadavs are the descendants, and the replacements, of their mythical ancestors and as such possess the same characteristics and predispositions. Emphasis is, therefore, placed on descent. Genealogical charts that trace the bloodline of

accompanied

2 In these colonial ethno-histories, the Ahirs have often been equated with the Abhira tribes who were considered to be immigrant tribes from Central Asia and supposedly entered India before the beginning of the Christian era (Rao 1979: 124). M. S. A. Rao (ibid.: 126) has pointed out how one of the most debated issues amongst Yadav scholars is whether the Abhiras are of Aryan origin or not. ‘The significance of this debate is that if it is proved that the Abhiras are of non-Aryan origin, then their Yadava claim would fail, as the Yadavs were Aryans’ (ibid.). These views were challenged by Ahir/Yadav caste literature. By the mid-19th century Ahir/Yadav scholars had produced publications in which they argued in favour of Aryan origins of the Abhiras, and therefore, of the Ahirs (see Khedkar 1959; Pandey 1968; Yadav 1915; Yadav 1921; Yadav 1928; Yadav 1967).

the present Yadavs to their god Krishna and to famous Yadav kings and princes are invariably present. Lists of the different Ahir/Yadav clans generally follow the mythical genealogical trees. The long sections devoted to clans may appear contradictory in a text whose main aim is to portray Yadav unity and homogeneity. However, Yadavs do not see their clan structure as divisive and this is because clans are exogamous and do not prevent the amalgamation of the whole Yadav community. The central ideological theme is that all Yadavs ultimately descend from Krishna and that they share the same essence and blood. On the whole, such narratives seem to fit in well with the Yadav conception of caste, which traditionally places a lot of weight on religious descent and quality, and distinctiveness of blood. In such systems, birth is believed to transmit essential and natural qualities. Hence, Ahir/Yadav historians tend to have a specific way of reinterpreting and reading social classifications, texts and histories (cf. Sundar 1999: 105) which is linked to their descent-centred conception of caste and this is reflected not only in the way they responded to particular colonial policies but is also evident in their caste historiographies. By the 1990s, Yadav caste associations had been revitalised as a response to the political mobilisation of the OBCs. The Yadav Mahasabha had begun to use the media in an instrumental and systematic way. Its voice began to be recorded by local and national newspapers. In addition, new historiographies which discuss the Yadav past and culture were published and old ones were reviewed (Pandey 1968; Yadav 1992 ; Yadav 1967; Swami Sudhannad Yogi Yadav 1997). These publications do not present substantial differences in terms of the structure and tone of their narrative if compared with the colonial ones described earlier. The main innovation is the introduction of sections about successful Yadav politicians, such as Mulayam Singh Yadav and Laloo Prasad Yadav, and the inclusion of recent sociological material on the Yadav Backward Class movement. M. S. A. Rao’s work on the Yadav movement (1979) is largely quoted. Today, therefore, a large part of the souvenirs or pamphlets illustrating the Yadav community’s historical construction refer to the Yadavs as ‘an ethnic group’, and to the AIYM as the promoter of Yadav ethnic identity, borrowing the social category ‘ethnic’ from Rao’s work.3 A number of Yadav websites have also been set up (e.g., www.yadav.com, accessed 3 AIYM Platinum Jubilee Year, Souvenir 1924–99 (1999: Preface).

15 October 2005) to mobilise the Yadav global community. Even on these sites, large sections are dedicated to the history of the Yadavs and their political success. In general, however, contemporary Yadav experts have become more concerned with adopting a professional historical method. The importance of adopting a historical to composing Yadav histories is explicitly emphasised by the AIYM agenda. The AIYM requires Yadav scholars to be accurate in their methodology, that is, to support their accounts with ‘historical facts’. In 1998, the following guidelines were sent by the central AIYM committee to the Mahasabha state branches. The occasion was to plan of a book about Yadav history and culture.

approach

Please take note of the following points while doing the write-up: —The write-up has got to be brief and to the point; authentic and objective. —As far as possible, the mythological stories and traditions should be

made use of only when some historical evidence supports them directly or indirectly. (Internal circular, 1998, originally in English.) The use of terms such as ‘authentic’, ‘objective’ and ‘historical evidence’ expresses the need for Yadav experts to provide ‘histories’ of their communities which fit in with the methodological demands of professional history, and hence, which are legitimate in the public domain. In order to collect material for their articles and books, a number of Yadav scholars regularly visit the Nehru Memorial Museum and Library (NMML) in Delhi. Whenever I came across them there, they seemed extremely pleased to hear that I was finally doing ‘real’ research, that is, ‘historical research’ rather than ‘participant observation’. Informants never really grasped why I was collecting ethnographic data given the fact that there was already so much literature and documentation on the Yadavs and Krishna that needed to be explored. ‘Written material’, in their eyes, was authentic and ‘true’ The importance given to authoritative written sources is reflected in the personal archives of many of the Yadav experts I have met over the years. Their archives are very similar, both in the way they are organised and in terms of their content. Their book collections usually contain the most established Yadav books published over the last 100 years: Abhir Kul Dipika (The Enlightenment of the Abhir Clan, n.d.), n.d.; Ahir Itihas Ki Jhalak (A Glimpse into the History of the Ahirs, 1915); Jatiya Sandesh (Jati Message, 1921);

The Divine Heritage of the Yadavs (1959); A List of Rules of Yadav Jati (1928); Yaduvans Ka Itihas (History of the Yaduvansh, 1969); Yadavs through the Ages (1992); and Yadav Itihas (History of the Yadavs, 1997). Often, located close to the caste literature are colonial district gazetteers and files containing photocopies of sections of the census in which the Yadavs are mentioned. Rao’s (1979) book is also often found in Yadav experts’ personal collections. Then there is the Bhagavad Gita, the Mahabharata and local vernacular copies of the martial epic of Alha and Udal and of Lorik. I have also often found the works of the Bengali nationalist Bankim Chandra Chatterjee.4 And then there are the recent biographies of modern Yadav leaders, such as Mulayam Singh Yadav and Laloo Prasad Yadav (Ashrafi 1994; Yadav 2001; Yadav 1998). Contemporary newspaper and magazine clippings about ‘Yadavs’

have also been kept. Much of this contemporary material claims to prove the historical reliability of the Mahabharata. ‘Warrior Roots: Scholars Claim Shivaji was not Rajput but a Hoysala Yadava’ 5 ‘Science and Legend Merge in Dwarka’; 6 ‘Dwarka’s Past Powerfully Influencing the Present’;7 and then ‘Somanatha Temple, its History and Sanctity’. These are the headings of a number of articles which I was given by various local Yadav experts in Delhi and Mathura. They have been filed in their personal archives because they attempt to prove that the Mahabharata is a ‘true’ story. They describe how, since the 1980s, archaeologists and scientists have been trying to determine where the ancient town of Dwarka was located. In recent years, archaeological excavations have been made at sites described in the Mahabharata and Ramayana (Van der Veer 1994: 144–45). Yadav historians closely follow these research projects and update their files with new evidence to support the historicity of Krishna

4 According to the Bengali nationalist writer, ‘Krishna was not only an avatar but an ideal man, a Positivist hero’ (Mukherjee and Maddern 1986: 19). Chatterjee attempts to prove the historicity of Krishna and to ‘rescue’ the ‘real Krishna’ from the mystical cowherd who played games with milkmaids. Chatterjee’s Krishna was a warrior, politician and philosopher. ‘A man who had cultivated all human faculties well and had achieved harmony. He was a man of action not an effeminate cowherder nor an ascetic’ (ibid.: 19). 5 The Week, 21 October 2001. 6 The Hindu, 31 October 1998. 7 The Hindu, 2 November 1995.

and the Mahabharata ‘to foreigners and non-believers’ (N. S. Yadav, 65 years old, Yadav activist). These data are added to the historical evidence which Yadav experts have been collecting since the beginning of the century. For instance: ‘An inscription engraved 3730 years after the Bhara war i.e. about 600 A.D. in Siva temple at Ibhalli in Dharvad clearly refers to the battle of Kurukshetra (see Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, Vol. IV pp. 376/7; Vol. V p. 725; VI. p. 88. Journal of Royal Asiatic Society. New series 185 b. Vol. I Part 2. p. 273)’ (quoted in Khedkar 1959: 52). Hindu histories support Yadav experts with a source of ‘historical facts’ which prove the historical existence of Krishna and his link with the Yadavs. The need to historically prove a mythological event is not only confined to Yadav scholars in Delhi. Local Yadav experts in Mathura have the same concern. S. P. S. Yadav is the editor of Yaduvani, a newsletter which has been published in Mathura-Vrindavan since 1968. He is in his 70s and used to be an English teacher at K. C. College in Mathura. Yaduvani is printed at a Yadav printing press in Sadar Bazaar. Between 2,000 and 2,500 copies per month are printed and then sent by mail to their subscribers. When in December 1999 I subscribed to the journal (at a cost of ` 100 per year) I was the 800th new subscriber that year. Yadav said that he was pleased with the performance of his journal. Most of its subscribers are from Mathura and the Braj area.Yadav boasted that he does not find it difficult to find articles for each monthly publication. He regularly receives at least 20 pieces of work a month and has a hard time choosing what to publish. When I asked which criteria he used to select the articles, he said that he privileges objective writings and prefers to publish ‘histories’ rather than ‘legends’. At the same time, he privileges histories which diffuse the message of Krishna and of the Bhagavad Gita. The preoccupation with historical facts is not only confined to

Yadav scholars. To a certain extent it also concerns ordinary people, that is, the readers of Yadav historiographies. Ahir Para Yadavs endlessly referred me to ‘books’ and ‘historical sites’ which, in their eyes, proved their tales of origin and the achievements and qualities of their ancestors. What they considered to be the history of the Yadavs par excellence was the Mahabharata, and in particular, the Bhagavad Gita. Many emphasised how these were true histories and how, in recent times, archaeological findings had supported their historical validity. In Ahir Para, archaeological debates are a

common and popular topic of conversation. This is partly because the Krishnajanmabhumi issue, and the debates surrounding it, have entered the public arena. In this respect, the role of the media is particularly influential. Countless times my informants said ‘I read it in the newspaper’ or ‘I saw it on TV’ to support their claim. They often used the media as a source to prove that Krishna was born in Mathura and was a great political leader. Thus, the historical claims put forward by the Sangh Parivar in an attempt to prove that the Shahi mosque is built on the site of Krishna’s birthplace offer local Yadavs a repertoire of ‘historical’ facts to enrich their narratives of the past. In the same way that Yadav experts collect clippings from magazines and books about the historicity of the Mahabharata and Krishna, Ahir Para Yadavs cite ‘historical evidence’ that they have either read in local newspapers or have come to know about from ‘town rumours’. From the day of my arrival in Mathura, informants advised me to go to the Mathura museum. They said that it was the place to go for a scholar and, in particular, for someone who was interested in the Yadavs’ history and culture. I was told that archaeological evidence ‘about Krishna’ was kept and ‘researched’ there. A number of informants told me that scholars ‘from Delhi’ had found ‘scientific’ evidence which proved that the Shahi mosque was built over Krishna’s birthplace. Such ‘historical’ evidence was used in by informants not to support the validity of the Sangh Parivar’s claims, but as further ‘scientific evidence’ of their unique past.

conversation

As a matter of fact, people in Ahir Para/Sadar Bazaar (the Yadav

area in Mathura) strongly criticised the Krishnajanmabhumi’s movement. Overall, 84 per cent of Sadar Bazaar residents said that there was no justification for pulling down the Shahi mosque (Mathura Survey 1999). Some Yadavs were strongly against the Babri Masjid in Ayodhya, but at the same time were sympathetic towards the liberation of Krishna’s birthplace. This is mainly because they have stronger ‘feelings’ towards Krishna, their ancestor, than towards Ram. This approach was not, however, very widespread.

liberation

demolishing However, the incorporation of Hindu nationalist themes is

common in local Yadav narratives, which represent continuity with

the past. This is done explicitly by the Mathura Yadav Sammelan (MYS), whose newsletters and caste literature are partly based on the portrayal of Krishna and Mathura found in the pilgrimage

literature and Hindu nationalist pamphlets. The Hindu nationalist rhetoric permeating these texts portrays Krishna as a historical person and his native place, Mathura, as a historical birthplace. It is important to underline the fact that, generally speaking, local people perceive the historical findings collected in the museum, or documented in a TV serial or newspaper, as extra evidence of their being descendants of an extraordinary person with extraordinary qualities. At the local level, Hindu narratives are presented by Yadav experts and ordinary Yadavs as ‘hard historical facts’ of the perennial existence of the Yadav community in Mathura town. The history of Mathura’s shrine becomes the history of the local Yadavs, who claim to be the autochthonous inhabitants of Mathura and the descendants of Krishna. I should emphasise here that Yadavs in Ahir Para do not need historical evidence to believe that they descended from Krishna. In their eyes, religious texts or shrines are not fictitious if they are not backed up by historical facts. However, if they are, then they are somehow seen to acquire extra legitimacy, especially in the eyes of ‘others’. In short, local people both devalue and value ‘history’ at the same time and manipulate and adapt it according to the audiences they are addressing. I suggest that by using the language of ‘science’, Mathura Yadavs also dress up their past with authority. This is more of a cosmetic change rather than a qualitative one. Informants provide accounts of their past which are both and ahistorical, and imbibed with a mythological aura to which religious meanings are attached. For them it is irrelevant to distinguish between mythology, archaeologically proven facts and the god they worship. ‘Historical facts’ embodied in written sources or in archeological artecrafts are conceived as an extra layer to be added to their past, a layer that bestows a modern tone to their narratives and allows them to legitimise various political claims, to play the democratic game and to gain self-respect and dignity. Yadavs recognise that ‘the past is a scarce resource’ and that it needs to be authoritative, credible and plausible (Appadurai 1981) and hence they portray it as ‘historical’. The result is a multivocal heritage which, though it clings to traditional themes and maintains its mythical and religious character, is legitimised and, I would say, modernised, by the secular language of professional history, and indirectly by the secular language of democracy.

generally

historical

Yadav historiographies are often used by ordinary Yadavs and by politicians to define who they are and to promote their careers. Rather significantly, ordinary people often told me things that I could read in these texts and they did this using the same language of descent, myth, religion, history and democracy. Their historical and written past has not therefore been disconnected from the language of myth, but has rather been part of the vernacularisation process of democratic politics in India (see Michelutti 2008: Introduction and Chapter 3) which entails a dialectical relation between society, culture and politics and produces, among other things, historical charters which are both ‘secular’ and ‘religious’. Krishna in the Political Rhetoric of the Samajwadi Party and the Yadav Caste Associations I will now examine how Hindu nationalist propaganda and Yadav caste/community rhetoric is intermingled with the political rhetoric of the SP. In Mathura in particular and in UP more generally, the majority of the Yadav caste association leaders (the Mathura Yadav Sammelan and Uttar Pradesh Yadav Mahasahba respectively) are also politically active in the SP. It is therefore difficult to separate party and caste political rhetoric since they are closely interconnected and both deeply involved in electoral politics (for a comparison, see Jaoul 2007a). I shall start with a few remarks on the political agenda of the SP. Mulayam Singh Yadav is the founder and mentor of the SP. However, he has credited his personal success to his mentor Dr Rammanohar Lohia. The latter’s writings on socialism and politics are acknowledged as a major source of inspiration by Yadav socialist leaders. A copy of Lohia’s book The Caste System (1964) was the first present I was offered when I visited an SP office in Delhi or Mathura for the first time. Lohia was one of the few social leaders in the 1960s and 1970s to have recognised ‘the political potential of the horizontal mobilisation of lower castes on issues of social justice and ritual discrimination’ (see Sheth 1999: 108). He favoured caste mobilisation over class polarisation because he was of the idea that the latter lacked an ‘empirical social basis for mobilisation politics’ (ibid.). The rhetoric of the SP today depicts Lohia as a hero who fearlessly fought for social justice. ‘The common man’ and the ‘ordinary people’ are the target of the SP’s rhetoric, and they are mobilised along caste lines. The party draws its vote from two principal social categories: Muslims and Backward Castes.

Amongst the Backward Castes the largest caste group is the Yadavs, followed by the Kurmis, Lodhis and Sainis. Indeed, the SP also mobilises the Muslim community along caste lines. It draws its strength mainly from backward Muslim castes, such as the Qureshi, Kasais, Ansari and Bishti. It makes a special effort to prove that its agenda is aimed at the poor and the ordinary people. However, since 1998, Mulayam Singh Yadav has also attempted to curry support among the ‘forward’ castes. As part of this attempt, he allotted 21 per cent and 25 per cent of seats to upper castes in the 1996 and 1998 Lok Sabha elections respectively. His right-hand man and SP Vice-President Amar Singh (Rajput by caste from western UP, Aligarh district), pointed out in an interview how one of the main SP objectives over the next 10 years is to gain more favour among the upper castes.8 Hence the party is not building its support on the alliance between lower communities such as the Dalits (Scheduled Castes [SCs]) and the Other Backward Castes (OBCs), as Lohia had originally planned. In actual fact, SP supporters are strongly anti-Dalit and they are more interested in defending their dominant interests rather than constructing a socio-political alliance with lower castes (which generally support the BSP). Having said that, Lohia still remains one of the party’s icons and there are numerous political leaders within the party who still believe in his vast project. The following are the major themes of the SP’s political agenda: the party stands for equality and prosperity for everybody; it is against communal forces; it believes in democratic socialism and opposes any uncontrolled entry of multinational companies in India; it believes that agriculture and small- and medium-scale industry are the backbone of the Indian economy, and hence every assistance should be given to these sectors (see Samajwadi Party Manifesto 1999 or www.samajwadiparty.org, accessed 15 July 2009). Thus, the party has not been presenting itself only as a party of farmers but also as a party of small entrepreneurs and businessmen. In my experience of Mathura, many young ‘self-made’ men who also belong to upper castes were big fans of Mulayam Singh Yadav. They appreciated his upfront active position and took him as an example of a self-made man. Mulayam Singh portrays himself as an ‘ordinary’ man from a modest background, who has achieved personal success. Men from 8 Interview, Amar Singh, 28 January 2000. For profiles of Amar Singh see Outlook, 10 May 1999; India Today, 25 October 1999.

similarly upwardly mobile castes, who wish to acquire economic and social recognition, view the SP leader as a model. The election rally held in September 1999 in Mathura district by Mulayam Singh exemplifies the SP’s mobilising techniques and targets. 9 The leader made a special effort to reach out to the Muslims, the backward classes and small and medium entrepreneurs. He began his speech by saying that the SP is the party which gives a voice to the poor, the working people and the young. He said that the Congress and BJP are wasting their time by discussing how Indian borders are not safe, and do not pay enough attention to unemployment, poverty, and water and electricity shortages. By highlighting the dangers they are exposed to by the BJP, Muslims were encouraged to vote for the SP. Mulayam Singh explicitly declared that the BJP had a negative attitude towards Muslims. He said that many Muslim shrines had been attacked in the surrounding area. He referred to the cases of two small mosques in the nearby districts of Faridabad and Ferozabad, which had been attacked by Hindu fundamentalist organisations in previous months. He said that he had sent ‘his men’ to fix the matter and that order had now been re-established. Thus, Mulayam Singh presented himself as a ‘tough’ defender of Muslim interests. He portrays himself as a fearless leader. The Yadav audience was indirectly courted by a long digression on the usurpations and unfair that milkmen (who in Uttar Pradesh mainly belong to the Yadav community) had had to face in previous months. Mulayam Singh said that the milkmen were falsely accused of mixing milk with water and were then asked for bribes by the police. He accused the public dairy of exploiting the small milk producers and of buying their milk for ` 8 and then selling it for ` 14; and he directly accused the BJP government of not being able to solve the problems of the poor people and of small scale entrepreneurs. He said that the Congress had destroyed the country over a period of 44 years and that the BJP had managed to do so in only 13 months. He ended his speech by declaring that the SP is the party of youth, and that in the next assembly elections (2002) the party would form the government in UP. In his speeches, Mulayam Singh relies on a language which highlights the weakness and impotence of Congress

treatment

9 Mulayam Singh Yadav/parliamentary election campaign rally/Kosi, Mathura district/2 September 1999.

and the BJP and the strength and vitality of the SP’s supporters. Mulayam asks his ‘brothers and sisters’ to assert themselves and to take control of their lives. The SP’s ideology is in some ways complementary to that espoused

by the Yadav caste associations. The SP network lends dynamism to the quasi-ethnic discourse developed by Yadav caste associations and historians. Yadav caste political rhetoric is centred round the construction of ‘Yadav essences’. Contemporary Yadavs are as heirs of the qualities and skills of their Yadava ancestors. By the same token, charismatic Yadav political leaders tell ordinary Yadavs that if they like, they can become like ‘Mulayam’. They say that in every Yadav there is a ‘Mulayam’, i.e., every Yadav has a predisposition for politics. However, SP politicians explicitly say that these predispositions need to be brought out by action. Yadav politicians ask their caste mates to assert themselves, to be proud of being Yadav. To gain self respect (samman) and dignity (man-samman) (if necessary through violence) is their motto. One outcome of this rhetoric is the emphasis laid by young Yadavs on their muscular bodies and on the creation of a goonda reputation in their neighbourhood and town. Young Yadavs portray themselves as physically strong, brave and bold, hence powerful and fearless (see Michelutti forthcoming). The emphasis on action is accompanied by the use of a particular religious language in which Krishna is linked to his martial-pastoral mythology. During rallies and political meetings aimed at creating a bond with the audience, Yadav politicians (mainly from the SP) compare themselves to a Krishna who has lost his sexual ambiguity, but not his mischievousness and hit stagecraft abilities and, importantly, human touch— a Krishna, whose morality is ambiguous in a similar way to that of Yadav strongmen politicians. This is not a dry rhetorical claim. In Yadav local mythology hero-musclemen-gods (conceived as avatars of Krishna), who protect and defend the weaker people and the cows, are an overwhelming presence (see Michelutti 2008: Chapter 6). These cults are linked to the Yadav pastoral–martial past and to cowherd-kings who were thieves and robbers in a Robin Hood fashion and today are worshipped as local lineage deities. These cowherd-kings, or village strongmen, who become deified as hero-musclemen-gods are often conceptualised as good protectors despite their weak moral integrity (see below, as an example, the case of Mekhasur).

conceived

It thus follows that contemporary Yadavs view a number of their musclemen political leaders as perpetrators of a long tradition of Yadav heroism. They view Mulayam Singh Yadav and Laloo Prasad Yadav as heroic ‘incarnations’ of Krishna who defend the weaker sections of society. In the eyes of the informants, they have a heroic status because they fight against the enemies of their community and for the community’s social wellbeing. In many ways, Krishna’s ambiguity, his relation to hero-musclemen-god deities and his makes him the perfect god for Yadav politicians to claim affinity with. It should also be noted that SP Yadav political leaders use Krishna imagery during rallies and political meetings in which the audience is mainly Yadav or Hindu. When the audience is mainly Muslim, Krishna is seldom mentioned and emphasis is laid on specific ‘Muslim’ issues and on the party’s commitment to fighting the Sangh Parivar hegemonic aspirations. 10 However, I should emphasise that Krishna, as a democratic and ‘secular’ leader, is not seen by local politicians as completely foreign to local ‘Muslims’. On the contrary, I have often been reminded that a number of local Muslim castes claim descent to Krishna (like the Meos) (Michelutti 2008: 55–57); they worship the cow and they recite variations of the Mahabharata (Mayaram 2004).

humanity

Popular Democracy and Local Religious Cults: The Normalisation of Hinduvta If on the one hand Yadav political–religious language shows the internal weakness of Hindu Nationalism and its problems in creating a united Hindu India with an homogenous religious discourse, on the other hand, it also highlights the socio-cultural impact that Hinduvta is having on local popular cults and the political implications of such changes. The muscular hero-god cults to which I refer in previous sections are undergoing changes and are gradually being into Krishna cults. In Mathura, Yadav internal processes of fusion are accompanied by a gradual substantialisation of the Yadav Hindu pantheon: Krishna has progressively become the main god, as well as the main ancestor. Such a process is accompanied by the adoption of Sanskritic forms of Hinduism which has transformed

transformed

10 I am currently working on a research project which focuses on the study of the political mobilisation of Muslims by the SP.

the different Yadav subdivisions (Nandavanshi, Goallavanshi and Yaduvanshi) into superior ‘Krishnavanshi’ Yadavs. The encompassing Krishna tale legitimates the equality of all members and expresses it through the religious language of descent. Over the last 50 years, there has been a change in terms of who

ordinary local Yadavs actually worship, how they worship and who they believe to be their direct ancestors/protectors. More specifically, over the last three generations there has been an shift from the cult of ‘meat-eating’ deities to ‘vegetarian’ deities and from lineage deities to caste/community deities. 11 For instance, the worship of local ‘male’ lineage deities (kuldevtas) has been gradually substituted with the cult of Krishna.12 By the same token, the local ‘female’ kul deities (kuldevis) have been tamed and transmuted into vegetarian vaishno devis, whose foundation myths are now solidly linked to the mythology of Krishna and his companion Radha. Among young people the tutelary function of the ‘Krishna’ as a kuldevta is justified and proven by mythological episodes from the Mahabharata. The appearance of Krishna in the Mahabharata, who as a god helps the Yadav prince Arjuna to perform his martial duty, is the most common example referred to. This change shows the extent to which religious reformism, which emphasised vegetarianism, non-violence and the cult of great deities at the expenses of ‘little deities’, has become ingrained in the everyday life of Mathura Yadavs. I shall now provide the illustrative example of such a trend by showing what is happening to a hero god cult in the Mathura Yadav neighbourhood (Ahir Para) I studied. The hero-god (and also kuldevta) understudy is Mekhasur. His main shrine is located in Gangiri, Atrauli teshil, Aligarh district, which is 150 km from Mathura town.13 Mekhasur is a strictly Yadav cult both in Ahir Para and in Gangiri. In Ahir Para there are two small shrines dedicated

evident

11 Here, for ‘meat-eating’ deity I mean deities who demand blood sacrifices (cf. Fuller 1992). 12 In Yadavs’ publications there is often reference to local deities and in particular to the epic of Lorik. They are usually considered and portrayed as symbol of Yadav culture and ‘heroic’ substance. 13 Local people indicate two families— the Chaudhri and the Dudh parivars— as founders of Ahir Para. They are both originally from Kannauj and have agnatic relations with the Yadavs of Atrauli district where the shrine of Mekhasur lies. It is plausible that members of the same exogamous clusters moved from

to Mekhasur, one in the main Deshwar family (belonging to the ‘Dudh parivar’) and one in one of the Jaweria clan households (belonging to the ‘Chaudhri parivar’). On various occasions, when in conversation with old men and women of the Chaudhri parivar and Dudh parivar, I was told that Mekhasur was supposed to help them because he was their ancestor and therefore he cared for the welfare of his descendants. The stories about Mekhasur collected in Ahir Para were quite diverse. I collected several different versions of the Mekhasur legend. Pratap Singh is an old man and a cowherder. He belongs to

the Deshwar clan. In the courtyard of his house lies agumbad, an orange-coloured hill, said to represent Mekhasur. Pratap Singh was not able or willing to provide any information about what he called ‘his ancestor’. He only said that he was a brave Ahir and that his main shrine was to be found near Gangiri, in Aligarh district. He added that he had been twice to visit the shrine. Finally, he added that if Mekhasur had considered it timely, he would have appeared in my dreams and personally told me his story. Alternatively, he suggested I go to Gangiri and talk with the jagas (local term for genealogists) of the temple. The caretaker of Mekhasur’s shrine acts as genealogist to a number of Yadav lineages. Up until 20 years ago, these jagas used to visit Ahir Para regularly and spend several days registering newborns. Furthermore, they used to sing songs related to the life of Mekhasur and to collect offerings for his shrine. In Pratap Singh’s family, as in that of Hari Singh, men or married women perform puja to Mekhasur on Mondays. On the day after Diwali, the festival of the cattle, and on Holi, the head of the family performs a special puja. Up until 20 years ago, devotees used to sacrifice a he-goat. Nowadays, Mekhasur is a vegetarian deity and he is said to no longer like blood. I tried to discover if Mekhasur worshippers think the deity still insists on blood bali (sacrifice), but the answers were always negative. Coconut and khir (rice cooked in milk) and chapatti (bread) are offered instead. Members of the Deshwar got are supposed to undergo the shaving ceremony Kannauj together and while a part settled down in Mathura, the rest settled down in the Atrauli district of Aligarh. Mekhasur as, a deity, appears to have a marked territorial character as well as a clan character. Deities in Ahir Para can be divided into ‘caste-free deities’ and ‘caste-specific deities’ (see Srivastava 1997: 54). The latter are those in which members of a particular caste have a particular faith.

(called mundan and carried out on boys) at the Mekhasur shrine. Other Mekhasur worshippers in Ahir Para were willing to tell me the ‘stories’ of Mekhasur, which contained different versions of the hero-god legend. Mekhasur is said to be an Ahir and a cattle-rescuer who died at the hands of his enemies. According to various versions, ‘the enemies’ were either represented by the Thakurs (a local landed caste) or by Muslims. Arjun Singh Yadav, the head of one of the Javeria households in Ahir Para, has a statue of Mekhasur in his courtyard. Arjun Singh is a policeman. His grandfather is said to have taken the cult of Mekhasur from Kannauj, their district of origin, and installed his shrine in the garden. Mekhasur was a young boy. He had a quarrel with his mother and left his family for a period of tapasya (ascetic life) in the jungle. After this

period, he came back and began to look after his family’s cows. One day there was a big fight between the Ahir residents of his village and the residents of the nearby Thakur village. Since god had given him the gift of magic powers (juta thona), while he was in the forest he was able to kill many enemies during the battle that took place between the two villages. He finally got killed. In a dream his mother was informed

about the magic powers of her son and she spread the news throughout the region. Accordingly, a samadhi (memorial grave) was built and the Mekhasur cult began.

According to Hari Singh, a former milkman and a devoted bhakta, the story of the hero-god goes as follows: ‘There were two villages: one inhabited by Yadavs and one by Thakurs. While grazing his cows, Mekhasur entered the Thakur territory. This act cost him his head (he was decapitated). In the evening the cows went back to their village followed by Mekhasur’s rolling head. The head rolled to the master of the village telling him what happened and ensuring that he kept feeding his cows.’ The Thakurs are portrayed as bad characters in the folk tales told in the Yadav region of Mathura and Aligarh. The genesis of their mutual recrimination is reported in various legends. The following is one of the different versions available: There was a Raja (king) who had two sons from two different queens. Influenced by the charming face of one queen, he nominated her offspring heir-apparent, while the other son, although the elder, was deprived of the throne and his ancillary privileges. The disinherited son was born of a Yadav and the heir-apparent of a Chauhan mother. Then follows the

lengthy story as to how the Yadava prince was later on harassed by his Chauhan brother, who became king, and finally how the Yadava prince took his revenge.

The theme of the contrast between landed castes and pastoral ones is common. Comparative ethnographic material exists about pastoral castes in South India where their disputes with landed castes are usually described as related to the protection of cows and of the pasture territory (Hiltebeitel 1989). Most other versions of Mekhasur’s tale recorded in Ahir Para identify the enemies of the Ahir cowherder, Mekhasur, with the Muslim community. According to Ram Singh (90 years old, famous wrestler and leader of the local Yadav community), ‘the Muslims’ killed Mekhasur. Mekhasur was a cowherder. He was a single child and had hundreds of cows to take care of. One day, he went to the jungle and ‘Muslims’ attacked him. He was decapitated. At home, Mekhasur’s cows were left to starve. Mekhasur’s head is said to have rolled as far as the headman

of the village, and to have told him to look after the abandoned cows.

A different version, yet still centred on a dispute with members of the Muslim community, was provided by Baba Gorakan Das Ji. He is a Yadav ascetic, who belongs to the Ramanandi sampraday and is originally from Etawah town. At present, he is one of the caretakers at the Mahadev Ghat complex. Mekhasur was an Ahir orphan boy who lived in the village of Gangiri

in Atrauli district near Aligarh. His village happened to be attacked by the Muslims while he was grazing his cattle. In his village there lived a Brahman widow and her daughter. During the attack, the Muslims kidnapped the latter. When he came back from the fields Mekhasur saw what had happened to his village, completely ransacked by the Muslims intruders. He promptly decided to go to rescue the daughter of the

Brahman woman. He (alone) went to the nearby Muslim village, killed almost everybody and rescued the young Brahman girl. After a while, a number of the Muslims that had survived came back to the village and killed Mekhasur. The Brahman widow buried him and divulged the story of his bravery throughout Braj. In Gangiri there is still a samadhi (memorial grave). He is considered kuldevta by members of

the Dudh Parivar.

Many versions of Mekhasur’s legend focus on ‘Muslims’ as the enemies of Mekhasur and his cows. This portrayal predictably raises

questions about the nature of the relations between Yadavs and Muslims. The narratives about Mekhasur, which portray Ahir/Yadav hero-gods defending their kin and their herds against the Muslims, are fused with the anti-Muslim rhetoric popularly diffused by the Sangh Parivar. However, I saw Baba Gorakan Ji, who provided the above account, actively supporting the Samajwadi Party throughout the 1999 election campaign. The relationship between processes of caste formation and links to a Hindu imagery and rhetoric of past heroic deeds in confrontation with Muslims, though particularly close to the rhetoric of Hinduvta, does not reflect parallel political choices. People may still think that ‘Muslims do not have a heart’ (S. A. Yadav, 57 years old) and actively support the SP and eat tandoori chicken at its meetings with Muslim party workers (Michelutti 2008: Chapter 5). Today, in Mathura, local Yadavs mainly support the SP and consider the local Muslim community as an important political ally. Thus, the political ethnography of the Ahir/Yadavs of Mathura shows how mythological and religious realms are not immediately translatable into politics; instead, they are vernacularised. People reinterpret the cultural and religious idioms at hand and vernacularise their understanding of ‘the in different ways and according to their own interests. Nowadays, Mekhasur is described as a glorified cowherder who is supposed to be a later incarnation (avatar) of Krishna. Mekhasur as an Ahir hero, whose life ranged between his herd and fights with Thakurs/Muslims, merges with the cult and the mythology of Krishna. Today Mekhasur’s shrine in Gangiri has only one functionary, the caretaker of the temple, Gelon Singh Yadav, who also acts as the genealogist for a number of Yadav gots. Traditionally, Mekhasur’s shrine preserved the genealogies of the members of the Jaweria and Deshwar gots. In recent years, however, the shrine has become popular amongst the Yadav community of UP. People from faraway places are said to come to pay homage to Mekhasur, who is viewed today as a Krishna avatar. During their visits, their genealogies are collected irrespective of their gots and vanshs of origin. The role of Mekhasur as the protector of a specific got has been replaced by the role of Mekhasur/Krishna as protectors of all Yadavs.

political’

Gelon Singh Yadav’s priestly role is far from being specialised.

Any Yadav man can perform Mekhasur puja. The main priestly role is to clean the shrine every day and to offer puja every morning

and evening. Furthermore, there are bhagats, namely, the mediums. Anybody can become a bhagat. The one condition is to have faith in the god and to show him total devotion. The spirit enters the bhagat’s body and speaks through his mouth. I was quite surprised when I witnessed a possession session at Gangiri’s shrine. In Mathura, Mekhasur worshippers rarely mention the ‘possession issue’ and if they mentioned it they referred to it as a superstitious custom which belonged to an uncivilised past. Spirit possession is quite a sensitive issue. Yadav informants usually dismiss it as a low-caste practice. Needless to say, ‘sacrifice’ is another sensitive area. Today, offerings to Mekhasur are merely of a vegetarian kind. People from Gangiri told me that their great-grandfathers had stopped sacrificing goats. Mekhasur, I have been told, does not like blood and does not need it. On purnima (full moon), devotees ‘symbolically’ offer a goat or a little calf and then release them into the jungle. By the same token, today the Yadavs deny any link with the Aheriya tribe. They consider its members as belonging to a ‘chote jati’, namely untouchables. ‘The Aheriyas hunt and offer sacrifices (bali); we do not smoke, drink or eat with them. Members of the Aheriya caste are not allowed to enter the shrine’ (B. Yadav, 50 years old, landlord). 10 years ago, a statue (murti) of Krishna was erected in the Mekhasur shrine. A wealthy Yadav politician and active member of the local Yadav Mahasabha branch donated the murti. The temple is covered with inscriptions which hail Krishna and Radha (Jai Sri Krishna, Jai Radha). A Brahmin priest regularly comes to perform puja to Krishna. At the time of Krishna’s birthday, Janmashtami, and on other major Hindu festivals, such as Govardhan Puja, the festival of the cows, a mela (fair) is held. Several informants told me that the possession sessions are becoming rarer. Their explanations were that ‘Krishna’ does not possess his devotees. Moreover, Krishna is conceived to have powers, contrary to Mekhasur, whose powers are limited and localised. The physical juxtaposition of the two shrines— of Mekhasur and Krishna— is emblematic of the tension between greater deities and local deities, as well as of the reform efforts on the part of the Yadav community and their creation of a suitable descent through their ancestor ‘Krishna’. Ahir/Yadavs, who traditionally used to worship other kuldevtas, such as Pir Baba or Mekhasur, and now consider Krishna as their kuldevta, refer to the latter as ‘Krishna Vasudeva’: Krishna of the

universal

epic, the Yadava prince of Dwarka and ally of the Pandavas. In the descriptions given by young people, the figure of Krishna relates more to the ‘epic Krishna’ and to episodes of the Mahabharata. On one of the very first days of my fieldwork, while I was still introducing myself to the community, I was struck by the statement of Hari Singh Yadav who told me that since the Mahabharata TV serial had been broadcast nobody could ever deny the Yadavs’ princely Krishna ancestry. Different persons at different stages of my fieldwork reiterated this statement. Here, the tutelary function of the epic ‘Krishna’ as a kuldevta is justified and proven by mythological episodes from the Mahabharata. The appearance of Krishna in the Mahabharata, who as a god helps the Yadav prince Arjuna to perform his martial duty, was the most common example evoked.

Concluding Note This article shows how the language of religion is used by the (and a number of leaders) of a ‘secular’ party (the Samajwadi [Socialist] Party) which strongly opposes Hindu nationalism in north India, and how this language has become ingrained in the everyday life of ordinary citizens. Yadav caste ideologues and use a martial Krishna as their main political icon. Their political rhetoric is full of Hindu nationalist symbols and, more importantly, by a Krishna who has undergone a historicisation and masculinisation process similar to the one that happened to the god Rama, the patron deity of Hindu nationalism par excellence. However, if Rama has been represented as the perfect king and his rule (Ramrajya) as the ideal government of Hindu India, the Yadav caste/community and SP political rhetoric depict Krishna as the first democratic leader of a secular republican government. Krishna’s political recruitment (both by Hindu nationalism and its opposition) and related changes in societal spaces reflect processes of ‘the vernacularisation of democratic politics’ in the everyday life of north Indians. Let me summarise this trend with a conversation I had with one of my Yadav informants in Mathura. During my fieldwork, the local Yadav committee decided to change the name of the Dharamshala from Yadav Dharamshala to Krishna Dharamashala. The shift from Yadav to Krishna in Yadav caste vocabulary is a very widespread phenomenon. More and more Yadav social and political activists use the term ‘Krishna’ as synonymous

supporters politicians

with ‘Yadav’. For example, nowadays most community halls (bhavans) and hostels built using Yadav financial contributions

are named Krishna Bhavan, Krishna Daramshala, Krishna Hostel (not Yadav Bhavan, Yadav Daramshala or Yadav Hostel). R. P. Yadav (SP leader) told me that he did not agree with this trend. Yadavs, he said, do not understand that they are playing into

the hands of the BJP. By substituting ‘Yadav’ with ‘Krishna’ ‘we (Yadavs) are laying ground for further expansion of Hindu nationalism’. Looking back, R. P. Yadav was partly wrong. The BJP has been losing votes in UP for the past 10 years. However, R. P. Yadav has

been right in pointing out how the Hindu nationalist language has become a pervasive idiom which is developing independent of the active political involvement of Hindu nationalist politicians. The political ethnography of the Ahir/Yadavs, collected in the late 1990s

in the sacred town of Mathura, shows how religious reformism prompted by the spread of ‘Hinduvta’ has been affecting, to some degree, the relationship between ordinary people and their deities. These changes have also been internalised by ordinary Yadavs who

actively oppose the BJP and the Sangh Parivar agenda in UP. This shows how Hindutva ideology, even though powerful, does not have any hegemonic effect. Local people have vernacularised this political and religious idiom according to their own local political

interests and have decided to highlight or under-emphasise some aspects of it rather than others (such as, for example, its anti-Muslim ethos as described in the presented ethnography). It remains to be seen how ‘Hinduvta’ will creatively carry on transforming

sociocultural spaces and how these transformations in turn will shape Hindu politics and its opposition in the coming years.

References Appadurai, Arjun . 1981. ‘ The Past as a Scarce Resource’, Man (n.s.), 16 (2): 201–19. Ashrafi, W. 1994. Laloo Prasad: An Apostle of Social Justice . Delhi: Educational Publishing House. Bayly, Christopher Alan. 1983. Rulers, Townsmen and Bazaars: North Indian Society in the Age of British Expansion 1770–1870 . Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bingley, A. H. (1892) 1937. Jats, Gujars and Ahirs. New Delhi: Christine. Blunt, E. A. H. 1931. The Caste System of Northern India: With Special References to the United Provinces of Agra and Oudh. London: Oxford University Press.

Crooke, W. 1890. An Ethnological Hand-book for the North Western Provinces and Oudh. Allahabad: Government of India Press. ———. 1896. The Tribes and Castes of the North-Western Provinces and Oudh, 4 vols. Calcutta: Office of Superintendent of Government Printing. Dalmia, Vasudha. 1997. The Nationalization of Hindu Traditions: Bharatendu Harischandra and Nineteenth-Century Banaras. New Delhi: Oxford Press. Davis, R. H. 1996. ‘ The Iconography of Rama’s Chariot’, in David Ludden (ed.), Contesting the Nation: Religion, Community, and the Politics of Democracy in India, pp. 27–54. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Elliot, H. M. (1844) 1869. Memories on the History, Folklore and Distribution of the Races of the North Western Provinces of India, vol.1. London. Freitag, S. B. 1989. Collective Action and Community: Public Arenas and the Emergence of Communalism in North India. Berkeley : University of California Press. Fuller, C. J. 1992. The Camphor Flame: Popular Hinduism and Society in India. Princeton: Princeton University Press. ———. 2001. ‘ Vinayaka Chaturthi Festival and Hindutva in Tamil Nadu ’, Economic and Political Weekly, 36(19): 1607–1616. Gooptu, N. 2001. The Politics of the Urban Poor in Early Twentieth-Century India. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Hansen, Thomas Blom. 1996. ‘ The Vernacularisation of Hindutva: The BJP and Shiv Sena in Rural Maharashtra’, Contributions to Indian Sociology, 30 (2): 177–214. ———. 1999. The Saffron Wave: Democracy and Hindu Nationalism in Modern India. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press. Hiltebeitel, A. 1989. Criminal Gods and Demon Devotees: Essays on the Guardians of Popular Hinduism . Albany : State University of New York Press. ———. 1999. Draupadi among Rajputs, Muslims and Dalits: Rethinking India’s Oral and Classical Epic. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Jaffrelot, C. 2000. ‘ The Rise of the Other Backward Classes in the Hindi Belt’, The Journal of Asian Studies, 59 (1): 86–108. ———. 2003. India’s Silent Revolution: The Rise of the Lower Castes in North India. London: Hurst & Company. Jaoul, N. 2007a. ‘ Political and “Non-political” Means in the Dalit Movement’ in Sudha Pai (ed.), Political Process in UP: Identity, Economic Reform and Governance, pp. 142–68. New Delhi: Pearson Books. ———. 2007b. ‘ Dalit Processions: Street Politics and Democratization in India’, in Donal Cruise O’Brien and Julia Strauss (eds). 2007. Staging Politics: Power and Performance in Asia and Africa, pp. 174–93. London: I. B. Tauris. Kapur, A. 1993. ‘ Deity to Crusader: The Changing Iconography of Ram’, in Gyanendra Pandey (ed.), Hindus and Others, pp. 74 – 109 . New Delhi: Viking. Khedkar (Yadav), V. K. and enlarged by R. V. Khedkar (Yadav). 1959. The Divine Heritage of the Yadavas. Allahabad: Parmanand.

University

Ibbetson, D. C. J. 1916. Punjab Castes. Lahore: Civil and Military Gazette. Lohia, R. 1964. The Caste System. Hyderabad: Pragati Art Printers. Lutt, J. 1995. ‘ From Krishnalila to Ramarajya: A Court Case and its for the Reformulation of Hinduism ’, in Vasudha Dalmia and Heinrich von Stietencron (eds), Representing Hinduism: The Construction of Religious Traditions and National Identity , pp. 141–53 . London and New Delhi: Sage Publications. Malinar, A. 1995. ‘The Bhagavadgita in the Mahabharata TV Serial’, in Vasudha Dalmia and Heinrich von Srietencron (eds), Representing Hinduism: The Construction of Religious Traditions and National Identity , pp. 442–67. London and New Delhi: Sage Publications. Mayaram, S. 1997. Resisting Regimes: Myth, Memory, and the Shaping of a Muslim Identity. New Delhi and New York: Oxford University Press. ———. 2004. Against History, Against State: Counter Perspectives from the Margins. Delhi: Permanent Black. McKean, L. 1996. Divine Enterprise: Gurus and the Hindu Nationalist . Chicago: Chicago University Press. Michelutti, L. 2008. The Vernacularisation of Democracy: Politics, Caste, Religion in India. New Delhi: Routledge. ———. 2010. ‘ Wrestling with (Body) Politics: Understanding “Goonda” Political Styles in North India’, in Pamela Price and Arild Ruud (eds), Political Leadership in South Asia. New Delhi: Routledge. Mukherjee, S. N. and M. Maddern. 1986. Bankim Chandra Chatterjee: Essays: Utilitarianism and Positivism in Bengal . Calcutta : Riddhi India. Nandy, Shikha Trivedy, Shail Mayaram and Achyut Yagnik. 1995. Creating a Nationality: The Ramjanmabhumi Movement and Fear of the Self . New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Pandey, G. 1983. ‘ Rallying around the Cow: Sectarian Strife in the Bhojpuri Region, 1888–1917’, in R. Guha (ed.), Subaltern Studies: Writings on South Asian History and Society, pp. 60–129. New Delhi : Oxford University Press. ———. 1990. The Construction of Communalism in Colonial North India . New Delhi: Oxford University Press. ———. 1995. ‘ The Appeal of Hindu History’, in Vasudha Dalmia and Heinrich von Stietencron (eds), Representing Hinduism: The Construction of Religious Traditions and National Identity , pp. 369–400. New Delhi and London : Sage Publications. Pandey, R. 1968. Yaduvans ka itihas (The history of the Yaduvansh). Varanasi: Sri Prakashan. Pinch, W. R. 1996. Peasants and Monks in British India. Berkeley: University of California Press. Pollock, S. 1993. ‘ Ramayana and Political Imagination in India’, The Journal of Asian Studies 52 (2): 261–97. Ramakrishna, V. 1995. ‘ Saffron Offensive: “Liberation Theology” of a Different Kind’, Frontline, 8 September: 4–16.

Consequences

Movement

Sociological

Rao, M. S. A. 1979. Social Movements and Social Transformation: The Study of Two Backward Classes Movements in India.New Delhi: Macmillan. Risley, H. H. 1891. The Tribes and Castes of Bengal, vol. I . Calcutta: Secretariat Press. ———. (1891) 1908. People of India. London: W. Thacker. Rose, H. A. 1919. A Glossary of Tribes and Castes of the Punjab and North West Frontier, vol. I . Lahore: Superintendent Government Printing. Sheth, D. L. 1996. Ram Manohar Lohia on Caste in Indian Politics’,Lokayan Bulletin, 12 (4): 31–34. ———. 1999. ‘ Society’, in M. Bouton and P. Oldenburg (eds), India Briefing: A Transformative Fifty Years, pp. 91–120. Armonk, New York and London: Asia Society. Singer, M. (ed.). 1968. Krishna Myths, Rites and Attitudes. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Singh, M. (n.d.). Yadav-Abhir kul dipika (The Enlightenment of the Yadav-Abhir Dynasty). Trans. and ed. Rao Jasvant Singh. Delhi: Yadav Press. Simpson, E. L. 2006. Muslim Society and the Western Indian Ocean: The Seafarers of Kachchh. London: Routledge. Sontheimer, G. D. 1993. Pastoral Deities in Western India. Trans. Anne Feldhaus. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Sopher, D. E. 1975. ‘ Indian Pastoral Castes and Livestock Ecologies: A Geographic Analysis’, in L. S. Leshnik and G. D. Sontheimer (eds), Pastoralists and Nomads in South Asia, pp. 183–208. Wiesbaden: Harassowitz. Srivastava, V. K. 1997. Religious Renunciation of a Pastoral Caste. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Sundar, N. 1999. ‘ The Indian Census, Identity and Inequality’, in R. Guha and J. P. Parry (eds), Institutions and Inequalities: Essays in Honour of Andre Beteille, pp. 100–127. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Suryavanshi, B. 1962. The Abhiras: Their History and Culture. Baroda: M.S. University of Archaeology and Ancient History Series. Thakur, S. 2000. The Making of Laloo Yadav: The Unmaking of Bihar. New Delhi: HarperCollins. Van der Veer, P. 1994. Religious Nationalism: Hindus and Muslims in India . Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Yadav, B. P. 1928. Ahir jati ki niyamavali (A list of rules of Yadav Jati). Varanasi: B. P. Yadav. Yadav, D. S. 1915. Ahir itihas ki jhalak (A glimpse into the history of the Ahirs). Etawah: Krishna Press. Yadav, J. L. 1999. ‘ Akil Bharatiya Mahasabha Itihas ’, Yadav Kul Dipika, Special Jubilee Number, pp. 13–18. Yadav, J. N. S. 1992. Yadavas through the Ages . Delhi: Sharada Publishing House. ———. 1996. Yadavas of India Today. Gurgaon: Yadav Prakashan. Yadav, K. C. 1967. Ahirwal ka itihas (History of the Ahirwal) . Delhi: Haryana Prakash. ———. 2001. The Laloo Phenomenon: Paradoxes of Changing India. New Delhi: Hope India Publications.

Yadav, N. P. 1921. Jatiya Sandesh (Jati message). Darbhanga: Swami Nathu Bhagat Yadav. Yadav, R. L. 1999. ‘ Oral epics’, in Yadav Kul Dipika , Special Jubilee Number, pp. 71–72. Yadav, R. S. 1998. Mulayam Singh: A Political Biography. New Delhi: Konark Publishers. Yadav, S. P. 1935. ‘The History of the All India Yadav Mahasabha’, Yadavesh, 20. Yadav, Swami Sudhannad Yogi . 1997. Yadav itihas (History of the Yadavs). Delhi: Yadukul Prakashan. Yadav, Y. 2000. ‘ Understanding the Second Democratic Upsurge: Trends of Bahujan Participation in Electoral Politics in the 1990s’, in F. R. Frankel, Z. Hasan, R. Bhargava and B. Arora (eds), Transforming India: Social And Political Dynamics Of Democracy , pp. 120–45. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Wilkinson, S. 2004. ‘ Votes and Violence: Electoral Competition and Ethnic Riots in India. Cambridge Studies in Comparative Politics’. http://www.myilibrary.com/Browse/open.asp?ID=54052&loc=166. Accessed 18 January 2009.

Web Link Samajwadi Party. www.samajwadiparty.org. Accessed 17 January 2011.

10 Casting the ′Swe p rs′: Local Politics of Sanskritisation, Caste and Labour1 Nicolas Jaoul Introduction How did the so-called caste of ‘sweepers’, considered all over India as ’untouchables’ among ’untouchables’, become identified as the Valmikis?2 A local perspective on this Scheduled Caste community of sanitation labourers will help us grasp in detail the two-fold process of identification from above and adjustments from below to such a prestigious name of Brahminical Hinduism, and highlight a historical process of caste formation in an urban and modern context. Instead of taking castes and caste identities for granted as is too often the case in the academic discourse on Dalits, this article is based on the assumption that studying them in a historical and contextualised manner, in their social, economic and political dimensions, can provide us with a better understanding of the political economy of caste.3 1 I am grateful to William Gould and Nate Roberts for their comments. 2 The English term ‘sweeper’ is a colonial artefact to designate different ‘untouchable’ groups who took up sanitation jobs. It was ascribed permanently to those groups who provided the labour, at the expense of their original names. It thus reflects a process of symbolic violence that justifies the use of brackets, which I also apply to the Brahminical category of ‘untouchables’. 3 The problems that the readymade and imprecise notion of caste pose, when referred to as a neat sociological category, are all the more salient when considering Dalits. Their categorisation as castes has raised discussions among colonial ethnographers, especially regarding the kind of criterion that should be adopted to define them, some authors even preferring to consider them ‘outcasts’ in order to stick to the Brahminical definition of caste (chaturvarna), while others emphasised the professional aspects of castes as guilds to which they could correspond more.

Nicolas Jaoul

Hindu nationalism will be addressed here from the micro-historical and ethnographic angle of the Valmikis’ experience of Sanskritisation in the industrial city of Kanpur (Uttar Pradesh), where Hindu conceptions informed the municipal politics of labour at different historical periods.4 Rather than mere Sanskritisation, this case study thus points to the way Sanskritisation among Dalits has been politically engineered, something that M. N. Srinivas’ concept of cultural imitation fails to acknowledge. Srinivas has defined Sanskritisation as a purely cultural phenomenon of emulation of the Brahmins, thus not paying attention to its political dimensions. 5 Sanskritisation tends to be relied upon in the academic discourse as a readymade ‘cultural factor’ for the sake of political expertise of the rise of Hindutva politics, especially to explain its appeal among the lower castes. However, the neat separation/articulation of the cultural and the political (Sanskritisation being defined as purely cultural and Hindutva as purely political) does not reflect the way vernacular categories operate on the ground, where the cultural and the political are mutually entrenched variables of social life.

nationalist

4 In his 1967 article, Srinivas defines Sanskritisation primarily as the

process of imitation and appropriation by the lower castes (but also tribes and

groups) of the beliefs, ideology, practices, rituals, and lifestyle of the higher castes. However, he also includes its contrary, i.e., the way non-Brahminical religious elements (of tribal origin, for instance) become reinterpreted in a Sanskrit framework. It is generally the first aspect of ‘top-down’ imitation, the more congruent with Tarde’s own theory of subaltern emulation of the elite from which he derived his concept, that has been retained by the Indianist scholars. However, Sanskritisation as absorption/reinterpretation of the nonBrahminical seems more in tune with ethnographic findings regarding religious and social change of the non-Brahminical groups. This process of absorption is well reflected in the Hindu nationalists’ methods of Sanskritising the Dalits and Tribals by reframing the non-Brahminical aspects of their religion into standardised Hinduism, whose fidelity to the Brahminical tradition, itself multiple, should not be taken for granted. 5 Although social mobility provides a dynamic sociological framework for cultural change, Nate Roberts notes that Srinivas’s important insights nevertheless remained within the received picture of the caste system as an essentially religious affair by treating the control of land and servile labor, merchant capital, the state, and sheer physical dominance—all of which were termed secular—as extrinsic factors that might interact with caste, but were not an inherent part of it (Roberts 2008: 461).

Casting the ‘Sweepers’

In the aftermath of the Hindu–Muslim violence of the early 1990s, urban communities of ‘Sanskritised Dalits’ like the Valmikis thus became described as fertile ground for Hindutva’s politics of violence (Prashad 2000). Pauline Kolenda opposed this assumption and criticised the way Dalit participation to communal violence became highlighted in reports of human rights organisations' as well as in Vijay Prashad’s work on the Valmikis (Kolenda 2003). In his study of the 1992–93 communal riots in Kanpur, Paul R. Brass argues that the official emphasis on Dalit participation to riots is part of the ‘institutionalised riot system’ that he describes, in the sense that it downplays the responsibility of the ‘respectable Hindus’ (i.e., upper-caste middle class) in the production of violence (Brass 1998). I will not discuss the issue of Dalit participation to communal violence here, but simply address the need to document more precisely the complex relationship Dalits, Sanskritisation and Hindu nationalism. Strictly speaking, the Valmiki caste title is not a ‘Hindutva’ (at least if we consider Hindutva in its established definition, as the RSS ideology). Its adoption by Dalits in the 1930s in Punjab and Delhi was encouraged by an Arya Samaj activist who sought to dissociate the so-called caste of ‘sweepers’ from the leaders of Dalit emancipation (Prashad 2000). Much later, during the Ayodhya mobilisations to liberate the mythological birthplace of Rama, Hindu nationalists were able to capitalise on the Valmikis’ with the Ramayana’s author. They advertised, for instance, that Valmiki would be given a prominent position in the future temple in Ayodhya and that a Valmiki (i.e., a ‘sweeper’ by caste) would become the head priest (ibid.). The RSS and its religious branch, the VHP, endorsed the agenda of Dalit Sanskritisation that was originally defined by the Arya Samaj in the late 19th century, and that the Gandhians also adopted in the 1930s. When considering the cultural politics of Sanskritisation and patronage of Dalits, there is not so much that remains to differentiate between the contemporary social work of the RSS and Gandhi’s ‘Harijan’ movement. Historically, and politically, as far as the stakes regarding the social control of municipal sanitation labor is concerned, there is even continuity between them. If this argument may sound iconoclastic, it is because the academic discourse has generally been as towards Gandhi as it was hostile to Hindutva, putting them

communal

communal

between creation

identification

sociologically sympathetic

in opposition (Gandhian religious tolerance vs Hindutva’s chauvinistic exclusivism) and not paying attention to the continuities (integrating Dalits into the Hindu/Sanskritised ‘mainstream’). In a recent book reflecting on the Hindu nationalist ideological leanings of the Congress in the late colonial period, William Gould points to the banality of Hindu conceptions of the nation, what he calls the ‘looser forms of Hindu Nationalism’ (Gould 2005: 7), whose pervasive influence and effects can be located well beyond the RSS and its well-defined ideology, Hindutva. The use of caste by conservative forces at the municipal level in order to organise and control Dalit labour also points to continuities with the colonial regime. Within right-wing circles of the colonial administration emerged the idea that caste provided a fine of civil society for the Indian colony, a holistic institution and vernacular ideology that could be used as an indigenous social pillar of colonial rule (Dirks 2001). This article shows how this colonial project of caste-based governmentality, which was rapidly marginalised in the early 20th century (along with its main representative in the census administration, H. H. Risley), was kept alive and its legacy re-actualised by forces in independent India. The Valmiki community has been specially affected by such colonial and postcolonial casteist methods of labour control. By paying special attention to different reactions from within the community to the Valmiki title, the article thus describes Dalit caste formation as a contradictory process of strategic acceptance and resistance to elite patronage. In the first part, I will narrate some locally determinant episodes of the propagation of the Valmiki title after Independence by local politicians from the Valmiki community, as well as the challenges that they faced from within. The second part highlights the opposition and resistances to Hindutva once the BJP took over the municipality of Kanpur in the late 1990s, where labour relations started worsening and openly assuming casteist overtones. The third part focuses on attempts at emancipation by young radicals who sought to uproot Sanskritisation and campaigned against Hindutva in favour of a radical Dalit counter-identity. The difficulties they faced when it came to criticise the Valmiki title, however, reveal the depth of the cultural entrenchment of Hindu nationalist notions after several decades of Sanskritisation.

substitute

conservative

Engineered Sanskritisation: How the ′Swe pers′ Became Valmikis In Uttar Pradesh (UP), the Valmikis do not make up a ‘caste’ in the usual sense of varna or jati, but rather comprise a relatively heterogeneous set of ‘untouchable’ jatis currently referred to in north India as ‘bhangis’ or mehtars’.6 During the colonial period, impoverished agricultural workers from the lowest castes migrated to towns in search for livelihood. The colonial authorities took advantage of caste networks to recruit workers for ‘untouchable’ tasks (Chamars were employed in tanneries, Koris and Julahas in weaving departments of cloth factories, etc.) (Niehoff 1957). Although in the villages, most of these workers used to earn their living as agricultural labourers, their integration in the urban labour market thus followed a pattern of essentialisation of professional caste identities. The different jatis who provided labourers for such jobs as sweepers, garbage collectors and underground sewage workers, mostly for the municipality and the factories, became categorised as ‘sweepers’. In Kanpur, the first to take up these jobs were Chuhras from Punjab, who had settled with the army to clean in the cantonment. However, when the industrial city developed, there was a great demand for sanitation labour. The new migrants who took up these jobs hailed from the Bundelkhand region (south of Kanpur). They belonged to different jatis like Heilas, Nagarchis and Domars. Like their Chuhra counterparts, although their principal means of livelihood was as agricultural labourers in the rural economy, their caste assignment had been to sweep and collect the night soil from the houses of the upper castes. Others, like Dhanuks and Bansphods, however claim that they did not perform these tasks in the rural set up, being instead basket weavers and musicians who accepted these jobs when migrating to cities. The Valmiki movement of Punjab was originally an attempt to redefine the community from above, which bore the seal of upper-caste patronage. Ami Chand, an Arya Samaji Brahmin who pledged to dedicate himself to the Hinduisation of Chuhras, wrote Valmik Prakash, a booklet where Valmiki is presented as the uppercaste patron of the ‘sweepers’ (Prashad 2000). Ironically, the idea 6 These are derogatory terms whose etymology is enigmatic and that do not relate explicitly to a profession, unlike other Dalit caste names like Chamar or Dhobi.

was translated by the Chuhras into a caste pride movement that presented Valmiki as an ancestor. Caste identity was thus cunningly subverted and rewritten in a self-styled fashion that testifies to the refusal of patronage and to the Dalit aspiration for self-respect and emancipation (through the influence of the Ad Dharm movement). While strategically seeking the patronage of their well-wishers in the local elites, and thus accepting this name, the Valmikis did not completely surrender their autonomy. It was a compromise solution between Sanskritisation and Dalit ideology that, as Prashad suggests, arose from the particular context of municipal labour.7 After Independence the Valmiki movement was given a second lease of life in UP by Congress politicians whose aim was to create a single homogenous ‘sweeper’ community, both for electoral and concerns of social control of the sanitation workforce. Gandhians who had participated as social workers in Gandhi’s Harijan campaign in the 1930s were instrumental thanks to the links they had established with the ‘sweepers’. The Valmiki campaign was thus patronised by members of the Congress government but it also involved modern caste organisations of ‘sweeper’ communities. The first one to appear, the UP Mehtar Sangh, was an organization of educated ‘sweepers’ that was formed in Aligarh by a Gandhian Chuhra. It advocated entry into the Congress government in order to solve the community’s problems, while working towards the unity of different ‘sweeper castes’ (Shyamlal 1999). In her ethnography of the Chuhras in western UP villages in the 1950s, Pauline Kolenda shows the penetration of the Valmiki cult from Punjab through the traditional caste authorities’ visit to the Valmiki temple in Lahore. In the Kalhapur village, an Islamic place of worship was thus transformed into a Valmiki temple, and Brahminical practices were adopted (like refusal to eat beef and cremation of the dead). The cult had travelled in its reappropriated version: villagers considered Valmiki as their ancestor

purpose

7 According to Prashad, Ami Chand published his booklet in 1936. However, Rama Sharma writes that it was published as early as 1912 and that Valmiki was presented as the guru of Lalbeg, thus Sanskritising the Muslim saint whom the Chuhras worshipped (Sharma 1995). Prashad also shows that the militant Ad Dharm movement integrated the Valmiki cult as part of its movement of emancipation. Notwithstanding these differences of dates, it appears that since its inception, the political signification of the Valmiki cult was contested and that it already expressed the oscillations of the ‘sweepers’, caught in between political forces of emancipation and patronage.

(Kolenda 1958). In UP, the spread of the Valmiki movement was thus confined, in the first phase, to the Chuhra caste residing in western UP villages and in few urban pockets. It spread, later, to the east and the south of the province through the attempt to unify the different ‘sweeper’ jatis. My interviews with Kanpur activists of this period and the pamphlets they published, however, reveal the making of another alternative caste hero. Sudarshan’s cult was introduced in Kanpur by Lalluram Mehtar, the local big man of the urban ‘sweeper’ community. He was, at the same time, the head of the traditional caste panchayat (council), a sanitation labour contractor and a union leader. Born in 1909, he was educated in a Christian school of Nai Sarak, the only one that would accept him, since according to his biographer, ‘due to untouchability, the children of sweepers were not admitted in any schools these days’ (Bharti 1972). He left school and established himself as a labour contractor when his father (a rich moneylender) died. He incarnates the passage from the older form of traditional caste authority, benefitted by the colonial politics of labour recruit-ment through jati networks, to a more modern form of caste leadership. In 1933, he organised Kanpur’s first municipal strike and was jailed for violating the drastic UP Municipalities Act of 1916 which forbade strikes of sanitation labour. When released, he was welcomed as a hero by a procession and garlanded. He formed the Mehtar Sabha,8 a union whose name sounds like a modern caste association. His biographer mentions that Sudarshan Jayanti was publicly cele-brated by him for the first time in 1936. He had been initiated to Sudarshan through his contacts in the ‘sweeper’ intelligentsia of the province. In many ways, Sudarshan seems to have been imagined by the ‘sweepers’ as the emancipated double of Valmiki. He is mentioned in the Mahabharata as the daring adviser of Krishna, an ascetic who criticised the Pandava kings while compelling their respect because of his supernatural powers, despite his low birth and crude jungli manners. His appropriation was facilitated by his description as being from a basket weavers’ background, which 8 While Bharti mentions that it was formed in 1931, M. P. Khote recalled in an interview that it was formed after he was released from jail. Lallu Ram’s own son, Anant Ram Sen, told me it was in 1938. These conflicting dates testify to the methodological problems when working with sources like pamphlets and oral memory.

made him a more plausible ancestor for ‘sweepers’ than Valmiki.9 Since some Dhanuks were recruited in sanitation departments of the UP municipalities, the whole ‘sweeper community’ was incited to identify to him collectively. The revival of the Valmiki movement overpowered these efforts, as a result of the unequal struggle between an artifact sponsored by the ruling class and an idealistic initiative from below. Shyamlal (1999) mentions that the UP chief minister, Sampurnanand, inaugurated several caste conferences of the Mehtar Sangh in the 1950s. The UP Valmiki movement thus appears as institutionalised and engineered Sanskritisation rather than the kind of cultural spontaneity with which Sanskritisation is usually equated. It relied on the mediation of coopted Congress politicians from the ‘sweeper community’ (Bhagwan Din, Narain Din and Kanhaya Lal), who won the 1946 elections in several cities’ reserved constituencies, and defeated Ambedkar’s Scheduled Caste Federation. Once empowered, these former social activists of the UP Mehtar Sangh whom the Nationalist press glorified as the ‘nationalist untouchables’, increased their authority in community matters, at the expense of the more traditional authorities such as Lalluram Mehtar. The new of nationalist enthusiasts denounced his growing venality in dealing with internal caste matters as well as his dictatorial ways. Under the leadership of Bhagwan Din, they challenged him by setting up a branch of the UP Mehtar Sangh (with whom he already had differences) in Kanpur. The plan of the UP Mehtar Sangh activists-turned-Members of Parliament was to use their new-found authority in order to manufacture the unity between different ‘sweeper’ jatis. The remains of why they eventually turned to Valmiki rather than Sudarshan, whom they had earlier promoted, as the rallying symbol. To appease their upper-caste Gandhian patrons within the Congress party, Valmiki was probably a preferable option. Had they not required such an approval, they would have probably stuck with Sudarshan. Although both figures remained within the framework of Sanskritisation, the latter had been defined as a symbol of rebellion towards the ruling class and could thus seem difficult to digest by the Gandhians. Valmiki, on his part, was more

politically

generation

question

9 This information relies on the activists’ version, which I have not

crosschecked with the actual content of theMahabharata.

in tune with the elite-monitored uplift of Dalits that Gandhi and the Arya Samaj called for, which continued to inform the official approach of the untouchable question after independence. 10

According to M. P. Khotey, one of the local activists from Kanpur who was once close to Bhagwan Din, the Member of Parliament from Kanpur’s reserved seat, a two-day caste conference took place in December 1952 in Kanpur. By that time, a compromise had been reached in the rivalry that opposed Lalluram Mehtar and Bhagwan Din. While the latter dealt with political representation,

the former was recognised as the sarpanch (head of panchayat) of ‘sweepers’. Different sets of caste authorities attended, from heads of panchayats who came from Bundelkhand, to the newly formed political elite and the circles of social activists who

traditional

gravitated around them and sought to derive some of their power. Shiv Narayan Tandon and Jawaharlal Rohatgi, two Gandhian

politicians who had led the local unit of the Harijan Sevak Sangh in

the 1930s, monitored the whole event, each being present on one day.11 Illustrating the continuity between Gandhism and Hindu nationalism, Rohatgi, who had been nominated as Harijan Welfare Minister in the 1937 provincial government, had links with the Hindu Mahasabha. 12 Tandon was the general secretary of the District

Congress Committee. According to Khote, this conference was meant to encourage the ‘homogenisation’ of the professional into a single caste. The upper-caste leaders’ message to the public was that the Congress governments would only be able to

community

‘help’ ‘sweepers’ once they constituted a unique caste. In political terms, this shows that in spite of its official rhetoric of secularism, local

units of the Congress indulged in caste politics at an early stage. 10 Since 1937, Gandhians (many of them members of the Arya Samaj) were given the responsibility of the Harijan uplift programmes of the UP Congress governments. William Gould has noted that by appropriating one of the main themes of the Arya Samaj, the Harijan campaign of Gandhi helped the rise of Arya Samajis inside the Congress Party (Gould 2005). After independence, Gandhian organisations and ashrams were financed by the central government to carry out the official anti-untouchability propaganda. The Hindu reformist approach of the untouchable question also became institutionalised through the Gandhian terminology, for example, in the ‘Harijan Welfare’ departments. 11 Interview with Muneshwar Prasad Khotey, 12 March 2001. 12 Gould notes that the membership of this conservative organisation, as the RSS’s ideological forerunner in Kapurthala, overlapped with Congress membership more extensively and more openly than elsewhere (Gould 2005).

considered

Among its different purposes, the revived Valmiki movement was an attempt at creating a political vote bank. In social terms, this represents a tentative case of caste engineering by the UP Congress. Such a formula was meant to provide the local authorities with the means to control the ‘sweepers’ from both the political and labour points of view. The Congress candidates from the ‘sweeper’ community showed the example by adding the Valmiki title to their names. They contested the 1952 elections under the Valmiki surname, in contrast with the 1946 elections where they had avoided any caste identification. Bhagwan Din, who contested without any additional title in 1946, presented himself as Bhagwan Din Valmiki in 1952. He had been among the founders of the Sudarshan Samaj in Kanpur before being elected in 1946. After his election he left Kanpur to set up residence in the state capital, next door to the house of his political patron, N. D. Tiwari, a Brahmin who led the right wing of the UP Congress. This shift of residence was perceived by his former associates in Kanpur as an act of custody by his political masters who wished to keep a close eye on him. The fact of having supported a three-week strike of municipal sweepers led by Lalluram in 1946 and of having been felicitated on this account by Ambedkar in the Constituent Assembly’s premises could explain why the Congress wished to monitor him closely and physically displace him from his constituency. To his upper-caste patrons, the ‘nationalist untouchable’ thus always remained suspect of potential treason. Thus cut off from the community’s political leadership, the Sudarshan Samaj nevertheless continued to function independently from Kanpur, along with its sister youth organisation, the Harijan Bal Vidyarthi Sangh (HBVS), which was formed on the day of independence.13 Apart from its symbolic goal of promoting to its saint patron, the Adarsh Sudarshan Samaj Samiti’s goal was to reform the ‘sweepers’ and lead them on the way to

individually

identification

13 None of these activists adopted the Valmiki title, as revealed by the names of donators on both organisations’ pamphlets. Very few adopted the Sudarshan title, while most wore their gotra (jati matrimonial subdivisions) surnames, or names of localities of their original villages. A few also adopted the ‘Bharti’ title, meaning ‘Indian’, as a statement of their commitment to nationalism and distanciation from caste. Even Panna Lal Tambey, who joined the RSS as a child, insisted on keeping his original surname, borrowed from his village’s river.

‘progress’. In 1948, the committee campaigned against the degrading and exploitative practice of juthan, an urban replication of the traditional jajmani economy. The juthan salary consisted of food remains and worn out clothes in exchange for domestic cleaning services performed mostly by women and children (with allegations of sexual exploitation). The leaflet which advertised the campaign (including a 24-hour hunger strike, testifying to the appropriation of the Gandhian repertoire), draws a parallel with Sant Sudarshan, the ‘ancestral guru’, who refused to take food from the corrupt king’s house, since it would spoil his purity. Taking Gandhi’s definition of the Harijan as the people of God in a strict manner, the leaflet reverses the Brahminical location of purity and impurity. While operating in a Gandhian framework, it substitutes a more radical and controversial action, refusing to perform one’s caste duties, with militant connotations in the traditional repertoire of collective action to the upper-caste social workers’ toothless reformism. The substitution of upper-caste social reformers by educated, ‘awakened’ Dalits as the main actors of social change emphasised Dalit and autonomy. The leaflet argued that the community needed to blame itself and not the upper castes for accepting juthan. People themselves were responsible for accepting it and therefore they themselves only could decide to stop its practice. By taking this upon themselves in a self-confident manner, not only would they become acceptable to the rest of society, they would also earn social respect.14 M. L. Bharti was a sweeper employee in a factory who joined the HBVS as a child, passed his MA through distance education and taught in the HBVS’ evening school. In the hagiography of Sudarshan that he wrote and published locally as a small booklet, the saint is described as a rebel who did not fear to criticise the ruling class to its face (Bharti 1970). Reading between the lines, one finds a critique of the Congress patronage of Dalits after independence. Bhakti ideals of equality, personal virtues, courage and self-esteem are opposed to caste hierarchy and sycophancy. On the religious plane, however, the Sudarshan cult incorporated certain elements of Brahminical Hinduism. Sudarshan Jayanti was celebrated each year on the day of Kartika Purnima by organising

responsibility

14 ‘Juthan Bandhi Andolan ki Pukar Juthan Sevan Samapt Karen’, leaflet issued by Harijan Bal Videarthy Sangh, Dalal Purwa, Kanpur, 1948.

a procession that crossed the main sweeper bastis (segregated neighbourhoods) and reached to the banks of the Ganga. But the approach to Brahminical norms is selective and

subjected to a specific Dalit view of the nationalist agenda. Rather than

adopting Brahminical norms per se, as the Sanskritisation notion implies, the normative horizon corresponds to nationalistic notions. What they retained of Brahminical norms were those aspects that overlapped with nationalist ideas of popular rigour and progress. Meat and alcohol consumption is criticised not so much as contrary to Brahminical taboos than for being economically detrimental to children’s education since it affects the families’ budget. Some aspects of the social reform that is advocated are even contrary to Sanskritisation, like the critique of those imitating the upper castes’ luxurious weddings and falling into debt. However, this also meant that these ideologues endorsed Indian nationalism’s Brahminical cultural dead angle. In spite of these activists’ efforts, the Sudarshan movement failed in its competition with Valmiki. It eventually came to an end in the 1970s due to political factionalism. In 1968, Shiv Lal Kaithel, one of these young activists (who had been trained in a Gandhian ashram after Independence and became a primary schoolteacher), was elected member of the municipal assembly. A year later, he fought the state assembly elections on the Congress ticket from the Sisamau reserved constituency. He was appointed deputy minister in the UP government in 1973. 15 In 1974, he fought the election against Panna Lal Tambey, his relative and former co-activist who had been given the Jan Sangh ticket. Interestingly, while both avoided using the Valmiki title, Shiv Lal eventually endorsed the surname in order to get national visibility as a representative of ‘sweepers’, in spite of his strong personal dislike for caste politics. The community’s renunciation to the Sudarshan alternative was thus strongly influenced by its political leadership’s own patronised positions within the Congress. It also shows the difficulty to the political leadership’s authority, on the part of creative and committed, but powerless upholders of ideals of autonomy. I will now describe the political and labour relations of the community in

overpower

15 ‘UP mein prathem swachhkar (Bhutpurwen) upmantri Shri Shivlal ji (MLA)’, in Rishi Sudarshan Vidhya Mandir Varshik Patrika, 1973–74, Kanpur.

the late 1990s, where the Valmiki title has become widely accepted, and has become a synonym for ‘sweeper’ or ‘bhangi’.

An Ethnography of Hindutva, Caste and Labour Caste and Labour Relations in Kanpur Nagar Nigam (KNN) In 1999, there were officially 5,468 positions of municipal sweeper in Kanpur, but due to budget restrictions, only 4,891 were actually filled. Temporary workers recruited by private labour contractors through an NGO attended to any extra work, for the very low salary of #### 1,000, around one-fourth of the regular workers. The Water Department (Jal Sansthan) also employed about 400 sewage workers, whose job was to go down into the blocked sewage in order to free its passage. They were the worst off as the shocking absence of adequate equipment made their working conditions extremely hazardous. They sometimes had to immerse themselves entirely without any protection. Regular incidents of deaths due to gas intoxication were reported in the local papers. The sewage workers I met expressed their anger, stressing that municipal officers pocketing the money was the reason for the unavailability of even the most basic equipment, such as rubber boots and gas masks. In addition to the bribing that was rife in the offices of the KNN sanitary department, my several visits revealed a picture of a modern and urban type of caste oppression. First of all, sanitary employees were almost all recruited from so-called ‘sweeper castes’. Officers acknowledged that other castes amounted to about 10 per cent of the sanitary employees. However, as if this had been an anomaly, they made it a point that even though they were on the sanitary employees’ payroll, these non-Valmiki employees were allowed the privilege to do other jobs, according to their qualifications and caste constraints. The literate would, for example, be allowed to do some clerical work. This perverted allowance of caste privileges in the division of labour was put to me by these officers as a liberal practice that accommodated everyone according to his own constraints and qualifications. The human resources officer, a Brahmin whose office was decorated with a portrait of Gandhi, even seemed to make it a point, as if he wished to be credited for such a ‘valuable’ adaptation of the Indian tradition

professional

of caste in his department. Using the old Gandhian terminology ‘Harijan’ as if no Dalit assertion had ever occurred at all, he argued that ‘There are positive aspects for both sides. Harijans don’t want other castes to take their jobs’. Employees denounced the corruption behind this informal, caste-friendly distribution of labour. The officer, of course, refrained from boasting from the fact that the officers also used some of the non-Valmiki employees as their own private domestic servants, drivers, etc. In spite of the militant mood and open defiance to the hierarchy displayed by the employees I met, the KNN officers seemed to maintain an aristocratic attitude of indifference, as if their department’s functioning had remained untouched by the recent empowerment of Dalits in UP under the BSP governments. Bribery was rampant at all levels of the hierarchy, from paying the team supervisors (most of them Valmikis) a monthly bribe to be ensured a good monthly report, to paying larger sums for such requests as a posting in a more convenient area of town, holidays, etc. The late payment of salaries, sometimes up to two weeks late, also gave employees a hard time, but it made the fortune of private moneylenders who worked on the premises of the municipality, occupying empty offices. Added to this was the issue of the non-payment to the widows of deceased workers, whose pensions were pocketed. Old widows naïvely attempting to pressurise the arrogant white-collar staff with support letters, slum children selling tea, as well as a number of roaming sadhus waiting to perform puja in crowded offices altogether created a peculiar atmosphere of distress, injustice, discontent and fate on one side, and official arrogance infused with caste superiority on the other. The simmering conflict occasionally erupted, like when angry employees whom I accompanied left an officer’s room shouting ‘Brahmanwad’, the anti-Brahminical expression popularised by the BSP. But in general, the place was busy with a routine of deals and shady negotiations. These took place with a typical faux semblance of bonhomie and humour. Both sides and their intermediaries drank chai, chatted and joked, even emphatically calling each other ‘bhayya’, an expression of brotherhood that epitomises the ambivalence of the Gangetic plain’s caste-based sociability. Far from bringing any relief, the unions, or what remained of them, generated even more resentment. After a failed strike in the

summer of 1999, several union members had been jailed and sacked from their jobs. Only those who accepted to deal individually with the authorities were rehabilitated. Therefore, the unions became fraught with mutual allegations of corruption. A number of business-minded Brahmin sadhus started to take advantage of the situation as professional brokers in between the employees and the municipal officers. Their caste affinities supposedly gave them an edge to obtain individual favours from Brahmin officers. One of the Valmiki union leaders, a clerk in another administration who was actually spending his working day in the municipal compound, entertained good relations with the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) mayor and acted as middleman for her with the sanitary employees. He was instrumental in setting up a park dedicated to Valmiki on the KNN premises, a measure whereby the BJP municipality hoped to pacify its workers and seduce the Valmiki voters. After having dismantled the unions, these pro-Valmiki initiatives on the part of the municipality revived the community’s divisions between those who favoured any official recognition of their symbol and those who rejected the patronage played out in Valmiki’s name. Consequently, Valmiki Jayanti was celebrated in two different areas by the proBJP and anti-BJP factions, the latter avoiding municipal patronage of their caste functions, while the former provided a caste platform and an audience for BJP politicians and VHP activists to indulge in Hindutva propaganda. A Valmiki Hindu Nationalist Leader's Escapism of Labour In 1999, the central BJP government nominated Panna Lal Tambey, an old-time RSS member from Kanpur, as vice-president of the National Sanitary Employees’ Commission in Delhi.16 Returning from his nomination, he was given a triumphant welcome by BJP activists and Valmiki union leaders. Receiving him at the railway station, gunshots were fired into the air and garlands put around his neck, before a procession took him to the BJP office in Naveen Market. There he received more garlands and he was fed laddus by 16 Panna Lal’s parents were both sweepers in Kanpur. In 1947, when he was eight years old, he became a member of the RSS, which trained him and financed his education. He was nominated member of the legislative council of the Jan Sangh in 1974 and gained a reputation in his community by intervening in the police thanas on behalf of caste fellows.

the BJP leaders. The way he was decorated with flowers and sweets stuffed in his mouth was reminiscent of a Hindu deity in a temple. Most KNN union leaders were there to witness the event and perhaps also to be noticed by him, but they confessed quite openly to me that they did not expect much to come of his future actions on behalf of the employees. They thought that even if he had wanted to ‘do something’, it would not have been possible because of his nomination by the very party which controlled the municipality. They saw him as a ‘Dalit in custody’ inside a Brahmins’ party. When I visited him at his small house in a lane of Laxmi Purwa the same night, their apprehensions seemed confirmed. He was flanked by a Brahmin assistant who had been nominated by the party to monitor his work in Kanpur. This assistant was a young elected BJP member of the municipal corporation, who worked under the authority of the mayor. Though Panna Lal was supposed to look after the interests of municipal sweepers at the national level from his Delhi office, any action he took at the local level in his home city was therefore intended to be checked closely. The union leaders took no time in challenging Panna Lal. A municipal strike was organised only a few months after his nomination. Their apprehensions were confirmed: he publicly condemned the strike and even declared to the local press that he took it as personal offence. He failed to take action to rescue the leaders of the strike, who had been jailed by the provincial BJP government. Two years after his nomination, I paid a visit at his recently rebuilt residence, still at the same emplacement in the same lane. He, surprisingly (considering his official position in Delhi, which was to attend to the municipal sanitary workers’ problems), told me that whatever went on in the Kanpur municipality was none of his business. He argued that having been entrusted with responsibilities at the national level, getting involved in such a corrupt milieu would have compromised his status. Three of Panna Lal’s four sons were sanitary employees in KNN. The fourth had become involved in criminal activities. He had chased him from the house, a decision that he justified by explaining his of the family as an organic entity. For the sake of selfpreservation, a family had to severe its link with the rotten limb. I made several visits to his home. Once I was received by his two sons in his absence. Surprisingly enough, they explained to me that their father’s nomination in Delhi was of no use to the sanitary

conception

employees of Kanpur and that his attitude during the strike had spoilt his reputation in the community. They felt that his inaction was unfortunate since, being a personal friend of Atal Bihari Vajpayee (India’s prime minister at the time), with whom he had been jailed during the Emergency period, he could have used this acquaintance to improve things for his community. RSS Charity (Un)seen from the Slums The Sewa Bharti was founded in 1979 by the VHP (itself a religious outfit of the RSS) with the aim of carrying out social work among

slum dwellers. Christophe Jaffrelot notes that the organisation was purposely designed to counter the Dalits’ emancipation. Its

activities, such as opening primary schools, building temples that promote Hindutva’s standardised Hinduism, as well as organising medical camps, are meant to build ideological influence among Dalits and to take advantage of the failures of the welfare state ( Jaffrelot 2005).

Significantly, the Sewa Bharti medical camp I went to in Kanpur was joint venture by a Valmiki truck driver employed by the KNN and a municipal officer who belonged to the RSS. I was invited to this medical camp in September 1999 by its main organiser, Dr Vajpayee, a Brahmin teacher at Kanpur’s medical college who

was in his 60s. Although he was committed to the Hindutva ideology and his wife was a leader of the Durga Vahini, the feminine branch

of the Bajrang Dal, who had competed in municipal elections on a BJP ticket, he insisted on presenting himself as ‘marginal’ in the Hindu nationalist movement. It is not clear to me whether this was out of modesty or if this reflected an organisational strategy of the Sewa Bharti, which seems willing to downplay its Hindu

nationalist affiliation in favour of its social work in order to penetrate the Dalit milieus. I attended the medical camp along with Dr Vajpayee and a bunch of his students, who took this less as an occasion for charity than as an occasion to practise. The medicines they distributed free of

charge were supplied by the Kanpur medical college, reputed to be another local RSS stronghold. While waiting for the heavy rain

to stop, about 30 Sewa Bharti workers, all dressed in white khadi clothes reminiscent of the Gandhian dress, took tea in the palatial white marble living room of a Jain businessman. The camp was set up in the latter’s private backyard, where he had also constructed a Sewa Bharti school for the nearby slum dwellers. The patients

who attended the open-air basic medical consultation were mostly women and children. After the medical students briefly examined and palpated their bodies, an assistant seated at a desk wrote a

prescription and sent them to collect their medicine inside the tiny and rudimentary school building. Once the medical examination was over, local RSS members and BJP politicians made speeches in a simple language with strong pedagogic emphasis, in which they insisted on the importance of the slum dwellers’ active cooperation with the social workers. This

was generalised into the idea of an organic unity of all Hindus, whether rich or poor. Even though the issue of caste was carefully avoided and class distinctions of ‘rich and poor’ were used as a convenient euphemism, the general idea on which they insisted was that social divisions were harmful. One speaker recalled that some Sarvodaya workers (post-Independence Gandhian activists led by

J. P. Narayan) had once come to a slum to sweep the lanes. After a while, they came back and complained to the residents about the filth which had come back. The slum dwellers replied that the social workers had not been back to sweep for a long time, hence the filth. The narrator did not seem to consider that this answer could have been made ironically, thereby ruling out any sense of humour

and the ability to see the social worker’s charity ironically. Rather, he implied that the reply had been made innocently and revealed the total lack of a culture of cleanliness and responsibility. Still, there was a touch of humour in his anecdote, but it was confined to the misinterpretation by a so-called ‘innocent’ Dalit who candidly mistook social work for social disorder. His story thus conveyed

the message that the aim of social work by charitable upper castes was not to reverse caste roles but to set an example for the Dalits. It was for them to take inspiration from the upper castes’ benevolent sense of duty and to learn the value of hygiene. There was a second message that was more implicit, but nevertheless clear, woven as it was into the idiom of caste relations that saturated the atmosphere

of the meeting. The pain taken by upper caste reformers to guarantee public hygeine sounded as a reminder for Dalits to perform their caste duties, instead of letting others do their dirty work. The speaker continued with a call, to serve the community and the nation selflessly in order to fulfil the utopia of a lost Hindu kingdom: We may come to your area and help but that will work only if you fully cooperate. If we walk side by side we can go far. Let’s develop the feeling of unity and gather our samaj (society/community). Only when

the people feel that their samaj, their country and their problem is at stake here, can society progress. So we need total unity. The people must perform their tasks with a sense of duty. This is our motherland and we are her sons. We are all brothers and no one can be said to be superior or inferior. No one is rich or poor, and there should be no question of poverty and wealth. We must erase those differences. Only then can our country become great. When such sons become united through noble feelings, no enemy can defeat us. We must remember the days of the great Chandra Gupta emperor, when everyone would accomplish his duty. Those were the days of universal brotherhood.17

The recommendations did not reach many slum dwellers. Most of them had already slipped away with the free pills. In the small gathering, only the small, black-skinned municipal truck driver who took part in the organisation of the camp and his two assistants were present. Their physical appearance contrasted with the tall, fair-complexioned, neatly dressed RSS workers. The truck driver,

who owned a small temple and officiated as a priest in the slum, was dressed as a popular sadhu. In the local dress code, he could have passed as a Sufisaint, especially due to the simple flashy green turban on his head. I introduced myself into a discussion of slum dwellers at the tea shop, which was run by a young woman outside the school premises. They believed that this medical camp had been

organised by the government and ignored what was Seva Bharti. As far as their knowledge of Hindu nationalism was concerned, they only knew about ‘Bhajpa’ (BJP), ‘the party of the rich’, whose politics was to divide and rule and to ‘drink the blood of the poor’. One of them, referring to Hindu–Muslim riots and the recent rise in onion prices, had developed his own instrumentalist theory of

Hindu nationalism. According to him, the BJP was the organisation of ‘punjipatis’ (capitalists) who had been voted into power thanks to their conscious politics of Hindu–Muslim riots. Once in power, they had purposely introduced price hikes of essential commodities in order to boost their commercial profits. It was the poor who suffered casualties during riots and who could not feed their families

because of the price problems. Thus, he equated the BJP with the party of ‘larai aur mehengai’ (fighting and dearness). His comments were simple but devastating, especially after the activists’ speeches I had just heard. 17 Hindi speech recorded at the Sewa Bharti medical camp, Vijaynagar, 26 September 1999.

Valmiki′:

′Aemsbilednkcaer a Rand Change Ideol gicalwas At the time of my fieldwork, the Valmiki identity was clearly dominant, although still contested by many. In the public discourse, Valmiki functioned as a politically correct equivalent of ‘sweeper’ and both could be used interchangeably. As practised by the community’s Congress politicians earlier, Valmiki politicians from every party

used their title as a key to a vote bank. Even the BSP, an Ambedkarite party with a controversial anti-Brahmin rhetoric, encouraged its Valmiki candidates to rely on it during its militant phase of electoral conquest in the early 1990s.18 For pragmatic reasons, the party did not attempt to criticise or substitute the Valmiki identity, although its Brahminical

connotations were contrary to its own ideology. The party found it practical to rely on caste symbols that could easily be identifiable at the state/regional level. This way, an MLA (Member of Legislative Assembly) wearing his caste title could send a signal to the whole community that it had a stake in the party. The pragmatic use of Dalit caste identities contrasts with the

Ambedkarite movement represented by the Republican Party of India (founded by Ambedkar). The ideology of caste annihilation, that still characterises the more orthodox Ambedkarite circles, Sankritisation as sycophancy and dissociation from one’s

condemns

origins. In an article entitled ‘Valmiki and the Sweepers’, published in an Ambedkarite fortnightly, the intellectual Bhagwan Das ruled

out any possibility of accommodating a token of Sanskritisation such as Valmiki: ‘All those castes who chose the path shown by Doctor Babasahab Ambedkar have made progress. Those who did not, continue to grope in the dark ever searching for new names and fabricated history, false links and borrowed glory’ (Das 1982).19 18 In December 1993, the electoral victory of Mahesh Valmiki, a 27-year-old educated slum dweller who became member of the legislative assembly on a BSP ticket from a non-reserved district of Kanpur (the prestigious Arya Nagar constituency), exemplifies the possibility of combining a Valmiki identity with a radical anti-Brahmin discourse. His association with the party was short-lived. Soon after his election he was expelled after joining a rebel faction and forming a Valmiki sub-committee which criticised the party’s Chamar domination. 19 Born into the Dhanuk jati in Himachal Pradesh, B. Das can thus be as part of the Valmiki sweepers aggregate, although he rejects such identity. For pragmatic reasons, he nevertheless used his connection to this community to propagate Ambedkarite ideas and counter the Valmiki myth (Das 2009).

considered

Plate 10.1: Valmiki teenagers at the Carisma procession, during Navratri. Kanpur, April 2000. Courtesy of Nicolas Jaoul.

His slightly fetishist argument, which he developed later on in a Hindi pamphlet has become popular among the Ambedkarite among the Valmikis of Kanpur, even if, as activists confronted with practical realities, they had to make compromises. Putting forward their commitment to Ambedkar’s ideals, these ideologues reject the BSP’s strictly electoral approach to Dalit emancipation

minority

which leads to pragmatism and dilution of ideological principles.20 They, instead, emphasise the importance of transforming the very ideological foundations of the community by uprooting

Sanskritisation, thus situating their political struggle at the level of popular ideology and religion. Contrasting with the local Kanpur Chamar community, whose exposure to Ambedkar Buddhism started in the 1980s, the Valmikis’ involvement in Hindu festivals and rituals has given them a local reputation of being ‘staunch Hindu’ (pakke Hindu). Although their everyday lives and religious

practices are in many ways remote from Brahminical standards, they are nevertheless part of the kind of standardised Hinduism common in urban India. Despite also having more specific religious practices, I could witness how this standardisation was promoted among the sanitation employees by upper-caste sadhus and brokers at the KNN. One of them, a Brahmin ‘union leader’ (with the

reputation of being a dangerous criminal), had illegally built a temple in a public park, where he officiated as a priest for Valmiki employees in the evenings. However, the religious Sanskritisation appears limited. The Valmikis also have priests from their own

community,

who specialise in possession rituals rather than Valmiki’s scriptures. Visiting small roadside dargas (Sufi saints’ tombs) was also

a common feature, some of them being situated inside theirbastis or very close to them. Another specific feature of Dalit Hinduism is the Navratri period’s highly dramatised Carisma procession, going from basti to basti and ending at the Durga temple in Laxmi Purwa. Such a public spectacle of the popular faith consists of ritualised

exploits involving physical pain conducive to scenes of possession.21

Paradoxically, it is these less orthodox forms of Hinduism and the kind of fervour that is publicly displayed which won urban Dalits the reputation of being ‘pakke Hindu’. The sight of the Valmiki RSS leader, Pannalal Tambey, accompanied by a band of drummers, shouting Jay Shri Ram, raising a sword and distributing ####10 notes to musicians during the Carisma procession, shows how these

festive manifestations of ‘pakka Hinduism’ are used as a link to 20 Regarding the division of political labour between the BSP and the Ambedkarite socio-religious movement in Kanpur, see Jaoul (2008). 21 In his ethnography of the Kori (Dalit) community of Kanpur in the 1970s, Stephen Molund describes this popular Hindu procession, in which nonBrahminical deities like Shitala (the smallpox goddess) and Kali mixed up with Brahminical gods like Shiva and Hanuman. He notes that the upper castes despised it as the public manifestation of the Dalits’ religious ‘backwardness’ (Molund 1988).

Hindu militancy by Hindu nationalists. During the Ayodhya movement, the mobilisation of Dalits capitalised on this popular pride of being the physically courageous ‘pakka Hindus’, ready

to jump in the fight for the defence of one’s faith. The Dalit took it as an occasion to prove their value in opposition to the Brahmins’ and banias’ reputation for cowardice. 22 Even the Muslims whom I talked to in the neighbouring localities

participants

acknowledged the Dalit bravery and despised and accused at the same time

the upper castes for having allegedly operating the violence safely

from behind their curtains. The Ayodhya campaign’s militancy appealed to Hindu youngsters in its call to manliness and direct action. For Dalit youths and Valmikis in particular, this also involved the rejection of the former generation’s Gandhian values as being effeminate and submissive. As long as the Hindu nationalists were in the opposition and could

incarnate a challenge to the ruling class and the state’s official the Ayodhya movement could build its prestige around the image of popular rebellion. The Karseva (‘action service’) campaign promised all Hindus the recovery of their dignity. The specific

ideology,

message to Dalits and lower castes was that the global recovery of Hindu dignity made their caste struggle irrelevant, since responding

to the call for Hindu unity would be eventually rewarded, once the Muslim enemy was defeated. In short, there was an implicit promise that their performance as ‘martial Hindus’ would bring them a dignified place in the future Hindu rashtra (nation). After a couple of years of BJP rule in the state, a negative vision of Hindutva started replacing the exalted utopia of the Ayodhya

movement. During and after the December 1992 riots and pogroms, Dalit communities living in the vicinity of the Muslim areas, amongst them several municipal housing colonies inhabited by the Valmikis, became the target of Muslim attacks. Some also participated in anti-Muslim pogrom expeditions organized by the police and hence the whole neghbourhood started living in fear of

Muslim retaliation. Within the local Valmiki community, an anti-Hindutva feeling developed. Dev Kumar, a young man in his mid-20s gave voice to this popular rejection of Hindutva and later organised a full-fledged campaign of denunciation. His parents, both educated, had

participated in the Sudarshan Samaj and the HBVS. Since his father 22 Far from being a new artefact of the Ayodhya movement, the lower castes’ ‘martial Hinduism’ was already a noted feature of the aggressive processions of the Arya Samaj in UP cities in the 1920s (Gooptu 2001).

died before the age of retirement, Dev Kumar dropped out from college before completing his BA to take over the paternal job as a municipal sweeper team supervisor. Although Dev Kumar feels that ‘as a Hindu’, he had ‘naturally’ been in favour of the Ram Janmbhoomi movement, he resented the December 1992–January 1993 violence in Kanpur. In February 1993, he published ‘Mor Bazar’, an 18-page pamphlet addressed to the local Valmiki community (Kumar 1993). Besides taking the typical moralistic stand of social reformers, criticising his community’s drinking habits, gossiping and gambling, he goes a step further from previous generations of social workers, by advocating a total rejection of the sweeper profession. He denounces the employment security and welfare measures provided by the municipality as a trick to maintain the Valmikis in a state of illiteracy and deprive them of any ambition. He praises the Chamars, who left the lucrative professions of leather worker and invested in education, giving birth to an elite of public servants able to look after their caste interests from the positions they occupy inside the administration. On the back cover of the pamphlet, he criticises Hindutva for spreading hatred and deceiving the ‘ignorant Valmikis’ under the pretext of Hindu brotherhood. This comment on the back cover seems to be a last-minute addition in the wake of the violence. This first pamphlet prefigures a more vigorous rejection of Hindutva on the ideological plane, a radical opposition which he endorsed once discovering the anti-Brahminical literature of the BSP movement. One of his uncles (a railway employee) gave him these booklets. Dev Kumar narrated the effect that this literature had on him: He gave me these books that talked about Babasahab Ambedkar’s biography. When I started reading them, I started to become anti-Hindu little by little and I began to hate this religion because the Vedas, the Ramayana and the Manusmrti are full of discrimination and injustice.

I couldn’t find anything positive anymore in these writings. I started hating them so deeply. How to penalise the Untouchables is what they explained. These writings are full of superstition, they are full of traditionalism and conservatism. It is not possible to put up with such things. This creates hatred and contempt in people’s minds, which cannot be tolerated. These books carry a deep-seated plot against

Untouchables, so they must be rejected and condemned.23

23 Interview in Hindi with Dev Kumar, Kanpur, 28 October 1999.

With the theatre troupe he founded,24 Dev Kumar staged several plays inspired by Peryar’s anti-Brahmin views of Hindu mythology, from which he derived a historical theory of untouchability.25

This counter-narrative proved essential in his attempt to counter Hindutva and Sanskritisation. In Peryar, Rama’s adversity to the lower castes is recalled through Shambuk’s fate, a Shudra (lowcaste) ascetic who is beheaded by Rama for practicing penance (a prestigious religious practice forbidden to his caste). In a provocative statement of his non-Brahminical convictions

and origins, Dev Kumar adopted the surname ‘Asur’, thereby identifying with the Ramayana’s Dravidian demons. He thus made a point that once brandished, the Brahminical stigma of untouchability could be turned into the militant pride of coming to terms with one’s vanquished ancestors and carrying on their struggle. Interestingly, the anti-Brahmin discourse that represents the ethnic

antidote to Hindutva, also presents several parallels with it. In its narrative, oppression also comes from a foreign invader, substituting the Muslim by the Aryan as the villain. There are also consciously borrowed organisational features that testify to a certain fascination for the RSS among Dalits, in spite of strong ideological opposition. In 1999 Dev Kumar, along with a group of friends from his

neighbourhood, set up an organisation they named Swayam Sudhar Samiti (self-improvement committee, henceforth SSS), a name that emphasises ideals of self-reliance and autonomy that have been at the core of the Dalit movement of emancipation.

Plate 10.2: ‘Victory to Bhim, Victory to Sudarshan, Victory to Kabir. When we improve, all will improve.’ Courtesy of Nicolas Jaoul. 24 On Dev Kumar’s ‘Apna Theatre’, see Lee (2008). 25 Peryar’s ‘True Ramayana’ represents the canonical anti-Brahmin critique of the Hindu mythology, in which religion is equated to pure ideology. The Ramayana’s demons represent the Dravidian autochthons. Their status of villains is reversed, while the assumed heroes led by Rama become portrayed as the villain invaders (the foreign Aryan).

The SSS organised morning propaganda classes in Valmiki bastis, called Bunyad (foundation), with the project of rebuilding the on new ideological foundations. Although ideologically opposed, these classes were consciously designed as an imitation of the RSS morning shakhas. They thus started with gymnastics, EMphasising the importance of physical fitness for a militant youth. The organisers even planned to arrange funds for khaki shorts, although it was abandoned for want of funds. The gymnastics session was followed by militant speeches and songs of Dev Kumar’s sung collectively between the speaches. When I attended the programme in Haddi Godown for the first time, I was treated as an official foreign guest. Dev Kumar made a speech to my intention in front of his audience, where he introduced his organisation’s aims and principles. Interestingly enough from the point of view of normalisation, he referred to his community as Valmiki.

community

composition

This is a small committee of the Valmiki community that manages to function more or less peacefully. It is the RSS’ mentality to oppose us and to impose Manuvadi on this country.26 If Manuvadi is once again imposed, our condition will become worse than that of animals. In order

to put a stop to this, we have formed an organisation called Bunyad, to make our people aware and to help them to get rid of fate, God and stone worshipping. Our goal is also to set up a good society.27 Accusing the upper castes of playing a similar political game as the British, he described Hindutva as the latest ‘Aryan’ device in order to ‘divide and rule’ over the poor by instigating a feud between Dalits and Muslims. Instead, he laid emphasis on Dalit– Muslim brotherhood during his speech. He talked of the RSS as the mastermind of upper-caste supremacists, whose strategy was to deceive the Dalits in order to rule over them and exploit them. During another Sunday class held in Lakshmi Purwa’s Valmiki basti, Dev Kumar told the audience that instead of criticising the Chamars they should acknowledge their progress in the field of education. Thanks to their investment in their children’s education, they could now boast of having at least one officer from their caste 26 Manuvadi is an expression of the anti-Brahmin discourse; it means ‘the partisans of the rule of Manu’. It is a reference to the Manusmrti, a text from an ancient Brahmin school which outlines the laws of Shudra and women’s segregation. It is an equivalent expression of Brahmanvad. 27 Hindi speech at Haddi Godown, 26 September 1999.

Plate 10.3: Dev Kumar and his team performing at the Buniyad in Haddi Godown, Kanpur (January 2000). Courtesy of Nicolas Jaoul.

programme

in each and every official department. While the Chamars had followed the Ambedkar path (‘Ambedkar ka rasta’) and progressed, the Valmikis had wasted their time worshipping ‘foreign’ (Aryan) gods. And if they continued to do so, they would still be seen cleaning the streets and toilets of the country in a century’s time. Reversing the Gandhian attempt to dignify sanitation jobs, he criticised the community’s inability to contribute to the nation through qualified means that would bring the Valmikis at par with others. He criticised the community for wasting its money on imitating the upper castes’ luxurious weddings, and to satisfy Brahmin priests’ monetary demands when visiting temples, leading to debt, to the detriment of their children’s education. Even though he did not name it as such, Sanskritisation was thus depicted as an obstacle to progress. He also put other non-Brahminical consumption practices like taking meat and alcohol on the same plane as Sanskritisation, which he called extravagance (the opposite of rigour and restraint). He emphasised that investing in education was the only service that the Valmikis could offer their family, their community and even their country. He also referred to the exploitation of the at the municipality at the hand of the upper castes. Hindu

community

unity was only an empty slogan that they took up when seeking to set the Dalits against the Muslims. He ended his speech with a call to boycott Hindu temples. At some point, the relatively poorly attended session was interrupted by a seriously drunk man, who threatened to denounce these blasphemies to the BJP government. His disturbance was ignored, but in a way, drunk as he was, his defence of Hinduism provided a comic illustration of Dev Kumar’s propaganda that associated Hindu religion with the community’s evils and ‘backwardness’. Most of these themes echoed the reformist gospel of the previous generation of educated Valmikis, to which the community had become accustomed. This time, many felt despised by his rejection of the profession. Opposition came from the same age group. Many of them also quit the profession, preferring to adopt criminal activities as a shortcut to social mobility. This which was indirectly supported by the RSS and the Shiv Sena, focused its propaganda on his anti anti-Hindu militancy. The Valmiki community of Kanpur became polarised. One of his basti’s young opponents, a 17-year-old money-lender and a bodybuilder, explained to me why Dev Kumar was wrong.

opposition,

According to him, one shouldn’t worship Krishna Bhagwan or Ram Bhagwan, but only Jay Bheem.28 This is wrong and immoral. These people say: ‘Do not celebrate any festival’. How wrong! We should respect our customs and habits. This is the universal truth. Dev Kumar

is telling lies about religion. What does he say? He says that God does not exist, but that is wrong. God exists, otherwise why do so many people worship him?29 His weak argumentation in defence of religion contrasted with his bodily strength, from which he seemed to derive his self One of the main advantages of Dev Kumar’s group was that of attracting the community’s educated youth. In his own basti, the opposition came from criminalised youngsters whose association to Hindu Nationalists was motivated by an opportunistic deal for protections in police and justice departments. Compared to their motivation, which was mainly to protect their bastion and

confidence.

28 He thus confuses the Ambedkarite greeting expression ‘Jay Bheem!’ with Ambedkar’s name, whether out of ignorance or as a way to avoid naming him out of disdain. 29 Interview in Hindi, Kanpur, 11 November 1999.

connections in the local power structures, ideological commitment was more palpable on the Ambedkarite side. They had the spiritual energy of the new converts, as opposed to the material wealth, physical power and manliness of the opposed faction, which also brought them prestige. Despite the staunch opposition to his proselytism, Dev Kumar’s popularity grew among the youth. Even his opponents started agreeing on some points that he made, especially regarding the status of Dalit characters in Hindu mythology. Chotelala their leader, had managed to get bail thanks to his contacts despite being accused of several murders. He freely discussed these issues with me. Being the same age, the next door neighbour and the son of Dev Kumar’s father’s close friend (both had been HBVS activists), he had an old friendship with Dev Kumar. He had also dropped out from university, but to pursue a booming career in crime and money lending (he was later on murdered). On a personal plane, he approved Dev Kumar’s ideas of Dalit assertion, even if he disagreed on the means (he advocated violence rather than education). During one of our discussions, I could see that he had become influenced by the anti-brahmin discourse when he started insulting Rama using filthy language, for having been unfair to Shambuk. But to him, Rama’s mistakes did not mean that the whole of Hinduism should be rejected, since there were ‘plenty of other Gods’ who had not misbehaved towards Dalits. For his part, Dev Kumar had to make compromises regarding the Valmiki issue. Although it seems logically difficult to spare the author when criticising his writing, he consciously avoided to mention him directly by name. This would have been considered an offence by most of the community who had adopted the title. In order to influence his community, he could not afford the risk to be portrayed as an enemy of his own people. I even noticed him in a dharna (protest) asking the administration to ban a feature movie in which Valmiki was depicted as a former thief. He seemed slightly reluctant to make a speech, although he could not refuse when asked to. He made a short speech where he strategically avoided the subject of Valmiki and addressed other topics. He confessed to me that although he did not approve of the issue of the protest, he was compelled to participate in all programmes, as a means to build his leadership inside the community. In order to substitute Valmiki’s symbolic patronage by Ambedkar’s, he eventually traced a lineage between his and Ambedkar’s caste

community

(Mahars), a stretched argument which was re-simplified in the by the one of a kind contention that Ambedkar was ‘a Valmiki from Maharashtra’. This echoed an old rumour among Valmikis that Ambedkar had been kept in Chamar custody. I also heard Chamars claiming to be the local equivalents of Mahars. Such popular inventions reflect the BSP’s strategy of fighting caste inequalities through caste identities, using Ambedkar as an icon along with other Dalit symbols at the cost of ideological depth. The Ambedkarisation of the Valmikis thus took on new scope within the dominating framework of caste chauvinism and was fuelled by the inter-caste rivalries of the Dalits instead of building unity among them. Instead of fighting caste chauvinism through commitment to Ambedkar’s anti-caste ideology, this new popular brand of ‘Valmiki Ambedkarism’ managed to blend figures and ideologies in a free creative manner that rules out any obstacle in terms of intellectual rigour and ideological coherence. Dev Kumar tried to inject some coherence in this popular version by eventually writing in a pamphlet that Valmikis could take pride of the fact that both the writers of the Ramayana and of the Constitution, India’s two major books, were historically related to their caste (Kumar 2005).30 In this booklet, he argues that Valmiki was formerly a Brahmin who became an Untouchable after having been cast out. Untouchability is thus seen more as political (a genius becomes an untouchable through unjust punishment) than racial: a political argument that Ambedkar himself opposed to the racial conception of caste that prevailed in the early Dalit movement. Interestingly, Dev Kumar thus works from a version that seems acceptable in his community as a rough material in which he injects his Ambedkarite ideas. Ideological change among Valmikis, in its encounter with popular idioms and resilient tokens of past sanskritisation, is thus far from being univocal and linear. Its convolutions and paradoxes reflect the uncertainities of the popular adhesions to ideologically and politically informed identities, pointing to some degree degree of resistance and popular suspicion against such ideological of identities.31

community

ideological

enclosure

30 He also writes that Vyas, the Mahabharata’s author was from a low caste. 31 The opposition of universalist aspirations to caste identities is an aspect of popular ideology that was also highlighted by Stephen Molund in the title of his book on another Dalit community of Kanpur in the 1970s: First We are People … The Koris of Kanpur between Caste and Class(1988).

Although politically engineered and ideologically informed, caste identities are the outcome of a complex process of subjectivation.

They contribute to the entrenchment of ideologies within popular self re-presentations through signifiers (words and images) that acquire a certain level of autonomy. Contrary to the instrumentalist views, they cannot be reduced to interchangeable political artifacts

that can be thrown away and substituted when political options change. But the internal controversies and perceived stakes the identification to Valmiki also show on the other hand that

regarding

far from being taken for granted, identity appears as a constant

issue and a battlefield where internal ideological battles are fought, alongside internal leadership rivalries.

Conclusion The way the ‘sweepers’ of Kanpur became Valmikis illustrates how

Sanskritisation was and continues to be politically engineered among Dalits. These findings therefore shed a new political light on the concept of Sanskritisation. Despite linking cultural processes to a secular logic of social

mobility, Srinivas nevertheless continues to create the impression of a ‘natural’ tendency towards cultural homogenisation. By adapting Tarde’s theory of imitation, his theory credits Hinduism with inherent self-fulfilling qualities that remind us of a nationalistic

image of nationhood as cultural essence. Such cultural conceptions are blind to the manners in which contemporary popular Hinduism is also in several respects the product of a commonly held political idiom of the Hindu nation. Is it because Srinivas himself endorsed

Sanskritisation as a positive contribution to national integration, thus sharing a ‘soft’ Hindu nationalist agenda, that he missed the political and institutional aspects of Sanskritisation?32 My article has highlighted the social and political stakes that

informed the dynamics of Dalit Sanskritisation in a locality, from the point of view of labour and political representation. Despite their commitments to social reform with conservative overtones (of doing away with untouchability while retaining the caste-based division

32 Srinivas, for example, wrote that ‘the concept of the Unity of India is inherent to Hinduism ’ (Srinivas 1965, quoted in Charsley 1998).

of labour), the upper-caste social reformers who worked among the ‘sweepers’ continuously endorsed the local municipalities’ stake of keeping their sanitary workers under control. The right-wing elites’ project of engineering a single caste of ‘sweepers’ was thus informed by a project of caste-based governmentality, through which they could both monitor their votes and control their work force. The sanitary employees’ critical position as far as public health is concerned, instead of being an asset which they could leverage for their emancipation, has led the local ruling class to lay special emphasis on their social control. Such a hegemonic context merely provided space for a culture of resistance that developed at the of emancipation. The relative economic security they benefited from as municipal employees also created a vested interest in the despised jobs, limiting their efforts towards education and social mobility. As compared to them, other relatively successful Dalit communities like the Chamar laid a strong emphasis on education and developed a section of government employees who became prominent in movements of emancipation. Sanskritisation could nevertheless be appropriated from below and redefined in a manner that reintroduced Dalit agency and resistance, therefore not in conformity to the elite’s agenda. The practices of the Valmikis thus reveal a very partial, incomplete and twisted process of adoption (and a highly creative process of reinvention) of brahminical norms and practices. James C. Scott argues that even when the subordinate groups’ expression refers to a dominant framework, it remains ambivalent, since it is impossible to establish ‘how much of the appeal to hegemonic values is prudence and how much is ethical submission’ (Scott 1990: 92). The Valmikí issue is yet another example of this ambiguity. Although this identity remains fundamentally equivocal, it is nevertheless clear that inspite of the ongoing process of Dalit emancipation, municipal sanitation employees still feel that they ought to remain prudent and therefore continue to bear names that sound acceptable to their upper-caste municipal bosses.

expense

cultural

fundamentally

References Baily, Susan. 1999. Caste, Society and Politics in India from the Eighteenth Century to the Modern Age. (The New Cambridge History of India: IV.3). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Bharti, Makrand Lal. 1970. Maharshi Sudarshan Parichay . Jiwan vikas parishad, Kanpur. ———. 1972. Babu Laluramji, Sanchipt Parichay. Kanpur: Dalal Purwa. Brass, Paul R. 1998. ‘ Kala Bachcha: Portrait of a BJP Hero’, in idem, The Theft of an Idol: Text and Context in the Representation of Collective Violence, pp. 204–59. Calcutta: Seagull. Charsley, Simon. 1998. ‘ Sanskritisation: The Career of an Anthropological Theory’, Contributions to Indian Sociology, 32 (2): 527–49. Das, Bhagwan. 1982. ‘ Valmiki and the Sweepers’, Samta Sainik Sandesh (Jallander), Vol 2 n° 14 November 16th, 1982. ———. 2009. In Pursuit of Ambedkar: A Memoir. New Delhi: Navayana. Dirks, Nicholas B. 2001. Castes of Mind: Colonialism and the Making of Modern India. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Gooptu, Nandini. 2001. The Politics of the Urban Poor in Early Twentiethcentury India. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gould, William. 2005. Hindu Nationalism and the Language of Politics in Late Colonial India. New Delhi: Cambridge University Press. Jaffrelot , Christophe. 1996. The Hindu Nationalist Movement and Indian Politics. New Delhi: Penguin Books India. ———. 2005. ‘ Hindu Nationalism and the Social Welfare Strategy: Seva Bharti as an Education Agency’, in C. Jaffrelot (ed.), The Sangh Parivar: A Reader, pp. 211–24. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Jaoul, Nicolas. 2008. ‘ Political and “Non-political” Means in the Dalit Movement’, in Sudha Pai (ed.), Political Process In UP: Identity, Economic Reform and Governance, pp. 142–68. New Delhi: Pearson. Kolenda Moller Mahar, Pauline. 1960. ‘ Changing Religious Practice of an Untouchable Caste’, Economic Development and Cultural Change. 83: 279–87. Kumar, Dev. 1993. ‘ More Bazar’. Kanpur. ———. 2005. Dom se Mahar tak. Kanpur: Prabhu Prakashan. Kolenda, Pauline. 2003. ‘ Demonizing Dalits: Scouring the Sources on the Sikh Pogrom’, in idem, Caste, Marriage, and Inequality: Essays on North and South India, pp. 432–53. Jaipur: Rawat Publications. Lee, Joel. 2008. ‘ It’s the Story of Our Own Village: A Journey in Indian Street Theatre’, Theatre, 38 (1): 76–91. Molund , Stephen. 1988. First We are People ... The Koris of Kanpur between Caste and Class, Stockolm Studies in Social Anthropology. Stockolm: Stockolm University Press. Niehoff , Arthur. 1957. ‘ Caste, Class and Family in an Industrial Community of Northern India ’, unpublished PhD dissertation, Columbia University, New York. Prashad, Vijay. 2000. Untouchable Freedom: A Social History of a Dalit . New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Roberts, Nathaniel. 2008. ‘ Caste, Anthropology of’, in William S. Darity (ed.). International Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences, pp. 461–63. New York : Macmillan Reference USA.

Community

Scott, James C. 1990. Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts. New Haven: Yale University Press. Sharma, Rama. 1995. Bhangi, Scavenger in Indian Society: Marginality, Identity and Politicization of the Community. New Delhi: MD Publications. Shyamlal. 1999. The Changing Bhangis of India: A Study of Caste Association. Jaipur: Sublime Publications. Srinivas, M. N. 1989 [ 1967]. ‘ The Cohesive Role of Sanskritisation ’, The Cohesive Role of Sanskritisation and Other Essays, pp. 57–71. USA: Oxford University Press.

11 The Boa and its Petty Enemy: Contemporary Relationships between Hindu Nationalists and the Sikhs Christine Moliner The image of Hinduism as a boa constrictor crushing in its fold the reformed Sikh religion was conjured up in the early 20th century by the British historian Arthur Macauliffe; it powerfully captures the British Orientalist vision of the relations between Hinduism and Sikhism. It was, incidentally, quickly re-appropriated by the Singh Sabha reformists of the late 19th century in their promotion of a separate Sikh identity. Since then, this fear of ‘absorption’ into Hinduism has represented one of the recurring themes of Sikh religious and political discourses and has continuously affected the relationships between Hindu nationalists and the Sikhs in contemporary Punjab. And, indeed, Hindu militant organisations from the Arya Samaj to the RSS have been consistent in their claim that Sikhs are an integral part of the Hindu social and religious structure. But whereas the Arya Samaj ideologues were vehemently anti-Sikh, today’s RSS has had to keep a low profile in its project to reclaim Sikhism over to Hinduism and is compelled to adjust to the Punjabi-specific context, which is particularly challenging for the Sangh Parivar. First, Punjab is a Sikh-majority state (62, 9 per cent Sikhs, 34, 5 per cent Hindus) where Sikhs are dominant socially, politically and economically. Their well-known capacity of mobilisation on issues, in particular against any perceived threat onto Sikh identity and the two-decade long mobilisation for the creation of an independent Sikh state (Khalistan), has forced the Sangh Parivar to keep a rather low profile in Panjab. Second, the Punjab has the highest percentage of Scheduled Castes (SCs) in the whole of India: 29 per cent on average, with a peak of over 35 per cent in certain districts of central Punjab. Since the

community

Christine Moliner

19th century the four religious traditions present in Punjab, namely Sikhism, Hinduism, Islam and Christianity, have been engaged in a fierce competition to win over these groups at the bottom of the Punjabi socio-religious hierarchy, through proselytism, and reconversion campaigns. Still, today, the issue of of untouchables to Christianity is agitated by the RSS and its affiliates in the Punjab, all the more so that Hindus are a minority in that state. Third, the Punjab is notable for its negligible proportion of Muslims (1, 2 per cent), whereas it was a Muslim-dominated province before partition. West Punjabi Hindus are very numerous in the Sangh Parivar rank and file and their experience of the uprooting and violence of partition has fuelled its anti-Muslim ideology, all the more so that in the absence of any significant Muslim population, direct confrontation with Muslims as a basis for mobilisation is impossible: what is left is a vehemently anti-Muslim and antiPakistani discourse, with few occasions locally to translate it into violent action.

conversion conversion

This article will focus on the Sikh response to RSS activities in

the Punjab in two respects. First, it will examine the way both sides are engaged in a debate on Sikh identity, which is reminiscent of the late 19th century Arya Samaj–Singh Sabha controversy. Other historical landmarks which have fashioned current relationships between Hindu nationalists and the Sikhs include the partition and the Punjabi Suba (Punjabi province) movement.1 The 1996 alliance between the BJP and the Akali Dal opened a new era for the Sangh Parivar: benefitting from government patronage, it has developed its activities in the Punjab, especially in the wake of the tercentenary celebration of the Khalsa. Second, the issue of the relations with the Sangh Parivar powerfully discloses the internal diversity, the cleavages and tensions within Sikh ranks. The ‘RSS agent’ label is frequently used to weaken and discredit opponents while the theme of ‘Sikhism in danger’ (of being swallowed up by Hinduism) is used to impose orthodox beliefs and practices onto the Sikh masses. The Arya Samaj was founded in Gujarat in 1875 by Swami Dayanand to promote a new form of Hinduism based on the

1 I have decided to leave aside the ‘Panjab disturbances’ of the 1980s, as they have led to the virtual disappearance of the Sangh Parivar from Punjab.

The Boa and its Petty Enemy

infallibility of the Vedas and the condemnation of idolatry, ritual practices, Brahmin domination and child marriage. Successful in northern India, it has been particularly influential in the Punjab among the urban Hindu elite, which provided much of the leadership and ideological output of the Samaj. According to Kenneth Jones,2 the complex relations between the Arya Samaj and its Sikh counterpart, the Singh Sabhas have gone through various phases, from cooperation to conflict (Jones 1973). Several members of the Lahore Singh Sabha, attracted by its reformist ideology, joined the Samaj from its inception. They were drawing a parallel between the ‘true’ Vedic Hinduism advocated by the Samaj and early Sikhism, defined as a revival of ancient Vedism. A common concern to prevent conversion to Christianity and Islam served as the basis of cooperation between Aryas and the Sikhs. Swami Dayanand identified conversion as a major threat to Hinduism and to counter proselytising religions turned to shuddhi, a traditional Hindu procedure of purification which he transformed into a powerful weapon of reconversion.3 Originally, shuddhi consisted in rites of purification of high-caste individuals who had been excluded temporarily from their caste because of polluting actions and transgression of Hindu social norms. Shuddhi, therefore, allowed them to be formally reintroduced into their caste. It has been reappropriated by the Arya Samaj and into a powerful tool first, to reconvert individuals born Hindus, later, to convert groups who had never been Hindus at the first instance and significantly as a technique of purification of untouchables to prevent them from leaving the ranks of Hinduism (Clémentin Ojha 1994). Initiated by Dayanand during his stay in the Punjab, where he used it to reconvert a Christian, shuddhi was difficult to impose within the Samaj ranks, its moderate wing being clearly reluctant, and was violently opposed by sanatan (orthodox) Hindus. The Singh Sabhas themselves were created in 1873 as a reaction to the proposed conversion of Sikhs students to Christianity. The fear of conversion, of the ensuing demographical decline of the

transformed

2 The following historical overview draws very much from the reference work of Kenneth Jones on the Arya Samaj, particularly its article on Arya–Sikh relations. 3 On the issue of shuddhi, besides Jones (1973), see Clémentin-Ojha (1994).

Panth at a time when the first British censuses were conducted, was a major concern of Sikh reformists and induced them to join the Samaj shuddhi campaigns at an early stage to the extent that both groups created a Shuddhi Sabha in the 1880s (Jones 1973). Later, purification campaigns of groups of untouchables initiated a fierce competition between Aryas and Sikhs which culminated in 1900 with the conversion of the Rahtia (an untouchable caste of weaver) Sikhs to Arya Hinduism which entailed them shedding the external symbols of the Khalsa (with in particular the shaving of hair and beard). Jones very nicely captures Sikhs’ uproar against what was perceived as Rahtias’ treason and Sikh reformists’ attempts to convince the Rahtia leaders to remain within the Panth. The Rahtias’ conversion was pointing at as an important issue, a bone of contention between sanatan and reformist Sikhs: that is the discrimination suffered by untouchable Sikhs, despite the egalitarian ethos of the Sikh faith as embodied in amrit sanskar (the initiation ceremony into the Khalsa brotherhood). The Aryas convinced the Rahtias that their lot would be better if they joined the Samaj. And, indeed, a lot of untouchables were attracted to the Arya Samaj through the upliftment programmes it developed in the Punjab. Ultimately, the conversion of the Rahtias put an end to Arya–Sikh cooperation in the realm of shuddhi and reactivated underlying conflicts. Indeed, the founder of the Arya Samaj, while touring Punjab, had criticised Sikhism and its founder in such harsh terms that they are still resented by Sikhs today. He considered Sikhism merely as one of the many sects within Hinduism, as stated by Jones ‘to be noted, refuted and then forgotten’ (Jones 1973: 459). The little value he conceded to the ideals and teachings of Guru Nanak had been annihilated, according to him, by the subsequent decline and relapse of Sikhism into mere idolatry: ‘Nanakji had noble aims, but he had no learning. He knew the language of the villages of his country. He had no knowledge of Vedic scriptures or Sanskrta [....] [His followers] do not worship idols, but they worship the Grantha Saheb which is as good as idolatry. Just as idol-worshippers

have set up their shop in order to get their livelihood, so have these people’ (Satyarth Prakash, quoted in Jones 1973: 459). Punjabi Aryas quickly split between a moderate wing that cooperated with Sikh reformists on the issue of reconversion and

a radical wing that was adamant to prove Dayanand’s spiritual superiority. From the middle of the 1880s, as far as Sikhs were concerned, the nuance between moderates and radicals faded away, and the Arya Samaj assumed from that time the violently anti-Sikh outlook it has retained ever since then (Jones 1973). With the polemical tone characteristic of Panjabi debates of the period, the Aryas harshly criticised in their publications, particularly the Arya Patrika, what they considered as the current decline of Sikhism, caught up in the same ritualism and superstition as Sanatan Hinduism: The Khalsa (Sikh) community has undergone many changes since its formation. That sublime and pure faith founded on the Vedas, which was taught by Guru Nanak and his worthy successors has since greatly degenerated. Idolatry has again been introduced, and priest craft in

another form has become rampant (Arya Patrika, 12 December 1885, quoted in Jones 1973: 469). As a result of these polemical attacks, Sikhs left the Samaj in the late 1880s and joined the Lahore Singh Sabha. A major shift occurred at the same period in the debate opposing Aryas and Sikhs that would focus henceforth on the question of Sikh identity. Do Sikhs merely constitute a branch of Hinduism or are they to be considered as a separate religion? In other words, is the Panth a dharm (and a qaum) or simply one of the myriad of Hindu sects? The Arya Samaj was adamant to prove both that the gurus were well inferior to Dayananda and that Sikhs were nonetheless Hindus. This insistence, combined with the way their publications and speeches debased what Sikhs hold most sacred, ‘heightened the Sikhs’ sense of self-awareness and separation from Hinduism’ (Jones 1973 : 467) As I have explained elsewhere (Moliner 2007 ), the Singh Sabha redefinition of Sikh identity created a new figure of otherness, the Hindu. The point was to demonstrate that the Sikhs were a separate community, distinct from both Hindus and Muslims. Arya–Sikh controversies and embittered conflicts accelerated the process of identity demarcation among Sikhs, and heightened the Singh Sabha’s concern to demonstrate that contrary to Arya’s claim, Sikhs were not Hindus. Hence ‘Ham Hindu Nahin’ (We are not Hindus), a famous Singh Sabha pamphlet published in 1899 in a context of strong antagonism, was written as a response to an Arya Samaj publication of the same year, ‘Sikh Hindu Hain’

(Sikhs are Hindus). Written in Hindi, it targeted Hindus as well as Sikhs. Indeed the Tat Khalsa (the radical branch of the Singh Sabha), had indentified another enemy besides the Arya Samaj: what they termed Sikhs ignorance about their true identity, misconstructed as part of Hinduism by sanatan (traditional) Sikhs. The position of sanatan Sikhs, their very existence in fact, was weakening the Tat Khalsa stand vis-à-vis the Arya Samaj. They were a living proof of the plurality, flexibility and interpenetration of communal identities, characteristic of 19th-century Punjab. Within this complex social fabric, Singh Sabha reformers, at par with other reform movements amongst Hindus and Muslims, strived to impose clear-cut boundaries between Sikhs and other Punjabis. Besides, this perception by Sikh reformists of Arya activism as the greatest of all threats found an echo in colonial ideology, and was thus legitimised. For instance, one of the recurring themes of British Orientalism is that of Sikhism being in a permanent danger of re-absorption into Hinduism. This ‘Sikhism in danger’ slogan was re-appropriated by the Tat Khalsa and fed their antagonism with the Arya Samaj. It has since then become a rallying slogan of Sikh ethno-nationalism, particularly during the episodes of confrontation with the (Hindu) state. The most powerful expression of this theme is to be found in a very famous phrase by Macauliffe: Truly wonderful are the strength and vitality of Hinduism. It is like the boa constrictor of the Indian forests. When a petty enemy appears to

worry it, it winds round its opponent, crushes it in its folds and finally causes it to disappear in its capacious interior. In this way, many ago, Hinduism on its own ground disposed of Buddhism, which

centuries

was largely a Hindu reformation; in this way, in a prehistoric period, it absorbed the religion of the Scythian invaders of Northern India; in this way, it has converted uneducated Islam in India into a semi-paganism

and in this way it is disposing of the reformed and once hopeful religion of Baba Nanak Hinduism has embraced Sikhism in its folds the still comparatively young religion is making a vigorous struggle for life, but its ultimate destruction is, it is apprehended, inevitable without State support (Macauliffe 1909: 37, emphasis added).

Today, this passage is still frequently quoted within Sikh ranks, especially by those who strongly oppose the RSS (cf., for instance, on www.panthic.com). Held in high esteem by the Sikhs, M. A. Macauliffe is conversely abhorred by Hindu nationalists who hold him responsible for instilling in the mind of Sikhs this ‘absurd’ idea

of a Sikh separated identity. In this perspective, Sikh religious and political separatism is a mere creation of the British divide-andrule policy. Partition and the Panjabi Suba campaign represent two other periods that have been instrumental in fashioning contemporary relationships between Hindu nationalists and the Sikhs. A growing body of literature has been dedicated to the various aspects of and particularly to the memory of partition4 and its I will focus here solely on the role that partition violence in the Punjab has played in the narratives of Hindu nationalists regarding the Sikhs.

partition, transmission.

The mass violence of partition which mostly opposed Sikhs

and Hindus on the one side and Muslims on the other and the resulting exchange of population (the first fleeing to India and the second to Pakistan) is interpreted in Hindu nationalist discourse as a proof written in blood that Sikhs are Hindus, at least during confrontation with Muslims. This point is vividly and polemically made in a pamphlet written in 1955 by Om Prakasha Kahol, 5 a former member of the Working Committee of the All-India Hindu Mahasabha. In this work published in the wake of the Punjabi Suba campaign, the author argues for the creation of a Punjabi state. He harshly admonishes Punjabi Hindus for opposing it and deals at length with the core issue of language, Punjabi in Gurmukhi script versus Hindi in Devanagari. The fourth chapter is devoted to a ‘review of Hindu–Sikhs relations’, in particular on the ‘eve of Partition’. After stating that the gulf between Hindus and Sikhs was ‘widened by Anglo-Muslim conspirators’ (1955: 12), it refers to partition violence to support its claim that Sikhs are Hindus. A Sikh deceives none except himself if he regards Muslims as his better friends than Hindus (....). For a Muslim, they are all ‘Kafirs’ or Hindus (...). The academic discussion, whether Sikhs or Buddhists are Hindus or not, is a peace-time luxury. At the time of war, everybody at once

comes to know [.....] which camp he belongs to (my emphasis).

The author proceeds to conclude that Sikhs, Buddhists, Jains, Arya Samaji, Sanatanists (orthodox, anti-Arya Samaj Hindus) are 4 See, in particular, Pandey (2001). 5 Hindus and the Punjabi State: A Psycho-Political Discussion on the and Rationale of Punjabi State.

Conception

all one and all at war with the Muslims. Clearly, the figure of the Muslim is constructed here as a major unifying element between ‘sons of the soil’. Sikhs are Hindus, not merely because Aryas or the RSS say so, but because they were considered as such by Muslims and killed alongside their Hindu brothers during partition. Partition itself is perceived as mere repetition of past conflicts between Sikhs/ Hindus and Muslims: ‘History repeated itself [(...) to teach them (Sikhs) a lesson they had willfully forgotten (...)They learnt to their cost that the Muslim was the same in the 20th century as he was at the time of Guru Tegh Bahadur or Guru Gobind Singh …’6 The crucial point is to maintain the unity and strength of the

‘Hindu nation’: indeed, once the Sikhs, Buddhists and Jains are conceded a separate identity, ‘then the entire Hindu Nation vanishes’ and is reduced to a ‘conglomerate of minorities (...) numbering a few lakhs fighting each other under a powerful despotic majority, the Muslims’. Here is an illustration of what Christophe Jaffrelot calls the ‘majoritarian inferiority complex of Hindus’,7 even more acute in the case of Punjabi Hindus. The author then concludes: ‘We are a majority against the Muslims if we are Hindus. But we become a minority the moment we discard that unifying word and start our life as Jains, Sikhs or Sanatanists.’ The campaign led by Sikhs for the creation of a Panjabi suba represents a very low point in Hindu–Sikh relations: the position of Punjabi Hindus who staunchly opposed it is still routinely evoked by Sikhs as the ultimate treason, a severe blow to Hindu–Sikh relations and to Punjabiyat (Punjabi identity). The Panjabi suba movement was led by the Akali Dal (a Sikhdominated regional party created in the 1920s) from 1950 till the reorganisation of Panjab in 1966.8 It emerged in the nationwide context of the linguistic reorganisation of states, initiated by a major language movement in the Telugu-speaking region of Madras (now Andhra Pradesh). There is a general agreement that although the Akali leaders presented their demand on a linguistic basis, they were actually campaigning for a separate political status for the Sikhs, through a Sikh-majority state. First rejected for that

province

6 The 17th century, when Sikhs were persecuted by the Mughals: in 1675, Guru Tegh Bahadur, the ninth guru, was executed after he had refused to embrace Islam. 7 Jaffrelot (1996: 196). 8 The most complete analysis of this period is in Brass (1974: Chapter 6).

very reason in 1953 by the States Reorganisation Commission, their demand would be granted much later in 1966, after an Akali-led agitation, which resulted in communal tensions between Hindus and Sikhs. Besides the communal character of the demand, the Commission based its rejection on the fact that it lacked the support of a majority of the population. And indeed it met with the strong opposition of Punjabi Hindus: as part of the anti-Punjabi suba mobilisation led by the Arya Samaj, they twice returned Hindi as their mother tongue during the censuses of 1951 and 1961. The Akali–Arya Samaj conflict over this linguistic and political issue is clearly reminiscent of the Arya–Singh Sabha controversy analysed above. As argued in a reference study of the movement,9 the Akali leadership’s demand was motivated by the long-standing sense that Sikhism was in danger of absorption into Hinduism, and that without a political base, the separate religious and social identity of Sikhs could not be guaranteed — this echoes the already quoted assertion by Macauliffe that without (the colonial) state support, Sikhism’s ‘ultimate destruction’ was ‘inevitable’. Among Hindus, Sikh demand revived the recent trauma of partition and the fear of being dominated as a minority in a Sikh-majority state. Interestingly, Hindu nationalists’ position on that issue has evolved over time: the RSS and the Jan Sangh first sided with the Arya Samaj and adopted a pro-Hindi stance. But, as Paul R. Brass explains, when it became obvious that Sikh demand would be met by the centre, the RSS leader Gowalkar, during his tour of Panjab in April 1966, engaged Hindus to return Panjabi, in Gurmukhi script, as their mother tongue. And this appeal was based on the long-standing claim that Sikhs are Hindus, after all. This last-hour shift conveniently allowed for an alliance between the Jan Sangh and the Akalis in the 1967 elections. Beyond electoral considerations, the divergence between the RSS and the Samaj on that issue emerged from a divergence of strategy.10 The Arya Samaj position was primarily fashioned by the local context: the religious divide (Sikhs versus Hindus) to which the Samaj had made a contribution since the 19th century overlapped and was reinforced by a socio-economic divide (Hindus being dominant in cities, Sikhs in rural areas). The RSS and its representatives in Punjab

significant

9 Nayar (1966). 10I owe the following point to Dipankar Gupta (conversation, Delhi, 3 July 2006.

pursued a national agenda whereby since Sikhs are Hindus, they are to be supported in some of their particularistic demands. To the Arya Samaj, the enemy was the Sikh; to the RSS, it was the Muslim or the Christian. But beyond this divergence of approaches among Hindu nationalists, the Punjabi Suba period notably widened the gap between Hindus and Sikhs of the Punjab and in a sense paved the way for the confrontation of the 1980s. The final part of our discussion will, first, examine the strategy and the activities of the Sangh Parivar in post-insurgency Panjab and, second, Sikh response to them. The fieldwork conducted to investigate those issues took place in July and August 2006 in the Punjab and in Delhi. It consisted of interviews with Punjabi Hindus and Sikhs in the following cities: Phagwara, Jalandhar, Ludhiana, Patiala, Chandigarh, Amritsar, Taran Taran and Delhi. I met both ‘secular-minded’ Hindus (journalists, scholars, politicians, activists) and militants or sympathisers of the following organisations affiliated to the Sangh Parivar: the BJP, Shiv Sena, RSS and Rashtryia Sikh Sangat. Among Sikhs, a few journalists and academics were approached, three Sikh members of Hindutva organisations and several Sikh activists and leaders opposed them. Different sets of questions were used according to the interviewee.

To Hindu militants, the research was presented as an investigation on communal relations between Hindus and Sikhs; and to secular Hindus and to Sikhs, it was presented as a research on Hindutva in the Panjab and Sikh reactions to it. Contact with the RSS was difficult to establish, and an atmosphere of distrust prevailed during the interviews. The discourse was very monolithic and further investigation or contradiction met with hostility. On the other hand, fieldwork among Sikhs was much easier, and interviewees much more talkative. Aware of my interest in Sikh studies, they were very helpful, providing time, contacts and material (DVD, books, press cuttings and websites) to help me investigate Hindutva activities in the Panjab. Obviously, they were pursuing their own agenda, but discussions were open and lively, and we frequently agreed to disagree. Hindutva in the Panjab is embodied into three main organisations: the Arya Samaj, the RSS and its related organisations and the BJP. The Arya Samaj today is both very weak and still powerful. As opposed to the role it assumed in the late 19th century, it is no longer

the representative of Punjabi Hindus’ interests. As an organisation, it has nonetheless survived through the DAV (Dayanand AngloVedic) network of schools and colleges, those very influential educational institutions where a large part of the Punjabi elites is educated. But as an ideology, the Samaj is quite alive, as it permeates Punjabi Hindu world view and particularly Panjabi Hindu view of the Sikhs. Interestingly, the Aryas anti-Sikh ideology does not not translate into political terms and hence did not prevent electoral alliances between the BJP and the Akali Dal. The RSS has been present in Punjab since its creation, and was particularly active in pre-partition West Panjab — most of its cadres and sympathisers originate from there. Besides pan-Indian organisations such as the VHP, Bajrang Dal and Shiv Sena, another satellite organisation called the Rashtryia Sikh Sangat has been launched by the parent organisation to hammer among the Sikh masses the message that Sikhs are Hindus. These organisations operate in different fields. The Rashtryia Sikh Sangat focuses on the religious sphere; the Bajrang Dal deals with cultural policing; the Hindu Shiv Sena is trying to sustain the Sangh Parivar anti-Muslim rhetoric — mostly targeting neighbouring Pakistan, in the absence of any significant local Muslim population. And conquest of political power is the preserve of the BJP, which has emerged over the years as the third political force in the state. This aspect is crucial to explain the rapid upsurge of Hindutva activities after the period of Sikh militancy. During the 1980s and 1990s, most of these organisations went underground or stopped altogether to operate in the Punjab, after a few Shiv Sena and RSS activists — alongside lay Hindus — were killed by Khalistanis, and many more threatened. In major Punjabi cities such as Ludhiana, the daily RSS shakhas had to be interrupted, as RSS members feared for their lives. Since the BJP has entered the regional government in 1997, the almost defunct Sangh Parivar has revived in particular through government patronage. The ostentatious tercentenary celebrations of the creation of the Khalsa in 1999 allowed for the public demonstration of this revival. The Rashtriya Sikh Sangat,11 created in 1984 in Delhi,12 in the aftermath of the anti-Sikh pogroms, started its activities among 11 Sangat means congregation, community of faith in Panjabi. 12 According another account, it was created in 1986 in Amritsar.

the rural Sikh masses: it was entrusted with the task to reintegrate Sikhism into militant Hinduism. To do so, it has chosen the medium of religious imagery shared by all Punjabis. As documented by Sikh organisations opposing it, the Sangat very skillfully mixes Sikh and Hindu symbols and visual representations. For instance, on banners, posters and pamphlets the Hindu Om is routinely placed side by side with the Sikh Ek-Onkar. Sikh gurus are depicted next to Hindu deities and presented in RSS literature as their avatar. They are also associated with the holy cow: one particular poster depicts the 10 Gurus ‘squeezed’ into the body of a cow. In religious ceremonies sponsored by the RSS, posters of Sikh gurus are mixed with posters of Shiva or Ram — a practice strictly prohibited in gurdware (Sikh places of worship) although not unusual in Panjabi homes, both Sikh and Hindu. Copies of the Adi Granth (Sikh sacred scriptures) were installed in mandir to conduct akhand path,13 and had to be removed when the Akal Takht, the supreme religious authority among Sikhs, banned this practice. The RSS was also debarred from carrying the Adi Granth in processions, as is done by Sikhs on specific religious occasions (during nagar kirtan, religious parade in the streets).

several

The Sikh scriptures are indeed a prime target. The RSS presents

the Guru Granth Sahib as a Hindu scripture, even a national text: The Guru Granth is a big ocean of knowledge, so the RSS has to spread this knowledge. This is why we have sponsored translation in Gujerati,

Telugu, Malayalam. We have also reprinted Sri Bachitra Natak … you must know this biography of Guru Gobind Singh, where he explains that our ancestors are Ram … I call it the national Granth, as the whole of India is represented in it. Besides, the gurus are national gurus, they are our gurus, not just the Sikhs’. Socially, historically, spiritually, we are one … [sic]

— Interview with RSS volunteer in Phagwara, 19 July 2006

The RSS also strives to rewrite Sikh history to present the Sikhs as the sword arm of the Hindu nation. Sikh martyrs receive specific attention and are turned into Hindu heroes: the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh, Jalandhar headquarters’ window illustrates this trend. Indeed, it contains portraits of Haqiqat Rai, Udham 13 Religious ceremony consisting in an uninterrupted reading of the Granth over 48 hours.

Singh and Guru Nanak. Haqiqat Rai, a young Khatri from Sialkot, was executed in the 18th century in Lahore after he had refused

to convert to Islam. To the Sikhs, he is Bhai Haqiqat Rai, one of the many Sikh martyrs of that period. Hindu nationalists call him Veer Haqiqat Rai and claim him as a Hindu hero in the battle against Muslims.

Another bone of contention is the martyrdom of Guru Tegh Bahadur and its contested interpretations. Threatened of forced conversion by Aurangzeb, Kashmiri Brahmins appealed to the ninth Sikh guru for help. The guru’s challenge to Aurangzeb (‘If you

manage to convert me, then all non-Muslims will also embrace Islam’) led to his decapitation in 1675. Following historians of the period, I am pointing out elsewhere the polysemic nature of this critical event in Sikh history (Moliner 2007 ). Indeed, in Sikh

historiographic accounts, the conflict was a religious one, between a fanatical Muslim tyrant and the Sikh guru, ready to sacrifice his life for the sake of religious freedom, in that particular instance of a community other than his own. This last point is critical in the

debate about a separate Sikh identity opposing Sikhs and Hindu nationalists: the latter used it skilfully to substantiate their claim that Sikhism is an integral part of Hinduism, since the Guru died to protect his own dharma. This interpretation is expounded, among

several publications and speeches, in a special issue of Organiser on the foundation of the Khalsa: ‘The martyrdom of Guru Tegh Bahadur clearly indicates what the identity of (a) Sikh means: Sikh identity is solely and firmly established in the form of protecting

the Hindu society and the Hindu dharma’ (‘Khalsa is the Swordarm of Hindu Society’, 1999). The same article further explains: Guru Tegh Bahadur never said that the Khalsa was a different sect, different panth. No. We belong to the same all encompassing dharmic

tradition called the sanatana dharma [...] There are so many panths, so many sects but they are not exclusive. They are all mutually (ibid.).

complementary’

This encompassing, inclusive vision of Hinduism allows the RSS to claim all ‘sons of the soil’ (Sikhs, Buddhists, and Jains) as Hindus, even if these groups reject that very identification. But there are nuances between the RSS position and that of the BJP, and within the RSS between Hindus and Sikhs.

All of the RSS (Hindu) leaders and militants interviewed denied Sikhs both a political and a religious separate identity. Sikhs and Hindus are not separate, they share relations of blood. Sikhism has always belonged to Hinduism ... As you know, the first nine gurus were not Singh, they were Hindus. Guru Gobind Singh was a great reformist; he created the Khalsa Panth, because Hindus

are coward. At that time, they were persecuted by Muslims ... Did you know that Somnath mandir was attacked 18 times? And what about the martyrdom of our gurus ... Islamic terrorism has always been the most dangerous thing, since the beginning ... But what the 10th guru started was the Sikh panth, not the Sikh dharm.

You know, I am touring Panjab to spread the message that there is no difference, I am doing door-to-door prachar (preaching) in so many villages ... these villagers, they listen to me ... I tell them how the RSS has brought nationalism to this country... — Interview with Sikh member of the RSS, Patiala, 27 July 2006

The illusive sense of a Sikh separate identity, as explained above, was planted by the British into Singh Sabha intellectuals’ minds: Of course Sikhs are Hindus! To the Akalis, they are not ... But it is Macauliffe who brought this idea into Panjab. This is a British conspiracy to divide us.

You know about Macauliffe? He was the principal of Khalsa College. He even took amrit (got baptised into the Khalsa), but he shaved when he went back to England ... And this book Ham Hindu Nahin, he is the author of that book

— Interview with RSS volunteer, Phagwara 19 July 2006

On the contrary, another Sikh member of the Rashtryia Sikh Sangat insisted on the distinct religious identity of the Sikhs: Even RSS has acknowledged that Sikhs are a separate qaum. Culturally,

we are close to Hindus, but religiously, we have gone our own way, we do things differently. I believe in Hindu-Sikh amity, that’s why I got involved in the RSS ... you know after 1984 ... my house was burnt at that time ... so, yes I believe in unity and amity, but Sikhs are separate!

(— Interview conducted in Delhi, 26 July 2006)

As compared to the RSS’s stance, the BJP’s discourse is more accommodating, as it concedes a separate religious identity to Sikhs: Relations between commonplace Sikhs and Hindus have always been cordial. Terrorists tried to create a rift, in the 1988s, but they were not successful ... simply because there are so many strong bonds between them ...

BJP and RSS say: Hinduism is not a religion but a way of life, a broad spectrum that can accommodate Sikhs, Jains, and Buddhists ... It can also accommodate a separate religious identity for the Sikhs ... You know, myself I am a Jain, so ... Westerners are wrong when they treat Hinduism as a religion ... Hindu means Indian. In that sense, Muslims also are Hindus, they are Hindu

Muslims (sic) Interview with former BJP MLA for Chandigarh, Chandigarh, 12 July 2006

This nuance has probably to be understood with reference to the electoral alliance and coalition politics of the BJP and Akali Dal. Recent RSS activities in the Punjab have met with very strong

opposition from some Sikh groups, mostly factions of the Akali Dal that are usually termed as radical. Besides its political underpinnings, this issue has broader dimensions. First, it discloses the internal diversity and long standing clivages

within Sikh ranks. In that respect, the RSS is used as a device to delegitimise or even demonise opponents. Second, the RSS stands for all kinds of dangers and threats to the Sikh panth, and here assumes a phantasmagoric dimension, in through the idea of a Hindu conspiracy to eliminate Sikhs. Finally, and in relation to this previous aspect, relations with the RSS (and more broadly with Hindus) touches at a core issue which explains the passionate character of Sikh reactions: the issue of Sikh identity, a question still hotly debated within and without the panth. Anti-RSS Sikh organisations are mostly drawn from Akali factions opposed to Prakash Singh Badal, the present Chief Minister of the Punjab: among these groups figure prominently the Akali Dal (Mann), which links the plight of Sikhs with that of other minorities in India, Dal Khalsa (a Khalistani organisation), Khalsa Panchayat and Damdami Taksal (the religious seminary formerly headed by Sant Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale). The anti-RSS mobilisation

particular

also involves various politico-religious actors and traditional Sikh intellectuals — such as the editor of a Sikh publication, Sant Sipahi, the Director of the Institute of Sikh Studies or a former president of the SGPC — all of them interviewed during fieldwork. The turning point in Sikh mobilisation was the proposed visit of RSS chief Sudarshan in Chandigarh, in 2000, to discuss ‘Sikh agenda’: the above-mentioned organisations formed a Joint Action Committe that launched a major protest in the state capital. Sudarshan wanted to come to Panjab to discuss ‘Sikh agenda’! ... Would you believe this? What have the affairs of the Panth to do with the RSS? So we decided to teach them a lesson ... to mind their own business, and we formed a Joint Act Committee to prevent him from setting a foot in

Chandigarh ... We called a bandh (a strike), and we organised massive demonstrations against him ... And you know what, that was the first time something like that happened in the whole of India (activist of the Khalsa Panchayat, Chandigarh).

Since then, every move by the RSS, both the national organisation and its Punjabi offshoot, has been carefully monitored by Sikh organisations. Following that mobilisation, the Akal Takht banned the Rashtryia Sikh Sangat in an edict (Hukamnama) of July 2004, forbiding Sikhs to entertain any relation with that organisation. Since then, both the SGPC and the Akal Takht have been under pressure by the dominant faction of the Akali Dal and its ally, the BJP, to withdraw the ban against the RSS. In a book titled Taba Ros Jagio,14 widely quoted by various Sikh websites and an eponymous CD, Sukhpreet Singh Udhoke documents RSS strategy in the Punjab: he is particularly concerned with what he calls the distorsion of Sikh history by the RSS and its ‘denial of the distinct identity of the Sikhs’. A film about the late Sangh leader Gowalkar released by the RSS at the time of fieldwork (in August 2006), during a press conference in Delhi met with a strong reaction by the Sikhs. In the film, Sudarshan dwells on the violence of partition and the heroic deeds of Sangh activists. As he recalls that Gowalkar ordered them to protect ‘every Hindu’, the film shows, at the same time, Sikhs persecuted by Muslims being rescued by RSS armed men. The Delhi Sikh Gurdwara Management Committee objected to this implicit 14 ‘I got irritated’, a sentence attributed to Guru Gobind Singh.

portrayal of Sikhs as Hindus and asked that the film explicity

mentions that ‘Sikhs are a distinct community’.15

In Sikh discourse, the RSS tends to stand for all contemporary threats facing the panth. The main one is that of dissolution, and absorption within the Hindu fold: Sikhism will never be out of danger. There is this irreversible process that turns Sikhs into Hindus and this process has to be countered

endlessly ... that was Master Tara Singh’s mission all his life16. In 1947, he was really scared...You know why? Because, under the British a Sikh could never become a Gora (a white man), it was simply not possible...but now to enter the ruling class, for economic and social benefits, Sikhs will become Hindus ...

The RSS want us to disappear, they say: if Sikhs are to survive, they have to join the Hindu fold ... They say, Sikhs were created to defend Hinduism ... but now that Hinduism can defend itself ... And all these Panjabi Hindus ... before partition, they had no mandir in West Panjab, so they used to go to gurdware ... They were calling themselves

Sikhs ... and now they say that Sikhs are Hindus! But you know, we are different, Sikhs have a different psyche. Do you know this story, it is in Panth Prakash (Light of the Panth): Abdali, the Afghan invader, was having problems with the Sikhs ... so he asked the

governor of Lahore: how to irritate a Sikh? And the governor replied: call him a Lalaji (name for a Panjabi Hindu)! — Editor of a Sikh publication, Ludhiana

The danger lies, in particular, with the ‘amorphous’ nature of Hinduism: Hinduism is an amorphous religion, it is neither prophetic, no scriptural, it is purely ritualistic. All other religions in India are in danger. Look at the fate of Buddhism and Jainism ... these were very clearly defined religions, and they were swallowed by the hydra of Hinduism

— Director, Institute of Sikh Studies, Chandigarh

15 See ‘RSS film projects Sikhs as Hindus’ in Hindustan Times and Patwant Singh, ‘Get Your Facts Right, Mr Sudarshan’, Tehelka, 2 September 2006. http://www.tehelka.com/story_main19.asp?filename=op090206Get_your.asp, accessed on 29 March 2011. 16 Master Tara Singh was the leader of the Sikhs from the 1940s till the 1960s, at particularly challenging times for thepanth.

The definition of a Hindu in the law is perceived as far too wide and inclusive, since ‘even illegitimate children of Christians and

Muslims are considered as Hindus’ (editor of a Sikh publication, Ludhiana). A very strong sense of threat was expressed in most interviews with Sikh participants, grounded in the acute awareness that Sikhs

form a tiny minority in the Indian Union: less than 2 per cent of its total population and a very short and shrinking majority in Panjab, less than 60 per cent: Let me tell you there is a planned policy to increase the number of Hindus in the Punjab: they are importing labour from Bihar for that purpose. They have even given voting rights to Bihari workers; they can even buy property here. As far as minorities and Sikhs are concerned, RSS and the Congress are the same, you know ... This conspiracy is a continuation of 1984. But it is worse, because, if we are outnumbered in the Panjab, everything goes, our history, our culture, our identity. There is now a very thin majority of Sikhs in the Panjab ... And the migrants’ influence will increase, our way of life will change ...

To give you an example, now no Sikh candidate could win an election in ... say ... Chandigarh ... — Akali Dal (Mann) former general secretary,

Ludhiana, 20 July 2006

This sense of threat echoes the ‘majoritarian minority complex’ of Hindus, alluded to earlier. The threat posed by the RSS tends to assume an encompassing, phantasmagoric dimension. It is held

responsible for all the ills afflicting the panth: the continued of caste, ritualistic practices in contradiction to Sikh principles and, more surprisingly, the widespread use of alcohol and drugs or

relevance

the low literacy rate. Hence, the interview with a Sikh member of

the Rashtryia Sikh Sangat took an unexpected turn when one of his friends (a Sikh too) joined the discussion on the issue of Sikh– Hindu relations: But this is not a religious question ... It is an economic one, between have and have-nots. Sikhs are more prosperous, hardworking ... but

Hindus are more educated, so they want to prevent us from getting proper education, through our own educational institutions ... (RSS former member agrees) Yes, they don’t want Sikhs to get educated! — Interview conducted 26 June 2006

Conflicts between mainstream Sikhs and Dalits in the Panjab and in the Diaspora (such as during the recent incident in Vienna, in June 2009) are presented as part of the RSS secret agenda to divide and weaken the panth, which should be countered by both Sikhs and Dalits: You have heard about this secret document ... it has been disclosed some time ago ... It was an internal RSS document with a plan to finish the Dalits, to poison their children in schools, to make them mentally

retarded ... They do the same with rural Sikhs, through drug addiction and shraab (alcohol) ... The RSS has different approach towards different minorities. For

example, what they did with the Dalits? To enslave the original inhabitants

(Ad-Dharmi), the Aryan invaders created the caste system. With the Sikhs, they introduced Brahmanism, casteism ... Caste discrimination

is a gift of the RSS to the Sikhs ... (dialogue between an activist of the Khalsa Panchayat and a Dalit friend of his, a trade unionist from Haryana, Chandigarh) For Sikh — as well as Dalit — militants, the RSS stands for the Hindu ‘other’, all the more threatening because of his socio-religious closeness. One should not fail to understand that a crucial and complex issue is at stake here, that of Sikh identity, its boundaries and its relation to the Hindu matrix. Both within the panth and outside it this question is still fiercely contested. Indeed, although Singh Sabha version of Sikhism both as a qaum (political entity) and a dharm (a homogeneous and discrete religious community) has established itself as dominant, its has not entirely succeeded in its project to ‘Sikhise’ (to borrow Harjot Oberoi’s neologism)17 the Sikhs, as persistent ‘heterodox’ popular religious practices, tend to demonstrate — such as the popularity of sants and babas (holy men) — the practice of fast and other propitiatory rituals. In Sikh doctrinal debates, the RSS label can be brandished 17 Oberoi (1994: 306).

to delegitimise opponents: this is the case in the ongoing debate about the status of the Dasam Granth, the second Sikh sacred scriptures, compiled by the 10th guru. Some portions of this 18thcentury work, replete with references to Hindu mythology and to the worship of the Devi by the guru, are obviously at odds with the dominant orthodox version of Sikhism and are dismissed by some Sikh groups as part of the RSS conspiracy to Hinduise Sikhs. The RSS label is hence also used to impose orthodox beliefs and practices onto the Sikh masses. This article did not have much to say about the real extent of

RSS influence in the Punjab, as this original endeavour quickly assumed communal overtones. The Punjabi Hindus interviewed tended to negate it: they claim that the Punjabi context is not prone to extremism and that Hindu nationalism there is of a very mild and moderate nature. On the contrary, Sikhs are concerned with what they term as ‘RSS hidden agenda’ and its project to infiltrate Sikh institutions. Whereas this contrasted approach does not tell much about RSS real impact, it tells a lot about the communalisation and polarisation of Punjabi elites. Looking at the Hindutva project from the periphery, from a Sikhmajority state sheds some light on its contradictions, its inclusive (Sikhs are Hindus)/exclusive (Sikhs can only be accommodated if they agree with that) dynamics: in the absence of a significant Muslim population, the Sikh assume two roles, that of the same and at times that of the dangerous other.18 Sikh responses to that project, while disclosing internal cleavages,

illustrate the dynamics of resistance to Hindutva and how this very resistance has contributed to the fashioning of Sikh identity discourses, since the Arya Samaj–Singh Sabha controversy in the 19th century.

References Brass, Paul R. 1974. Language, Religion and Politics in North India. Cambridge University Press. Clémentin-Ojha, Catherine. 1994. ‘ La suddhi de l’Arya Samaj ou l’invention d’un ritual de (re)conversion à l’hindouisme’,Archives des Sciences Sociales des Religions. 18 The Christian is also portrayed as the other, the proselytising other, but anti-Christian propaganda does not seem to catch up in the Punjab.

Das, Veena. 2001. ‘ Crisis and Representation: Rumor and the Circulation of Hate’, in Michael S. Roth and Charles G. Sales (eds), Disturbing Remains: Memory, History and Crisis in the Twentieth Century. Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute. Grewal, J. S. 1997. Historical Perspectives on Sikh Identity . Patiala: Punjab University. Hindustan Times. 2006. ‘ RSS Film Projects Sikhs as Hindus’. 17 August. Jaffrelot , Christophe. 1996. The Hindu Nationalist Movement and Indian Politics: 1925 to the 1990s: Strategies of Identity-building, Implantation and Mobilisation. Hurst. Jones, Kenneth W. 1968. ‘ Communalism in the Panjab: The Arya Samaj Contribution ’, Journal of Asian Studies, 28 (1): 39–54. ———. 1973. ‘ Ham Hindu Nahin: Arya–Sikh Relations, 1877–1905’, Journal of Asian Studies, 32 (3): 457–75. ———. 1976. Arya Dharm: Hindu Consciousness in 19th Century Punjab. Berkeley: University of California Press. Juergensmeyer, Mark. 1988. Religious Rebels in the Punjab: The Social Vision of Untouchables. Delhi: Ajanta. Kahol, Om Prakasha. 1955. Hindus and the Punjabi State: A Psycho-Political Discussion on the Conception and Rationale of Punjabi State. Ambala: The Hindu Prachara Sabha. Macauliffe, M. A. 1909. The Sikh Religion. Delhi: Low Price Publications. Matringe, Denis. 1996. ‘ Histoire du sikhisme et littérature panjabie: Rana Surat Singh de Bhai Vir Singh’, Revue de l’Histoire des Religions, 213 (1): 39–74. Moliner, Christine. 2007. ‘Frères ennemis? Relations between Panjabi Sikhs and Muslims in the Diaspora’, South Asia Multidisciplinary Academic Journal, Special Issue, no. 1, Migration and Constructions of the Other. http://samaj.revues.org/document135.html. Accessed 31 January 2011. Nayar, Baldev Raj. 1966. Minority Politics in the Panjab. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Oberoi, Harjot. 1994. The Construction of Religious Boundaries: Culture, Identity and Diversity in the Sikh Tradition. Oxford : Oxford University Press. Organiser. 1999. ‘ Special Issue on Tercentenary Birth of Khalsa’. 25 April. Pandey, Gyanendra. 2001. Remembering Partition . Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pandher, Sarbjit. 2000. ‘ RSS Enlisting Activists in rural Punjab’, The Hindu . 15 June. Panthic Weekly, The. 2007. ‘ Hindu Infiltration of Sikh Institutions at the Highest Level’. 26 December. http://www.panthic.org/news/126/ARTICLE/3768/2007-12-26.html. Accessed 31 January 2011. Seshadri, H. V. 1999. ‘ Khalsa is the Sword-arm of Hindu Society’, Organiser, p. 5. 25 April . Singh, Jodh. 2001. ‘ Sikhism is Not a Sect of Hinduism’, Sikh Review, 49 (4): 55–56.

Singh, Patwant. 2006. ‘ Get Your Facts Right, Mr Sudarshan: Disinformation Campaigns against the Sikhs Led to 1984’, Tehelka. 2 September. Sudarshan, K. S. 1999. ‘ Gurus Stood for Unity of the Country’, Organiser, p. 5. 25 April. Swami, Praveen. 2000. ‘ RSS Forays into Punjab’,Frontline. 27 May–9 June. ———. 2001. ‘ Fundamentalist Designs in Punjab’, Frontline. 3–16 February. Udokay, Sukhpreet Singh. 2005. Tabai Roas Jagio. Amritsar. Info-Sikh. ‘ Hinduization of Sikh Faith and History’. http://www.info-sikh.com/Page RSS1.html. Accessed 20 September 2006.

About the Editors Daniela Berti is a social anthropologist working on northern India. She is Research Fellow at the French National Centre for Scientific Research (CNRS, Paris) and at the research unit, Centre for Himalayan Studies, Villejuif, France. She was a visiting scholar at the McMillan Center at Yale University during the fall of 2007 and 2008. Her earlier works deal with ritual linguistic interactions and with the persistence in today’s political institutions of politico-ritual roles and practices formerly associated with kingship. She is currently working on a project on the anthropology of judiciary cases in Indian district courts. The research is part of a larger four-year she coordinates with Gilles Tarabout funded by the French National Agency and titled ‘Governance and Justice in India’ (http://just-india.net). She is the author of various articles and of the book La Parole des dieux. Rituels de possession en Himalaya Indien (2001) and Territory, Soil and Society in South Asia (co-edited, 2009).

programme Contemporary

Nicolas Jaoul is a researcher in Anthropology at the French Centre for Scientific Research (CNRS, Paris), attached to the Institut de Recherches Interdisciplinaires sur les Enjeux Sociaux (IRIS, EHESS, Paris) and affiliated to the Centre d’Etudes l’Asie du Sud. In continuity with his doctoral thesis (EHESS, 2004) on the Ambedkarite movement in the region of Kanpur, Uttar Pradesh, he further specialised on the Indian underprivileged’s relationship to Indian democracy (especially Dalits) through the mediation of different political movements (Hindu nationalists, Gandhians, Ambedkarite, communist). As a political ethnographer, he is especially interested in these movements’ material and immaterial culture (political sociability, processions, narratives, iconography, statues, printed materials, etc.).

National

Pralay Kanungo is Professor at the Centre for Political Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. He taught at the of Delhi and was Fellow at the Nehru Memorial Museum

University

and Library. He is the author of RSS’s Tryst with Politics: From Hedgewar to Sudarshan (2002) and has written several articles on Hindutva and the Sangh Parivar. He is a member of the steering group of an international academic network on public representations of Hinduism in the postcolonial period.

Notes on Contributors Christine Guillebaud is a social anthropologist and an She is a Research Fellow at the National Centre for Scientific Research (CNRS), and belongs to the Research Unit UMR 7186 ‘Research Centre for Ethnomusicology’ (CREM-LESC), located at the University of Paris Ouest-Nanterre. She is the author of the book Le chant des serpents. Musiciens itinerants du Kerala (Song of Snakes: Itinerant Musicians in Kerala, 2008), recently awarded by the Music Academy Charles Cros and co-editor of the volume La Musique n’a pas d’auteur (Who Owns Music? Ethnographies of Copyright, 2010).

ethnomusicologist.

Djallal G. Heuzé is an anthropologist and Senior Research Fellow at the National Centre for Scientific Research (CNRS, Paris) in Toulouse, where he is also involved in the doctoral studies programme of EHESS (Paris). He has been working for the last three decades focusing on popular milieux in India: industrial workers, migrants, artisans and unemployed youth. He has published Workers of another World (1995). For the last two decades, he focused much attention to Hindu nationalists in large cities like Mumbai as well as in smaller towns of Bihar or countryside of Chhattisgarh or Jharkhand. His attention is concentrated on the daily religious and social practices of Hindu nationalist milieux. He has undertaken some important studies on Indian metropolis (Mumbai) and also on Dalits. Since 1999, he has also undertaken research on the fishermen and boatmen of the Ganges. He has published 15 books and about 120 articles, of which 25 are in English. Anne-Cécile Hoyez is a geographer and Research Fellow at the CNRS Migrinter research unit (University of Poitiers, France). Between 2000 and 2007, her research was framed in the study of the growing demand for alternative, complementary and traditional medicines in Europe and India. Since 2008, she has been studying the political, social and cultural factors that frame Indian immigrants’ healthcare practices in France and the UK. She also investigates how Indian immigrants’ communities develop their own resources for healthcare in diasporic organisations.

Lucia Michelutti is Lecturer at the School of Interdisciplinary Area Studies, University of Oxford and was previously a Research Fellow at the London School of Economics. She has worked extensively on local politics, caste/race, religion, democracy and the criminalisation of politics in north India and, more recently, in Venezuela. Her monograph, The Vernacularisation of Democracy: Politics, Caste and Religion in India (Routledge, 2009) looks at the dynamics of the culture of popular democratic politics in contemporary India. She is currently investigating new forms of revolutionary politics in Latin America and looking at how anti-capitalist and ‘socialist’ discourses have regained power in contemporary times across the globe. Christine Moliner, a social anthropologist, is a doctoral student at EHESS (Paris). She is working on Sikh identities in multiple contexts — India and abroad. She has also worked on the relations between East and West Punjab. Frédérique Pagani, a social anthropologist, taught the anthropology of religion at the University of Paris, Nanterre. The title of her doctoral dissertation is ‘Service of Mankind is the Real Service of the Lord: Salvation through Philanthropy: Study of A Sindhi Charitable Organisation (Bhopal, Central India)’. She is presently teaching social anthropology at the Ecole Nationale Superieure d’Architecture de Versailles. She is currently working on the of religious identities among Hindu Sindhis in India and the Canary Islands.

construction

Gérard Toffin is a social anthropologist and a member of the Himalayan Centre, CNRS, at Villejuif, France, where he was the director between 1985 and 1996. He has carried out extensive fieldwork among the Newars of the Kathmandu Valley and among the Tamangs of the Ganesh Himal range, Nepal. His research currently focuses on a Krishnaite sect found both in Nepal and India (particularly Gujarat and North Bengal), the Hindu city model in South Asia, the construction of democracy in Nepal and the anthropology of theatre. His main books are Société et religion chez les Néwar du Népal (1984); Le Palais et le Temple. La fonction royale dans l’ancienne vallée du Népal (1993); Entre hindouisme et bouddhisme: la religion néwar (2000); Ethnologie, La quête de l’autre (2005); Newar Society: City, Village and Periphery (2007);

and La fête-spectacle. Fête et théâtre au Népal (2010). His edited volumes include: Man and His House in the Himalayas (1991) and Nepal: Past and Present (1993). Raphaël Voix is a reader in anthropology at the University of Paris-Ouest Nanterre. He has carried out extensive fieldwork about Bengali Sectarian Hinduism and written a PhD entitled ‘Devotion, Ascetism and Violence in Sectarian Hinduism: Ethnography of a Bengali Shivaite Sect’. He has published several articles on subjects. Voix is currently post-doctoral fellow for a joint programme on Justice and Governance in South Asia (Just-India). His earlier work dealt with contemporary dynamics of Sufism in Morocco.

connected

Index aabangs (oral shastras) 99, 102 Aan Donyi (The Mother Sun) 107, 108 Abhira tribe 249 Abhir Kul Dipika 251 Abor/Adi areas 99 Abor tribe 97 Abotani Vidya Niketan 112 Adarsh Sudarshan Samaj Samiti 282 Ad Dharm movement 278 Adi Christian 99–100 Adi Granth 318 Adi Literary and Cultural Society 99 Adi tribe 97–98; institutionalising of 100 Advaita Vedanta 198 Advani, L. K. 6, 153, 195 aesthetics 14, 34, 36, 38–39, 41, 55, 58, 59; artistic practices 51, 52; folk arts 53, 54; musical 50 Agam Gomin-Sonam 110 ahimsa 166, 178 Ahir Itihas Ki Jhalak 251 Akali–Arya Samaj conflict 315 Akali Dal 308, 314, 317, 322; electoral alliance and coalition politics 321 Akal Takht 318, 322 Akhandananda, Swami 162 akhand path 193, 318 akhârâs 162 Akhil Bharatiya Itihas Sankalan Yojana (ABISY) 65; convergent stories on local mythology 81–86; local gods vs vedic rishi 78–81; local mediations 70–78; national programme and local directive 66–70; Disha Nirdes (guidelines) 68, 73; Yug-yugin trigarta 67 Alagh, T. 1

All India Samskara Bharati 31 All India Yadav Mahasabha (AIYM) 247, 250, 251 Al-Qaida 173 Ambedkar, Babasahab 21, 292 Ambedkar Buddhism 294 American Baptist Mission 94–95 Amritanandamayi, Mata 6, 169 ‘Ancient India Healing University’ project 155 Anglo-Burmese War (1824–26) 92 anti-Brahmin riots 175 anti-Muslim riots 172 anti-RSS Sikh organisations 321 anti-Sikh pogroms 317 Apang, Gegong 112 Apatani tribe 93, 97, 98, 113 Apte, Baba Saheb 70 art, religious concept of 38 Arunachal Pradesh: anti-Chrisitian mobilisation 104; Christianity in 94–97; communities, cultures and faiths 92–93; cultural zones 93; Freedom of Indigenous Faith Act (1978) 104; Freedom of Religion Bill 104; Hinduisation of 102–103; Hindutva in 103–104; indigenous communities 97–98; indigenous faith 98–100; institutionalising of Adi tradition 100; Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) in 11114; religious landscape 94; rise of BJP in 112; tribal communities 93; Vivekananda Kendra (VK) in 104–106; Vivekananda Kendra Institute of Culture (VKIC) and indigenous faith 106 Arunachal Shiksha Vikas Samiti (ASVS) 111, 112

Index Arunachal Vikas Parishad (AVP) 112–14; Annual Report (20062007) 113; ‘My Home is India’ programme 113; training camps 113 Arun Jyoti 106 Arya Patrika 311 Arya Samaj 8–9, 162, 172, 194, 204, 275, 281, 307, 308, 311–17; with Singh Sabha 21, 308, 311, 315 asanas 153–54, 203

controversy

ascetics 161, 162, 212–14, 264, 279,

297 ashrams 213, 214, 218–21, 225, 226, 232, 233, 284 Assam Frontier (Administration of Justice) Regulation (1945) 92 atthara kardu 76, 77

Ayodhya campaign 127, 295 ayurveda 155, 158, 159 Babri Masjid 161, 243, 254 Badal, Prakash Singh 321 Bahujan Samaj Party (BSP) 241, 296 Bajrang Dal 173, 201, 289, 317 Balagokulam (The Children’s Cultural Movement) 29; and artistic 42–51 Bal Sanskar Kendra 113 balvir 135–36 balwadis 106, 113 banal nationalism 1, 2, 7 Beckerlegge, Gwilym 162 Begi, Joram 98, 114 Bénéï, Véronique 7 Bensa, Alban 12 bhadraloka 214 Bhagavad Gita 45, 180, 205, 248 Bhagavata Purana 38 Bhagvat Dasham Skanda 75 Bhajpa see Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) bhakti 127, 137, 140, 151, 155, 179, 186, 283

education

bhakti movement 186 bhangis 277 Bharata Sevasramasangha ‘Community

of Service to India’ 19 Bharat Heavy Electrical Ltd (BHEL) 201 Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) 3–4, 74, 112, 153, 173, 193, 287, 317; decline in Uttar Pradesh 242–46; electoral alliance and coalition politics 321; Krishnajanmanbhumi issue 244 Bharat Sevashram Sangha (BSS) 209; Annual Celebration Day 224; for building of Bengali Hindu 216–21; Hinduism and militancy 227–34; militant agenda 228; Pranavananda and 210–16; sangathana movement 227; social services and communal harmony 222–26 Bharatya Kamgar Sena 132 Bhartiya Itihas Sankalan Samiti 70, 78 Bhujhbal, Chhaghan 126 Bible Training Camp 96 Billig, Michael 1, 2 Bogum Bokang 99 Bombay Presidency 185, 194 brahmacharya 210, 212 Brahminical Hinduism 167, 273, 283 Brahmo Samaj 194 Brass, Paul R. 315 British orientalism 312 British Raj 200, 212 Bundelkhand 172, 277, 281

community

Carisma procession 293, 294 caste-based politics 241 caste consolidation programmes 227 caste identity 242, 273, 277, 278, 282, 292, 302, 303 The Caste System (Lohia) 256 Central Nyedar Namlo 107, 113 Centre for Advanced Studies in Sanskrit

(CASS) 156

Cultural Entrenchment of Hindutva Chakma refugees 93 Chamars 277, 294, 296, 298, 299, 302 Chand, Ami 277 Charity Trust Act (1920) 120 Chatrasâl 172–73 Chatterjee, Bankim Chandra 252 Chatterjee, S. 224 chawl 120, 125, 126, 130 Chhatra Samman samaroh 106 Children’s Cultural Movement, The

129 Chinmaya Mission 204 Chopra, R. 20 Christianity 15, 69, 91, 102, 104, 109, 114, 115, 165, 205, 308, 309; in Arunachal Pradesh 94–97, 105; campaign against 99 classical/folk (dichotomy) 14, 41, 56 communal harmony 226; social and 222–26 communal politics 6

services

communal violence 172, 173, 175,

194, 245, 275, 291 communism 180 Communist Party of India–Marxist (CPI-M) 224 competitions 29, 51, 57–60, 125, 173, 308, 310 conversion 99, 104, 110, 170, 194, 221, 308, 310, 319 Copley, Antony 8 cow protection 171–73, 246 cultural heritage, concept of 30, 97 cultural policy 29, 30, 50, 51, 57, 60 dadas 121, 135, 139 Dalit: and Ambedkar Buddhism 294; caste identities 292; Hinduism 294; movement 20, 21; Sanskritisation 275 Dal Khalsa 321 Dalmia, Vasudha 9 Damdami Taksal 321 dance 29, 30, 32, 34, 39, 45, 52, 58, 100, 171, 227

Dasain 174, 178 Dasam Granth 326 Dasanami Sannyasis 166 Dâsa, Vinode see Pranavananda Dasnami Yogi 162 Dayanand Anglo-Vedic (DAV) schools 317 Dayanand, Swami 308, 311 devotees 6, 39, 84, 101, 110, 165, 167, 171, 178, 182, 214, 220, 229, 266 dham 196 Dharavi 122, 123 dharma yuddha (religious war) 176, 193 disciples 104, 162, 163, 170, 196, 203, 214, 218, 220, 221, 227, 230 Discovery of Source of Vedic Saraswati

in the Himalayas (Puri) 66 Divine Heritage of the Yadavs, The 252 Doimukh 96, 107, 109, 113 Donyi-Polo 91, 97, 98–100, 104; Hinduisation of 101–102 Donyipolo cult 16, 101, 103 Donyi-Polo Dere (temple) 100 Donyi-Polo movement 113, 114 Donyi-Polo Yelam Kebang (DPYK) 100, 113, 114 Donyi Yugang (Donyi Altar) 107 drama 34, 52, 53; domestic 1; folk 54; Kathakali 38; Kutiyattam 32; Sanskrit 32, 39–41 Dravidian culture 14 Durgâ Pûja 209, 227–31 Durga Vahini 289 Eck, Diana 9–11 Ekal Bidhalaya Bajandra 173 Elwin, Verrier 93, 95 embodiment 160, 231 epics 9, 34, 38, 39, 45, 68, 73, 81, 86, 248, 252, 267 Eternal Faith Conference 111 ‘ethnic’ identity 12

Fabre, Daniel 12 farmers’ movements 7 festivals: Dasain 174, 178; Divâlî 171; Durgâ Pûja 209, 227–31; Ganapati festival 5; Govardhan pûjâ 171; Indra jâtrâ 174; Kumbha Mela 5; Onam 52; Rakshabandhan 114; Vinayaka Chaturthi 5 folklore 29, 37, 48, 50, 107; festivals 52–57; regional 14 folklorists 14, 15, 30, 37, 50, 54, 85 Freedom of Religion Bill 104 Froerer, P. 7 Front national 13 Fuller, C. J. 5, 201 games 17, 42, 44–47, 128 Ganapati festival (Maharashtra) 5 ganapati puja samiti 120, 137 Gandhian 79, 275, 276, 278, 280, 281, 283, 284, 289, 290, 299, 329 Gandhi, Indira 99 Gandhism 281 Gangging 101 gatashakha 125, 126, 129 Gayati Parivar 103 gender 51, 59, 177 geographical Sanskritisation 9 Girangaon 118, 125, 127, 130, 134, 137 Gold, Daniel 196 Golwalkar, Madhavarao 162 go-sâlâ 171 Gould, William 276, 281 Govardhan pûjâ 171 Government of India Act (1935) 185 gramotsav 43 Gubin, Techi 113 Gujarat carnage 178 Gujarat Pranâmîs 172 guru 17 Guru Granth Sahib 186, 188, 189, 205, 318 gurukul 105 guruparamparâ 181 Guwahati Youth Convention 114

Hansen, T. B. 201 Harijan 275, 278, 281, 283, 286 Harijan Bal Vidyarthi Sangh (HBVS) 282, 295 ‘Harijan’ movement 275 Hari Shewa Dham 196 Harneit-Sievers, Axel 11 Hatha Yoga 154 healing 95, 100, 101, 146, 147, 150,

153–55, 157, 158 Hedgewar, Keshav Baliram 149, 162 Heritage Explorer (magazine) 113 hero-gods 260, 261, 263, 265 Hindi–Hindu nationalism 19, 234 Hindu civil society 163 Hindu Conference (Birgang) 175 Hindu defence committee 229 Hindu-Gujarat identity 19 Hindu identity 7, 18, 115, 145, 146, 172, 181, 182, 186, 187, 189, 194, 204, 216 Hinduisation 18, 20, 91, 108, 114, 115, 205; of Arunachal Pradesh 102–3; of Chuhras 277; of DonyiPolo 101–102; of Sindhi Hindus 195 Hindu Kanya Suraksa Committee 201 Hindu Keshav Das temple 244 Hindu Mahasabha 194, 211, 227, 281 Hindu Sabha 227 Hindu Swayamsevak Sangh (HSS) 173 Hindutva: in Arunachal Pradesh 103–

104; caste and labour relations in Kanpur Nagar Nigam (KNN) 285–87; cultural entrenchment 146; cultural impact on local 8–12; entrenchment amidst resistance 19–22; and Krishnajanmabhumi issue 246–56; in locality 4–8; and local mediators 12–16; normalisation of 260–67; organisation 3, 5; programme 3; and state Hinduism in Nepal 173–76 Hirdaram, Sant 196, 198, 203 history writing 11, 21, 69, 85

society

implicit militancy 209; muscular Hinduism and 227–34 indigenous communities 91, 94, 97–98, 103, 106, 115, 116 Indra jâtrâ 174 Inner Line Regulation (1873) 92, 95 ‘institutionalised riot system’ 275 International Association for Religious Freedom (IARF) 100 Irinjalakuda 32, 38 Iskcon (International Society for Krishna Consciousness) 181 Islamic Sufism 165, 186, 189 Iyengar, B. K. S. 148, 149, 153, 159 Jaffrelot, Christophe 64, 162, 289, 314 Jamnagar 163, 166, 171, 181 Jana Gana Mana 200 Jana Sangh 201, 211, 315 Janjati Faith and Culture Protection Forum 114 jatis 277, 279, 280 Jatiya Sandesh 251 Jay Shivaji Matribhumi Mahamandal 129 jeevan brati 111 Jeev Sewa Sansthan (JSS) 18, 196–97;

influence of Sangh Parivar on 200–204; for serving mankind and Indian culture 197–200; concept of 198–99 Jhulelal 190–93 John Firth School 95, 105 Jones, Kenneth 309 juthan 283 Jwt Ane (Nyishi goddess) 94, 107, 108

universalism,

kabaddi mandal 124 Kabir Baug 17, 146–48; biomedicine and ayurveda classes 155; policy and media 156–58; education programmes 155–56; health and healing theories 153–55; ideology of 150–53; mediation 155; publications 157–58 Kadalundi, Sudheer 33

communication

Kahol, Om Prakasha 313 kalakali ritual 40, 41, 49 Kalamandalam Kerala State Academy of Fine Arts 58 Kalapratibha title 58 Kanitkar, Mukul 203 Kânphatâ Yogi 175, 176 Kanpur Nagar Nigam (KNN): caste

and labour relations in 285–87; Valmiki Hindu nationalist leader 287–89 Karandikar, S. V. 158; ‘Ancient India Healing University’ project 155; biography of 148–50; education programmes 155–56; health and healing theories 153–55; 155 Karmavir Mahâmandal 175

mediation

Karseva (‘action service’) campaign

295 Kasturaba Gandhi Balika Vidyalaya 112 Kathakali 32, 34, 38, 39, 41, 42 Katrusi Narayan Bhalayan 75 Kebang 97, 99 Kerala: art forms in 35; cultural identity 51; cultural policy 29; folklore festivals 52–57; cultural policy and its local mediations 51–57; Hindu nationalism 29; organisations for promotion of Hindu culture 30– 42; ‘regional’ nationalism 51–57; Tapasya units based in 32; teyyam ritual 37; Youth Festival 57 Kesari 30, 31, 42 Kesava Deo temple 244 Khalistan 307 Khalsa Panchayat 321, 322 Khalsa Sikhs 188 Kolenda, Pauline 275, 278 Kolis 122, 123 Kothari, Rita 190, 193–95, 205 Krishna cult 171, 260 Krishnajanmabhumi issue 242–46; political implication of 246–56;

government’s

and Samajwadi Party 256–60; and Yadav Caste Associations 256–60 Krishna Janmasthan Seva Sangh 244 Krishna, Lord 163, 168, 171, 192, 193, 233, 242–60 Krishnan, M. A. 33–35, 42, 44 Krishna Pranâmîs sect 18, 162; âdya guru 163; anti-Muslim sentiments 171–73; areas of affinity 169–71; doctrine 165, 169; Hindu reformist movement 163–66; as independent religious group 177–79; influence of Islam 165; links with Sangh Parivar in Nepal 175–76; origin of 163; protection of cow 171–73; transformation into traditionalist Hindu movement 167–69 kuldevtas 261, 264, 266, 267 Kumar, Dev 298–99 Kumbha Mela 5 Kutiyattam 32, 40, 42 Lahore Singh Sabha 309, 311 Lakhimpur Mission School 95 Lalbag Computers Chetna Club 132 Lalbegi ritual 8 Lalita Akademi 32 leftists 14, 37, 54–56, 137, 139 Lindberg, S. 7 Linkenbach, Antje 10, 11 Lions Club 134 List of Rules of Yadav Jati, A 252 local gods vs vedic rishi 78–81 Lochtfeld, J. G. 5 Lohia, Rammanohar 256 Ludden, D. 8, 65 Macauliffe, Arthur 307, 312, 315, 320 Mahabharata 34, 102, 248, 279 Maha Kripa Yuvak Mandal 122 Maharashtra 132, 135, 156, 302;

farmers’ movements 7; Ganapati festival 5; Hindutva organisations 16 Mahâ Sabhâ 176 Mahila Aghadi 133

‘Malayalam Songs: Selection of Folk Songs’ 48 Malhotra, S. 1 Manava Sansadhan Vikas Ani Sanshodhan Mancha 157 mandal: autonomous 124–28; by Shiv Sena 121–23, 133–38; with less autonomy 129–31 Mandal Commission 126 mandal culture 132–34, 137, 138 Mangaldham temple, in Kalimpong (India) 164 Mangal Dham trust 178 manipravalam 39 Manzilgah Mosque 194 Maratha Mahasangh 128 Marathi manus 139 Marmik 121 Marxists 14, 29, 51, 55 Mâtâ Amritanandamayi movement 169 Mathrbhumi 31 Mathura: Krishnajanmabhumi issue 242–46; religious tourism 242 Mathura Yadav Sammelan (MYS) 254, 256 Meder Nello (Apatanis) 113 medicine 17, 146–50, 155, 159, 289, 290 Mehta, Devchandra 163 mehtars 277 Mehtar Sabha 279 Mekhasur 261–65 Michelutti, Lucia 20 militant Hinduism 4, 19, 129, 243, 318 mitra mandal (friends’ clubs) 120, 121, 129

influenced

Modi, Narendra 234

Moliner, Christine 21 Movement for the Unity of Maharashtra 124 mudiyettu ritual 52 Mukherjee, Shyama Prasad 211 mul gaddî 166

Mumbai 125; beautification campaign 129; chawl 120; film cult 119; Shiv Sena 118–19, 127, 139 municipal sanitation labor 275 Muslim League 137, 194 Muslim Shahi Masjid Idgah 244 ‘My Home is India’ programme 113 nadopasana 40 nagarsevak 122, 131, 133 ‘naga worship’ 55 Namlo movement 108, 110 Naraharinath (Yogi) 175, 177 nâtha-sampradâya 210 National Council of Educational Research and Training (NCERT) curriculum 105 national culture, concept of 30 nationalist untouchables 280, 282 Natoti drsyakalasucika 54 Nav Yuvak Parishad 196, 197 Naxalite movement 177 Nehru Memorial Museum and Library (NMML) 251 Nepal: Hinduism in 173–76; links between Krishna Pranâmîs and Sangh Parivar in 175–76; Shiv Sena 173

institutional

Nijânanda doctrine 163; and

commonality

with Islamic Sufism 165 nirguna bhakti school 165 North East Frontier Agency (NEFA)

92, 93, 95, 97, 99, 103, 115 Nyeder Namlo temple 107–11 Nyishi Art and Cultural Society 107 Nyishi Indigenous Faith and Cultural Society (NIFCS) 107, 110, 113 Nyishi tribe 95, 97–98, 106; institutionalising and Hinduising of 107–11; role of priests in 109 Omkar Parivar 176 Om Shanti 103 Onam 52 Orientalisation of education under colonial rule 9

Orissa 210, 218; Hindutva cultural activity in 68 Ottan tullal 39 Pagani, Frédérique 18, 185 paintings 34, 35, 48, 168 pakka Hinduism 294, 295 Panchajanya 30 Pandavas 9, 81, 267, 279 Pandey, Gyanendra 246 Pandharpur 127, 136, 137 Panjabi Suba campaign 313 Panjwani, Ram 190 Paraya troupes 41, 56–57; albums of folk songs performed by 57–60 Parbatiya Manaili Brahmans 177 Parel 130 Pashupati Kshetra Mandir 173 Pashupati Sena 173 Pasighat 99, 100, 101, 114 patayani ritual 52 patronage 32, 137, 163, 175, 246, 275–78, 283, 287, 301 Pentecostal Fellowship Church 96 personality development camps (PDC) 202, 203 Pillai, V. Vasudevan 54 Pingle, Morupant 70 poetry 29, 34, 42, 45, 52, 133 possession ritual (tullal) 39, 294 Pranâmî sampradâya 177, 179 prana sakti 147 Pranavananda 210–16 Priyanka–Umar episode 201 puja samitis 120, 129, 137 Pune: Hindutva ideology 147; yoga therapy centre 17, 146, 151 Punjab: Chuhras 277; farmers’ 7; Hindutva activities 21; religious traditions 308; RSS 317, 321, 322, 326; Scheduled Castes 307; Valmiki caste title 275; Valmiki cult 278; Valmiki movement 277 Punjabi Suba (Punjabi province) movement 308, 313

movements activities

Puranas 34, 45, 74, 81 Puri, V. M. K. 66 Pushti Mârg sect 165, 169, 179 Putukode, Gopi 48, 50 Radhasoami 188 Raja, K. A. A. 103, 115 Raksadhikaris (Pathyapaddhati) 43–45 Rakshabandhan 114 Ramakrishna Mission 103, 105, 113, 162, 209 Ramayana 34, 39, 72, 188, 275, 296, 297, 302 Ramey, Steven 188 Ramjanmabhumi movement 231, 243, 296 Ram, Lord 243, 244, 254, 300, 318 Ranade, Eknath 104 Rangfraa Faith Promotion Society (RFPS) 113 Rashtriya Prajatantra Party (RPP) 174

Rewani, Jayant 195 Riba, Jokim 111 rishi project 78–81 Roman Catholics 95 Rotary Club 134 Rukbo, Talom 99–100, 113 Saamna 121, 128 sadhus 127, 162, 203, 286, 287, 291,

294 Sadhu Vaswani Mission 188 Sadiya Mission 95 Saffron Wave 137 saguna 165, 168, 181 Sahitya Akademi 32 Samajwadi Party (SP) 241, 256–60 Samyukta Maharashtra Andolan (SMA) 136 sanâtana dharma 167, 168, 177 Sanatan Hinduism 311 sanatan Sikhs 312 Sangeet Natak Akademi 32, 53, 58 Sangh Parivar 8, 13, 30, 44, 91, Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) 111, 116, 224; All India Samskara 3, 6, 12–13, 162, 174, 180; in Bharati 31; influence on Jeev Sewa Arunachal Pradesh 111–14; Sansthan 200–204; influence on pracharak 104, 111, 169–71, 175, Sindhi Hinduism 193–95; role in 204; shakhas 21, 153; social work Hindu identity among Sindhis 186 among slum dwellers 289–91 Rashtryia Sikh Sangat 316, 317, 320, Sani Mandir Sarvajanika Mahamandal 127 322, 324 sanskar school 205 Rastriya Janata Dal (RJD) 241 Sanskrit Commission 9 rath yâtrâs 161, 176 Sanskriti Gyan Pariksha 112 recordings 57, 59, 67, 133 Sanskritisation: cultural politics of regional cultures 2, 14, 15, 16, 22, 275; Dalit 275 31, 55, 72, 73, 81, 87, 210, 247 ‘Sanskrit-pan-Indian’ tradition 14 regionalism 16 ‘regional’ nationalism 51; folklore sanskrti mandal (cultural club) 122 Sant Sipahi 322 festivals and 52–57 sanyasis 10 regional projects 69, 86 Saraswati Shishu Mandir 112 religious festivals see festivals religious movement 6, 7, 145, 168, satsang 152 schools 105; Dayanand Anglo-Vedic 169, 179, 188 (DAV) 317; John Firth School 95, religious nationalists 6, 12 105; Kasturaba Gandhi Balika religious sects 161, 178 Vidyalaya 112; residential 105; residential schools 105

sanskar 205; Vivekananda Kendra Vidyalayas see Vivekananda Kendra Vidyalayas (VKV) Scott, James C. 304 secularism 224, 225, 281 service, concept of 198 Seva Bharti 20, 44, 289, 291 seva, concept of 6, 169–71 shakha pramukh 131, 133, 134 shakhas 21, 43, 71, 88, 111, 119, 125, 204 Shan Mission 95 shâstris (theological scholars) 170, 178 Shishu Mandir 7, 112 Shiv Sainiks 16, 138–40 Shiv Sena 5, 16, 118, 317; Ayodhya campaign 127; as club 131–33; mandal (clubs) 120–21, 133–38; mandal and samiti influenced by 121–23; Mumbai beautification campaign 129–30; and Mumbai’s youth culture 119; politicisation of religion 128; puja samitis 120–21; ‘saffronisation’ of 136, 137; shakha 129, 130; social service activities 123 shobhayatra 43 Showren, Tana 98, 110 Shrîmad Bhâgavat 163, 180, 192 shuddhi ceremony 194, 309–10 Sikh Ek-Onkar 318 Sikh Gurdwara Management 323 Sikhism 165, 186, 188, 189, 205, 206, 307–12, 315, 318–19, 323, 325, 326 Sikh religion 188–89; conversion of untouchables 308; Khalistan 307; militancy 317; and relation with Hindus 324–25; religious and separatism 313; religious identity 21, 321; sanatan Sikhs 312; Sikh agenda 322; ‘Sikhism in danger’ slogan 312

Committee

political

Sindhi Hinduism 186; and Arya Samaj 194; Hindu awareness and of Sangh Parivar 193–95; Jeev Sewa Sansthan 196–200; Jhulelal and 190–93; religious eclecticism 187–90; sindhiyat, concept of 190, 191 Singh, Davendar 74–79 Singh Sabha 21, 307–309, 311–12, 315, 325 Singh, Shivaji 67 snake deities ritual 55 social equality 30, 51, 61 social reform 30, 59, 145, 146, 197, 198, 211, 247, 283, 284, 296, 303, 304 Solung festival 99 songs 38, 42, 43, 45, 48–50, 57, 99, 107, 130, 200, 203, 223, 262, 298 spiritual enlightenment 170 Srinivas, M. N. 9, 274, 303; concept of Sanskritisation 10 States Reorganisation Commission 315 Sthanya Lok Adhikar Samiti (SLAS) 131, 132 Sthanya Samskritik Mitra Mandal 130 stick fighting 152, 227, 229, 230 Stietencron, Heinrich von 9 Subedi, Arun 173 Sudarshan Jayanti 279, 283 Sudarshan movement 284 Sudarshan Samaj 282, 295 sundarsâths 166, 167, 171, 178, 179, 181, 182 Sun Jeevan Yoga Darshan 146, 155 Surat 163, 166, 171, 181 surya namskar 105, 106, 202 úûsdra 231 svaraj 79 svayamsevâks 170 (swayamsevaks) 195 swadeshi 1, 180 Swadhya 103 Swâminârâyan sect 165, 182

influence

Swayam Sudhar Samiti (SSS) 297, 298 ‘sweeper’ community 277–85 Taba Ros Jagio 322 Tambey, Panna Lal 282, 284, 287, 294 tampura 34 Tapasya ‘Art and Literary Forum’ 29, 46, 55; aim of 34; arts and literature 30–42; establishment 30; logo 34, 35; poster of 36; activities 43; units based in Kerala 32; Varttikam 32 Târtam Sâgar 163, 165, 168, 170, 180 Tat Khalsa 312 textual traditions 80 teyyam ritual 34, 37, 40, 52 Thackeray, Bal 122, 125, 128, 137, 139 Thakur, Vidhya Chand 71, 72, 74, 80 Therapeutic Restorative Yoga 146 Theravada Buddhist 92 Tibetan Buddhism 94 Tin Mills Kalyan Mandal 125, 126 Toffin, Gerard 18, 19, 161 tottam songs 38 trade unions 30, 132 Trinamul Congress 214 Triveni Mahamandal 124, 125

promotional

Uei 107–8 ‘untouchable’ jatis 277 untouchables, purification campaigns of 310 UP Mehtar Sangh 278, 280 urban culture 118, 138 Uttar Pradesh (UP): caste-based 241; decline of BJP in 242–46; farmers’ movements 7; Valmikis in 21, 277–85

politics

Vaishnava sects 165, 176 Vaishnavite movement 181

Vaishnavite sampradâyas 181 Valmiki 21, 73, 276 Valmiki Hindu nationalist leader 287–89 Valmiki Jayanti 287 Valmiki movement 277, 280, 282; ideological resilience and change 292–303; and Valmiki Hindu nationalist leader 287–89 Valmik Prakash (Chand) 277 vanavasi 112 ‘Vande mataram’ 33, 45, 200 Vanvais Kalyan Ashram (VKA) 112 varnas 231, 248 Varttikam 32 Vedic Culture and its Continuity: New Paradigm and Dimensions (Singh) 67 Village Development Committees (VDCs) 178 Vinayaka Chaturthi (Tamil Nadu) 5 Vishnu mahayagna 244 Vishva Hindu Mahâsang (World Hindu Organisation) 175, 176 Vishva Hindu Parishad (VHP) 3, 5, 161, 174, 175, 176, 180, 182, 204, 243 Vivek 30 Vivekananda Kendra Institute of (VKIC) 106, 107, 111, 202 Vivekananda Kendra Vidyalayas (VKV): in Arunachal Pradesh 104–6; features of 105; objectives of 105 Vivekananda, Swami 145, 162, 220 Vivekananda Vedic Rishi 84; vs local gods 78–81 Voix, Raphaël 19

Culture

Wahdat-al Wujud, concept of 189 West Bengal 19, 218; Bharat Sevashram Sangha 214; Hindutva ideology 209; Hindutva organisations in 210; social services and communal

harmony 222–26; Trinamul 214 Wilkinson, Steven 245 Women’s Front 133

Congress

Yadavas: Backward Class movement 250; history of 246–56; identity 20–21; and politisation of God Krishna 246–56 Yadav Itihas 252 Yadav, Mulayam Singh 258 Yadavs through the Ages 252 Yadav, Yogendra 241 Yaduvani 253 Yaduvans Ka Itihas 252

Yerikar, Pranjali 111 yoga: corporal and physical practice of 146; Hatha Yoga 154; as Indian national–cultural identity 145; medical principles 154; personality development camps (PDC) 202; Sun Jeevan Yoga Darshan 146; Therapeutic Restorative Yoga 146; therapy 17, 150 Yoga International 159 yoga therapy centre 17, 146 Yogeshvari 121, 123 Young Balagokulam 59 youth festival 57–60 Yug-yugin trigarta 67 Yullo ritual 108