Handbook of Hinduism in Europe (2-Volume Set) 9004429425, 9789004429420

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Handbook of Hinduism in Europe Volume 1

Handbook of Oriental Studies Section Two South Asia Edited by Muzaffar Alam (University of Chicago, USA) Johannes Bronkhorst (University of Lausanne, Switzerland) Knut A. Jacobsen (University of Bergen, Norway)

volume 35/1

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/ho2

Handbook of Hinduism in Europe Volume 1: Pan-European Developments Edited by

Knut A. Jacobsen Ferdinando Sardella

LEIDEN | BOSTON

Cover illustration Volume 1: Women carrying pots on their head waiting for the chariot procession to get ready to move in the annual chariot (tēr) festival procession of the Sivasubramaniyar Temple in Oslo, Norway. Photo: Knut A. Jacobsen. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Jacobsen, Knut A., 1956- editor. | Sardella, Ferdinando, editor. Title: Handbook of Hinduism in Europe / edited by Knut A. Jacobsen,  Ferdinando Sardella. Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, [2020] | Series: Handbook of oriental  studies. Section two, South Asia, 0169-9377 ; volume 35 | Includes  bibliographical references and index. | Contents: volume 1. Pan-European  developments—volume 2. Hindu presence in European countries. Identifiers: LCCN 2020018028 (print) | LCCN 2020018029 (ebook) | ISBN  9789004433434 (v. 1 ; hardback) | ISBN 9789004433441 (v. 2 ; hardback) |  ISBN 9789004429420 (hardback, set) | ISBN 9789004432284 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Hinduism—Europe—Encyclopedias. Classification: LCC BL1168.E85 H36 2020 (print) | LCC BL1168.E85 (ebook)  | DDC 294.5094—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020018028 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020018029

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. ISSN 0169-9377 ISBN 978-90-04-42942-0 (hardback, set) ISBN 978-90-04-43343-4 (hardback, vol. 1) ISBN 978-90-04-43344-1 (hardback, vol. 2) ISBN 978-90-04-43228-4 (e-book) Copyright 2020 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense, Hotei Publishing, mentis Verlag, Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh and Wilhelm Fink Verlag. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents Volume 1 Preface xi List of Figures and Tables xiii Notes on Contributors xvii 1

The Plurality of Hindu Traditions in Europe 1 Knut A. Jacobsen

Part 1 Pan-European Developments 2

Early Translations and the Impact of Hindu Texts in Europe 21 Klaus Karttunen

3

Hegel’s Hinduism A Withdrawal into an Empty Abstraction 29 Sai Bhatawadekar

4

The Catholic Church’s Encounter and Engagement with Hinduism Evolving Attitudes and Perceptions 55 Benedict Kanakappally

5

Protestant Views on Hinduism 78 Kajsa Ahlstrand

6

German Indology and Hinduism 90 Vishwa Adluri and Joydeep Bagchee

7

The European Construction of “Hindu Astronomy” (1700–1900) 123 Dhruv Raina

8

Hinduism, Western Esotericism, and New Age Religion in Europe 152 Julian Strube

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9

Hindu Soldiers in Europe during the First World War Religious Books, Symbols, and Practices 174 Kristina Myrvold

10

Hindu Gurus in Europe 204 Måns Broo

11

Temple Hinduism in Europe 215 Annette Wilke

12

Hindu Processions in Europe 349 Knut A. Jacobsen

13

On Religion, Language, Kinship, and Caste among Īḻattamiḻs in the European Diaspora 369 Peter Schalk

14

Swaminarayan Hinduism in Europe 393 Raymond Brady Williams and Tushar Shah

15

The Ramakrishna Math and Mission in Europe 422 Gwilym Beckerlegge

16

The Hare Krishna Movement in Europe 462 Luc De Backer

17

Making a Model of Madhuban The Brahma Kumaris’ Journey to and Presence in Europe 528 Tamasin Ramsay

18

Yoga in Europe 555 Suzanne Newcombe

19

Vedānta in Europe on the Web 588 Jacqueline Suthren Hirst

20 Āyurveda in Europe 626 Maya Warrier

Contents

21

Hindutva in Europe Making Sense of Diaspora Contexts 648 Roshni Sengupta and Priya Swamy

22

Hinduism and Public Space in Europe 665 John Zavos

23

Hindu Umbrella Organisations in Europe 687 Ferdinando Sardella

24 Hinduism and Education in Europe Recent Developments 710 Ross Andrew (Rasamandala Das) 25

Hindu Children in Europe 743 Eleanor Nesbitt

26 Floating Hindu Tropes in European Culture and Languages 764 Marianne Qvortrup Fibiger

Volume 2 Part 2 Hindu Presence in European Countries 27

Yoga, Meditation, and Guru Movements in Albania 779 Cecilie Endresen

28 Hindus and Hindu Religious Traditions in Austria 806 Franz Winter 29 Manifestations of Hindu Culture in Modern Belarus 833 Svetlana Karassyova and Ilya Tarkan 30 Hinduism in Belgium 849 Enrico Castro Montes and Idesbald Goddeeris 31

Hinduism in Bosnia and Herzegovina 864 Halida Đonlagić

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32

Hinduism in Bulgaria A Brief Historical Overview 877 Milena Dimitrova Bratoeva

33

Hinduism in Croatia 904 Hrvoje Čargonja

34 Czech Encounters with Hinduism 925 Lubomír Ondračka 35

Hinduism in Denmark 946 Marianne Qvortrup Fibiger

36 Hinduism in Estonia Discourses, Representations, and Practices 962 Ülo Valk and Ringo Ringvee 37

Hinduism in Finland 983 Måns Broo

38 Hinduism in France 992 Pierre-Yves Trouillet and Raphaël Voix 39 Hinduism and Hindu Places of Worship in Germany 1020 Brigitte Luchesi 40 Hinduism in Greece Historical Reconsiderations, Academic Appreciations, and Modern Migration 1041 Niki Papageorgiou and Angeliki Ziaka 41

Hindu Groups in Hungary 1060 Judit Farkas

42 Hindu Traditions in Iceland 1081 Knut A. Jacobsen 43 Hinduism in the Republic of Ireland 1083 S. Harikrishnan and Sweta Chakraborty

Contents

44 Hinduism in Italy A Condensed History of a Meteorological Phenomenon 1098 Andrea Maria Nencini and Federico Squarcini 45 Meditation and Yoga for Peace in Kosovo 1141 Cecilie Endresen 46 From Imagined Hinduism to the Hindu Diaspora in Latvia 1152 Anita Stasulane 47 “Strangers among Us”: Hinduism in Lithuania 1174 Milda Ališauskienė 48 Hindu Traditions in Malta 1189 Knut A. Jacobsen 49 Āyurveda, Yoga Tourism, and New Hindu Movements in Montenegro 1191 Cecilie Endresen 50 Hinduism in the Netherlands 1204 Priya Swamy 51

Hinduism in the Republic of North Macedonia Yoga, Gurus, and National Myths 1218 Cecilie Endresen, Ines Crvenkovska Risteska, and Ljupčo S. Risteski

52

Hindu Traditions in Norway Gurus, Places, and Communities 1241 Knut A. Jacobsen

53

Hinduism in Poland 1265 Marzenna Jakubczak

54 Hindus and Hindu Traditions in Portugal 1292 Inês Lourenço 55

Romania and Moldova Reception of India, Encounters with Hindus, and Acculturation of Hindu-Inspired Ideas and Practices 1317 Liviu Bordaș

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56 Hinduism in Russia 1392 Igor Kotin 57

Indian Diplomacy, Yoga, and New Age in Serbia 1410 Cecilie Endresen

58 Hindus and Hinduism in Slovakia 1428 Dušan Deák and Matej Karásek 59 Hinduism in Slovenia 1444 Aleš Črnič 60 Hinduism in Spain 1457 Juan Carlos Ramchandani 61

Hinduism in Sweden 1466 Ferdinando Sardella

62 Hinduism in Switzerland 1486 Martin Baumann 63

Hinduism in Turkey An Overview of Indian-Turkish Relations and Hindu Religious Groups 1502 Cemil Kutlutürk

64 Hinduism in Ukraine From Ancient Times to Present Day 1525 Yurii Zavhorodnii and Ievgen Smitskiy 65 Hinduism in the United Kingdom 1560 Demelza Jones Index 1591

Preface In these two volumes on Hindu traditions in Europe we have tried to cover the most important topics and across all the countries of Europe. Europe is understood in this book as a geographical space that is larger than the political entity of the European Union (EU), which only includes member states and not all of Europe. Part 1 covers historical and thematic topics that are of importance for understanding Hinduism in Europe as a whole. These topics include: the translation of Hindu texts into European languages; Hinduism and the Catholic Church; Protestant views on Hinduism and their impact; the impact of German Indology; Hinduism and the impact of Western Esotericism; Hindu soldiers in Europe during World War I; Hindu gurus in Europe; temples and processions; movements, groups, and organisations with a greater European presence, such as the Sri Lankan Tamils, Swaminarayan, Ramakrishna Mission, ISKCON, Brahma Kumaris, Vedānta, Āyurveda, and the great variety of yoga traditions; the presence of Hindutva in Europe; Hinduism and education; Hindu children; and Hindu tropes in European culture and languages. Hinduism as a religious presence in Europe is rapidly expanding across the Continent. In Part 2 we have included chapters on every country in Europe with the exception of the microstates including the larger microstate Luxembourg. The further microstates of Europe are Andorra, Monaco, Liechtenstein, San Marino, and the Holy See (Vatican), which have less than 100,000 inhabitants. The Republic of Cyprus is also not covered. The southern part is member of the EU but the United Nations considers Cyprus as being part of Asia. Although Gibraltar has a Hindu population, mostly of Sindhi origin, who has had a presence there since the middle of the nineteenth century and who in 2000 inaugurated the only Hindu temple there, it is a British Overseas Territory and is not covered in a separate article. British and French overseas territories outside of Europe are also not included as they geographically belong to other continents. Réunion island has a significant Hindu population and is part of France, but it is an overseas territory and is geographically part of Africa. Armenia, Georgia, and Azerbaijan are considered part of Asia and are not included, but Russia and Turkey, which are partly in Europe and partly in Asia, are included and have separate articles. A note on diacritics and style: We have included diacritics on words, concepts, and texts from South Asian languages, but mostly not on place names and not on modern (post-1850) South Asian figures and organisations. So Brāhmo Samāj (founded 1828) is spelled with diacritics, but Arya Samaj

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(founded 1875) is spelled without them. We have allowed for both Sanskrit and vernacular spellings such as Rām and Rāma, yug and yuga. Yoga refers to the philosophical system, yoga in lower case refers to the general phenomenon. In the book the terms ISKCON and Hare Krishna are used interchangeable. The numerous European languages have different traditions of writing terms and names from South Asian languages and some variety of spellings can be found in the book, especially in quotations from these languages. Finally, the editors want to thank all the researchers for their contributions to the book, Brill staff for their support, and Rebekah Zwanzig for her copy editing work. Knut A. Jacobsen and Ferdinando Sardella

Figures and Tables

Figures

11.1 Yearly temple festival of the Sri Kamadchi Ampal Temple in Hamm-Uentrop. Visitors are waiting for the movable cult image of Goddess Kamadchi to be brought out of the temple. 25 June 2017 © B. Luchesi 334 11.2 The Sri Mayurapathy Temple in Berlin-Britz. 15 September 2018 © B. Luchesi 338 12.1 Kāvaṭi dancer in the tēr procession at the Sivasubramaniyar Alayam in Oslo, Norway. Photo: Knut A. Jacobsen 359 12.2 Tīrthotsav procession, Oslo. Photo: Knut A. Jacobsen 360 14.1 Images of Svāminārāyaṇa, Kṛṣṇa, and Rādhā in the BAPS temple at Neasden, London. Photo: Official photograph from BAPS Shri Swaminarayan Mandir, London provided by Yogesh Patel 398 14.2 BAPS temple complex at Neasden, London. Photo: Official photograph from BAPS Shri Swaminarayan Mandir, London provided by Yogesh Patel 407 14.3 Procession at the BAPS temple at Neasden, London. Photo: Official photograph from BAPS Shri Swaminarayan Mandir, London provided by Yogesh Patel. 409 14.4 Divālī celebration at the Swaminarayan Gadi temple, London. Photo: Official photograph from Shree Swaminarayan Mandir Kingsbury provided by Mahesh Varsani 410 14.5 Swaminarayan Gadi Pipe Band playing on the Thames River for Queen Elizabeth’s Diamond Jubilee in 2012. Photo: Official photograph from Shree Swaminarayan Mandir Kingsbury provided by Mahesh Varsani 412 18.1 Annie Besant (centre) arrives in Charing Cross Station, London with Jiddu Krishnamurti on her right and his younger brother Nityananda on her left in May 1911 563 18.2 A 1970s yoga class taught by students of B.K.S. Iyengar in a school gym in London. Photograph courtesy of the Iyengar Yoga Association (UK), Diana Clifton Collection 571 23.1 British Delegation with MEP Geoffrey Van Orden, Divālī at the EU-parliament, 2017. Photo: Ferdinando Sardella 693 27.1 Harināma with Czech ISKCON missionaries outside the Etʾhem Bey mosque in the centre of Tirana. Photo: Cecilie Endresen 788 27.2 An Albanian translation of A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada’s Śrī Īśopaniṣad held by a Czech monk from the ISKCON temple in Brno who was proselytizing in the centre of Tirana outside the pyramid that was originally built as a mausoleum for the Communist dictator Enver Hoxha. Photo: Cecilie Endresen 789

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28.1 A ceremony taking place in the Sri Sri Radha-Govinda Mandir (Gaudiya Math Vienna) in Traiskirchen. Photo: Sri Sri Radha-Govinda Mandir (Gaudiya Math Vienna) 821 28.2 The Sri Sri Radha-Govinda Mandir (Gaudiya Math Vienna) in Traiskirchen in 2019. Photo: Sri Sri Radha-Govinda Mandir (Gaudiya Math Vienna) 822 28.3 The Sri Sanatan Dharm Mandir in Salzburg during a guided tour. Photo: Sri Sanatan Dharm Mandir 823 34.1 Rabindranath Tagore during his visit in Prague (1926) 932 34.2 Dušan Zbavitel, a doyen of Czech Indology and Hindu studies. Photo: Tomáš Míček 932 36.1 Aare and Julia visiting Shri Rāma Michael Tamm in mid-1970s. Photo: courtesy of Vladimir Wiedemann 972 38.1 Hindu procession in Paris during the Gaṇeś festival. Photo: Pierre-Yves Trouillet © 1000 38.2 Śivācārya priest performing an evening pūjā at the Gaṇeś temple in Paris. Photo: Pierre-Yves Trouillet © 1002 39.1 During the yearly temple festival of the Sri Kamadchi Ampal Temple in Hamm-Uentrop the movable cult image of the goddess is carried around the temple before it is transferred to the huge processional cart, 25 June 2017. Photo: B. Luchesi © 1027 39.2 A priest is waving a light over the tower of the Sri Mayurapathy Murugan Temple in Berlin as part of the consecration festivities on 8 September 2013. Photo: B. Luchesi © 1038 43.1 Number of people who identified as belonging to the Hindu religion in the Republic of Ireland (1991–2016) 1088 43.2 An Easter bunny finds space among offerings at an Annakuṭ organised by the BAPS Swaminrayan Sanstha, 24 March 2018. Photo: Harikrishnan Sasikumar 1089 43.3 The Ireland Vinakaya Temple. Photo: Sweta Chakraborty 1091 43.4 Crowds at the ISCKCON Temple Dublin. Photo: Harikrishnan Sasikumar 1093 45.1 A number of Osho’s books in Albanian translation in a bookshop in the capital city of Prishtina. They are placed in the psychology section. Photo: Cecilie Endresen 1142 46.1 Chanting Hare Krishna at the Rathayātrā Festival in Riga, 2011. Photo: Anita Stasulane 1166 46.2 The Lithuanian Sahaja Yoga musicians at Riga Central Library, 2010. Photo: Anita Stasulane 1168 46.3 Celebration of Durgāpūjā in Riga, 2012. Photo: Anita Stasulane 1170 46.4 Reciting the Durgāśaptaśatī (700 verses to Durgā) in Riga, 2012. Photo: Anita Stasulane 1170

Figures and Tables

xv

49.1 The villa to the left is Dathathreya Ayurveda Treatments and Yoga Center in Podgorica in June 2018. Photo: Cecilie Endresen 1199 49.2 Raghavan Ramankuti with his two assistants at the entrance of Dathathreya Ayurveda Treatments and Yoga Center in Podgorica in June 2018. Photo: Cecilie Endresen 1200 51.1 Posters advertising concerts that were organised by a Sri Chinmoy meditation group in Skopje and Bitola in May 2018 More information is available at: http://www.meditacija.com.mk/ (accessed May 29, 2018). Photo: Cecilie Endresen 1223 51.2 Flag of the Roma people, available at: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/ File:Flag_of_the_Romani_people.svg#/media/File:Flag_of_the_Romani_people. svg (accessed September 20, 2018) 1236 52.1 Memorial (samādhisthān) of Ananda Acharya at Tronfjell, Norway. Photo: Knut A. Jacobsen 1246 52.2 Thurkkai being carried toward the lake for the bathing festival (tīrthotsav) on the last day of the temple festival. Photo: Knut A. Jacobsen 1255 54.1 Ritual performance of Satyanarayan katha, Shiva Temple, Santo António dos Cavaleiros, Lisbon, 2005. Photo: Inês Lourenço 1306 54.2 Domestic shrine dedicated both to Shirdi Sai Baba and Sathya Sai Baba, Santo António dos Cavaleiros, Lisbon, 2006. Photo: Inês Lourenço 1310 57.1 The 2018 commemorative Serbian stamp with Swami Vivekananda, which was jointly issued by Serbia and India to commemorate seventy years of diplomatic relations. (credit https://images.app.goo.gl/Q48PimznmXrw6d4Y7? Wiki commons: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/57/Swami_ Vivekananda_2018_stamp_of_Serbia.jpg) 1420 57.2 From Joga za svakoga: sportska knjiga (Yoga for all: A sports book) by Jasmina Puljo, which was published in Belgrade at Godina izdanja in 1961 1422 58.1 Meeting of The Circle of Disciples and Friends of Priest Ján Maliarik in Veľké Leváre on 9 October 1934 on the occasion of the visit of Dalip Singh Gill. Ján Maliarik sits on the left of Dalip Sing (second row from the bottom). Courtesy Jana Sušienková and Růžena Hermanová 1433 58.2 Pictures and objects in the home of the KŽPJM (Kruh žiakov a priateľov Jana Maliarika; Circle of the disciples and friends of Jan Maliarik) supporter. Courtesy Jana Sušienková 1434 58.3 Devotees celebrating the Vyāsa pūjā at the ISKCON centre in Abranovce, 2016. Photo: ISKCON archive 1437 61.1 Altar at the Hindu Mandir Society in Stockholm. Photo: Ferdinando Sardella 1474 61.2 Bangiya Sanatan Samaj celebrating Durgā Pūjā in Stockholm. Photo: Bangiya Sanatan Samaj 1476

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62.1 Map of the locations of Hindu groups, centres, and temples in Switzerland, 2018 1494 62.2 Auspicious moments. The richly decorated kōpuram of the Sri Manonmani Ampal Temple was inaugurated by priests brought in a crane up to the top of the kōpuram, September 15, 2019. Photo: M. Baumann © 1497 64.1 “Viṣṇu and Lakṣmī on Garuḍa” (ninth–fourteenth century), the Bohdan and Varvara Khanenko National Museum of Arts (Kyiv). Photo: Yurii Zavhorodnii 1526 64.2 The Kernosvska stele. Photo given by Dmytro Yavornytskyi National Historical Museum of Dnipro 1544 64.3 The Kernosvska stele. Photo given by Dmytro Yavornytskyi National Historical Museum of Dnipro 1544 64.4 The exterior of the International Society for Krishna Consciousness, Kyiv Temple, Zoryanyi Line. Photo: Serhii Androsov 1549 64.5 Inside an altar room of the International Society for Krishna Consciousness, Kyiv Temple, Zoryanyi Line. Photo: Serhii Androsov 1549 65.1 Chariot procession organised by the Tamil-run Highgate Hill Murukaṉ Temple in north London. Photo: Demelza Jones 1577 65.2 Detail of the purpose-built Śrī Veṅkaṭeśvara (Bālājī) Temple in Tividale, West Midlands. Photo: Demelza Jones 1582

6.1 7.1 29.1 35.1 35.2 35.3 35.4 35.5 52.1 55.1 63.1 64.1 64.2

Tables Indological reconstructions of an “original” Bhagavadgītā 104 Views of the Jesuits and Coeurdoux of the responsibility of the Brahmans for the fall of the Indians into idolatry 137 Necessary size requirements for religious organisations to receive state registration in Belarus 841 2017 numbers 951 The Indian population in Denmark recorded on 1 January each year 954 The Indian population in Denmark with Danish citizenship 954 The Sri Lankan population in Denmark recorded on January 1 each year 957 The Sri Lankan population in Denmark with Danish citizenship 957 Number of registered members of Hindu religious organisations that receive public subsidies per member in Norway 1252 Numbers of citizens of India and Nepal living in Romania 1350 Arabic copies of the Amṛtakuṇḍa found in Turkish libraries 1510 Manifestations of Hinduism in Ukraine 1540 Academic qualification and country of members of the Summer School 1553

Notes on Contributors Vishwa Adluri is a professor in the Philosophy Department at Hunter College, New York, and an expert on ancient Greek and Indian philosophy and the Sanskrit epic the Mahābhārata. His work focuses on the reception of ancient thought—both Greek and Indian—in modernity. He is the author of Parmenides, Plato and Mortal Philosophy: Return from Transcendence (London: Bloomsbury, 2011), The Nay Science: A History of German Indology (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014), and Philology and Criticism: A Guide to Mahābhārata Textual Criticism (London: Anthem, 2018) and has edited numerous volumes on the Mahābhārata, including Argument and Design: The Unity of the Mahābhārata (Leiden: Brill, 2016). Professor Adluri holds PhDs in Philosophy (New School for Social Research, New York), Indology (Philipps University, Marburg), and Sanskrit (Deccan College, Pune). Kajsa Ahlstrand is Professor in World Christianity and Interreligous Studies at Uppsala University. Her research focuses the interaction between religion and how people relate to religious pluralism. In her research, she has focused especially on how Christian groups and thinkers relate to religious pluralism and how they have attempted to create tolerance in their interpretations and the ways they have attempted to fight against each other. She has looked at the processes of change that lead to multireligious practices and has also focused on the role of religions in conflicts and in peacemaking. Milda Ališauskienė is a professor in the Department of Political Sciences at Vytautas Magnus University, Kaunas, Lithuania. Her research interests include religion in postsocialist society, religion and state relations, religious diversity, religious fundamentalism, and new religions. She has published on religion in contemporary Lithuania and the Baltic states and has contributed to collective monographs and studies on the social exclusion of minority religions and on the process of secularisation in Lithuania. In 2011, together with Ingo W. Schroeder, she coedited the volume Religious Diversity in Post-Soviet Society (Ashgate; since 2016 Routledge). M. Ališauskienė served as the guest editor for special issues of the journal Religion and Society in Central and Eastern Europe (RASCEE) in 2013 and 2014 and for Nova Religio: The Journal of Alternative and Emergent Religions in 2017. She served as president for the International Society for the Study of

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New Religions (ISSNR) from 2015–2017, served as the general secretary for the International Study of Religion in Eastern and Central Europe Association (ISORECEA) from 2014–2018, and has been a member of the executive board of the International Association for the History of Religions (IAHR) since 2015. In 2016 she was a Fulbright visiting scholar at the University of California, Santa Barbara. Ross Andrew (Rasamandala Das) holds an MA in religious education from Warwick University. He is the founder of ISKCON Educational Services, Britain’s largest provider of educational resources on Hinduism. He has authored several key texts, including the Illustrated Encyclopaedia of Hinduism, and was commissioned by the Krishna Avanti School (the first British Hindu state-funded school) to help write its Philosophy, Religion and Ethics curriculum. He was previously the course director for a BA in Education Studies, Theology and Religion validated by the University of Chester. Ross is currently conducting doctoral research on Hindu and Vaiṣṇava ethics at Cambridge University. Joydeep Bagchee is an independent scholar and visiting lecturer based in Berlin, Germany, He holds a PhD in philosophy from the New School for Social Research, New York. His areas of expertise are twentieth-century Continental philosophy, German Romanticism, Nietzsche, philology, and the Western reception of Indian thought. Along with Vishwa Adluri, he is the coauthor of The Nay Science: A History of German Indology (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014) and Philology and Criticism: A Guide to Mahābhārata Textual Criticism (London: Anthem Press, 2018). He coedited the volume Argument and Design: The Unity of the Mahābhārata (Leiden: Brill, 2016). Dr. Bagchee also authored the entry on “German Indology” and coauthored the entry on “European Constructions of Hinduism” for Oxford Bibliographies Online. Martin Baumann is Professor of the Study of Religions at the University of Lucerne in Switzerland. His teaching and research interests focus on religious pluralism and public space, migration and religion, diaspora studies, and Hindu and Buddhist traditions in the West. His current research projects study the reinterpretations of religious practices and attitudes among young Vietnamese Buddhists and the societal engagement and expectations of the boards of Hindu temples in Switzerland.

Notes on Contributors

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Gwilym Beckerlegge has published extensively on Vivekananda’s legacy in reference to the Ramakrishna Math and Mission and the Vivekananda Kendra. For more details, see his web page (http://www.open.ac.uk/Arts/religious-studies/beckerlegge.shtml) and his entry under Open Research Online (http://oro.open.ac.uk/ view/person/gtb2.html). He has held professorial posts at the Open University, UK and University College Cork, National University of Ireland and has been a visiting professor at the Centre for Indian and South Asian Studies, Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales, Paris. He is currently Emeritus Professor of Modern Religions in the Discipline of Religious Studies at the Open University. Sai Bhatawadekar is Associate Professor of Hindi-Urdu and Director of the Center for South Asian Studies at the University of Hawai‘i. Her cross-cultural, interdisciplinary, and creative work spans comparative philosophy and religion, film studies, creative performance-based language pedagogy, theatre, music, dance, and now positive peace studies. On the philosophy front, she works and publishes on Hegel’s and Schopenhauer’s interpretations of Hinduism, Buddhism, and Islam. Sai is one of the core group of scholars who have pioneered Asian-German Studies since 2006. At the University of Hawai‘i she has innovated new teaching methods and she has received many awards for her teaching skills, including the Regents’ Medal at the University of Hawai‘i and recognition as a Master Teacher by the Center for Teaching Excellence. These varied aspects of Sai’s work essentially embody the cross-cultural creative movement of Indian philosophy, languages, and art. She is currently guest editing two volumes on Language and Peace with the International Society for Language Studies. Liviu Bordaș holds a PhD in Philosophy from the University of Bucharest and has studied classical Indology at the Universities of Bucharest, Vienna, Rome, Heidelberg, Pondicherry and New Delhi. He has been research fellow at various institutes in Europe and India, and Fulbright visiting scholar at the Divinity School of the University of Chicago. Since 2010 he is affiliated to “New Europe College” Institute for Advanced Study, in Bucharest. He published articles and books on Mircea Eliade and on the reception of India in Romanian culture. Milena Bratoeva is Professor of Vedic Literature, Sanskrit kāvya, and Contemporary Hindi Literature at the University of Sofia “St. Kliment Ohridski,” Bulgaria. In 2017

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she was awarded the Hindī sevī sammān by the Mahatma Gandhi International Hindi University for her contribution to the spread of Hindi and Indian culture in Bulgaria. Recently a volume with translations from Sanskrit into Bulgarian of eight Upaniṣads, Upaniṣads: Translation from Sanskrit into Bulgarian (Aitareya, Kena, Kaṭha, Śvetāśvatara, Muṇḍaka, Praśna, Māṇḍūkya, Īśā), which were translated by her and Associate Professor Gergana Ruseva, was published by the “East-West” Publishing House. Måns Broo (PhD, Docent) is a university researcher in the Department of Comparative Religion at Åbo Akademi University, Finland. His research interests include both classical and contemporary forms of Hinduism. At present, he is working on a critical edition of a sixteenth-century Vaiṣṇava ritual text. Hrvoje Čargonja is Assistant Professor in the Department of Ethnology and Cultural Anthropology, Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences, University of Zagreb, Croatia. He obtained an MS in molecular biology and a PhD in cultural anthropology, both from the University of Zagreb. He conducted his fieldwork in Croatia, United Kingdom, and India. His special research interests include cultural phenomenology, the Hare Krishna movement, and the phenomenology of religious experience. Sweta Chakraborty is a PhD Research Scholar at the Dublin City University. Her thesis concerns “The Politics of Superstition: Religion, Rationalism and Secularism in India.” Her research interests include religion and secularism, nonreligion, scientism, and decolonization studies. Aleš Črnič is Professor of Religious Studies at the Faculty of Social Sciences, University of Ljubljana, Slovenia. His scientific interest focuses mainly on contemporary religious pluralism, religious freedom, and new religious movements. Among other things, he published a book titled In the Name of Krishna: Sociological Study of the Hare Krishna Movement [V imenu Krišne: družboslovna študija gibanja Hare Krišna]. Luc Maria De Backer (PhD) is a researcher in the discipline of the study of religion. His research is concerned with examining the entry of individuals into groups rooted in everyday rituals. He received recognition for his unique combination of insider

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and outsider perspectives in his doctoral thesis, which is a scholarly study on ISKCON. Especially noteworthy is his position as a “critical insider,” because for twenty-eight years he has lived as a monk among the people he studied. Dušan Deák is a historian, ethnographer, and currently Associate Professor of Religious Studies at the Department of Comparative Religion, Comenius University in Bratislava, Slovakia. He holds a doctorate in history from the University of Pune (2002). His primary research interest is social history and the ethnography of devotional cults with precolonial origins in the Marathi Deccan, but he has also worked on the reception of Indian ideas and practices in the Slovak religious environment. Apart from several shorter studies, he wrote a Slovak monograph Indian Saints between the Past and the Present (UCM Trnava, 2010) and, along with Daniel Jasper, edited a collected volume Rethinking Western India: The Changing Contexts of Culture, Society, and Religion (Orient Blackswan, 2014). He is currently working on a monograph on marginalised religious cults in western India. Halida Đonlagić is a PhD candidate in the Department Religious Studies at the Faculty of Social Studies, University of Ljubljana, Slovenia. She is also a research fellow at the Bhaktivedanta Institute in Ljubljana. She is the author of several scientific articles on Bosnia and Herzegovina and religion. As a scientific peace building activist, she has participated as a panellist and lecturer in many regional and international scientific conferences. Cecilie Endresen (PhD) is Associate Professor in the Study of Religion in the Department of Culture Studies and Oriental Languages, University of Oslo. Her research interests include pluralism and religious change, religion, politics and identity in southeast Europe, neoreligiosity, and Islam in Europe. She is the author of Is the Albanian’s Religion really “Albanianism”? Religion and Nation According to Muslim and Christian Leaders in Albania (Harrassowitz, 2012). Her article “A Fantastic People and Its Enemies: An Analysis of an Emerging Albanian Mythology” was recently published in Brill’s Handbooks on Contemporary Religion series (2018). Judit Farkas (PhD, habil.) is a docent in the Department of European Ethnology and Cultural Anthropology at the University of Pécs, Hungary. Her main interests are alternative movements, ecovillages, and Hindu movements in Hungary.

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She has written two books in Hungarian: “Arjuna’s Dilemma.” Resocialization and Legitimation in a Hungarian Krishna-Community (Budapest, 2009) and Ecovillages in Hungary (Budapest, 2018). She also has written many articles on these topics, see: https://pte.academia.edu/JuditFarkas. Marianne Qvortrup Fibiger is Associate Professor for the Study of Religion at Aarhus University. Her research focuses on contemporary Hinduism in general and on Hinduism in the diaspora, especially in Denmark and Mauritius, in particular. Her research also includes Śāktism, how notions and worldviews travel between the East and West, and themes such as religion and collective memory, the second generation of migrants, and the meaning of religion in cultural encounters. She has conducted field research among Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus in Denmark and in Sri Lanka and also among Hindus in Mauritius, India (Kerala, Orissa, and Punjab), Kenya, and Britain and has written articles on themes such as: Hinduism and the wilderness; Hinduism and asceticism; Hinduism and fright and fear; Śāktism in Denmark; the second generation of Hindus in the diaspora and their relation to the Hindu tradition; religion and sport; the understanding of karma and yoga in a Danish context; and the circulation of ideas between the East and West. Idesbald Goddeeris is Professor of History at the University of Leuven (KU Leuven, Belgium), where he teaches, inter alia, History of European Colonization, History of India, and Global Perspectives on Contemporary India. His research focuses on postcolonial memories, missionaries in postcolonial India, and North-South and East-West relations during the Cold War. He has recently published in journals such as, the Journal of Migration History (2017), Postcolonial Studies (2016), and the Journal of Contemporary History (2015). S. Harikrishnan is a PhD researcher at Dublin City University. His research explores public space and political culture in Kerala in the twentieth century. Jacqueline Suthren Hirst is an Honorary Research Fellow in South Asian Studies at the University of Manchester. She is the author of Śaṃkara’s Advaita Vedānta: A Way of Teaching (RoutledgeCurzon, 2005) and many articles on Śaṃkara and Advaita/Vedānta. She is also interested in gender issues and the way South Asian religious traditions are presented. Her other publications include Sita’s Story (RMEP 1997),

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Playing for Real: ‘Hindu’ Role Models, Religion and Gender (ed. with Lynn Thomas; Oxford University Press, 2004) and Religious Traditions in Modern South Asia (coauthored with John Zavos; Routledge, 2011). Knut A. Jacobsen is Professor in the Study of Religions at the University of Bergen, Norway and is the author and editor of many books and numerous articles, in both journals and edited volumes, on Sāṃkhya and Yoga and on various aspects of the religions of South Asia and religion in the South Asian diasporas. He is the author of Prakṛti in Sāṃkhya-Yoga: Material Principle: Religious Experience, Ethical Implications (Peter Lang, 1999), Kapila: Founder of Sāṃkhya and Avatāra of Viṣṇu (Munshiram Manoharlal, 2008), Pilgrimage in the Hindu Tradition: Salvific Space (Routledge, 2013), and Yoga in Modern Hinduism: Hariharānanda Āraṇya and Sāṃkhyayoga (Routledge, 2018). Other recent publications include the edited volumes Routledge Handbook of Contemporary India (Routledge, 2016), and Religion and Technology in India (Routledge, 2018; coedited with Kristina Myrvold). Jacobsen is the founding editor in chief of the six-volume Brill’s Encyclopedia of Hinduism (Brill, 2009–2015) and Brill’s Encyclopedia of Hinduism Online and is co-editor of Brill’s Encyclopedia of Sikhism (2017) and Brill’s Encyclopedia of Jainism (2020). Marzenna Jakubczak is Professor of Philosophy at Department of Philosophy and Sociology, Pedagogical University of Cracow, Poland. Her research interests focus on the self and mind discussed in terms of classical Indian philosophy, especially Sāṃkhyayoga tradition and early Buddhism as well as contemporary philosophy of mind. She has authored and edited several volumes and numerous papers on comparative philosophy and religion, cross-cultural aesthetics and gender studies, e.g. “The Woman-and-Tree Motif in the Ancient and Contemporary India” (International Yearbook of Aesthetics, 2017), “Why Didn’t Siddhartha Gautama Become a Sāṃkhya Philosopher, After All?” in I. Kuznetsova, J. Ganeri, and Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad, eds., Hindu and Buddhist Ideas in Dialogue. Self and No-Self (Ashgate, 2012), “What is the Sense of EgoMaker in Classical Samkhya and Yoga?,” in Girishwar Misra, ed., Psychology & Psychoanalysis (Munshiram Monoharlal, 2013), “Earth” in Aesthetics of the Four Elements (Tilia, 2001). Since 2010 she has been editor-in-chief of a peerreviewed open access journal Argument: Biannual Philosophical Journal (www. argument-journal.eu). Since 2017 she has served as the board member for the Society for Asian and Comparative Philosophy (SACP).

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Demelza Jones is Senior Lecturer in Sociology at the University of Gloucestershire, UK. Demelza’s research interests include migration, diasporas, and (super)diversity (including religious diversity), and her doctoral research explored how Tamils in Britain from diverse state backgrounds identified with a “Tamil diaspora.” Demelza’s research on Tamils and Hinduism has been published in journals, including Religion, Ethnic and Racial Studies, Ethnicities and Nationalism and Ethnic Politics, and her book Superdiverse Diaspora: Everyday Identifications of Tamil Migrants in Britain was published by Palgrave in 2020. Benedict Kanakappally received his PhD in philosophy from the Catholic University of Leuven, Belgium and is currently Professor of History and Phenomenology of Religion at the Pontifical Urban University, Rome. His main academic interests lie in historical and phenomenological studies of Hinduism and Indian Buddhism and he has published several books and articles around these topics. He is the author of Phenomenology of Belief and the Possibility of Inter-faith Dialogue in Karl Jaspers (2008) and the coeditor of Hindu-Christian Dictionary: Essential Terms for Inter-Religious Dialogue (2017), also published in Italian under the title Dizionario Hindu-Cristiano: Luoghi del Dialogo Interreligioso. Matej Karásek is an anthropologist based at the Department of Comparative Religion in Comenius University in Bratislava, Slovakia and holds a doctorate in ethnology from the University of Constantine the Philosopher in Nitra. His research interests cover the Western new religious movements inspired by the Indian religious traditions, as well as more general aspects of Indian religiosity. He has conducted several field research projects in India and Slovakia, where he researched the transformations of Bengali Vaiṣṇavism and its acculturation among Hare Krishna communities. Karásek’s other research interests include the Christian āśrams movement in India and folk religiosity. He has published research articles on the above themes in both English and Slovak. Svetlana Karassyova graduated from the Department of Philosophy at the Belarusian State University in 1988. In 2000, she defended a candidate dissertation on the philosophy of the Russian spiritual academies of the nineteenth century. In the late 1990s (with the “religious boom” occurring in the post-Soviet countries accompanied by the widespread introduction of courses on religion into the education system), she started teaching the study of religion at higher

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educational establishments, including the Belarusian State University (since 2007). While designing the courses she taught, she felt the lack of up-to-date data on the dynamics of the religious situation in Belarus, and so she started her research work, both theoretical and applied. Since 2011, she has been the leader of an initiative group in the Faculty of Philosophy and Social Sciences at the Belarusian State University. Members of the group have prepared and conducted two fundamental applied research projects: 1) on the (im)practicability of introducing a course on religion into the curricula of the Belarusian public schools; 2) on the cross-confessional types of religiosity of the Belarusian people. Research results have been published in several articles and monographs, including Knowledge on Religions in Schools in Belarus: Status and Perspectives (Minsk, 2015; in Russian) and Typology of Religiosity in the Modern Belarus (Minsk, 2018; in Russian). Klaus Karttunen studied at the University of Helsinki and passed his PhD in 1989. He was docent of Indology and classical ethnography at the same university beginning in 1990 and worked in different research positions, mainly in Helsinki; from 1991–92 and 1993–94 as Alexander von Humboldt Scholar at the University of Freiburg, Germany and from 2006–12 as Professor of South Asian and Indo-European Studies at the University of Helsinki. His main research interests are the ancient history of South Asia, especially relations with the West, the knowledge of and attitudes toward nature in South Asian literature, the history of Asian studies, and the position of traditions in modern South Asia. He is the author of India in Early Greek Literature (Helsinki, 1989), India and the Hellenistic World (Helsinki, 1997), and Yonas and Yavanas in Indian Literature (Helsinki, 2015). Igor Kotin DPhil. (Oxon), Dr. Sc. (History), is a professor at St. Petersburg State University and Senior Research Fellow at the Peter the Great Museum of Anthropology and Ethnography at the Russian Academy of Sciences in St. Petersburg. His field of academic interest ranges from the Indian diaspora to the history of Indological studies in St. Petersburg. He received his D. Phil from Oxford University in 2001, and in 2008 he defended his Dr. Sc. thesis, which was on the processes of the formation of South Asian diaspora. He is the author of twelve monographs and more than 200 articles on different aspects of Indian history. He has presented academic papers at more than twenty international conferences in Britain, Sweden, Denmark, Japan, Norway, Germany, and many other countries.

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Cemil Kutlutürk is Associate Professor at Ankara University, Faculty of Divinity, Turkey. He obtained one MA at Ankara University in 2009, a second one in the field of Indian philosophy and religion at Benares Hindu University (BHU), India in 2013, and a PhD in the history of religions at Ankara University in 2014. He had a postdoctoral position at MESAAS, Columbia University, New York in 2015, where he researched Hindu-Muslim relations in the fifteenth to seventeenth centuries. His main research interests are Indian religions and culture, Hindu-Muslim interactions, perceptions of Islam, Muslims and Turks in medieval India, and Sufism and Hindu mysticism, and he has published articles and books on these subjects, such as Hindu Kutsal Metinleri (Hindu sacred texts—Upanishads; 2014), Hinduizm’de Avatar İnancı (Doctrine of avatāra in Hinduism; 2017), and Hint Düşüncesinde İslam Algısı (Hindu perception of Islam—Sample of bhakti; 2018). Inês Lourenço PhD, Anthropology (ISCTE/IUL, University Institute of Lisbon), is a researcher at the Centre for Research in Anthropology, University Institute of Lisbon. Her research is focused on the Hindu diaspora in Portugal and is supported by fieldwork carried out in Portugal and India since 2000. Other topics of interest are the consumption of Indian commodities, such as Bollywood, and the related social uses of culture in Portuguese society. Her current research addresses the migrant heritage of communities of Indian origin in Portugal. Brigitte Luchesi is a trained sociologist, historian of religion, and social anthropologist. She has taught at the Free University of Berlin and, from 1989 to 2008, at the Department of Comparative Religion at the University of Bremen, Germany. After her retirement, she moved back to Berlin where she continues to work in the fields she has always been interested in: forms of local religion in North India and the practices of Hindu immigrants from South Asia in Germany. Another ongoing field of interest is visual perception. Enrico Castro Montes graduated with a master of arts in history at KU Leuven in 2018. He wrote his master’s thesis on the transnational and sportive dimensions of the Belgian solidarity movement during the Spanish Civil War. His research interests are sports history, migration history, subalternity, (post)colonial history, and the history of Spain and Latin America. From October 2018 onwards, he has worked as a teaching assistant in the Modernity and Society 1800–2000 research unit at KU Leuven.

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Kristina Myrvold is Associate Professor of Religious Studies at Linnaeus University and Guest Professor of Indian religions at Lund University. Her research focuses on Sikh religious uses of texts, ritual practices, historiographies, and Sikh and Indian migration. She has published numerous journal articles and book chapters on Sikh practices in Sweden and India and contributed chapters on the Sikhs in Sweden and Europe to different handbooks on religions. She is the author of Inside the Guru’s Gate: Ritual Uses of Texts among the Sikhs in Varanasi (Lund, 2007) and the editor of The Death of Sacred Texts (Ashgate, 2010) as well as several other anthologies on Sikhism and South Asian religions. Her recent research deals with the print history of Sikh religious text in Punjab, miniature books in the Sikh and Islamic traditions, and religious comforts for Indian soldiers in World War I. Myrvold is one of the editors of the Brill’s Encyclopedia of Sikhism (2017). Andrea Maria Nencini is a PhD candidate in the History of Religions at La Sapienza University of Rome, holds a master’s degree in cognitive science (University of Trento— CIMeC), and is currently researching the use and development of repetitive exercises in ascetic practice. Eleanor Nesbitt is Emeritus Professor of Religions and Education at the University of Warwick (UK) and one of the founders of the Punjab Research Group. Since coauthoring Hindu Children in Britain (with Robert Jackson; Trentham Books, 1993) she has published extensively, especially on young Hindus and Sikhs. Her monograph Sikh: Two Centuries of Western Women’s Art and Writing is forthcoming (Kashi House, 2019). Suzanne Newcombe is a Lecturer in Religious Studies at the Open University (UK) and Honorary Director of Inform, which is based in the Theology and Religious Studies Department at King’s College London. She researches modern yoga from a sociological and social historical perspective and also has extensive experience in the sociology of religion, specialising in new and minority religious movements in contemporary Britain. Between 2015 and 2020 she was part of the European Research Council (Horizon, 2020) titled Medicine, Immortality and Moksha: Entangled Histories of Yoga, Ayurveda and Alchemy in South Asia based at the University of Vienna. She has published Yoga in Britain: Stretching Spirituality and Educating Yogis (Equinox, 2019) and has contributed articles on yoga and āyurveda to many academic journals and edited collections.

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Lubomír Ondračka is a Research Fellow at the Department of Philosophy and Religious Studies, Faculty of Arts, Charles University in Prague. His research is focused on the history of yoga, death and dying in India, and on the religions and culture of Bengal. Niki Papageorgiou is Associate Professor of the Sociology of Religion at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, Greece. She studied theology at the same university and the sociology of religion at the Catholic University of Louvain-la-Neuve. She teaches Sociology of Religion and Sociology of Christianity at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. Her research interests focus on religious identities in traditional and modern societies, religion and gender, and religion and migration. Her main publications are: Transformations of the Sacred: Sociology and Religion in Marcel Mauss’s Work (Thessaloniki, 2005; in Greek), India: Myth and Reality (Thessaloniki, 2006; in Greek), “Migration as a Possible Source of Religious Conflicts: The Intervention of Policy Makers” in Religion and Conflict (edited by Erik Eynikel and Angeliki Ziaka; London, 2011); “Sikh Immigrants in Greece: On the Road to Integration” in Sikhs in Europe: Migration, Identities and Representations (edited by Knut A. Jacobsen and Kristina Myrvold; Burlington, 2011); Religion and Migration: The Sikh Community in Greece (Thessaloniki, 2013; in Greek); and Religion in Post-Dictatorship Greece (Thessaloniki, 2018; in Greek). Dhruv Raina is Professor at the Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. He studied physics at the Indian Institute of Technology, Mumbai and received his PhD in the philosophy of science from Göteborg University. His research has focused on the politics and cultures of scientific knowledge in South Asia, as well as the history and historiography of mathematics. He has co-edited Situating the History of Science (1999) and Social History of Sciences in Colonial India (2007), Science between Europe and Asia (2010). He is the author of Images and Contexts (2003) and co-authored Domesticating Modern Science (2004). Needham’s Indian Network (2015) focused on the historiography of science in South Asia and the attempts towards institutionalizing the history of science in the region. His more recent work addresses the contemporary concerns of the emergence of inter- and transdisciplinarity, with a special focus on fields across the natural and social sciences.

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Juan Carlos Ramchandani was born in Ceuta, Spain in 1970 to an Indian Hindu father and a Spanish Catholic mother. He has travelled to India on twenty-eight different occasions in the last thirty years, spending a total of six years living in India in different places and environments, such as temples and āśrams as well as several religious and secular institutions. He is the author of sixteen books about Hinduism and coauthor of two books published by UNESCO in Spain. He is one of the authors, as well as the editor, of the volume Veda Darshana published by the Hindu Federation of Spain. He has been the president of the Hindu Federation of Spain since 2015 and is the former vice president of the Hindu Forum of Europe, where he now serves as adviser. For further details see his webpage (www.jcramchandani.es). Tamasin Ramsay is an applied anthropologist and a scholar practitioner in the Brahma Kumaris. From 2010–2015 she was NGO representative to the United Nations (New York) for the Brahma Kumaris and is a special adviser to the Brahma Kumaris Environment Initiative. She has undertaken significant historical and anthropological research within the Brahma Kumaris, some of which can be seen at brahmakumarisresearch.org. She is author of “Brahma Kumaris,” produced for the Oxford Bibliographies in Hinduism, and is coeditor of Globalising Asian Religions: Management and Marketing (Amsterdam University Press, 2019). Ringo Ringvee (PhD) is a historian of religion who focuses on religion-state relations, religious freedom, and minority religions. His publications have focused on Estonia as well as other Baltic states and post-Communist countries. He holds the post of adviser in the Estonian Ministry of the Interior. Ines Crvenkovska Risteska (PhD) is Assistant Professor, Institute of Ethnology and Anthropology (IEA), Faculty of Natural Science and Mathematics (FNSM), Ss. Cyril and Methodius University in Skopje. Her research interests include third gender in the Roma community in Skopje, same-sex sexuality in the Macedonian, Albanian, and Roma communities in the Republic of Macedonia, and nationalism and motherhood in the period of postsocialist Macedonia. Among her publications are: “It’s Time for a Baby! Motherhood and Nationalism according to Examples from the Republic of Macedonia” in the journal Ethnoanthropozoom (2018);

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“How to Survive Researching Sexuality?—The Others about My Research” in Against All Odds: Ethnology and Anthropology between Theory and Praxis (edited by Ljupcho S. Risteski and Ines Crvenkovska Risteska; Skopje: UKIM, FNSM, IEA, 2017); “Creating Context: Ethnography and Local Concept ‘Both a Man and a Woman’ in the Roma Community in Skopje” in the journal Issues in Ethnology and Anthropology (2015). Ljupço S. Risteski is a professor at the Institute of Ethnology and Anthropology, Ss. Cyril and Methodius University, Skopje, Republic of Macedonia. He got his PhD in ethnology at Ss. Cyril and Methodius University in 2002. His main topics of research are traditional folk cultures in the Balkans, postsocialism and the transition of southeastern European and Balkan societies, and nationalism, symbols, and nation-building processes. Ferdinando Sardella (PhD 2010, University of Gothenburg, Sweden) is senior lecturer and researcher at the Department of Ethnology, History of Religions and Gender Studies at Stockholm University. He is the co-director of the project Bengali Vaishnavism in the Modern Period at the Oxford Centre for Hindu Studies, where he is a research fellow. His area of interest is modern Hinduism and the history and sociology of modern Vaishnavism. He is the author of the monograph Modern Hindu Personalism: The History, Life, and Thought of Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī (2013). He has coedited The Sociology of Religion in India: Past, Present and Future (with Ruby Sain; 2013) and The Legacy of Vaiṣṇavism in Colonial Bengal (with Lucian Wong; 2020). He is currently in the editorial board of the series Stockholm Studies in Comparative Religion. Peter Schalk was appointed by the government of Sweden as full professor for a chair in the history of religions, in particular Hinduism and Buddhism, at the Faculty of Arts at Uppsala University. In 1994, the chair was shifted to the Faculty of Theology. He retired from service in 2012. His main area of research is Buddhism and Hinduism and religious expressions of socioeconomic conflicts in contemporary South Asia, especially on concepts of “martyrdom” from a cross-cultural perspective, with a focus on secular concepts as promoted by the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Ealam (LTTE). Earlier he worked on Buddhist rituals in a Sinhala Pali tradition, especially on pirit and baṇa, on Buddhism among Tamil speakers in the precolonial period in South India and Sri Lanka,

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on Caivam (Sanskrit: Śaivism) among Tamil speakers in European exile, on the Väddō (Väddas) of Sri Lanka, and on the semantic history of the toponym Īḻam. He edited four volumes on Buddhism among Tamils in India and Sri Lanka. Roshni Sengupta is Fellow, International Institute for Asian Studies (IIAS), Leiden and Visiting Professor, Institute of Middle and Far East Studies, Jagiellonian University, Krakow. With research interests in South Asian politics and culture and postcolonial studies, Roshni is currently finalising a monograph on representations of Muslims in Indian popular cinema (Primus) and an edited volume on media and literature in post-Partition South Asia (Routledge). Tushar Shah is a doctoral candidate at the Faculty of Divinity, University of Cambridge. His research focuses on the notion of the guru in modern Hinduism, with specific reference to the Swaminarayan tradition. His areas of interest include global gurus and sampradāyas, intersections of theology and history, and diaspora Hinduism(s). At Cambridge, Tushar supervises papers in World Religions and Religion and Society, lectures on modern Hinduism, and leads a seminar on bhakti. Ievgen Smytskyi has an MA in economic science and an MA in religious studies. At present, he is Director of the School for Vaiṣṇava Studies, a member of the editors’ board for the magazine Vaiṣṇavism Through the Ages, and a teacher of Vaiṣṇava subjects in a few institutions. His main interests are in the history and theology of Bengali Vaiṣṇavism, the sacred space of Vaiṣṇavism, and hagiography of Vaiṣṇava personalities. Among his latest papers are “Hinduism in Ukraine: A General Overview and activities of ‘The Vaiṣṇava Tradition Through the Ages’ International Religious Studies School” (Scriptorium nostrum, 2017), and “Sacred Space in Vaiṣṇavism by Example of Rāmānuja Tradition: Metamorphoses Hierotophy of Vēṅkaṭēśvara.” Federico Squarcini is Associate Professor of South Asian Religions and Philosophies and Indology at the Ca’ Foscari University of Venice. At the same university he also directs the Master in Yoga Studies programme. He teaches History of Religions at the University of Florence, Indology at the University of Bologna, and Indology at the University of Rome ‘La Sapienza.’

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Anita Stasulane Professor of the History of Religions, Director of the Institute of Humanities and Social Sciences at Daugavpils University (Latvia), graduated from the University of Latvia (1985) and the Pontifical Gregorian University (1998) in Rome (Italy). She works mainly on new religious movements and youth culture. Her research interests include the history of Western esotericism, particularly Theosophy and its later developments (Agni Yoga/Living Ethics). Currently, she is a team leader of the H2020 programme project Cultural Heritage and Identities of Europe’s Future (CHIEF), conducting research on the cultural literacy of young Europeans by privileging the importance of the production and transition of cultural knowledge in both formal educational settings and a variety of informal social interactions. Since 2006, she is the editor of Kultūras Studijas (Cultural studies) issued by Daugavpils University. Julian Strube is working on a postdoctoral project titled “Tantra within the Context of a Global Religious History of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries,” which focuses on the exchanges between Bengali and Western intellectuals in colonial Bengal. The leading themes of his research are the relationship between religion and politics, as well as the debates about the meaning of religion, science, and philosophy since the nineteenth century. His doctoral dissertation, Socialism, Catholicism, and Occultism in Nineteenth-Century France, was published by De Gruyter in 2016. He is currently coediting the volume Theosophy Across Boundaries with Hans Martin Krämer. Priya Swamy is curator for Globalisation and South Asia at the National Museum of World Cultures (the Netherlands). She has previously lectured at the Leiden Institute for Area Studies and has held postdoctoral positions at Leiden University, Tilburg University, and the Royal Netherlands Institute for Southeast Asian and Caribbean Studies (KITLV). Her research explores the entanglements of the religious, political, and historical contexts of the Indian labour diaspora, particularly in the Netherlands and Suriname. Her monograph Struggles for Hindu Space in the Netherlands: Anguish and Absence is forthcoming with Bloomsbury Press. Ilya Tarkan graduated from the History Department at the Belarusian State Pedagogical University (BSPU) in 2005. From 2008 to 2015 he worked in the Department of Philosophy at BSPU, and since 2015 he has worked in the Department of Social

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and Humanitarian Disciplines. Since 2018 he has been a postgraduate student in the Department of Cultural Studies at the Belarusian State University of Culture and Arts (BSUCA). One of his main research focuses is on the problems related to intercultural dialogue and communication in the Belarusian system of education, and he is currently working on the problems related to intercultural communication within several teacher training programmes. His other main research interests are the mutual influence of Eastern and Western cultures and elements of Indian culture in Belarus. The topic of his dissertation research is the reception of the Indian tradition in the cultural space of modern Belarus. In his research activities he uses the methods of cultural anthropology. The results of his research activities have been published in articles such as “Phenomenon of the Indian Dance in Modern Belarusian Culture: A Historical and Cultural Review” (2019) and “Features of the Reception of Elements of Indian Culture in Modern Belarus (on the Example of Indian Dance Studios)” (2019). Pierre-Yves Trouillet is a social geographer, Research Fellow at the French National Centre for Scientific Research (CNRS), member of the research unit “Passages” (CNRS-University of Bordeaux), and associate member of the Centre for South Asian Studies (EHESS-CNRS, Paris). His work focuses on the relationships between Hinduism, society, and space in South India and in the Tamil diaspora countries. Among his latest publications is “Hindus and Others: A Sri Lankan Perspective” (The South Asianist Journal, 2018; special issue coedited with Mathieu Claveyrolas, Delon Madavan, and Anthony Goreau-Ponceaud). Ülo Valk is Professor of Estonian and Comparative Folklore, University of Tartu. His publications include Vernacular Religion in Everyday Life: Expressions of Belief (2012; coedited with M. Bowman), Storied and Supernatural Places (2018; coedited with D. Sävborg), and articles in the Journal of Folklore Research, Asian Folklore Studies, Temenos, Shaman, and other journals. His recent research has focused on vernacular Hinduism, mainly in northeastern India. Raphaël Voix is a social anthropologist, Research Fellow at the National Centre for Scientific Research (CNRS), and member of the Centre for Indian and South Asian Studies (CEIAS), Paris. His research focuses on the relationships between society and religion in West Bengal, with a specific interest in Hindu sects and ascetics. He is the author of several articles, and editor (with G. Tarabout and

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D. Berti) of Filing Religion. State, Hinduism and Courts of Law (New Delhi: Oxford University Press) and (with B. Larios) of “Wayside Shrines: Everyday Religion in Urban India,” South Asia Multidisciplinary Academic Journal. Maya Warrier is Reader in Religious Studies at the University of Winchester, UK. Her research and publications explore Hindu identities and traditions in modern, transnational contexts. She has published on aspects of modern guru traditions, Hinduism in Britain, and the transformations undergone by Āyurveda in its contemporary anglophone manifestations. She is author of Hindu Selves in a Modern World: Guru Faith in the Mata Amritanandamayi Mission (Routledge-Curzon, 2005), coeditor of Public Hinduisms (Sage, 2012), and editor of A Cultural History of Hinduism in the Age of Independence (Bloomsbury, forthcoming). Annette Wilke is Professor of the Study of Religions, emeritus at the University of Muenster, Germany. She received her academic training in the study of religions, philosophy, and theology at the University of Fribourg (CH) and in indology in the United States, Zurich, and Varanasi. In her ethno-indological approach, she combines textual studies and fieldwork along with cultural theory. Her major fields of research are Hindu traditions, both past and present, aesthetics of religion, mysticism, ritual studies, religious transfers, and contemporary religion. She has published widely on Tamil Hindu temples in Germany, particularly the Kamadchi temple of Hamm-Uentrop, and coedited the first volume on Tamil Hindu temples in German-speaking and Scandinavian countries (2003). Her current research includes global Hinduism and the Chinmaya Mission. Raymond Brady Williams is the LaFollette Distinguished Professor in the Humanities and Professor of Religion emeritus at Wabash College, United States. Among his books on Swaminarayan Hinduism are: An Introduction to Swaminarayan Hinduism, 3rd ed. (Cambridge, 2019), Swaminarayan Hinduism: Tradition, Adaptation and Identity (editor; Oxford, 2016), and Williams on Swaminarayan Hinduism and Immigration (Ashgate, 2005). And, on immigration from India: Immigrants from India and Pakistan in the United States (Cambridge, 1988) and Christian Pluralism in the United States: The Indian Immigrant Experience (Cambridge, 2001). He served as the founding director of the Wabash Center for Teaching and Learning in Theology and Religion and as founding editor of the journal

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Teaching Theology and Religion (Blackwell). He retired in 2002 and lives in Crawfordsville, Indiana with his wife Lois. Franz Winter is Professor of Religious Studies at the University of Graz in Austria. He has received PhDs in Classical Studies (1999) and Religious Studies (2005) from the University of Vienna, and a Habilitation in Religious Studies (2010) from the same university, having studied and done research at the Universities of Graz, Salzburg, Vienna, in Rome, at Boston University (Fulbright), and in Tokyo, Kyoto, Nizwa (Oman) and in Qom (Iran). Among his major areas of interest are the history of contact between Europe and Asia from antiquity to modern times, new religious movements in East and West, history of Buddhism, history of Islam, Western Esotericism, religion and the media. Yurii Zavhorodnii is Senior Researcher in the History of Philosophy at the H.S. Skovoroda Institute of Philosophy, National Academy of Sciences of Ukraine, co-coordinator of the Seminar of Researchers of Oriental Philosophies (Institute of Philosophy), and member of the Editorial and Advisory Boards of the School for Vaishnava Studies. His work focuses on Vaiṣṇava thought, the sacred texts of Hinduism, and the perception of Indian philosophy outside of India. Among his latest publications is “Religion and Philosophical Thought of Jīva Goswāmī in the Indological literature of the 19th–the First Half of the 20th Century (as an Example of the Orientalistic Stereotype)” in the journal Philosophical Thought (2018). John Zavos is Honorary Research Fellow at the Department of Religions and Theology, University of Manchester. He is the author of Emergence of Hindu Nationalism (OUP, 2000) and Religious Traditions in Modern South Asia (Routledge, 2011; coauthored with Jacqueline Suthren Hirst), as well as the lead editor of the volume Public Hinduisms (Sage, 2012). His published articles explore South Asian religious identities in Britain, Europe, and India. He is the editor of the journal Contemporary South Asia. Angeliki Ziaka (PhD, University of Strasbourg, 2002) is Associate Professor of Religion, member of the Scientific Committee of the New Undergraduate Program in Islamic Studies at the School of Theology in the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, and

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Visiting Professor at the Schools of Political Science and Education. Dr. Ziaka was a LUCIS fellow (Leiden University Centre for the Study of Islam and Society, 2014) and a fellow of the Middle East Institute at Columbia University in New York (2017). She is a member of the Greek Delegation to the IHRA (International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance)-Academic Working Group, a Member of the Volos Academy for Theological Studies—where she heads the Sector of Interfaith Relations, as well as a member of the Supervisory Board of Madrasahs (Thrace) in addition to membership in a variety of international associations and centres. Her publications include: La Recherche Grecque contemporaine et l’Islam (Strasbourg, 2002/Lille, 2004); Shiʿism. Religious and Political Dimensions in the Middle East (Thessaloniki, 2004; in Greek); Between Polemics and Dialogue: Byzantine, Post Byzantine and Contemporary Greek Literature on Islam (Thessaloniki, 2010 and 2017; in Greek); Interreligious Dialogue: The Meeting of Christianity with Islam (Thessaloniki, 2010 and 2016; in Greek); Οn Ibadism (Hildesheim, NY, 2014); Kalam and the Islamic Trends of Thought (Thessaloniki, 2016; in Greek); Intercultural Religious Education and Islamic Studies. Challenges and Perspectives in Greece, Europe, USA (Athens, 2016; a bilingual Greek/English edition); and Religion and Conflict. Essays on the Origins of Religious Conflicts and Resolution Approaches (London, 2011).

CHAPTER 1

The Plurality of Hindu Traditions in Europe Knut A. Jacobsen The chapters in the Handbook of Hinduism in Europe trace the complex histories of a plurality of Hindu traditions in Europe and describe and analyse their current manifestations on the continent. The book is defined by space and religion: the manifestations of Hindu religious traditions in the geographical space called Europe.1 The chapters included in these volumes analyse: the religion of Hindus from South Asia who have settled in Europe and their establishment of a number of different Hindu religious traditions on the continent; some Europeans’ responses to Hindu traditions, which include adoptions of ideas and practices and conversions to Hinduism; and some influences Hindu traditions have had on European culture. The chapters map the current state of Hinduism in different European countries. There are strikingly different histories among the various European countries because of different historical, political, and economic relations to South Asia. Some European countries, such as Britain, Portugal, France, Netherlands, and Denmark, were colonial powers with colonies or trading stations in South Asia, and South Asians were also moved (as indentured labour) or were able to move within the different colonial empires. The Netherlands had a colony in Surinam, South America, with South Asian indentured labourers, many of whom moved to the Netherlands in the postcolonial period. Indians from Goa worked in the Portuguese colonies in Africa, and they moved from there to Portugal. The largest population of South Asians in Europe is of course in Britain, which is also a result of colonial rule and postcolonial migrations. In the postcolonial period, some countries have attracted larger numbers of migrants due to different reasons, such as economic and educational, as well as due to both push and pull factors. The volumes present the current state of knowledge of the Hindu presence in Europe in two parts. Part one portrays pan-European histories and developments and presents: histories of the encounters of groups, associations, and institutions in the European geographical context; translations and publications of Hindu texts; traditions of interpretations; Hindu gurus in Europe; Hindu soldiers in Europe during World War I; religious organisations and traditions with a pan-European presence, such as the International Society for Krishna 1  The European continent is larger than the European Union (EU).

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004432284_002

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Consciousness (ISKCON), the Ramakrishna Math and Mission, Swaminarayan, Brahma Kumaris, Vedānta, and the numerous traditions of yoga; the Hindu traditions of particular migrant groups such as the Īḻattamiḻs (the group of Hindu Tamils in Sri Lanka claiming descent from the Jaffna Kingdom); and ritual practices such as temple Hinduism and procession. Part two details the situation in every country in Europe. The material gives opportunities for reflections on the Hindu communities and traditions in Europe, encounters with Hindu traditions in Europe, and the current state of Hinduism in Europe. The European encounter with Hindu religious traditions is both old and new. Contact between Greece and India goes back several thousand years. Alexander the Great and his army reached as far as today’s Pakistan, and Greek kingdoms existed in that area in the centuries after his arrival. Indica by the Greek Megasthenes (350–290 BCE) was an important source for ideas about India in early Europe. India’s influences on Greek culture have been difficult to prove—as have Greek influences on ancient India—but the literature on the topic is enormous (see Karttunen 1987, 2007, 2015). However, this is not the main topic of these volumes, which focus on the modern period and the contemporary situation (however, see chapter 2 by Karttunen and chapter 40 by Papageorgiou and Ziaka: 1042–1046,). Although the European encounter with Hinduism is many centuries old, the last few decades have been characterised by some new developments and mark a new phase in the growth of Hinduism on the continent. Some Hindu traditions are now found in every European country. In the last decades, Hinduism has been emerging as a pan-European religion, with a growing population of Hindus originating from South Asia as well as a small but growing number of converts and followers from non-Hindu backgrounds. The chapters in these volumes show that Hinduism has had a different history in Western and Eastern Europe, and the situation is still strikingly dissimilar. Western Europe has large Hindu populations from India and Sri Lanka, and smaller populations of Hindus from Nepal and Afghanistan and other South Asian countries, and “twice migrant” Hindus from East Africa and other countries, and hundreds of Hindu temples have been established there, which have given a growing number of Hindu deities’ permanent homes in Europe. A recent development is the increasing number of costly “display temples” built from the ground up in accordance with South Asian temple architecture. These places have become sacred sites, and pilgrimage traditions have been established to several Hindu temples and sacred complexes in Western Europe. In Eastern Europe, however, followers of new Hindu religious movements have been the dominant trend, with ISKCON establishing temples and even pilgrimage places (see the chapter on Hungary). The chapters in the

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volumes document and analyse this consolidation of Hinduism in Western Europe and the new emergence of Hinduism in Eastern Europe. 1

Migration and Diasporas

The spread of Hindu traditions to Europe has taken place in two ways in particular: by the migration of Hindus of South Asian ancestry to Europe and by Europeans who have become followers of Hindu teachings, often those of particular gurus. The migration of Hindus to Europe from South Asia and from other areas with settlements of South Asians has undoubtedly been the most significant factor for the expansion of Hindu traditions in Europe. The migration of Hindus to Europe has made many Hindu ritual practices and large numbers of places of worship part of the religious life and landscape of Europe. The number of Hindus with South Asian ancestry in Europe is currently probably one and a half to two million. The numbers are growing in Europe, but the preferred choice of destination for the migration of Indians in the last decades has been the United States, not Europe. Hindu immigrant populations in Europe, as well as their descendants, are often discussed in academic literature in terms of Hindu diaspora communities, and the concept of diaspora is also widely used in these volumes. The term diaspora signifies a minority situation and relates to space in the sense of living in a place that is not one’s ancestral home. The diaspora concept should be understood as simply meaning a geographical dispersion of people. Some connection to the ancestral home country is usually recognised. This connection to a different place than that in which they reside often constitutes a part of their identity, but the strength of this connection varies between individuals, from political engagement in the countries of origin, which might be encouraged by political movements that seek support from the diaspora, as is the case with the current Hindu nationalist organisations, the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS), and Vishwa Hindu Parishad (VHP),2 to complete assimilation into the new country. Many do attempt to transfer their connection to an ancestral home to new generations, since this connection is also about family history and family connections and kinship and not primarily about political engagement. In terms of meanings ascribed to the diaspora context, there are great differences between the generations, 2  The VHP is officially present in five European countries (Britain, Germany, the Netherlands, Norway, and Denmark). See chapter 22 by John Zavos.

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and especially for the first-generation migrants, religion and places of worship are important for creating arenas for performing the values and culture of the country of origin and for transferring these to future generations. However, the coming generations might be less interested in maintaining this relation to their parents’ country of origin, since they have grown up in Europe and might be more interested in understanding, refashioning, and promoting themselves in the European context; this might also hold true in relation to their religion. The secular cultures of many European countries probably also influence these generations’ understanding of the Hindu traditions of their parents. The second, third, etc. generations often do not feel culturally at home in South Asia but identify with their European countries. South Asian Hindu diasporas are usually considered to have been created in two main periods: before independent India (1947) and after. The first period of South Asian Hindu diasporas was while they were under colonial rule, and it primarily involved the movement of Hindus from India to other colonies, but Hindus also travelled to the European continent. The transfer of Hindus to other colonies occurred under the indentured labour system after the Slavery Abolition Act was passed in the British parliament in 1833 (van der Veer and Vertovec 1991: 149; Vertovec 2000). Under the Indian indenture system, contract workers from India were moved to Mauritius, Trinidad, Guyana, Surinam, Jamaica, Fiji, South Africa, and East Africa, and people also moved to countries such as Burma and Malaysia due to other labour schemes. Other significant groups that moved were merchants, businessmen, clerks, and other nonlabouring professionals who followed in the wake of indentured labour migration from South Asia (to East Africa, Central Africa, South Africa, Mauritius, and Fiji) and colonial administrators (to Burma, East Africa, and so on) (Vertovec 2000: 15). A number of individuals also visited and settled in Europe during the first period, but the Hindu communities in Europe at that time were nevertheless quite small and few in number. Before 1950 only around 8,000 Indians lived in Britain (Chatterji and Washbrook 2013), the most important country for Hindu migrants in Europe. In addition, the majority of the early migrants were Muslims and Sikhs, not Hindus. The movement of South Asians to Britain dates back to at least the early seventeenth century, and “by the mid-nineteenth century, tens of thousands of Indian men and women of all social and economic classes had made the passage to Britain” (Fisher 2013: 123). However, most of these migrants and visitors returned to India after a short time. Still, Fisher notes that a number of them also remained in Britain for years, and some remained there for the rest of their lives as settlers (ibid.). Few of these settlers were Hindus. Fisher notes, in the case of Britain, that many got married, mostly to Britons rather

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than to other Indians, and had children, and the Indian identities of their descendants became more diffuse (ibid.). Similar situations to the one in Britain were probably also found in other European countries with trading stations or colonial settlements in India, such as France, Portugal, and Denmark, although on a much smaller scale. Indian sailors (“lascars”) worked on European ships, and there were Indians in a number of European harbours as early as the eighteenth century. In Denmark, a Tamil man brought to Copenhagen in the early eighteenth century found a Tamil wife there, and they both returned to India afterward (Jacobsen 2006). Fisher notes that many of these early Indians who settled in Britain appear to have converted to Christianity as part of their assimilation into British culture and society (Fisher 2013: 127). Many Indian converts would also travel from India to Europe for further education; some returned to India while others settled in Europe. In spite of these early visitors and settlers, Hindu diaspora communities in Europe have mainly been created in the second period, after Indian independence (1947). This has involved migration in order to take advantage of employment and educational opportunities, prospects for prestige, marriage, and family reunions, and—especially for Hindus from Sri Lanka—to evade political persecution and war. During the first decades after Indian independence, Britain was the most important destination, but Hindus were quite few in number until the middle of the 1960s (Knott 1991: 95). In 1961 around 150,000 Indians lived in Britain (Visram 2015), but the majority of them were probably Sikhs and Muslims. During the most recent decades a number of other European countries have also become important destinations for Hindu migration. The largest Hindu populations in Europe are in Britain, the Netherlands, Italy, France, and Germany. Strong migration, especially from India to a number of European countries, over the last few years means that estimations of the number of Hindus in Europe will have to be revised annually. In addition, irregular migration means that the total number of Hindus in Europe is difficult to estimate. Also, in most countries religious identity is not part of the state census. 2

Hindu Temples and Sacred Sites

Hindu migrants and their descendants have made temple Hinduism the dominant form of Hinduism in Europe. In many countries, small ISKCON temples were probably the earliest Hindu temples. Economic support for temples and temple priests is an important part of the economy of Hindu religion in Europe. These temples function as religious centres as well as community centres (see

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chapter 11 on Temple Hinduism in Europe). A number of new temples have been and are being built according to South Asian temple architecture, but the majority of the temples are in buildings originally built for other purposes. The presence of Hindu temples in Europe brought a new awareness of Hinduism as a ritual tradition and living religion and not just an ancient heritage, a textual phenomenon, or philosophical teachings associated with gurus. The earliest Hindu places of worship in Europe were probably those established in Spain (in the Canary Islands) as early as the second half of the nineteenth century (Díes de Velasco 2010: 248). Hindus were presented in colonial exhibitions in Jardin d’Acclimatation in Paris in 1902 and 1906, during which a temporary Hindu temple was built (see the chapter on France). Several centres were apparently established in Europe by Hindu religious movements in the 1920s and 1930s, but they did not last. The Ramakrishna Mission was active in Geneva,3 the Gaudiya Mission Society of London was opened in 1933 (Bryant and Ekstrand 2004), and similar Gaudiya missionary activity took place in Germany as well (Sardella 2013). In 1949 the Ramakrishna Mission opened one of the first permanent, public places of Hindu worship in Britain (Burghart 1987), which was perhaps the earliest long-term public Hindu temple in the country. Before the 1960s, the majority of Hindu migrants to Europe were single males, and they saw the practice of religion as reserved for home visits to India (Knott 1991: 96). After Britain’s 1962 Immigration Act, which encouraged family reunification, Hinduism in Britain became a religion for families. This led ultimately to the establishment of more public places of worship. Women maintained domestic Hindu practices, but the templeisation of Hinduism typical of the diaspora led to the increased male dominance of rituals (Baumann 2009). The first Hindu temple in Britain organised by Hindu immigrants was apparently opened in 1967 (Nesbitt 2006: 199). ISKCON’s Radha Krishna Temple in central London was opened in 1969, helped by the Beatles’ George Harrison. In 1973 Harrison bought Bhaktivedanta Manor (Piggott’s Manor in the Hertfordshire village of Aldenham) and donated it to ISKCON. In 1991 the number of Hindu temples and established religious groups in Britain was estimated to be 100 (Knott 1991: 97). Since then, probably at least an additional 100 temples have opened. In Continental Europe, the growth of temples has also been strong. Most Hindu temples in Continental Europe are found in Germany, France, Italy, the Netherlands, Switzerland, Belgium, and the Scandinavian countries. Germany had four temples in 1989 and twenty in 1999, and in 2003, 3  See the “History of Genevan Centre” page on the Centre Védantique Genève’s website: http://www.centre-vedantique-geneve.org/page/en/history-of-geneva-centre.html (accessed April 9, 2019).

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there were twenty-five Hindu temples alone maintained by Sri Lankan Tamils (Baumann 2006: 132). There are currently perhaps between fifty and one hundred temples in Germany. In Paris, where most of the French Hindus live, there were eleven Tamil Hindu temples in 2014 (Goreau 2014: 224), but currently the total number in France is probably less than twenty; in Switzerland twenty Hindu temples were established between the 1990s and early 2000s (Eulberg 2014: 118; Baumann 2009: 161), and in Norway the number of Hindu temples in 2018 was fifteen, with a new temple opening on average every second year (Jacobsen 2018). No exact total numbers are available, but there are perhaps around 400 Hindu temples in Europe. Hindus have also established a number of Hindu sacred sites in Europe, which have become objects of pilgrimage travel and make up a sacred geography. Hindu pilgrimage places in Europe are of two types: first, places associated with Hindu gurus or disciples or particular places where their teachings have been established in noteworthy ways, and second, Hindu temples. At the pilgrimage places associated with Hindu gurus or disciples there are also temples, but in those cases, it is not the temple alone that is the reason for them becoming pilgrimage sites. The temple pilgrimage sites are often costly “display temples” built from the ground up in accordance with South Asian temple architecture. Another reason for a temple becoming a pilgrimage place may be that it is older than the others and is considered particularly “authentic” for some reason (see Jacobsen forthcoming). The maṭhs are centres for contemplative religious life for Hindu monks and nuns, and they are associated with the teachings of a guru and are often placed in rural areas surrounded by natural beauty, in contrast to the temples, which are usually located in urban areas. Some of the maṭhs in Europe have connections to centres in India or Sri Lanka, others have emerged based on activities of South Asian gurus who have settled in Europe. The gurus are mostly of South Asian ancestral background while the disciples are mostly people with European ancestral background, but there are exceptions. Important examples of the first kind are the Skanda Vale in South Wales, which receives around 90 000 pilgrims annually, the majority of them being Īḻam Tamils (Sri Lankan Tamils) and persons with Gujarati background living in Britain (Geaves 2007: 223), and the Krishna Valley ISKCON community in Hungary that was founded in 1994. Examples of the second kind are the Sri Kamadchi Ampal Temple in Hamm in Germany, which is the largest Hindu temple in Continental Europe, and the Highgatehill Murukaṉ temple in Britain. There are hardly any non-Tamil Hindu visitors to these Tamil Hindu temples on regular worship days, but during the festivals there are a number of non-Tamil Hindu visitors (Wilke 2013), which illustrates the inclusiveness of the Hindu pilgrimage traditions. The emergence of new Hindu pilgrimage sites

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has become a worldwide phenomenon, and Hindu sacred sites in Europe and the subsequent pilgrimage travel to these European sites have become part of Hinduism. The formation of new Hindu sacred sites in Europe and pilgrimage travel to them is not a surprise. It illustrates the importance of sacred sites and the process of the geographical expansion of Hinduism. It is a reminder of the historical process of the geographical expansion of Hindu traditions in India and South Asia (Jacobsen 2013). The religious narratives of Hinduism are believed to have taken place on earth, in India and South Asia (Eck 2012; Jacobsen 2013), but as Hindus continue to migrate to other continents, such narratives also take place in new countries. Consequently, Hinduism does not seem to be bound to India as a sacred geography, as is sometimes claimed, but Hindus connect to space in a way that sacralises sites wherever Hindus live, including in Europe (see Jacobsen forthcoming). Hinduism in Europe is mostly a decentralised religion, with each temple being an independent organisation with its own board and committee. The plurality of Hindu traditions and their different regional and national backgrounds are often reflected in the temple organisations. Sri Lankan Hindu Tamils organise their own temples and so do Indian Hindus from different regions. This is due to differences in national origin, languages, and religious and iconographic traditions, and because the temples also function as community centres. 3

Saṃpradāyas, Gurus, and Monastic Institutions in Europe

Some Hindu saṃpradāyas have a strong presence in Europe, foremost among them, especially in Britain, is Swaminarayan (see chapter 14). Other wellorganised groups in Europe are ISKCON, the Ramakrishna Math and Mission, and Brahma Kumaris. Among these, the Ramakrishna Math and Mission has the longest presence, and ISKCON is organised in the greatest number of countries. ISKCON is the dominant form of Hinduism in some East European countries (see the chapters on East European countries in part two). The case of ISKCON illustrates that Hindu gurus and their ideas and organisations have attracted a significant number of European followers. ISKCON is unique in the sense of its commitment to a Hindu god and to a Hindu identity, while many other guru movements often focus on spiritual methods and devotees’ wellbeing rather than Hindu worldviews or identities. This is the case with many of the yoga and meditation movements. Some of these movements, such as the Art of Living Foundation, have followers in almost every country in Europe. Āsana (posture) yoga has had an enormous success globally over the last

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decades, including in Europe. Yoga’s history in Europe goes back to the early decades of the twentieth century, but its current popularity is unprecedented (see chapter 18 on Yoga in Europe). As a consequence, several distinct forms of Hinduism exist in Europe. The religion of temple Hinduism and the followers of Hindu gurus manifest and generate different styles of Hindu religion; similarly, diaspora Hinduism and Western followers of Hindu teachings often manifest different forms. Diaspora Hinduism is typically temple oriented, while Western followers of Hindu teachings are typically guru oriented. However, there are also many elements that overlap, and this is increasingly the case due to globalisation and also because of the growth of the consumerist middle class in India. In addition, ISKCON, the main organisation of converts to Hinduism in Europe, is a form of temple Hinduism, so these are not clear dichotomies. Still, Western followers and converts do constitute one identifiable dimension of Hinduism in Europe. In many countries they preceded the arrival of great numbers of migrants from South Asia, or their traditions developed side by side. The institution of the Hindu guru as an enlightened and divine individual also seems to have inspired some Europeans to establish themselves as similar types of spiritual leaders (see chapters in these volumes). It has been common for scholars of religion and Indologists to argue for a polythetic approach when studying Hinduism. Hinduism is a mosaic of traditions, ideas, concepts, and activities. In addition, Hindu can be understood as an ethnic, cultural, and religious category. This approach suggests that a cluster of qualities can be identified, each of which is important but not essential to all forms of Hinduism, that take into account Hindu practices, tropes, world views, and life views. Hinduism thus may also include people who are attracted to some of the elements such as yoga, Āyurvedic medicine and treatment methods, belief in reincarnation, the use of Hindu tropes such as karma, and even Hindu symbols (see chapter 26 on floating Hindu tropes in European culture and languages). This polythetic understanding makes the presence of Hinduism much greater than the specific presence of Hindus of South Asian ancestry in Europe and European followers of Hindu gurus. Hinduism is in this way also becoming an integral part of European culture, and many of the chapters in these volumes also describe and analyse this larger presence. Early movements based on Hindu ideas that had an impact in Europe were the followers of Vivekananda and the Ramakrishna Mission (see chapter 15 by Beckerlegge), Vedānta philosophy (see chapter 19 by Hurst), and not least, the Theosophical Society (see chapter 8 by Strube). Julian Strube shows how the Theosophical Society, as well as the different individuals and currents it inspired, played a major role in contemporary understandings of “Hinduism”

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in Europe and that the reception of Indian ideas in Europe had an important part in what is labelled “Western Esotericism.” Western Esotericism played a role in popularising concepts (often transformed or misunderstood) from the Hindu traditions, such as karma, cakra, tantra, or kuṇḍalinī, and making them integral parts of modern spiritual or health cultures. European or American interpretations of yoga and tantra were inherently intertwined with the context of esotericism. When the “New Age” movement emerged in the 1960s, Western Esotericism had already transformed many of its Indian ideas. However, by that time, new Hindu gurus had started to make an impact. Hindu gurus began to gain a new following in Europe in the 1950s, but they did not become popular until the 1960s. Hindu gurus visited Europe, and many Western followers and spiritual seekers visited India. Hindu ascetics (the guru and the sādhu) started to attract Western youth, who travelled to India in search of spiritual India. Many of these young people brought ideas about Indian gurus and Indian spirituality back to Europe. Western followers of Sathya Sai Baba, Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh (Osho),4 and others promoted their thoughts in European environments. Kriya yoga schools promoted by disciples of Paramahansa Yogananda (1893–1952), who had settled in Los Angeles in the Unites States, were among the earliest and were founded in Switzerland in 1952 (see chapter 62 by Baumann). Yogananda’s book Autobiography of a Yogi introduced Hindu spiritual ideas to many Europeans. The aforementioned George Harrison received a copy of the book from the musician Ravi Shankar when Harrison was learning how to play the sitar (Oliver 2015), and on the cover of the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band record (released in 1967), 4  Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh (Osho) had a Jain family background and his parents belonged to the small Taraṇ panth Jain tradition, but he spoke also on Hinduism. Harry Aveling writes:    Born a Jain, Rajneesh’s relationship with Hinduism was surely ambivalent, at best. His core teachings, encouraged by Taraṇ Svāmī’s insights, were compatible with Vedānta, although he affirmed this world rather than rejecting it as an “illusion” (Rajneesh, 1986, 681). His neo-saṃnyāsa used the outward signs of Hindu renunciation, but was intended “to destroy the whole traditional attitude”, because “Life should be religious and religion should not have any life” (Rajneesh, 1978b, 39). Certainly his disciples never thought of themselves as Hindus and Rajneesh did not encourage them to do so. He emphasized: “Whoever becomes a sannyasin immediately drops his religion, his nation, his race” (Rajneesh, 1986, 928). What remains, however, is recognizably Hindu: a variety of nirguṇa bhakti, centered on a god without form and a strong devotion to the guru, in the lineage of Kabīr and the Sant poets on whom he often spoke so movingly in Hindi. It was a tradition opposed to all traditions, in favor of the sacredness of personal experience here and now. (Brill’s Encyclopedia of Hinduism Online; https://referenceworks-brillonline-com.pva.uib.no/entries/brill-s-encyclopedia-of -hinduism/bhagwan-shree-rajneeshosho-COM_9000000228?s.num=3; accessed March 22, 2019.)

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in the montage of faces, are two Hindu gurus: Paramahansa Yogananda and Vivekananda. Yogananda’s Autobiography of a Yogi and Vivekananda’s Raja Yoga were probably the two most influential books by Indian gurus to fashion the idea of spiritual India in Europe before a wave of new Hindu gurus started to visit Europe from the 1960s onward. European Indologists and religion scholars had of course prepared the ground for these gurus through their romantic ideas of India and its spirituality, foremost among them was probably Max Müller (see Müller 1878, 1883, 1899), but many Indologists, most taking a more sober scholarly approach and with different interests and intentions, also contributed to this (on German Indology in particular, see the chapter by Adluri and Bagchee). Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, Bhaktivedanta Prabhupada, Sri Chinmoy, and Guru Maharaj were central gurus in the first wave of gurus arriving in the 1960s, and they visited many European countries. The popularity of yoga brought Europeans to India to attend yoga education sessions with yoga gurus such as Sivananda, Satyananda Saraswati, B.K.S. Iyengar, Pattabhi Jois, and numerous others, and many started yoga schools when they returned to Europe. Some of the ascetic orders began to accept Western monks, primarily the Rāmānandīs, and more recently some of the traditional Akhāṛās have also started to initiate Western disciples. The Kumbha melās have increasingly functioned as places for the initiation of Europeans who want to follow Hindu traditions. There are a number of Hindu monastic institutions in Europe with European Hindu monks. One of the larger ones is the Gitananda Ashram that is close to Savona in Italy and is reported to have around twenty monks and nuns.5 It is based on the teachings of Swami Gitananda Giri (1907–93) and was founded in 1984 by Sri Svami Yogananda Giri who, according to Hinduism Today, “has become Italy’s foremost Hindu spiritual figure, and today his temple is a pilgrimage place for all Europeans.”6 Skanda Vale in Wales, founded by the Hindu guru Subramaniyam (1929–2007), originally from Sri Lanka, has twenty-four monks and nuns, most of European origin, while a significant number of the visiting Hindu pilgrims are Sri Lankan Hindus. In Omkarananda Ashram in Winterthur, not far from Zürich, Switzerland, live some twenty-five monks and nuns. Paramahamsa Omkarananda Saraswati (b. 1930 in South India) was ­initiated by Swami Sivananda in Rishikesh in 1937, but according to Hinduism Today: 5   See the article “Three European Monasteries” in Hinduism Today, January/February/ March 2014, available at: https://www.hinduismtoday.com/modules/smartsection/category .php?categoryid=416 (accessed March 4, 2019). 6  Ibid.

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“In 1966 the young swami was inwardly directed to teach seekers in Europe. He founded his first European center in Switzerland; later he established a major ashram in Austria, with centers in Germany, England and France. Ultimately he initiated nearly two hundred sannyasins and sannyasinis, who have faithfully run his centers since his mahasamadhi in Austria in 2000.”7 Vedānta Centres in Europe are found in Germany, France, the Netherlands, Britain, Switzerland, and Russia (see also chapter 15 by Beckerlegge and chapter 19 by Suthren Hirst). Many of these also serve as small monasteries, and they are headed by one of the Ramakrishna Mission’s saṃnyāsins. The Centre Védantique monastery in Gretz-Armainvilliers, France, twenty miles southeast of Paris, was founded in 1948, and since 1990, it has been led by Swami Veetamohananda from Bengal, but most of the followers are French. According to Veetamohananda, “Europeans admire the Hindu ideals of tolerance and calmness and therefore accept Hinduism readily.”8 The article in Hinduism Today about the monastery claims, “visitors come from all over Europe for the ceremonies and feasts, for lectures and interfaith gatherings, to see Swami or participate in the Hindu form of communal life.”9 Several monks live in the āśrama. While these are some of the largest, there are a number of other Hindu monastic institutions in Europe (see the articles on the different countries in these volumes). Western followers of Hindu traditions, it has been argued, often “created a religion in their own image and were attracted only to selected aspects of Indian religion and thought” (Geaves 2007: 80). The interests of Western followers were often focused on the traditions of religious thought and the traditions of the saṃnyāsins. They have often been followers of specific Hindu saṃpradāyas. Ron Geaves is probably right in his complaint that the academic study of converts to Hindu traditions as part of “new religious movements” tended to distort the fact that the movements they joined most often were part of Hindu saṃpradāyas (Geaves 2007: 80). Their connection to Hindu traditional structures was often missed. ISKCON is, for example, a group within the tradition of Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇavism, which is not a new movement but has its origin in the figure of Caitanya (1486–1534) and the writings of his disciples, the Gosvāmis, but with a large number of gurus. Access to Indian languages was important in order to make Hinduism known, and Indology played an essential role in making the texts of Hinduism available in European languages. Travel reports from India, colonialist knowledge 7  Ibid. 8  Ibid. 9  Ibid.

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production, academic scholarship on textual traditions, anthropological studies, and missionaries and novelists, all contributed to the information and misinformation about Hindu religious traditions. The understanding of Hindu religion has been weak in Christian Europe, and the misinterpretations of followers of Hinduism in the European environment illustrate how little knowledge of Hinduism there was, as well as the prejudices involved. Often there was an inability to understand the followers as people who adhered to the Hindu religion; instead, they were understood as Western religious deviants and representatives of a “new religious movement,” although their religion was new only in the West. A real change in understanding came only when South Asian Hindus started to settle in Europe in greater numbers. The arrival of Hindus in Europe, and the establishment of temples and their ritual traditions in public spaces, added new dimensions to Hinduism in Europe, and they brought the plurality of traditions of living Hinduism to the Continent. Concerning the study of Hindus in Britain, the largest Hindu population in Europe, Geaves argues that the picture of Hinduism has been distorted not only by the disregard for the Hindu converts’ connection to saṃpradāyas but also by the dominance of the Gujaratis from East Africa, which led to an exaggerated interest in research on Gujarati Vaiṣṇavism and in the saṃpradāyas of those who had relocated to the West from Africa. According to Geaves: “There is little study of the diaspora communities that have arrived direct from India and even less of non-Indian Hinduism, as, for example in Tamil communities from Sri Lanka, Mauritius or South-East Asia. Consequently the distorted Western reproduction of Hinduism with its Orientalist undertones has never been seriously challenged by studies of the British Hindu community” (Geaves 2007: 82). However, it is important to point out that these distortions have not been dominant in the studies of Hindu traditions in Continental Europe, which constitute a significant part of the scholarship on Hinduism in Europe, and which have focused primarily on Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus. The Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus have been the largest group of Hindus in many of these countries. With new scholarship focusing especially on the Hindu traditions of Sri Lankan Tamils in Britain (David 2012; Jones 2013, 2015, 2016) the situation has changed (see also the chapters in these volumes). One unique case in Europe is the Surinamese Hindus who are the dominant group in the Netherlands (see chapter 50 by Swamy). The approach in the chapters in these volumes is on Hindu traditions in Europe as pluralistic and as having: backgrounds from many countries in Asia and beyond, strong traditions of temple worship, and a significant number of followers of teachings of different Hindu gurus. In addition, yoga has become a main point of contact with Hindu ideas, concepts,

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and practices for many people. Hindu traditions in Europe are dynamic and a subject that continues to develop. 4

Public Representations

In the United States, public representations of Hinduism have become increasingly contested (see Zavos et al. 2012), but in Europe this is less so. In Europe, ISKCON in particular has demonstrated an interest in umbrella initiatives that seek to represent Hindus in broader arenas (see the chapters on Hinduism and Public Space, and Hindu Umbrella Organisations). ISKCON has become engaged in the representation of Hinduism in Europe, especially in the arena of education in Britain and in the Hindu Forum of Europe.10 Prema Kurien has, in the case of the United States, noted that “the political activism of Hindu Indian Americans in the US is not just a reflection of ‘homeland politics’ but that it is also ‘made in America’ as a response to the realities they confront in the US” (Kurien 2012: 97). In the United States there are a large number of Hindu umbrella organisations, both branches of the Sangh Parivar (RSS, VHP, and BJP) and organisations interested in promoting Hinduism under an “Indic,” “Dharmic,” or “Vedic” identity. This contrasts with the situation in Europe. The strong Hindu diaspora in the United States might eventually also have an influence on Hinduism in Europe, but one significant difference between Hinduism in Europe and in the United States is the dominance of Indian Hindus in the United States (Kurien 2012) and a greater parity between the plurality of Hindu traditions in Europe. The absence of the dominance of Indian Hindus is mainly due to the strong presence of Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus in many European countries. Indian Hindus are also a minority in the Netherlands, as Hindus from Suriname dominate. Hindus in Europe have also arrived from a number of other countries, such as Nepal, Mauritius, Malaysia, Singapore, Trinidad, and so on. In many European nations, Indian Hindus are in the minority among Hindus. In Britain the situation has been unique, with Hindus from East Africa forming the majority, but there has also been a large inflow of Tamils from Sri Lanka and their many temples have increasingly been shaping Hinduism in Britain (see chapter 65 on the United Kingdom). One consequence of this plurality of Hindu traditions is that hindutva and Hindu nationalism (which in reality is a nationalism limited mainly to Indian Hindus or Hindus with an Indian background) have been less able to influence Hinduism and the public 10  See the website for the Hindu Forum of Europe: http://hinduforum.eu/ (accessed March 7, 2019).

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representation of Hinduism in Europe than in the United States. The only nation where they have had a significant presence is in Britain. By the end of the 1990s, in Britain there were twelve branches of the VHP and sixty branches of the RSS (Brown 2006: 167). For Sri Lankan Hindus, however, the idea of hindu­ tva is of no concern and is perceived as relating to politics in India. The RSS does nevertheless have branches, called Hindu Swayamsevak Sangh (HSS) in a number of European countries. In some countries in Europe, Sikhs constitute a significant percentage of the Indian diaspora, which also limits the influence of the RSS. Conflicts similar to those in the United States, such as the California Textbook Controversy and the mobilisation against religion scholars (see Brown 2006: 168–69), have not taken place in Europe.11 This does not mean it might not happen in the future as the Indian Hindu diaspora in the United States increases its global influence.12 But for now, the absence of the dominance of any single group characterises European Hinduism. References Baumann, Martin (2006) “Performing Vows in Diasporic Contexts: Tamil Hindus, Temples, and Goddesses in Germany,” in Selva J. Raj and William P. Harman (eds.), Dealing with Deities: The Ritual Vow in South Asia, 129–44. Albany: State University of New York Press. Baumann, Martin (2009) “Templeisation: Continuity and Change of Hindu Traditions in Diaspora.” Journal of Religion in Europe, 2 (2): 149–79. Brown, Judith M. (2006) Global South Asians: Introducing the Modern Diaspora. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

11   The agitation against legislation regarding caste discrimination in Britain mobilised Hindu, Sikh, and Jain lobbies against several individuals, Dalits, and other groups that supported such legislation. See https://www.hindustantimes.com/world-news/uk -government-decides-not-to-enact-law-on-caste-discrimination-among-indians/story -HLDMdbZQhrNtoo4NKhxZOO.html (accessed March 8, 2019): “Anil Bhanot of the Hindu Council UK said: ‘We have worked hard to promote community cohesion for the last 20 years to unite all Hindu and Sikh communities, whatever caste, as one British Indian integrated community into the country’s evolving and dynamic culture.’ Accusing the May government of ‘selling out’ to the influential lobbies, Sat Pal Munim of Castewatch UK said: ‘The government has sent a depressing message to the Dalits that their cause is not important as they continue to face discrimination with impunity.’” 12  In spring 2015 activists at the University of Oxford managed to get speeches by an American Indian hindutva activist cancelled, see https://www.thehindu.com/news/ swamys-oxford-lecture-cancelled/article7032145.ece (accessed March 7, 2019).

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Bryant, Edwin and Maria Ekstrand (eds.) (2004) The Hare Krishna Movement: The Postcharismatic Fate of a Religious Transplant. New York: Columbia University Press. Burghart, Richard (1987) “Introduction: The Diffusion of Hinduism to Great Britain,” in Richard Burghart (ed.), Hinduism in Great Britain, 1–14. London: Tavistock. Chatterji, Joya and David Washbrook (eds.) (2014) Routledge Handbook of the South Asian Diaspora. London: Routledge. David, Ann R. (2012) “Sacralising the City: Sound, Space and Performance in Hindu Ritual Practices in London.” Culture and Religion, 13 (4): 449–67. Dies de Velasco, Francisco (2010) “The Visibilization of Religious Minorities in Spain.” Social Compass, 57 (2): 235–52. Eck, Diana (2012) India: A Sacred Geography. New York: Three Rivers. Eulberg, Rafaela (2014) “Temple Publics as Interplay of Multiple Public Spheres: Public Faces of Sri Lankan Tamil Hindu Life in Switzerland,” in Ester Gallo (ed.), Migration and Religion in Europe: Comparative Perspectives on South Asian Experiences, 111–29. Farnham: Ashgate. Fisher, Michael H. (2013) “South Asians in Britain up to the Mid-Nineteenth Century,” in Joya Chatterji and David Washbrook (eds.), Routledge Handbook of the South Asian Diaspora, 123–35. London: Routledge. Goreau, Anthony (2014) “Ganesha Caturthi and the Sri Lankan Tamil Diaspora in Paris: Inventing Strategies of Visibility and Legitimacy in a Plural Monoculturalist Society,” in Ester Gallo (ed.), Migration and Religion in Europe: Comparative Perspectives on South Asian Experiences, 211–31. Farnham: Ashgate. Jacobsen, Knut A. (2006) “Scandinavia,” in Peter Reeves, Brij V. Lal, and Rajesh Rai (eds.), Encyclopedia of the Indian Diaspora, 361–63. Singapore: Editions Didier Millet. Jacobsen, Knut A. (2013) Pilgrimage in the Hindu Tradition: Salvific Space. London: Routledge. Jacobsen, Knut A. (2018) “Hinduismen i Norge,” in Knut A. Jacobsen (ed.), Ver­ densreligioner i Norge, 78–132. 4th rev. ed. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget. Jacobsen, Knut A. (forthcoming) “Hindu Diasporas and Gods on the Move: Sacred Sites and Pilgrimage in Hindu Europe.” Jones, Demelza (2013) Diversity and ‘Diaspora’: Everyday Identifications of Tamil Migrants in the UK. PhD diss., University of Bristol. Jones, Demelza (2015) “Identifications with an ‘Aesthetic’ and ‘Moral’ Diaspora amongst Tamils of Diverse State Origins in Britain,” in Anastacia Christou and Elisabeth Mavroudi (eds.), Dismantling Diasporas: Rethinking the Geographies of Diasporic Identity, Connection and Development, 85–98. Farnham: Ashgate. Jones, Demelza (2016) “Being Tamil, Being Hindu: Tamil Migrants’ Negotiations of the Absence of Tamil Hindu Spaces in the West Midlands and South West of England.” Religion, 46 (1): 53–74.

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Karttunen, Klaus (1989) India in Early Greek Literature. Studia Orientalia 65. Helsinki: Finnish Oriental Society. Karttunen, Klaus [1997] (2017) India and the Hellenistic World. Studia Orientalia 83. Helsinki: Finnish Oriental Society. Reprinted as Hindu Tradition Series 4. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass Publishers. Karttunen, Klaus (2015) Yonas and Yavanas in Indian Literature. Studia Orientalia 116. Helsinki: Finnish Oriental Society. Kurien, Prema (2012) “What is American about American Hinduism: Hindu Umbrella Organisations in the United States in Comparative Perspective,” in John Zavos et al. (eds.), Public Hinduisms, 91–111. New Delhi: Sage. Müller, Max (1878) Lectures on the Origin and Growth of Religion: As Illustrated by the Religions of India. London: Longmans, Green and Co. Müller, Max (1883) India: What Can it Teach Us?: A Course of Lectures Delivered Before the University of Cambridge. London: Longmans, Green and Co. Müller, Max (1899) The Six Systems of Indian Philosophy. New York: Longmans, Green and Co. Nesbitt, Eleanor (2006) “Locating British Hindus’ Sacred Space.” Contemporary South Asia, 15 (2): 195–208. Oliver, Paul (2015) Hinduism and the 1960s: The Rise of a Counter-Culture. New York: Bloomsbury Academic. Sardella, Ferdinando (2013) Modern Hindu Personalism: The History, Life, and Thought of Bhaktisiddhanta Sarasvati. Oxford: Oxford University Press. van der Veer, Peter and Steven Vertovec (1991) “Brahmanism Abroad: On Caribbean Hinduism as an Ethnic Religion.” Ethnology, 30: 149–66. Vertovec, Steven (2000) The Hindu Diaspora: Comparative Patterns. London: Routledge. Visram, Rozina (2015) Ayahs, Lascars and Princes: The Story of Indians in Britain 1700– 1947. London: Routledge. Wilke, Annette (2013) “Tamil Temple Festival Culture in Germany: A New Hindu Pilgrimage Place,” in Ute Hüsken and Axel Michaels (eds.), South Asian Festivals on the Move, 369–95. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag. Zavos, John, Pralay Kanunga, Deepa S. Reddy, Maya Warrier, and Raymond Brady Williams (2012) Public Hinduisms. New Delhi: Sage.

Part 1 Pan-European Developments

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CHAPTER 2

Early Translations and the Impact of Hindu Texts in Europe Klaus Karttunen The history of translating Indian texts into Western languages begins in the Middle Ages with the transmission of two literary works to the West during the middle of the first millennium CE; both texts reached Europe in the High Middle Ages.1 The Pañcatantra, or Kalila wa Dimna as it is known in Arabic, was translated into Latin via Middle Persian and Arabic, and from Latin it was soon translated into many other languages. The legend of Barlaam and Joasaph, although a Buddhist, not a Hindu, work, came from Central Asia to the Near East and then, via Georgia (where it was finally Christianised), travelled to Constantinople and soon established its place in the hagiography of both the Eastern and Western Churches. In both cases, even the European versions of the texts make it quite clear that they were originally Indian stories. From the sixteenth century onward, missionaries working in India were familiar with local religions. Jesuits, such as Jacopo Fenicio (1558–1632) and Roberto de’ Nobili (1577–1656) in South India, knew much about the local religions, but little of this knowledge reached Europe since their works usually remained hidden in manuscripts, only studied by some of their missionary colleagues.2 Heinrich Roth (1610–68) worked in Agra for a long time and contributed material about India (e.g., the description of Viṣṇu’s avatāras) to Athanasius Kircher’s famous China illustrata (Amsterdam 1667). In the eighteenth century, French Jesuits working in South India shared their knowledge in letters they sent home;3 Jean Calmette (1692–1739/40), Gaston-Laurent 1  Early translations of Sanskrit texts were listed in Gildemeister 1847. Gildemeister numbered the items of his bibliography and in this paper, his numbers are given and often the quoted titles are from his work. I have not listed small specimens published in the introductions of other works. The life and works of most translators and authors mentioned in this paper are briefly presented in the database compiled by the present writer, see https://whowaswho -indology.info. 2  Fenicio’s The Livro da Seita dos Indios Orientais was only published in 1933, when it was edited by Jarl Charpentier. 3  Many Jesuit letters were published in Lettres édifiantes et curieuses, écrites des missions étrangères de la Compagnie de Jésus, which was published in 34 volumes between 1702 and 1776. Father Cœurdoux also wrote an unpublished description of Hindu manners and

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004432284_003

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Cœurdoux (1691–1779), and Jean-François Pons (1698–1752/53) are especially notable for their scholarly ambition. The Protestant missionary to Trankebar, Bartolomaeus Ziegenbalg (1683–1719), delved deeply into the Tamil language and literature. He wrote several learned works which were published posthumously; however, the majority were only printed in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.4 The book known as L’Ezour-Védam was not a genuine Indian text, but a Catholic work that was originally written in Sanskrit by an unknown Catholic missionary in order to prepare the soil for Christianity without directly propagating it. In the eighteenth century, however, it was believed to represent the Yajurveda and it was distributed in French translation, first in manuscript form and then in print (1778). Voltaire admired it and used it as one of his main sources for Indian thought, but in 1822 Francis Ellis was able to reveal the truth about this book.5 An abridged Tamil version of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa was freely translated by Maridas Poullé (Mariyadās Piḷḷai, 1721?–96), and it was published in Paris by Foucher d’Obsonville (1742?–1802) as Bagavadam in 1788. The translator worked in the service of the French East India Company in Pondichéry for a long time, and he kept a diary, which offers an interesting glimpse into contemporary Indian attitudes toward the colonial power. Abraham Hyacinthe Anquetil-Duperron (1731–1805) travelled through India as a young man. The main result of his travels was the first translation of the Avesta (1762–69), which was unknown in the West prior to this, and his last work was the massive Oupnek’hat. Id est secretum tegendum (1801–02), a Latin translation of the seventeenth-century Persian version (Sirr al-Akbar) of fifty Upaniṣads, the manuscript of which he had brought with him from India. For a modern reader, even with a competence in Latin, its complicated style, with customs in Tamil Nadu, which had a curious afterlife. It was copied, with additions, by a layman, N.J. Desvaulx, and his version was obtained by Abbé J.-A. Dubois, who published it under his own name, as if it had been compiled during his long years as a missionary in South India. The first edition of this Description of the character, manners and customs of the people of India and of their institutions, religious and civil appeared in English translation in 1817, and it made Dubois famous until Murr revealed its real origins in 1977. Murr also edited Desvaulx’s original manuscript in 1988. 4  For details, see Sweetman 2003. 5  L’Ezour-Vedam ou Ancien Commentaire du Vedam, Contenant l’exposition des opinions religiouses et philosophiques des Indiens. Traduit du Samscretan par un Brame. 1–2. 232+264 p. Yverdon 1778 (Gildemeister 1847: 103), soon also in German by J. Ith (ibid.: 104). For Ellis’ study, published in Asiatic Researches 14, see ibid.: 106. A new critical edition of the Ezour-Vedam by Rocher 1984, which also includes an introduction, is based on Voltaire’s manuscript, one owned by Anquetil-Duperron and a third manuscript, which are all kept in Paris. It is thus different and more original than the heavily edited 1778 edition by Baron de Sainte-Croix.

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numerous Greek and Persian words throughout, seems strange and unnecessarily complicated, but nevertheless some readers were rather enthusiastic about it, thus it was important (e.g., for Schopenhauer). After the mid-eighteenth century, the British established their power in India, and although they mainly sought money, some British also became interested in the local culture. There was a practical need to understand traditional legislation, both Hindu and Muslim. The first result of this need was Nathaniel Brassey Halhed’s (1751–1830) A Code of Gentoo Law (1776), a digest compiled by a group of Indian lawyers, translated (or transferred) from Sanskrit to Bengali, then from Bengali to Persian, and finally from Persian to English by Halhed. Rosane Rocher (1983) has presented a clear outline of this text’s history. The first British Sanskritist was Charles Wilkins (1749–1833), who was called “Sanskrit-Mad” by less understanding colleagues. He prepared the first English version of the Bhagavadgītā, published in London in 1785.6 From English the work was further translated into several European languages (French 1787, German 1802, and partly into Russian 1788) and obtained a wide readership. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries numerous new translations added to its popularity and turned it into a type of “standard introduction” to Indian thought, available in almost all European languages. Sir William Jones (1746–94) was already a noted Oriental scholar when he arrived in Calcutta as a judge. He soon learned Sanskrit and became one of the most important pioneers of Western Indology. The previously mentioned legal need was served by his translation of the Institutes of Hindu Laws, or the ordinances of Menu (i.e., Mānavadharmaśāstra, Calcutta 1794; Gildemeister 1847: 435); a new edition was published by G.C. Haughton in 1825 (Gildemeister 1847: 428) and a German rendering of Jones’ English by J.C. Hüttner in 1797 (ibid.: 438). Although mainly prepared out of legal interests, the text offers much information about Hindu traditions and customs and was a much-used source. Jones was the founder and first president of the Asiatic Society of Bengal and his translation of the Gītagovinda of Jayadeva appeared in its Asiatick Researches and was soon further translated into German.7 A new German metric version, based on the original Sanskrit, was prepared in 1837 by the Sanskritist poet Friedrich Rückert (1788–1866; ibid.: 285).

6  The Bha`gva`t-Gēetā or dialogues of Kre`e`shna` and Arjo`o`n, in eighteen lectures. 156 p. L. 1785. It was soon followed by the English version of the Hitopadeśa: He`e`tōpa`dēs of Ve`e`shno`o`-Sa`rmā, in a series of collected fables interspersed with moral, prudential and political maxims. 20+334 p. L. & Bath 1787. Gildemeister 1847: 187, further translations in ibid.: 188–20. 7  “Gitagovinda or the songs of Jayadeva,” As. Res.3, 1793 & London 1796, 185–97. This was translated by Friedrich Hugo von Dalberg (1760–1812) as Gita-govinda oder die Gesänge Jayadevas;

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The most famous classical work of ancient Indian theatre, the Śakuntalā of Kālidāsa, was also translated by Jones (ibid.: 316). Although rather poorly understood, it soon became a bestseller and was further translated from English into several other European languages.8 Horace Hayman Wilson’s (1784/86– 1860) Select Specimens of the Theatre of the Hindus (1826–27) then offered further examples of classical drama from India. The two epics, the Rāmāyaṇa and Mahābhārata, were both known but considered too long to translate. It is true that the Baptist missionaries William Carey and Joshua Marshman, in their unfinished attempt of the editio princeps of the Rāmāyaṇa, also added an English translation, but the work, which was published in Serampore near Calcutta, remained little known in Europe and covers only the two first books of the epic.9 The second of the three volumes is especially rare since the ship carrying the books to Britain was shipwrecked. The whole text was then published by Gaspare Gorresio (1807–91) between 1843 and 1850, followed by an Italian translation completed between 1847 and 1858 (Uttarakāṇḍa only in 1869–70). Glimpses of the epics were provided through the episodes translated and published in various journals by a few European Sanskritists.10 As early as 1808 Friedrich Schlegel (1772–1829) added some specimens to his famous book Über die Sprache und Weisheit der Indier. Ein Beitrag zur Begründung der Alterthumskunde. But the most famous was the Nala episode of the Mahābhārata, which was published with both the original text and a Latin translation by Franz Bopp in 1819. This was soon further translated into German and English.11 In addition to translations, some secondary works were also important sources of information. Scholars soon started writing on Hinduism, although the results were not always very successful. The works of Alexander Dow (1735/36–79) and John Zephaniah Holwell (1711–98)12 were followed by Edward

  Erfurt 1802 and Friedrich Majer (1772–1818), Gita-Govinda ein Indisches Singspiel von Jajudeva; Weimar 1802; see Gildemeister 1847: 282–84. 8   It was translated into German by J.G. Forster in 1791 (this was translated into Dutch by E.M. Post 1791 and Swedish by J. Ekelund 1821), Danish by Hans West 1793, French by A. Bruguière 1808 (this into Italian by L. Doria 1815), also a partial Russian version by N.M. Karamzin 1792, see Gildemeister 1847: 319–24 (except for the Russian). 9  The Ramayuna of Valmeeki. 1–3. Serampore 1806–10. The translation contained in the first volume (book 1) was also reprinted in London in 1808. Gildemeister 1847: 107–8. 10  On these, see Karttunen 1995, 1997. 11  Nalus carmen sanscritum e Mahabharato. London 1819 (Gildemeister 1847: 155). German by Kosegarten 1820 (ibid.: 157), Rückert 1828 (ibid.: 160) and Bopp 1838 (ibid.: 163), English by H.H. Milman 1835 (ibid.: 161). 12  Dow’s account is given in his translation of The History of Hindostan (1768–72), Holwell’s in his Interesting Historical Events Relative to the Province of Bengal and the Empire of Indostan (1765–71). Windisch 1917: 11f.

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Moor’s (1771–1848) Hindu Pantheon (London 1810) and Vans Kennedy’s (1784– 1846) Researches into the Nature and Affinity of Ancient and Hindu Mythology (London 1831). Moor’s book especially remained a much-used reference work for a long time. Another popular survey was The Account of the History, Litterature and Religion of the Hindoos, Including Translations from Their Principal Works (1819) by the Baptist missionary William Ward (1769–1823). The style of Anquetil-Duperron’s Latin was complicated, and the double translation involved distancing it from the original texts. A glimpse of the Upaniṣads that was closer to the original and easier to read was offered in English by Ram Mohan Roy (Rām Mohan Rāy, 1774–1833) in the 1810s.13 The author is famous as a representative of the Bengal Renaissance and a Hindu reformer who founded the Brāhmo Samāj. In the first half of the nineteenth century Latin was still understood by every educated reader. Nevertheless, we can assume that the Latin translations of Indian works were usually meant for a scholarly audience. In Germany, August Wilhelm von Schlegel (1767–1845) published the original Sanskrit text of the Bhagavadgītā, which was accompanied by a close Latin version in 1823.14 The first glimpse of the Ṛgveda was given by Friedrich Rosen (1805–37) in 1830.15 In the following year a long extract from the Devīmāhātmya by Ludwig Poley (180?–1885; Gildemeister 1847: 217) appeared in Sanskrit and Latin, and some extracts from the Padmapurāṇa were offered by A.E. Wollheim da Fonseca (1810–84; ibid.: 221). The first European edition of the Gītagovinda by Christian Lassen (1800–76) was also accompanied by a Latin translation.16 The early translations of works such as the Upaniṣads and the Bhagavadgītā soon established the unfortunate idea that Indian philosophy mainly consisted of metaphysical speculation, with so little rational philosophy that some, like Hegel, concluded that there was no such thing as Indian philosophy, just religious speculation.17 Soon, however, Henry Thomas Colebrooke (1765–1837) showed in a long study that this picture was very one sided and presented a description of the main doctrines of the six classical darśanas.18 13  See Gildemeister 1847: 83–89. 14  Gildemeister 1847: 183. It was then translated into German by C.R.S. Peiper 1834 (ibid.: 193). 15  Rigvedae specimen. 27 p. London 1830, followed by the posthumously published Rigvêda-Sanhitâ, liber primus, Sanskritè et Latinè. L. 1838 (containing the first aṣṭaka) (Gildemeister 1847: 73, 75). 16  Gita Govinda, Jayadevae poetae Indici drama lyricum. 38+142 p. Bonnae 1838 (Gildemeister 1847: 280). 17  Halbfass 1990: 84ff. 18  “On the Philosophy of the Hindus,” Transactions of the Royal Asiatic Society 1, 1823, 19–43, 92–118, 438–461 and 2, 1827, 1–39, in French by G. Pauthier, Paris 1833 (Gildemeister 1847: 408–9).

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Although Hegel remained sceptical, there was already some interest in Indian philosophy. Karl Joseph Hieronymus Windischmann (1775–1839) made an exceptional attempt to create a “global” history of philosophy and included China and India in his great work. The Indian part of this Die Philosophie im Fortgang der Weltgeschichte was published between 1832 and 1834, and he was helped by his son Friedrich Windischmann (1811–61), who was a student of Sanskrit and translated the Sanskrit texts for his father. In Munich, Othmar Frank (1770–1840) discussed Indian philosophy in 1826 but this received little attention (Gildemeister 1847: 410). In the 1830s Ludwig Poley translated some Upaniṣads into French.19 Soon the first texts of classical philosophy also appeared. In Bonn, Christian Lassen (1800–76) published the text of the Sāṁkhyakārikā with a Latin translation in 1832.20 The text was soon also available in English.21 A glimpse into Vedānta became available with the German and English versions of Sadānanda’s Vedāntasāra.22 In India, James Robert Ballantyne (1813–64) produced some English versions of philosophical texts in the 1850s, but they were primarily meant for Christian missionaries and attracted little attention in Europe.23 H.H. Wilson’s complete translation of the Viṣṇupurāṇa appeared in 1840, with a second edition in 1868. It was widely read. H.P. Blavatsky, the founder of Theosophy, derived (and often misunderstood) much from it. In the same year (1840) the first volume of the edition with translation of Le Bhágavata Purána ou histoire poétique de Krîshna by the famous French Indologist Eugène Burnouf (1801–52) came out. After Burnouf’s death, the work was continued by Hauvette-Besnault and Alfred Roussel and the last volume only appeared in 1898. Even before these, in 1834, Langlois published his French version of another version of Kṛṣṇa’s life, the Harivaṁśapurāṇa, but it seems to have attracted few readers.24 Alexandre Langlois (1788–1854) also produced the very first complete translation of the Ṛgveda into French between 1848 and 1851. However, the work was rather premature, full of mistakes, and based more on Sāyaṇa’s commentary 19  See Gildemeister 1847: 90–93. 20  Gymnosophista sive Indicae Philosophiae Documenta. 1:1 Isvaracrishnae Sankhya-caricam tenens. 14+63 p. (Gildemeister 1847: 412). 21  The Sánkhya káriká, or Memorial verses on the Sánkhya Philosophy by I´swara Krishna translated from the Sanskrit by H. Th. Colebrooke; also the Bháshya or Commentary of Gaurapáda; translated by H.H. Wilson. Oxford 1837 (Gildemeister 1847: 413). 22  O. Frank: Die Philosophie der Hindu. Vaedanta Sara von Sadananda, Sanskrit und Teutsch. Munich 1835; Eduard Röer (1805–66): Vedanta-Sara, or, the Essence of the Vedanta. Calcutta 1845 (both Gildemeister 1847: 422). 23  On Ballantyne, see Dodson 2007: 94ff. 24  Gildemeister 1847: 202.

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than the original text. Sāyaṇa was also the basis of Wilson’s English version (1850–58) and even Hermann Grassmann’s (1809–77) free, metric, German version (1876–77) was deemed unsatisfactory. Alfred Ludwig’s (1832–1912) new German Ṛgveda (1876–88) was already better, although even this is now antiquated. Now almost forgotten, but in its time much read, is John Muir’s (1810–82) Vedic anthology Original Sanskrit Texts, which appeared in four volumes between 1858 and 1863.25 Extracts collected from various Vedic texts are thematically arranged in it, which made it easy to use. In the second half of the nineteenth century many translations appeared in the series called The Sacred Books of the East, founded and edited by Friedrich Max Müller (1823–1900). The first volume came out in 1879 and its fifty volumes contain a representative collection of Vedic and philosophical texts, although the series also included some ancient Iranian and Chinese works and the Qurʾān. The translations were by the best specialists available26 and are usually quite reliable. Listing the early history of Indian translations in this way makes their number appear unexpectedly large. However, they represent only a small fraction of the available sources and too many translations were free and inexact. The translators themselves did not always fully understand the ideas they were transmitting, and their readers were in a worse situation. A good example is the German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer (1788–1860) and his enthusiastic reception of Indian ideas, first from the Oupnek’hat, and later also from popular accounts of Buddhism—he formed his own ideas of them, which were often far from reality.27

25  O  riginal Sanskrit Texts on the Origin and Progress of the Religion and Institutes of India. 1–4. L. 1858–63: 1. The Mythical and Legendary Accounts of Caste, 9+204 p. 1858; 2. Trans-Himalayan Origin of the Hindus and Their Affinity with the Western Branches of the Arian Race, 25+495 p. 1860; 3. The Vedas: opinions of their authors, and of later Indian writers, in regard to their origin, inspiration, and authority, 28+240 p. 1861; 4. Comparison of the Vedic with the Later Representations of the Principal Indian Deities, 12+439 p. 1863; much revised & enlarged 2nd ed. Original Sanskrit Texts on the Origin and History of the People of India, Their Religion and Institutions. 1–5. L. 1872–74. See Windisch 1920: 310–16. 26  Beside Müller, the Vedic and Hindu volumes were prepared by Georg Bühler, Leonard Bloomfield, Julius Eggeling, Julius Jolly, Hermann Oldenberg, K.T. Telang, and Georg Thibaut, the Buddhist by E.B. Cowell, Viggo Fausbøll, Hendrik Kern, Oldenberg, Thomas William Rhys Davids, and J. Takakusu, and the Jaina by Hermann Jacobi. 27  Much has been written on Schopenhauer and India, see e.g., Halbfass 1990: 106ff.

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References Dodson, Michael S. (2007) Orientalism, Empire, and National Culture. India 1770–1880. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Drew, John (1987) India and the Romantic Imagination. Delhi: Oxford University Press (PB edition 1998). Gildemeister, Johannes (1847) Bibliothecae Sanskritae sive recensus librorum sanskritorum hucusque typis bel lapide exscriptorum critici specimen. Bonnae ad Rhenum: B.B. Koenig. Halbfass, Wilhelm (1990) India and Europe: An Essay in Understanding. Revised Indian ed. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Karttunen, Klaus (1995) “The Rāmāyaṇa in the 19th Century European Literature and Scholarship,” in G. Pollet (ed.), Indian Epic Values. Rāmāyaṇa and its Impact. Proceedings of the 8th International Rāmāyaṇa Conference, Leuven, 6–8 July 1991, 115–25. Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 66. Leuven: Peeters. Karttunen, Klaus (1997) “The Mahābhārata in Early Western Indology.” Bulletin des Études Indiennes 13–14 (for 1995–96): 245–68. Murr, Sylvia (1977) “N.-J. Desvaux (1745–1817), véritable auteur des Mœurs … de l’Abbé Dubois.” Purushartha, 3: 245–67. Rocher, Ludo (1984) Ezourvedam. A French Veda of the Eighteenth Century. University of Pennsylvania Studies on South Asia 1. Amsterdam and Philadelphia: John Benjamin Publishing Company. Rocher, Rosane (1983) Orientalism, Poetry, and the Millennium: The Checkered Life of Nathaniel Brassey Halhed 1751–1830. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Sweetman, Will (2003) Mapping Hinduism. ‘Hinduism’ and the Study of Indian Religions, 1600–1776. Neue Hallesche Berichte 4. Halle: Harrassowitz. Windisch, Ernst (1917) Geschichte der Sanskrit-Philologie und indischen Altertumskunde. 1. Grundriss der Indo-Arischen Philologie und Altertumskunde I:1B. Strassburg: Karl J. Trübner. Windisch, Ernst (1920) Geschichte der Sanskrit-Philologie und indischen Altertumskunde. 2. Grundriss der Indo-Arischen Philologie und Altertumskunde I:1B. Berlin and Leipzig: Walter de Gruyter & Co.

CHAPTER 3

Hegel’s Hinduism

A Withdrawal into an Empty Abstraction Sai Bhatawadekar Wir heben und wir drehen eine und eine Figure; wir können fast verstehen weshalb sie nicht vergehen,— aber wir sollen nur tiefer und wunderbarer hängen an dem was war und lächeln: ein wenig klarer vielleicht als vor einem Jahr.

We lift and we turn each and each figure; we can almost discern why they do not disappear,— but we must only deeper and with wonder ever more hold on to what was, dearly, and smile: a little more clearly perhaps than a year before.

Rilke (Tanagra, 1906)

Translation by Bhatawadekar

∵ 1

Introduction

What can be said about Hegel and Hinduism, and why do we keep going back to him? Why do “we lift and we turn” him over and over again? We know that Hegel chased his telos from East to West, from ancient to modern, and constructed a coming of age story of Spirit. In this linear progressive narrative, the Indian mind was set in the naïve, primitive, childhood stages of history. We know that Hegel called Hinduism a “Naturreligion” or a “Religion der Phantasie” that had too many loose ends and not enough closure. He considered the ethics of the Bhagavadgītā to be based on the caste system, which did not actualise the idea of freedom. Hegel claimed that Indian art, religion, and philosophy lacked maturity in concept and practice, and although German Romanticism had enthusiastically hailed India as the land of origins, Europe had long and rightfully overcome it. We keep going back to Hegel to extract these gems time and time again, to state and restate these assertions of Hegel, to put him in the context of his time and place, and to expose his Eurocentric bias.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004432284_004

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What else can I say about Hegel and Hinduism and why do I keep going back to him? To begin with, rather than looking at Hegel’s assertions as a series of remarks, I want to see how he streamlines and defines Hinduism, what he presents as the fundamental tenets of Hindu religion and philosophy. This helps me move on from the designation of Hinduism as the “Religion of Fantasy,” as Hegel himself did in his later lectures, and focus on brahman vis-à-vis the world of multiplicity and the latter’s withdrawal into the oneness of brahman. This description has a different impact on the reader compared to the obvious exotics of the “religion of fantasy” or “nature.” Hegel considers brahman to be a simple concept of pure abstraction—eine abstrakte Einheit / Einfachheit. Diving into the details of this concept yields surprising new angles within Hegel’s interpretation: For example, we know that Hegel considers Hinduism pantheistic, but he parses the pantheism in such a way that brahman ends up being outside of the world. To become one with it then, he argues, requires complete withdrawal from the world, a certain negative salvation—negative Erlösung. This negation opens up an apophatic dimension in Hegel’s Hinduism, the apophasis of emptiness, that Hegel equates with Buddhism. Hegel, thus, essentially defines Hinduism as a religion that aims to withdraw the world of particularity into an empty abstraction. I will untangle these aspects of Hegel’s Hinduism in this chapter. In the meantime, the other important question: Why do I keep going back to Hegel? Hegel is a true test of my methodological integrity. As an Indian woman, my first instinct was to defend Hinduism against Hegel’s accusations and dismissals (among them, Hegel once described India as a beautiful woman lying in magical, somnambulic sleep, in which the death of a free and self-grounded spirit is visible).1 My instinct was to do a comparative analysis of Hegelian and Indian concepts and prove that brahman worked much like Spirit and that Indian concepts were philosophically mature even by Hegel’s own definitions. Yet I soon realised that it would have been a defensive, backdoor colonial stance: brahman did not need to stand the test of Spirit. Besides, you would find both similarities and differences; it would depend upon what you were looking for.2 Understanding Hegel’s hermeneutic situatedness was the next step that revealed how his interpretation of Hinduism was a product of his 1  “HEGEL: Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Geschichte, Reclam Verlag 1924,” 73. Available online: http://philotextes.info/spip/IMG/pdf/hegel_philosophie_der_geschichte.pdf (accessed December 1, 2019). See also Rathore and Mohapatra 2017: 141. 2  For a comparative perspective on the similarities and differences between Hegel and Advaita Vedānta, see for example, Brück 1983.

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time and place 200 years ago.3 But the hermeneutic horizon is not a safety net of disclaimers and justifications, neither for Hegel nor for us. I also want to take the risk of wondering if we are a product of Hegel’s time and place. I trace to him the impulses and compulsions with which we live our lives today. In many ways, today’s “spirituality” driven wellness industry thrives on “Eastern” thought, often conflating Hindu and Buddhist ideas; it asks us to meditate, to withdraw into oneself, let go of thought, empty one’s mind, and somehow access universal oneness. I see our current environmental catastrophe linked to Hegel’s insistence that unlike the Indian mind, we should realise the superiority and rational control of humans over nature. I see myself embedded in core Hegelian notions, yet ultimately frustrated by their inadequacies: Like Hegel’s self-discovering Subjekt, I would like to believe that I know myself a little better every passing year and realise who I am by looking at what I did. And yet, maybe my obsessive self-analysis is keeping me from self-actualisation. I am trained to have faith in rationality, yet I am frustrated when rational thinking sends me into an infinite loop and fails to account for my most profound experiences and questions. Perhaps, therefore, I see a strong U-turn from Hegel in our personal and scholarly lives, from philosophy to religion, from articulated infinity to apophatic ineffability (Franke 2014; Knepper and Kalmanson 2017; Brown and Simmons 2017; Bhatawadekar 2019). 2

The “Abstract-Concrete-Abstract” One-Way Round Trip

Now that my introductory wondering is out of the way, let us look at Hegel’s Hinduism in a systematic way. First the context: think of how we operate in academia today, eagerly learning from far corners of the world, trending topics, aligning ourselves with theories, proposing new fields in our brand of globalisation; think of our vibrant debates, enthusiasm, and outrage. Now think back to the colonial context of globalisation and imagine the intellectual fervour in Europe at the time.4 Kant and the Enlightenment had put limits on reason and knowability. Countering that, the Romantics tried to reenchant the world with mythical, mystical origins. European colonialism was gaining access to the East and its treasures—monetary, cultural, and intellectual. New material from the East was being published at an unprecedented rate. The quills of curious minds were sketching new horizons and bold axes. From 3  See for example, Viyagappa 1980; Halbfass 1988. 4  For a detailed history, see Marchand 2009.

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William Jones, Charles Wilkins, H.T. Colebrooke, and James Mills to Franz Bopp, Wilhelm von Humboldt, August Wilhelm Schlegel, Friedrich Schlegel, and Anquetil-Duperron, English, German, and French scholars were producing varied material on India. This included translations of the Vedas, Purāṇas, Upaniṣads, the Bhagavadgītā, and the Brahmasūtras, descriptions of Indian philosophical schools, commentaries and comparative theories on linguistics, religion, and mythology, analyses of social systems and law, and much more.5 As an intellectual in Europe, if you wanted to be on the top of your game, you needed to be on top of this material. Of course, this material was incredibly multifaceted, and to make any coherent image of a land and its people under discovery, you needed to sort and organise it. Hegel himself was painfully aware of this, and as he stated in his review of Humboldt’s work on the Bhagavadgītā, the material coming in was of wild and unspeakable multiplicity—“wilde und unsägliche Mannigfaltigkeit”—and as one worked with it critically, the details became less important and one found oneself tracing the general outlines and basic principles of the Indian consciousness: “Man wird dadurch von selbst darauf geführt, den Grundlinien des Gemeinsamen, den Prinzipien des indischen Bewußtseins nachzuforschen und nachzugehen” (Hegel 1970: 203).6 The hermeneutics of Hegel’s Hinduism lie in this necessity to draw broad strokes, to delineate and systematise the multiplicity of material into an intelligible form, and Hegel had the mother of all systematising tools—his three-step dialectics. 5  Sir William Jones founded the Asiatic Society in 1784, which published Asiatick Researches. Jones contributed articles, comparative commentaries, translations, and creative pieces on Hindu religion, philosophy, mythology, astronomy, law, literature, etc. to this journal. H.T. Colebrooke published translations and commentaries on the Vedas, Upaniṣads, and Brahmasūtras, as well as on Indian philosophical schools. Charles Wilkins worked extensively on Sanskrit, and his 1785 translation of the Bhagavadgītā was widely read. James Mill was a political philosopher who published History of British India in 1808. Anquetil-Duperron translated the Upaniṣads from Persian into Latin in 1801 and 1802. Friedrich Schlegel published Über die Sprache und Weisheit der Indier in 1808. August Wilhelm Schlegel published his translations of the Bhagavadgītā and other texts in the 1820s. Wilhelm von Humboldt wrote his commentary on the Bhagavadgītā in August Wilhelm Schlegel’s Indische Bibliothek in 1827. Franz Bopp worked on Sanskrit philology and grammar, while Friedrich Creuzer worked on Indian mythology. 6  “Je mehr der gründliche und kritische Fleiß der europäischen Gelehrten uns den Zugang zu der indischen Sinnesart in ihrem eigentümlichen Lichte aufgeschlossen hat, desto mehr tritt das Detail der Theogonien und Kosmogonien und der sonstigen Mythen zu geringerer Wichtigkeit zurück, denn es zeigt sich bereits, daß die Willkür der Phantasie, mit der die Versatilität einer feinen Reflexion verbunden ist, solchen Stoff in wilde und unsägliche Mannigfaltigkeit ausgedehnt hat. Man wird dadurch von selbst darauf geführt, den Grundlinien des Gemeinsamen, den Prinzipien des indischen Bewußtseins nachzuforschen und nachzugehen.”

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For Hegel, the Spirit, and thereby everything (i.e., the entirety of reality and thought) goes through three stages of development. First, take a concept, any concept—being for example. It is implicit, abstract, not self-aware, because it cannot be comprehended in itself. What being is cannot be understood unless one also understands what it is not. Therefore, second, the negation of the very concept is posited—not-being or nothing. But the pair of being and notbeing cannot remain suspended in this state of opposition; it gets sublated— aufgehoben—in a third, higher concept—becoming—which contains both being and not-being, preserves their opposition and yet overcomes it. This basic idea, Hegel says, encompasses all of reality and the entire history of human civilisation. Even god is not exempt from it. First, god is an abstract, implicit concept; secondly, this abstraction concretises itself in human thought and action. It goes through many manifestations in various cultures in human history. This history is linear and progressive, which means that god goes through multiple revisions through world cultures that become more and more coherent, mature, elegant with time, from ancient to modern. Thirdly and finally, this process culminates into absolute perfection; abstract and concrete are sublated; the abstract concept of god returns to itself in complete, concrete self-knowledge. Abstract god, having gone concrete through human history, finally understands who/what he is (think of it through an analogy: a child, first not self-aware, has to interact with the world and go through life to know him/herself better and better every passing year). This is also, very importantly for Hegel, a self-determining journey of god. God is not passive or static; he is self-determined to know himself. It is a one-way linear progress that nevertheless results in a round trip ticket to oneself. The idea and practice of religion works the same way. Religion is the mode in and through which god knows himself.7 The worth of any religion in human civilisation, according to Hegel, is determined by how well it executes this three-step dialectic programme: 1. how god as an abstraction, as divine universality is conceived; 2. how it manifests in concrete human particularity, how human particularity is conceived vis-à-vis god; and 3. how the two reconcile, how human particularity elevates itself to divine universality. Various religions in linear human history are progressive stages and revisions of themselves, therefore, the more ancient a religion is, the less mature it is; the later it is, the more sophisticated, until it culminates into the perfection of Christianity.

7  This is my incredibly simplified and concise summary of some of Hegel’s philosophy that is relevant to the current chapter. For more, see Hegel (1994) Philosophie der Religion 2; Beiser 2008; Jaeschke 2016.

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The “Brahman-World-Withdrawal” Package

This one-way round trip scheme puts an ancient and eastern religion like Hinduism in the childhood stages of history. To judge Hinduism, Hegel uses his three-part magnetic measuring stick that sorts through the varied material on India and picks up what sticks to it: 1. one abstract divine universality; 2. its concretisation in and as the world; and 3. its return to itself. In his 1827 Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Religion, Hegel states under “Die indische Religion”: “Das erste also, was wir hier finden, ist dieselbe Substantialität, an der alles andere, das Bestimmte, Besondere, das Subjekt nur ein Akzidentelles ist, das sogar sterblich ist. Das zweite aber ist das, was hier hinzukommt, das Konkrete, der Reichtum der Welt, die Besonderung jener allgemeinen Substanz, die sich in Beziehung auf die Substanz, die allgemeine Macht, auch für das Bewußtsein vorstellt, […] Das dritte ist, daß diese besonderen Gestaltungen, geistigen Naturmächte, zurückgekehrt vorgestellt werden, gehalten von dem Einen” (1994a: 475–78). Not only in his philosophy of religion, but also in his history of philosophy, in which he discusses two schools of Indian thought, he repeats these three aspects: “Die indische Vorstellung ist dann näher diese. Es ist eine allgemeine Substanz, welche abstrakter oder konkreter gefaßt werden kann, aus der alles entsteht, und diese Produktionen sind dann die Götter, Naturkräfte, Gestaltungen, Erscheinungen, und auf der anderen Seite Tiere und die unorganische Natur. Zwischen beiden steht der Mensch. Das Höchste in der Religion wie in der Philosophie ist, daß der Mensch als Bewußtsein sich identisch macht mit der Substanz: durch Andacht, Opfer, strenge Büßung und durch Beschäftigung mit dem reinen Gedanken, d.h. mit Philosophie” (Hegel 1994b: 375).8 To parse the above two quotes, the first moment Hegel finds in Hinduism is “die allgemeine Substanz,” which lies at the base of everything as its substantiality, its power of existence. Hegel identifies this Substanz in the concept of brahm or brahman. Brahman is divine universality, a pure abstractness in itself, an in-itself-being—“Insichsein” (Hegel 1994a: 478)—out of which everything arises and into which everything returns. In itself, however, it has no subject-object differentiation, no duality; it is absolute and pure oneness. As

8  Another edition is available at: http://www.zeno.org/Philosophie/M/Hegel,+Georg+Wilhelm+ Friedrich/Vorlesungen+%C3%BCber+die+Geschichte+der+Philosophie/Einleitung/Orien talische+Philosophie/B.+Indische+Philosophie (accessed February 16, 2020).

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such, Hegel claims, it is rather a simple, empty abstraction with no real content and no self-determining conceptual movement. It just is. It is, nevertheless, the sustaining power of everything. The second moment is this everything, the world, the multiplicity, the concretisation and particularisation of brahman. This includes its manifestation (symbolic or otherwise) in gods and goddesses, like the trinity of Brahmā, Viṣṇu, and Śiva, along with a myriad of other gods and powers of nature; it also includes the richness of the world itself, its organic and inorganic forms, and us human beings, our existence and experience. This world in all its multiplicity, Hegel finds, is deemed in Hinduism to be only a fantastical, distracting, disorderly, fleeting accident vis-à-vis the eternal truth that is brahman. Now, the third moment is the highest goal of all philosophical and religious endeavours. It is the realisation that this fleeting accident would and should retreat, return, dissolve, and disappear into the oneness of brahman; it is the lifelong striving of man to make his consciousness identical with brahman. The prescribed ways to fulfil this realisation include sacrifices, atonements, and most importantly “yogic” meditation that is designed to obliterate all multiplicity, all differentiation, all concreteness in order to be one with the absolute, pure universality of brahman. It is important to point something out here: Hegel’s various remarks on Hinduism are repeatedly presented in the context of postcolonialism, comparative philosophy of religion, or cross-cultural intellectual history; however, his threefold structuring of Hinduism has not been explicitly recognized in scholarship. In my earlier work (Bhatawadekar 2007), I have discussed this structural alignment in meticulous detail, its hermeneutic, critical/postcolonial, and cross-culturally transformative implications. Time and time again, Hegel mentions three aspects in Hinduism and literally numbers them as the defining features of the religion. In 1831, for example, in his last set of Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Religion, he mentions, “Es ist nun zuerst dieses abstrakte Eine, sodann die Wildheit der ausgelassenen Phantasie und dann drittens die Zurücknahme in das Eine, woran sich der Kultus knüpft, zu betrachten” (Hegel 1994a: 620): first the abstract One, then the wild, unrestrained fantasy of the world, and thirdly the withdrawal of it into the Oneness. The religious thinking and practices of the people—the Kultus—are geared toward this withdrawal. This is an incredibly “manageable” streamlining of Hinduism, as it were, of both religion and philosophy. Hegel imposes a tight grid on Hinduism that claims to distil a whole lot of material—Mīmāṃsā, Sāṃkhya-Yoga, Nyāya-Vaiśeṣika, brahman, īśvara, souls and nature, various cosmogonies, gods and their roles, epics, ethics, metaphysics, meditation practices, caste system,

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and social norms. Hegel had access to all this material, as evidenced by his references throughout his work. H.T. Colebrooke, who translated large portions of the Vedas, Upaniṣads, Brahmasūtra, and other works, was a trusted source for Hegel. Compared to German Romantics, and especially Friedrich Schlegel, who, according to Hegel, had read only the table of contents of the Rāmāyaṇa (1994b: 376), Hegel appreciated Colebrooke’s thorough yet austere style and translation. Colebrooke had delivered him essays on the Sāṃkhya-Yoga and Nyāya-Vaiśeṣika schools of Indian philosophy. Hegel presents these essays in a translated/paraphrased and abridged version in his Geschichte der Philosophie. He simply mentions Mīmāṃsā as a set of two orthodox schools and proceeds to Sāṃkhya, under which he lists various ways of discerning and knowing (perception, inference, etc.), twenty five objects or principles of knowledge (including nature, intelligence, and plural souls), three guṇa or qualities that pervade the world (the good, the passionate, and the dark). Hegel pays less attention to Nyāya-Vaiśeṣika, which he considers “Dialektik” and “Physik” respectively. Here he lists four types of proofs—perception, inference, comparison, and assertion—and describes briefly how this school understands souls, body, sense organs, the atomic constitution of the material world and its qualities, etc. (Hegel 1994b: 374–400). Hegel admits that there is “philosophy” in India; however, he thinks that these are only beginning attempts at reflection and very dry, disorganised, and unsystematised ones at that (ibid.: 393, 398–99). The seeds are there, but as seeds only, not fully developed. At the end of the day, Hegel thinks, Indian religion and philosophy are essentially identical (ibid.: 374); they share their core texts and scriptures and propose the same goal—“Abziehung vom konkreten Inhalt” (1994a: 621), “das für sich selbst Werden der Seele auf die abstrakteste Weise” (1994b: 395)— namely to draw the soul into itself, withdraw from the fantastical multiplicity of nature, from all concrete content, and dissolve into the substantiality of brahman. Continuing his attention to triadic structures, in Sāṃkhya Hegel finds the threesome of guṇa—sattva, rajas, and tamas—particularly noteworthy. He associates the first quality, “sattva,” with the good and virtuous, the joyous, the enlightening. The second, “rajas,” is for Hegel passion but also “das Schädliche.” It is active and also urging, changing, and “übel.” The third is the darkness of “tamas,” slow and hindering with stupor, worry, and delusion. But for Hegel, the guṇa threesome does not fulfil the true dialectic development: “Die erste Qualität ist so die Einheit mit sich, die zweite ist die Tätigkeit für sich, das Unterscheiden, das Manifestieren, das Prinzip der Differenz; die dritte ist dann aber bloß Negation, das Negative. Im Konkreten der Mythologie ist dies vorgestellt als Shiva, Mahâdeva (Maheshvara), Gott der Zerstörung, der

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Veränderung, auch des Hervorbringens. Der wichtige Unterschied ist nun, daß das dritte Prinzip nicht ist die Rückkehr ins erste, nicht die Einheit der beiden ersten, wie der Begriff, die Idee, der Geist” (1994b: 386). If the first guṇa is the virtuous oneness in itself, the second is the active manifestation in multiplicity, then the third could have been the return to the first with self-knowledge. But the third remains mere and utter negation for Hegel, only change and annihilation.9 Among the gods, too, the trinity of Brahmā, Viṣṇu, and Śiva catches Hegel’s attention in particular. Not so much the gods themselves, but the fact that there is a threefold arrangement of the divine is, for Hegel, the kernel of the true idea. Hegel is surprised to find it here, but again, at this stage of god’s unfolding, Hegel decides that this trinity is not taken to its full philosophical potential. Brahmā may be a personification of brahman, and Viṣṇu may be the concretisation and incarnation of that divine abstraction, but Śiva, who could have been the dialectic reconciliation of the first two, simply embodies procreation and destruction, arising and passing. “Mahadewa, der große Gott, oder Rudra: Dies müßte die Rückkehr in sich sein; das Erste nämlich, Brahm, ist die entfernte, in sich verschlossene Einheit; das Zweite, Wischnu, die Manifestation (die Momente des Geistes sind insoweit nicht zu verkennen), das Leben in menschlicher Gestalt. Das Dritte müßte die Rückkehr zum Ersten sein, damit die Einheit gesetzt wäre als in sich zurückkehrende: Aber gerade dies ist das Geistlose; es ist die Bestimmung des Werdens überhaupt oder des Entstehens und Vergehens” (Hegel 1994a: 487n).10 Hegel pays some attention to the Bhagavadgītā, not so much to the text itself but as a detailed response to Wilhelm von Humboldt’s (1826) essays titled “Ü ber die unter dem Namen Bhagavad-Gítá Bekannte Episode des Mahá-Bhárata.”11 The primary intention of Hegel’s response is to debate the meaning of key terms like dharma and yoga. He argues that it is extremely misleading to translate dharma as duty or morality and yoga as “devotio,” 9  “Bei den Indern bleibt das Dritte Veränderung, Vernichtung” is how this paragraph ends in a 1979 edition provided online: http://www.zeno.org/Philosophie/M/Hegel,+ Georg+Wilhelm+Friedrich/Vorlesungen+%C3%BCber+die+Geschichte+der+Philoso phie/Einleitung/Orientalische+Philosophie/B.+Indische+Philosophie/1.+Die+Samkh ja-Philosophie (accessed December 2, 2019). 10  See also “Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel: Vorlesungen über die Ästhetik (1835–1838)”: 395–96. Available online at: https://www.lernhelfer.de/sites/default/files/lexicon/pdf/BWSDEU2-0170-04.pdf (accessed February 4, 2020). Also Rathore and Mohapatra 2017: 178. 11  Adluri and Bagchee and McGetchin inform us that Humboldt ignored Hegel’s criticism and other scholars hesitated to confront Hegel as well. The Bhagavadgītā retreated from philosophical attention following Hegel’s review, although it lived on among the Theosophists. (Adluri and Bagchee 2014: 35–36; McGetchin 2009: 98–99).

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“Vertiefung,” or even “beharrliche Richtung des Gemüts auf die Gottheit” (Hegel 1970: 148–50). Such descriptions, he argues, undeservingly ennoble the Indian terms. Duty, morality, and the ethics of these words are profoundly committed to the idea of human freedom. Dharma, on the other hand, as Kṛṣṇa explains to Arjuna, is based in the caste system, which is the opposite of freedom. It is arbitrary, rigidly prescribed, and sealed at birth, denying any possibility for anyone to make a truly moral choice in life. For Hegel, this arbitrariness and failure of freedom is symptomatic of the second feature of Hinduism—the concrete world of multiplicity and man’s role in it. If the divine abstraction of brahman is completely empty, then the world has nothing to root itself in; if the sustaining principle is not self-determining, then its concretisation in the world can be anything and everything given to utter fancy. If man considers himself exactly the same as everything else in nature and not higher and freer to be the vehicle of god’s self-knowledge, then man is incapable of creating truly moral and equal social systems and customs.12 Hence the term dharma is far from being duty or morality, as it does not truly actualise the essence of freedom. Similarly, yoga does not have any appropriate synonyms either; devotion or Vetiefung in God means for the Europeans (and Christians) something completely different; it has concrete and self-determining content. Yoga, on the other hand, is essentially “Vertiefung ohne allen Inhalt” (Hegel 1970: 151).13 Its aim is to obliterate all content into the pure universal oneness. As promised, Hegel delineates Hinduism and subsumes its variety under broad strokes: 1. brahman as true, singular substance; 2. world (to be overcome) as fantastical, misleading, fleeting multiplicity; and 3. “yogic” oneness with brahman as the aim. It is important to see here how Hegel essentialises Hinduism more in advaita terms than any other schools of Indian thought (without naming Advaita Vedānta in particular) and tags on yoga as its necessary meditative practice. Hegel knows that Sāṃkhya and Yoga are paired together in one school, that Sāṃkhya pays detailed attention to “specific things,” not simply to the oneness of brahman. However, he finds that in “general” or “common Indian yoga,” the specificity falls away, and what is promoted is an outer and inner “Lebenslosigkeit”—lifelessness, that is to say, a 12  “For Hegel, human beings first really begin to rise above the immediacy of their natural state when they enter into ethical communities …” (Germana 2017: 149). 13  Hegel decides to designate yoga with the feminine article “die Joga.” He even explains in a footnote about allowing himself to give the feminine gender to the word yoga: “Es mag erlaubt sein, die Joga zu sagen im Sinne des deutschen femininen Artikels, mit dem Qualitäten meist bezeichnet zu werden pflegen” (Hegel 1970: 151).

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withdrawal into an inactive oneness (ibid.: 159). It can be traced back to Hegel how the variety and details of Indian thought were ignored and rearranged to make Advaita philosophy and “yogic” meditation the face of Hinduism in Europe. 4

The Ins and Outs of Hindu Pantheism

The first two defining features of Hinduism—Brahman as substance and the world as mere accident—are the core aspects of Hindu pantheism for Hegel (1994a: 615). “Dieser Monotheismus ist aber ebenso wesentlich Pantheismus,” says Hegel (1970: 190). From Greek origins, pan-theos would literally mean allgod; all is god or god is all. In other words, god is identical with the entirety of the universe. However, pan could also be interpreted as everything, that is to say, every individual thing is divine and god is every thing. Simply put, the distinction between the above two perspectives was the crux of the famous pantheism controversy in Europe starting in the mid-1780s, and Hegel’s critique of Hinduism had a lot to do with it. Letters exchanged between Friedrich Heinrich Jacobi and Moses Mendelssohn resulted in this Pantheismusstreit that brought Spinoza’s philosophy into the spotlight. His idea of “God, or nature” as one all-encompassing “substance”14 sparked the debate whether pantheism’s unity of god and nature would ultimately do away with god altogether and lead to materialism and atheism. Hegel was trying to protect his own philosophy against this; even though his God/Spirit was all-encompassing and the entire world was its self-manifesting phenomenology, Hegel resisted its association with pantheism. He rejected the idea that God is unknowable, outside the grasp of rational thought, and/or that God is thinly dispersed everywhere in nature. According to Hegel, it had become quite the new “fashion” among theologians to turn the infinite into finite things and consider finite things in their empirical existence—“house, book, animal, that table, stool, oven, streak of clouds, etc.”—as divine or even as god. But, Hegel said, such an idea could arise only in “stupid heads”; this “Allesgötterei” would be the exact opposite of pantheism, and it is nowhere to be found in any religion or philosophy (1970: 14  “Pantheism” and “Baruch Spinoza” are both available online: https://plato.stanford. edu/entries/pantheism/ and https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/spinoza/ (accessed November 10, 2019). They are cited under References as instructed on the pages themselves.

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190–91).15 In the right understanding of pantheism, according to Hegel, god is the one substance, the essence, the being of all things, not the individual things themselves. The inadequacy of this form lies in the fact that it is up to us as a thinking subject, to observe things, not to mistake them as being selfsufficient, and to abstract the one infinite “Sein ihres Daseins” from their finiteness, “daß es in die Betrachtung des äußerlichen, denkenden Subjekts gelegt ist, die Unterscheidung zu machen, in dem Anschauen und Bewußtsein der endlichen, einzelnen Dinge von ihrer Endlichkeit und Einzelheit zu abstrahieren und die Substanz, das eine Sein, festzuhalten” (ibid.: 190–91, 192). This could seem slightly at odds with what Hegel says about Indian pantheism elsewhere. In his Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Geschichte Hegel writes that in Indian pantheism there is indeed a substance; however, its individualisations are immediately taken up as powers. That is to say, everything, sun, moon, stones, the Ganges, Indus, animals, flowers, everything is god, and their immediate sensual/sensory content is extended and carried over into the divine abstraction, thereby making the divine bizarre, confused, and silly. This is why the incarnation of god in a human form is not a particularly important or special idea. This is indicative, Hegel states in the same paragraph, that the Indian worldview is a pantheism of imagination, not of thought.16 This, in turn, seems inconsistent with Hegel’s verdict in his later lectures in the Philosophie der Religion, in which he declares, “[d]er Anfang der indischen Pantheismus ist, dass die Substanz ein Denken ist und in unserem Denken existiert”—the beginning of Indian pantheism is that the substance is thought itself and it exists in our thinking (1994a: 620). How does one reconcile these discrepancies? How does Hegel explain Hindu pantheism? To begin with, Hegel evokes Spinoza when he calls brahman “Substanz” or substantiality.17 This means that brahman is a self-sustaining singular entity. It exists on its own account; it sustains everything, but it needs no cause or another concept for itself to exist. It is eternal and infinite. It also means that it is the only truth; all else that is contingent and temporal is untrue. All this sounds pretty basic so far, as far as a concept of divine universality goes, and brahman is exactly that for Hegel—pretty basic! Basic is as far as it 15  See also “Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel: Vorlesungen über die Ästhetik (1835–1838)”: 421. Available online at: https://www.lernhelfer.de/sites/default/files/lexicon/pdf/BWS -DEU2-0170-04.pdf (accessed February 4, 2020). Also Rathore and Mohapatra 2017: 184. 16  “HEGEL: Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Geschichte, Reclam Verlag, 1924”: 74. Available online at: http://philotextes.info/spip/IMG/pdf/hegel_philosophie_der_ geschichte.pdf (accessed December 1, 2019). See also Rathore and Mohapatra 2017: 142. 17  For more on Hegel’s take on Spinoza, see Parkinson 1977: 449–59.

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goes at this stage of history, according to Hegel. Brahman is simply an absolute abstraction in itself; its infinity has no content (Hegel 1970: 158); it has no conceptual and historical movement, no real potency to truly engage with and encompass the concreteness that arises out of it. It is inactive and inert (Hegel 1994a: 484). It is just pure being, not a self-determining Subjekt. Later in his lectures, Hegel begins to revise his understanding of Hinduism (after all, he is the biggest proponent of self-revision with time!). He begins to acknowledge that brahman is conceived as “Denken,” as pure thought, which he finds “infinitely deep and true” (ibid.: 485n). In various cosmogonies, he realises that the primal “One” is said to have created the worlds with the power of contemplation, that brahman essentially bears itself as the world, that thought brings itself forth. He is even willing to give us agency in this by stating that we think it, and our thinking itself is this universality, brahman comes to existence as this thinking—“wir denken dieses Allgemeine, und unser Denken selbst ist dieses Allgemeine. Brahm kommt zur Existenz als dieses Denken” (ibid.: 620). This is why he moves on from his early title for Hinduism as “Religion of Fantasy” to simply calling it “Die indische Religion” in 1827 under the category “Die unmittelbare Religion oder Naturreligion.” In 1831 he even moves forward from “Die natürliche Religion” to a new stage “Die Entzweiung des religiösen Bewußtseins in sich” (ibid.: 615)—the bifurcation of religious consciousness in itself—under which he lists Indian religion. By this he means that, within the Hindu religious consciousness, there is a separation of brahman as substance from the natural, fleeting world. In his 1831 lectures, Hegel is almost willing to concede that brahman as thought begetting itself as the world is a selfdetermining activity—“Hier ist ein Bestimmtes and sich selbst bestimmendes Allgemeines das Prinzip”—however, he quickly relativises it by saying that this thought is closed off in itself and rather “bewußtlos” (ibid.: 620–21); as such, the deep and true core of the divine absolute is not adequately developed. It does not qualify to be on par with his mature Geist. How could it really, because Hinduism comes from a time when Geist was in its childhood stages! Hegel elaborates further on the world as brahman’s concretisation. This is where the pantheism of imagination comes in. If brahman is closed off and empty, then the world has no anchor, no hold in it. The world is born from it but without a bourne, like an orphan without guidance, wandering aimlessly, not knowing who he is, becoming this and that and everything else. As brahman is the ultimate, infinite abstraction, no amount of exaggeration is too much in its manifestation, and at the same time, no exaggeration can ever measure up to brahman. In his Vorlesungen über die Ästhetik, Hegel explains that since the sublime is only a simple concept of boundlessness, the imagination is on a

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perpetual restless search here and there, and the universality is depicted in particular things in colossal, grotesque, monstrous ways without aim or measure, with the most wasteful exaggeration.18 The world, thus, is given to unbridled forms and fantasy. It unfolds and manifests in countless random ways without a system or direction or reason. It is as if Spirit is lost in its own dreaming.19 Anything in nature—river, tree, sun, cow, stone—can represent the divine as it is. Their actual worldly particularity has no significance or worth or relevance of its own, neither to itself nor to the divine. In fact, in order to recognise brahman as substance, one must look past the particularity of things; it has to get out of the way. This is why the world is illusory and distracting, unstable and ephemeral. Man is thrown about in this tumult and knows not how to organise his social structures or ethical imperatives, because he has not yet grasped the potential of his particularity to be the vehicle of freedom and of god’s selfawareness. His existence is random as well and worthless in its particularity, just like everything else. Vis-à-vis brahman as substance, the world of multiplicity is a mere Akzidenz. Pantheism may come as a logical consequence of the axiom that God is omnipresent, omnipotent, and omniscient. Or it may expand ground up from the experience of the world itself as divine. Or both perspectives may intertwine inseparably. Either way, usually, pantheism has a certain sense of fullness, richness, and totality attached to it. One sees God everywhere, in everything, and in oneself. Hegel’s judgement of Hindu pantheism, however, has a significant twist, and it is not much unravelled in scholarship. For Hegel, as much as brahman is in everything, it is also outside of everything: “Es ist in der indischen Religion eben diese eine Substantialität, und zwar als reines Denken, reines Insichsein vorhanden, und dies ist unterschieden von der Mannigfaltigkeit der Dinge, ist außerhalb der Besonderung, so daß es an den besonderen Mächten nicht als solchen seine Existenz, Realität hat. Es ist nicht so, wie Gott an dem Sohn seine Existenz, Dasein hat, sondern das Insichsein bleibt abstrakt in sich, rein für sich, als abstrakte Macht, aber als Macht über alles zugleich, und die Besonderung, der Unterschied fällt außerhalb dieses Insichseins” (1994a: 478). There is a lot to unpack in this quote. Brahman as “pure thinking” is Spinozistic Substantialität or Substanz. However, this pure thinking is such an 18  “Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel: Vorlesungen über die Ästhetik (1835–1838)”: 390–93. Available online at: https://www.lernhelfer.de/sites/default/files/lexicon/pdf/BWS-DEU2 -0170-04.pdf (accessed February 4, 2020). See Rathore and Mohapatra 2017: 173–75. 19  “HEGEL: Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Geschichte, Reclam Verlag, 1924”: 73. Available online at: http://philotextes.info/spip/IMG/pdf/hegel_philosophie_der_ geschichte.pdf (accessed December 1, 2019). See Rathore and Mohapatra 2017: 141.

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extreme solitude of “in-itself-being” that it closes the door on all differentiation; it shuts out the world of multiplicity. Hegel deems that the Indian religious consciousness is at a stage where it distinguishes brahman as substance from the natural, accidental world and sets them “gegenüber”—opposite/ visà-vis—each other (ibid.: 615). Brahman and the world are separate and outside of each other, even though the former is the power by which the latter exists. (Imagine, for example—because imaginative metaphors are excellent pedagogical tools—the sun and the earth. The earth in all its multiplicity exists indeed because of the sun and by the power of the sun; however, they are outside of each other, and to become one with the sun, the earth would have to obliterate itself.) Hegel goes even further in this quote to say that the pure in-itself-being does not even have a concrete existence as such in or at the particular powers, i.e., in its manifestations or incarnations (unlike the Christian divine father and son). Elsewhere he says that “dieser mannigfache Inhalt, welcher nicht gewußt wird als Entfaltung des Ersten in sich, sondern außer demselben fällt” (ibid.: 621). The multiplicity is not recognised or known as the unfolding of brahman in itself but only outside of itself. This, for Hegel, is a logical consequence and a conceptual necessity of the kind of empty “oneness” that Hinduism theorises, which cannot envelop multiplicity in a meaningful way. It is either like a blinding white light or pitch darkness that obliterates all contours, ‘the night in which all cows are black’ as Hegel famously said about such a concept of the absolute. It is full as well as empty, all-inclusive as well as all-exclusive; it absorbs everything as well as expels it. If everything is god, then nothing is god; if god is everything, then god is nothing (and just like that, we are back at the pantheism controversy!). The pantheism of fullness is for Hegel the pantheism of emptiness. And that is the core of its apophasis. 5

The Apophasis of Emptiness

After the first two aspects of Hegel’s Hinduism—brahman as substance and the world as fantastic multiplicity—we arrive at his third moment: the withdrawal of the world into the abstraction of brahman. “[J]enes die leere Einheit, dieses die unfreie Mannigfaltigkeit”—the former is an empty oneness and the latter is an unfree multiplicity, and so there is no possibility of a productive resolution of their opposition, of a fulfilled, reconciled middle way of Spirit (Hegel 1970: 158). The pantheism of plentitude can only be pushed to an apophatic negation and dissolution. Apo in Greek (and Indo-European roots) means away from, off, or even sometimes after; phanai (Proto-Indo-European bha) has to do with speaking. Apophasis, thus, means away from speaking. In a

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slightly different take on the word, it also means negation.20 In religious studies, apophasis follows the path of negative theology. Essentially, it is an attempt to approach god by understanding what god is not (rather than what god is). In contrast, describing what god is in positing/ affirmative terms—god is love, god is music, god is here, god is omnipresent, etc.—would be the kataphatic way. Apophasis points to god by negating any attributes applicable to the world—god is neither mobile nor stationary, god is im-perishable, in-finite, god is not what you think god is, etc. The goal of apophasis is to push us to acknowledge that any category or attribute created by language (or representation) is necessarily limiting and cannot contain god; human comprehension is finite, and god is beyond what we can possibly grasp. Therefore, or conversely, god can only be described by negating all attributes. Anything we can think of, god is not that. Apophasis basically exposes the limits of rational thought, of our idea and practice of knowing. It is a critique of our need to reconcile opposites and logical contradictions. It is a warning and a lesson that divine infinity cannot be fully thought or articulated or communicated in a way that makes sense. We cannot have closure. God is “open infinity” and requires un-knowing (Franke 2014: 29, 227).21 The performance of apophasis, then, is either in complete silence, in constant negation, in extralinguistic sounds, or in poetics of plentitude, where what you say is only allegorical, excessive, yet never enough and utterly unnecessary all at the same time. Apophasis thus takes you from positing to negating, grasping to letting go, from prose to poetics, from proof to poof! Hegel disapproves of this unknowing critique of rational thought.22 For him, rational thought is infinite and can, nay must, articulate god. His criticism 20  In common usage (if a word like “apophasis” can have “common” usage at all) it means saying something without saying it, pointing to something by declaring not to mention it, describing something with negation. It is a trick of rhetoric. You can imagine, for example, a presidential candidate saying about an opponent, “we will not mention his past indiscretions here,” thereby drawing attention to the indiscretions by claiming not to. 21  Franke considers Hegel an “anchor and pivot” of his own work on apophasis (2014: 45). He elaborates on Hegel’s need for articulated closure, absolute knowing, and the function of negation to accomplish it (ibid.: 41–55). Brown and Haas both explore Hegel’s negation and wonder if and how far Hegel himself can be argued to be an apophatic thinker (Brown 2017: 107–29; Haas 2017: 131–61). 22  Hegel’s criticism of the Hindu abstract, rationally unknowable brahman rings similar to his criticism of Kant’s Thing-in-itself. “The Thing-in-itself […] expresses the object when we leave out of sight all that consciousness makes of it, all its emotional aspects, and all specific thoughts of it. It is easy to see what is left—utter abstraction, total emptiness, only described still as in an ‘outer world’ […] Hence one can only read with surprise the

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of Hinduism consists in the fact that he interprets it as an apophatic philosophy and practice. To begin with, as we have seen, he chooses those aspects that define Hinduism in terms of brahman as the divine substance that is not just beyond worldly attributes but beyond the world itself. According to Hegel’s pantheism, as brahman is beyond, the world manifests it in the poetics of plentitude—fantastic, metaphorical, random, excessive, and completely superfluous. It may point to brahman but can never truly embody it or capture it. The plentitude, after its distracting dance of the Bajadere (Hegel 1994b: 391), needs to wither away; it needs to be negated in order to unite with divine oneness. It is important to be aware that the concept and use of negation is profoundly instrumental in Hegel’s own dialectics. For him negation is a tool for a concept’s self-development. It is needed to be able to posit a concept’s opposite, so as to sublate the opposition. It is therefore no surprise that Hegel pays attention to how negation is used in Hinduism. In his Vorlesungen über die Geschichte der Philosophie, Hegel makes it a point to state that it would be superficial and misleading to think that the “orientals” live in immediacy with nature—“Wenn man dagegen sagt, die Orientalen haben in der Einheit mit der Natur gelebt, so ist dies ein sehr oberflächlicher und schiefer Ausdrunk […];” it is “das Gerede vom unmittelbaren Bewußtsein” in fact (a stab at the Romantics, surely) (1994b: 382). This nuance can often get sidelined in the continued labelling of Hegel’s Hinduism under fantasy, imagination, and immediacy with nature.23 The Sāṃkhya school, according to him, states that for the entirety of creation to function, soul and nature have to work together as one, yes, but there is in fact a moment of conceptual negation, of abstracting away from nature in Indian thought—“[…] diese wahrhafte Einigkeit enthält wesentlich das Moment des negativen Verhaltens, Abstraktion von der unmittelbaren Natur.” “Das Abstrahieren, wodurch das perpetual remark that we do not know the Thing-in-itself. On the contrary there is nothing we can know so easily” (quoted in Priest 2002: 103). 23  It is for this reason that I think it is important to understand Hegel’s interpretations, and also those of Hegel scholars, in all their nuances and subcontexts. Germana’s remark— “The Indian mind, which is dominated entirely by the imagination, can never come to an understanding of Spirit in the richness of these determinate forms because it is entirely alienated from the concrete life of Spirit […]” (2017: 145)—is contextualised under Hegel’s early remarks in the philosophy of history about the dreaming spirit. Jon Stewart’s chapter “Hinduism: The Religion of Imagination” concludes with the remark that for Hegel “[t] he image of India, which is reflected in Hinduism, is one in which humans have still not emerged from nature” (2018: 144). Readers of Stewart need to understand that Stewart rightfully says this in the context that for Hegel, in India, humans do not consider their own particularity any higher than anything else in nature.

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Vertiefen wird, ist für sich das Moment der Negation” (Hegel 1994b: 382; 1970: 198). The goal is for the soul to observe nature and essentially negate and withdraw from it. These are early recognitions of the profundity and the speculative dimension of negation, Hegel thinks (1994b: 382), but that profundity is in a seedling state at this stage, not followed through to its full unfolding (ibid.: 383). As we saw earlier, Hegel observes that in Indian triadic structures, like the three guṇa or the trimūrti of Brahmā, Viṣṇu, and Śiva, the third moment does not bring back the concept to itself; it is a simple negation that only works as obliteration and annihilation of all particularity. Not an affirmative but a negative salvation is the highest point of Hindu religious practice, declares Hegel: “Das Höchste des Kultus ist eben dies, nicht affirmative, sondern rein negative Erlösung von der Endlichkeit, Verdumpfung und Vernichtung des Bewußtseins; statt Befreiung nur die Flucht vor der Besonderheit” (1994a: 620). The word Erlösung, often translated as salvation, stems from lösen, which has a range of connotations—loosen, detach, disengage, even dissolve. Erlösung in the Indian context, as Hegel sees it, is not a positive salvation; it is this very disengaging deliverance. It is a release from this world, as Hegel says, Erlösung von der Endlichkeit. In that sense, it is essentially an act of negating the world, of disentangling oneself from the multiplicity and finiteness in which one is caught. It is not even a liberation—Befreiung— says Hegel here (but not elsewhere), but only a fleeing, escaping, running away from particularity. As such, the “apo”—away—is built into the idea of Erlösung. The world maybe a concretisation of brahman itself; it may be a posited, particularised, affirmative, and therefore kataphatic manifestation of brahman. But by that very token it is finitely defined, differentiated, and divided into its multiplicity. To be one with brahman, it needs to be left behind, negated, and dissolved. The seat of this differentiation is consciousness—Bewußtsein. It creates the subject-object split and designs a world in which multiple entities relate to one another. This Bewußtsein needs to be dulled, nay annihilated. This dulling and deadening—Verdumpfung and Vernichtung—can happen in many ways, Hegel observes. The readers of the Vedas are trained to recite it backwards or stress every other word twice, he says (Hegel 1994a: 622). Such activities are literally apo-phatic, using speech to go beyond itself, plunging and performing language past meaning. But Hegel’s judgement goes beyond phasis and applies to all forms of manifestation and embodiment, literally. Not only is brahman never prayed to or worshipped; not only are the personified gods like Viṣṇu and Śiva dissolved in the oneness, but the human body itself and life are negated and mortified in the “gewaltsamer Zurückziehung”—violent, forceful withdrawal. This is why devotees and yogīs do not hesitate to throw themselves and get crushed under the massive wheels of god’s processions or

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drown themselves in the Ganges or stand for years on end without sitting or lying down (ibid.: 622; 1970: 158, 161–63). The goal is to dissolve all concreteness into the empty abstraction of brahman. Any action should be done (in line with one’s caste, yet) with complete indifference to its fruit or result, as the Bhagavadgītā says. But eventually one should withdraw from all action altogether (Hegel 1970: 156). Surpassing that, even all content of consciousness should be obliterated, as the “Joga-Lehre” prescribes. Yoga, according to Hegel, is a philosophy and religious practice of immersing oneself in contentless abstraction. It is not an immersion into an object, like a piece of art, neither is it a concrete insight into oneself. It is a renunciation of all attention to objects, all sensations, or inclinations; and ultimately it is an emptying—Ausleerung—of all concrete content of consciousness; it is “leere Sinnlosigkeit” (Hegel 1970: 150–51, 158; 1994a: 490). This is brahman. If brahman is an utter and pure “Insichsein,” then to be brahman is “sich in sich konzentrieren.” “Wenn sie sich im Gedanken und in der Andacht sammeln und sich in Bewußtlosigkeit fest in sich konzentrieren, so ist das Moment dieser reinen Konzentration Brahma—dann bin ich Brahma” (Hegel 1994b: 378). Then I am brahman. I (the particularity) am brahman (the divine universality). Voila! The concrete has been elevated to the abstract, the finite to the infinite, the human to the divine! No, guess again! Hegel does not call this aufhebung; it does not even deserve to be called mysticism he says. Mysticism in other cultures can be spiritually rich, beautiful, and sublime. But here, this stupefying of the richness of existence, this “Vereinsamen der Seele in die Leerheit”—the “lonely-making” of the soul in the emptiness of brahman— cannot lead to any truth (Hegel 1970: 161). Hegel declares that the I in “I am brahman” does not maintain its particularity within the universality; it gets dissolved. The subjectivity of the I, the Selbstbewußtsein, withers away. In his Vorlesungen über die Ästhetik Hegel elaborates on this further: Die indische Art der Vereinigung aber des menschlichen Selbsts mit Brahman ist nichts als das stets gesteigerte Hinaufschrauben zu dieser äußersten Abstraktion selber, in welcher nicht nur der gesamte konkrete Inhalt, sondern auch das Selbstbewusstsein untergegangen sein muss, ehe der Mensch zu derselben hinzugelangen vermag. Deshalb kennt der Inder keine Versöhnung und Identität mit Brahman in dem Sinne, dass der Menschengeist sich dieser Einheit bewusst werde, sondern die Einheit besteht ihm darin, dass gerade das Bewusstsein und Selbstbewusstsein und damit aller Weltinhalt und Gehalt der eigenen Persönlichkeit total verschwinde. Die Ausleerung und Vernichtung zur absoluten Stumpfheit

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gilt als der höchste Zustand, der den Menschen zum obersten Gott selber, zu Brahman macht.24 The Sāṃkhya school also tells Hegel that “[w]as gelernt wird, besteht darin: Weder bin ich, noch ist etwas mein, noch existiere ich” (Hegel 1994b: 391); neither am I, nor is anything mine, nor do I exist. From here to Buddhism is not a big leap for Hegel: “[…] die Seligkeit nur als Vernichtung der Persönlichkeit, was dasselbe mit dem Niban der Buddhisten ist, zu wissen” (1970: 183). To seek brahman by yogic means of annihilating the personality/personhood is the same as nirvāṇa for Hegel. The “sich mit sich zu konzentrieren”—concentrating the self with the self involves completely renouncing, emptying, and extinguishing the self, the emptying of the human and renouncing all consciousness, sensations, wishes, hopes, fears, passions, needs, which for Hegel is as much yoga as nirvāṇa. “Der absolute, höchste Kultus ist jene vollkommenste Ausleerung des Menschlichen, Entsagung, wo die Inder auf alles Bewußtsein, Wollen, alle Leidenschaften, Bedürfnisse verzichten (Nirvana), oder diese Vereinigung mit Gott auf die Weise, sich mit sich zu konzentrieren (Yoga)” (Hegel 1994a: 490; 1970: 151). Hegel elaborates further: Pure being is the nothing of all finiteness, and the Indians do not commit the inconsequence/inconsistency to differentiate or exclude not-being from being; Kṛṣṇa is both what is and what is not; brahman is both entity and nonentity. “Die objektive Bestimmung Brahmans, diese Kategorie des reinen Seins, in welches die indische Vorstellung alles Besondere sich auflösen läßt, macht als das Nichts alles Endlichen das Erhabene der indischen Religion aus […] Doch begehen hierbei die Inder, sowenig als die Eleaten, die Inkonsequenz nicht, das Nichtsein von dem Sein unterschieden zu setzen oder es von ihm auszuschließen; Herr von Humboldt bemerkt dies 14 nach IX, 19, wo Krischna sagt: Unsterblich und Tod bin ich, was ist, was nicht ist. Dasselbe, daß Brahman die entity und non-entity ist, kommt auch anderwärts genugsam vor” (Hegel 1970: 190). Under the context of explaining Buddhism, Hegel states: Gott is schlechthin nichts Bestimmtes […] Gott ist das Unendliche, so heißt das: Gott ist die Negation alles Besonderen. Wenn wir die Formen vornehmen, die heutzutage gang und gäbe sind: “Gott ist das Unendliche, das Wesen, das reine, einfache Wesen, das Wesen der Wesen und nur das 24  “Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel: Vorlesungen über die Ästhetik (1835–1838)”: 387. Available online at: https://www.lernhelfer.de/sites/default/files/lexicon/pdf/BWS-DEU2-0170-04 .pdf (accessed February 4, 2020). See Rathore and Mohapatra 2017: 170–71.

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Wesen,” so ist das notwendig ganz oder ziemlich gleichbedeutend mit dem, daß Gott das Nichts ist. Das heißt aber nicht, daß Gott nicht ist, sondern daß er das Leere und daß dies Leere Gott ist. Wenn wir sagen: “man kann von Gott nichts wissen, nichts erkennen, kann von ihm keine Vorstellung haben,” so ist dies ein milderer Ausdruck dafür daß Gott für uns das Nichts ist, das Leere für uns; das heißt, man muß von aller Bestimmung irgendeiner Art abstrahieren. Da bleibt das Nichts übrig und das Wesen […]. (1994a: 464–65) Hegel consolidates the monism of pure being in Hinduism and draws it into the contemporary debates on pantheism and the un/knowability of god. This prompts him to level pure being with nothing, Gott with Nichts, and put Hinduism and Buddhism in the same basket. This is absolutely crucial in the understanding of the two religions in nineteenth-century Germany, which first saw a close conceptual bond between Hinduism and Buddhism and then an attention shift toward the latter. 6

Conclusion: “Hold On to What Was, Dearly, and Smile: a Little More Clearly”

Hegel imposed a threefold structure on Hinduism, forced it into “an artificial architectonic” of his philosophy (Priest 2002: 105), and created an image of it as a religion that aims to withdraw the multiplicity and particularity of the world into an empty abstraction. But this cannot simply be a one-way West-to-East story; it needs to be decolonised. If Hegel affected Hinduism, what effect did Hinduism have on Hegel? We already saw that Hegel reworked the title “Religion of Fantasy” to a more neutral designation—“The Indian Religion”—and further placed it under a new category called “the bifurcation of religious consciousness in itself.” He started considering Hinduism a religious consciousness that could separate divine substance from nature. To show off to his Romantic friends that he knew better, Hegel separated Indian philosophy from religion.25 However, he then disregarded or rearranged their internal terminology, structure, and even disagreements, in order to collapse 25  As Peter Park points out, “In Hegel’s history of philosophy, philosophy’s autonomy from religion is made into a key distinction that sets apart the European from the Oriental” (2013: 125). Bernasconi discusses how Hegel used Colebrooke to show he knew more than Schlegel. Hegel did give Indian thought the status of philosophy, but excluded it from “philosophy proper,” which he decided had started in Greece (2003: 35–50; 2002: 1–15).

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them all under one religio-philosophical vision. Within the first moment of his triadic Hinduism—brahman—he oscillated between Substanz and Denken. He wondered at times whether to give Denken the status of a self-determining activity (Hegel 1994a: 486) or deem it inert and inactive (ibid.: 484). In the second moment—the manifested multiplicity—he sometimes criticised Hindu pantheism for ascribing divinity to natural elements as they are; other times he declared that no culture in world history would do that. The third moment—the withdrawal into brahman—caused the most uneasiness to Hegel. Once he recognised that brahman was conceived as thought, Hegel had a difficult time wondering how to characterise the empty oneness with it—as consciousness, lonely self-consciousness, or as absence of consciousness altogether. On the one hand, Hegel declared that the goal was for man to be “identisch” with brahman “als Bewußtsein”; on the other, he claimed that “dieses absolute Denken ein bewußtloses ist” (ibid.: 621), but elsewhere he settled for a kind of “Einsamkeit des Selbstbewußtseins,” or even a “Bewußtlosigkeit im Bewußtsein” (Hegel 1970: 181, 175). These discrepancies reveal very interesting quakes and fault lines deep under his rigorous philosophical crust. Hegel struggled with Hinduism, revised his understanding, became increasingly inconsistent and insecure, anxious and desperate. He started recognising profound concepts in Hinduism that could potentially threaten his tight system of historical progression (Bhatawadekar 2007: 155–58).26 He needed to keep Hinduism locked in the primitive stages of the Spirit’s journey. His teleological timeline of world civilisations depended on it. He could not let his milestones become roadblocks. When all else failed, he fell back upon his standard dismissals, “Es sind alle Momente der Geistigkeit vorhanden und doch machen sie nicht den Geist aus” (Hegel 1994a: 620)—all moments of spirit-uality are present and yet they do not constitute Spirit. Hegel’s linear progressive system culminated in the perfection of Christianity; neither Hinduism nor any other religion could jeopardise that. Hegel levied similar criticism at the philosophical inadequacies of Islam and considered that “Islam has long vanished from 26  Bradley Herling rightfully recognised that Hegel’s interpretation of Hinduism was not “monolithic” and that he revised and changed his understanding (2006: 224); Herling stated that Hegel’s criticism of the Bhagavadgītā showed the “provocations and challenges” the text posed to Hegel and Western philosophy. But I do not think that “Hegel was coming to peace” with the alterities (Ibid.: 250, 252). I detect anxiety and desperation in Hegel’s dismissals, in his need to keep Hinduism in the early stages of history. Scholars have begun to recognise Hegel’s uneasiness and the reason for it to varying degrees. Rathore and Mohapatra, for example, state that Hegel’s 80,000 word obsession with Indian thought “represented a sort of nagging twin that he badly needed to shake off throughout the development of his own philosophy” (2017: 4).

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the stage of history at large” (Hegel 2001: 377), even though Islam emerged after Christianity.27 Even time could not mess with Hegel’s history! There is more than one way to decolonise a cat. During the long process of writing this piece, someone said to me, “Hegel is like your father figure, rational, authoritative, disapproving of you for not having your shit together.” Even though I resent the Freudian implications of this sentence, I did in fact provoke it. Knowingly or unknowingly, I had/have internalised Hegel’s criticism of Hinduism quite personally and turned it into a shrouding cloud of self-doubt: Do I have self-knowledge? What stage am I in in my journey? Is the fact that I work in many areas—German studies, South Asian studies, philosophy, theatre, film, dance, second language studies—similar to Hegel’s Hindu pantheism: Do I keep (re)searching and manifesting in many fields, dispersedly, all over the place, because I do not know who I am yet, like Hegel’s Substanz and its random poetics of plentitude? Will I eventually withdraw and flee from it all for the peace of Insichsein? Hegel has been an occupying presence in my life for more than a decade now, and that goes hand in hand with me—an Indian woman—learning the ways of a Western (and now global) academic and social system that thrives on Hegelian notions of linear progress and success, rationality, self-knowledge and self-assertion. There is another angle to this: Emerging modern universities in Germany in the early nineteenth century emphasised disciplinary boundaries, and Hegel himself demarcated art, religion, and philosophy and set up their methodology and hierarchy. Cut to today, Hegel’s presence in my life is also a matter of disciplinary perspectives: my work on Hegel and Hinduism has been through German studies and philosophy. There, Hegel was the primary and larger context, and Hinduism was one moment in Hegel’s story. The way to decolonise this is to also understand Hegel as one moment in the big story of Hinduism. Writing this piece for the Hinduism in Europe volume has given me a chance to look at these two sides of the equation: where Hinduism is placed in Hegel’s teleological timeline but also where Hegel fits in the collage of Hinduism and its many interpretations and practices. By extension, more than looking at myself as one moment in the march of German studies, one cog serving the disciplinary machine, being fitted and judged within its methodology and parameters, it is also important to think of German studies as one aspect of my life, formative indeed, but one among many, and to think of my life not as a unidirectional progress but the nexus to which cultures and disciplines have come to connect and coalesce.

27  For more on Hegel and Islam, see Bhatawadekar 2014. For how Hegel interprets Judaism and Islam compared to Hinduism, see Librett 2015: 129–75.

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References Adluri, Vishwa and Joydeep Bagchee (2014) The Nay Science: A History of German Indology. New York: Oxford University Press. Beiser, Frederick C. (2008) The Cambridge Companion to Hegel and Nineteenth-Century Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bernasconi, Robert (2002) “Religious Philosophy: Hegel’s Occasional Perplexity in the Face of the Distinction between Philosophy and Religion.” Bulletin of the Hegel Society of Great Britain, 45–46: 1–15. Bernasconi, Robert (2003) “With What Must the History of Philosophy Begin? Hegel’s Role in the Debate on the Place of India within the History of Philosophy,” in David Duquette (ed.), Hegel’s History of Philosophy: New Interpretations, 35–50. New York: State University of New York Press. Bhatawadekar, Sai (2007) “Symptoms of Withdrawal: The Threefold Structure of Hegel’s and Schopenhauer’s Interpretation of Hindu Religion and Philosophy.” PhD diss., The Ohio State University. ProQuest (AAT 3276676). Available online at: http://search.proquest.com/docview/304816881/. Bhatawadekar, Sai (2014) “Islam in Hegel’s Triadic Philosophy of Religion.” Journal of World History, 25 (2/3): 397–424. Bhatawadekar, Sai (ed.) (2019) “‘Who Really Knows?’: Religion and Ritual: The Poet­ ics and Performance of the Ineffable.” Special issue, Journal of Dharma Studies, 1 (2). Brown, Nahum (2017) “Is Hegel an Apophatic Thinker?” in Nahum Brown and J. Aaron Simmons (eds.), Contemporary Debates in Negative Theology and Philosophy, 107–29. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan/Springer International Publishing. Brown, Nahum and J. Aaron Simmons (eds.) (2017) Contemporary Debates in Nega­ tive Theology and Philosophy. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan/Springer International Publishing. Brück, Michael von (1983) “Trinitarian Theology: Hegelian vis-à-vis Advaitic.” Journal of Dharma, 8: 283–95. Colebrooke, H.T. (1977) Essays on History, Literature, and Religions of Ancient India: Miscellaneous Essays. New Delhi: Cosmo Publications. Franke, William (2014) A Philosophy of the Unsayable. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press. Germana, Nicholas A. (2017) The Anxiety of Autonomy and the Aesthetics of German Orientalism. Melton: Boydell and Brewer. Haas, Andrew (2017) “Hegel and the Negation of the Apophatic,” in Nahum Brown and J. Aaron Simmons (eds), Contemporary Debates in Negative Theology and Philosophy, 131–61. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan/ Springer International Publishing.

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Halbfass, Wilhelm (1988) India and Europe: An Essay in Understanding. Albany: State University of New York Press. Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich (1970) Werke 11: Berliner Schriften 1818–1831. Edited by Eva Moldenhauer and Karl Markus Michel. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich (1994a) Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Religion, Teil 2: Die Bestimmte Religion. Edited by Walter Jaeschke. Hamburg: Felix Meiner Verlag. Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich (1994b) Vorlesungen über die Geschichte der Philosophie, Teil 1: Einleitung in die Geschichte der Philosophie, Orientalische Philosophie. Edited by Pierre Garniron and Walter Jaeschke. Hamburg: Felix Meiner Verlag. Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich (2001) The Philosophy of History. Translated by J. Sibree. Kitchener, ON: Batoche Books. Herling, Bradley (2006) The German Gītā: Hermeneutics and Discipline in the German Reception of Indian Thought, 1778–1831. New York: Routledge. Humboldt, Wilhelm Freiherr von (1826) Über die unter dem Namen Bhagavad-Gítá Bekannte Episode des Mahá-Bhárata. Berlin: Druckerei der Königl. Akademie der Wissenschaften. Jaeschke, Walter (2016) Hegel Handbuch Leben—Werk—Schule. 3rd edition. Stuttgart: J.B. Metzler. Knepper, Timothy D. and Leah E. Kalmanson (eds.) (2017) Ineffability: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion. Cham: Springer International Publishing. Librett, Jeffrey S. (2015) Orientalism and the Figure of the Jew. New York: Fordham University Press. Mander, William (2020, forthcoming) “Pantheism.” The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Spring 2020 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.). It will be available online at: https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/spr2020/entries/pantheism/. Marchand, Suzanne (2009) German Orientalism in the Age of Empire: Religion, Race, and Scholarship. Washington, DC: German Historical Institute/ New York: Cambridge University Press. McGetchin, Douglas (2009) Indology, Indomania, and Orientalism: Ancient India’s Rebirth in Modern Germany. Madison and Teaneck: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press. Nadler, Steven (2019) “Baruch Spinoza.” The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Spring 2019 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.). Available online at: https://plato.stanford.edu/ archives/spr2019/entries/spinoza/. Park, Peter K.J. (2013) Africa, Asia, and the History of Philosophy Racism in the Formation of the Philosophical Canon, 1780–1830. Albany: State University of New York Press. Parkinson, G.H.R. (1977) “Hegel, Pantheism, and Spinoza.” Journal of the History of Ideas, 38 (3): 449–59.

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Priest, Graham (2002) Beyond the Limits of Thought. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Rathore, Aakash Singh and Rimina Mohapatra (2017) Hegel’s India: A Reinterpretation, with Texts. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Stewart, Jon (2018) Hegel’s Interpretation of the Religions of the World: The Logic of the Gods. Oxford Scholarship Online. doi:10.1093/oso/9780198829492.001.0001. Viyagappa, Ignatius (1980) G.W.F. Hegel’s Concept of Indian Philosophy. Rome: Gregorian University Press.

CHAPTER 4

The Catholic Church’s Encounter and Engagement with Hinduism Evolving Attitudes and Perceptions Benedict Kanakappally 1

The First Tentative Steps of Catholicism in India

For a history of the Catholic Church’s encounter with Hinduism,1 Sunday, May 20, 1498 is certainly of symbolic importance. For that was the day Vasco da Gama’s small fleet of four ships, which were carrying the banner of the cross on their sails and a missionary and cannon on board, sailed into the port of Calicut (Kozhikode), a town on the west coast of South India, known as the Malabar Coast, in the present day state of Kerala (Frykenberg 2008: 121; Moffett 2005: 3).2 Significant in itself as the opening of a keenly sought-after sea route to India that was to eventually change the course of world history, Vasco da Gama setting foot on Indian soil was accompanied by high expectations for the future and not a few misgivings about the present. Allegedly, the sailor sent ahead to reconnoitre the place described the purpose of the Portuguese landing at the port of Calicut in these terms: “we came in search of Christians and of spices.”3 While spices would be readily available, thus freeing the Portuguese instantly from their former dependence on Arab merchants for such goods, finding Christians would turn out to be a somewhat complex matter. This was mainly because their search for Christians in India was clearly 1  The term “Hinduism” is used in much of this article in a retrospective manner, because the term was not yet in use during most of the time period with which the article is dealing. It is well known that the term “Hinduism” was only coined in the late eighteenth century as a name for what had previously been a multitude of more or less ancient religious traditions and practices with certain shared common features (Jacobsen 2009: xxxiv–xxxv). 2  The Catholic presence in India can be traced back to a period even before the arrival of the Portuguese in Kerala by sea. It is known that Jordan of Severac (aka Giordano Catalani), a Dominican missionary, after preaching in India, was received by Pope John XXII in Avignon and named bishop of Quilon in 1329 (Preckler 2017: 50; Sievernich 2012: 84–85). Although, for reasons that are not very clear, the newly appointed bishop failed to reach his destination in India. 3  “Modern History Sourcebook: Vasco da Gama: Round Africa to India, 1497–1498 CE,” available at: https://sourcebooks.fordham.edu/mod/1497degama.asp (accessed May 10, 2019).

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004432284_005

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guided by King Dom Manuel’s fantasy of locating the lost Christians of the Ethiopian king Prester John, with whose help he hoped to recapture Jerusalem from Muslim rule (Županov 2005: 37, 48). The Portuguese eventually found Christians on the Malabar Coast, although they had nothing to do with Prester John; they may instead have had a connection to Apostle St. Thomas, from whose tradition of preaching Christianity in India they claimed their origin.4 These Christians, governed on religious matters by prelates sent from the Chaldean Church in Persia, numbered about 30,000 families (Frykenberg 2008: 122) at the time of their meeting with the Portuguese and constituted a community so well-integrated into the sociocultural fabric of the place that, in their appearance and attitudes, they were no different from a Hindu caste. Portuguese interference into the religious affairs of these Christians, whose orthodoxy seemed to be suspect to them, and their partially successful attempt to bring them under the direct control of the pope, make up a history that runs parallel to that of their engagement with the wider populace of India; however, we are not concerned with that history here. The Portuguese notion of a previously flourishing Christianity in India would be so entrenched that the Hindus they found upon their arrival in Calicut would appear to them to have once belonged to that strain of Christianity, but they had been forced to abandon or to modify their religion due to pressure from Muslims in the region (Halbfass 1990: 36–37). An episode mentioned in the Diario of Vasco da Gama’s voyage, in this sense, remains emblematic: entering into a Hindu temple in Calicut, which the Portuguese mistake for a church, they found it a place strangely familiar to them; they would vaguely identify within it statues of the Madonna and other saints, a sanctuary reserved only for priests, and priests, though bare chested, who were dressed somewhat like deacons in the Catholic Church (Mundaden 1984: 248–49; Battaglia 2007: 61–62). In time, of course, it would dawn upon the Portuguese that what they took for the remnant of ancient Christianity was indeed Hinduism, to which the majority of the people in that land belonged. From then on, the primary concern of the Portuguese would not be to find Christians in India, or to lead the Malabar Christians to Catholicism, but to convert Hindus. This began two 4  In the absence of clear and definitive proof, the tradition of St. Thomas bringing Christianity to India remains a debated issue today. But what may be said in this regard is that the circumstantial and corroborating evidence that supports this tradition is such that many historians consider its historicity not just a possibility but a probability. What is not open to doubt in any case is the presence of Christian communities in South India no later than the third and fourth centuries (Frykenberg 2008: 114–15; Moffett 2001: 25, 29–36).

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years later, with the arrival of a second fleet of ships from Portugal, which were under the command of Dom Pedro Alvarez Cabral and carried nineteen missionaries. Unfortunately, however, violence erupted at Calicut on December 16, 1500, in which the Portuguese got involved after the murder of three Franciscan missionaries. This made their further stay at Calicut difficult, and at the invitation of Unni Goda Varma, the Hindu King of Cochin, the Portuguese ships moved to the port of Cochin. From this period onward, the town of Cochin would serve as the centre of Portuguese commercial activities, cultural engagements, and religious outreach along the Malabar Coast (Moffett 2005: 5; Frykenberg 2008: 122). The Malabar Coast, which is by and large identifiable with today’s state of Kerala, throughout its history has been a place open to the world outside: It certainly had commercial links with Rome during the imperial period (Keay 2000: 121–22); around the beginning of the common era communities of Jews could be found in its major towns; not later than the beginning of the third century, Christian communities had taken root in the land; and not long after its birth, Islam was brought there by Arab merchants, and it had spread peacefully among the populace. And, even before all of that, Buddhism was present there, and traces of its passage are noticeable in place-names and a few monuments that can still be found in the region. Catholicism, which was brought by the Portuguese in the sixteenth century, would fit easily into this religiously pluralistic setting of the Malabar Coast, and its spread there would be, as far as we know, rather unremarkable and peaceful. Portuguese missionaries built churches and monasteries in and around Cochin, and an unspecified number of people from the coastal areas of Cochin and other places where the Portuguese had settlements were led to Catholicism through their preaching. The sailors married local women, putting roots down in the new place, and some of the people who came into direct contact with the Portuguese were drawn to their religion mainly in order to improve their social standing in society (Mundaden 1984: 359–60). To this Catholic population were added, in the course of time, members of St. Thomas, or Malabar Christians, who submitted themselves to the spiritual authority of the pope in Rome but who nonetheless retained their eastern rituals and liturgical traditions. And thus Kerala’s Catholic population was formed, which is today the largest in India. Apart from an ultimately ineffectual opposition on the part of the Hindu King of Cochin, there are no known reactions on the part of Hinduism as a whole to the diffusion of Catholicism in this part of India; although it should be borne in mind that we are speaking here about a period when Hinduism itself was not seen as a unified religious system or the bedrock of a shared cultural or national identity.

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Catholicism’s Encounter with Hinduism in Goa

The Portuguese conquest of Goa in 1510 marks a new chapter in the Catholic Church’s encounter with Hinduism. A new set of sociopolitical conditions emerged in Goa after its conquest by the Portuguese, and it effectively determined the contours and the outcome of this encounter. The Portuguese trading posts and enclaves on the Malabar Coast technically stood on foreign soil, in States governed by local kings, but after its capture out of the hands of the Sultanate of Bijapur, ruled by Adil Shah (Idalkhan in Portuguese sources), Goa became a Portuguese colony and was at the centre of what Lisbon had already labelled its Estado da India (Keay 2000: 306). Those whom the Portuguese considered as their political and religious adversaries in Goa, as well as in other places in India, were Muslims but not Hindus, about whose cultural and religious traditions the Portuguese as yet knew very little. In this period, under the generic term “paganism”—equated with superstitious beliefs and idolatry—the Portuguese would subsume all religious traditions that were not part of either Christianity, Islam, or Judaism. A combination of the following three factors characterized the Catholic-Hindu encounters that took place in sixteenth century Goa: Portuguese political hegemony; the so-called Padroado Real; and, on the part of the Portuguese, an almost complete lack of any real interest in or information about the Hindu religion practised in the region. Padroado Real (Royal Patronage) was based on a series of papal letters and bulls that apportioned non-European lands between two emerging Catholic powers—Portugal and Spain—in the fifteenth century and authorised their kings to discover, invade, and conquer all known and unknown territories of unbelievers on the condition that they spread Christianity in those places. In effect, it would amount to an arrangement between the Holy See and the Catholic sovereigns of Portugal and Spain whereby the latter would shoulder the responsibility of propagating and maintaining the Catholic religion and its institutions in their overseas territories in exchange for extensive rights and privileges pertaining to religious matters. While recruiting missionaries and offering them protection, building and maintaining churches, and paying the ministers, etc. would be part of the duties of these two Catholic kings, the rights and privileges would include the final say in any appointment of bishops, setting up new ecclesiastical territorial units, disciplining ecclesiastics, and even pronouncing excommunications (Frykenberg 2008: 127–28). Among others, Pope Nicholas V’s bull, the Dum diversas of 1452, and Sixtus IV’s bull, the Aeterna regis clementina of 1481, defined the Portuguese padroado powers and functions more clearly. As for Goa itself, the reiteration of such powers and

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duties contained in the 1534 papal bull of Paul III, Aequum reputamus, with which the diocese of Goa was formally established, was especially significant (Mundaden 1984: 241–42). What took place in Goa after its colonisation by the Portuguese is something unique in the history of India. Armed with the Padroado mandate and assisted by missionaries brought in from Europe, a systematic campaign of religious conversion was set in motion by the authorities. Following the dictum that explains much of European religious history, cuius regio, eius religio (whose reign, his religion), the colonial administration exerted moral pressure on the inhabitants to convert them to Catholicism (Wicki 1972: 548). A total ignorance of Hinduism, amounting to its identification with superstition, black magic, and idolatry, served as an excuse to implement a policy of tabula rasa (clean slate)—the eradication of all previous religious and cultural beliefs and customs—as part of the conversion drive. The state-backed conversion drive resulted in: the demolition of temples and the erection of churches in their place; prohibitions against the outward manifestations of Hindu religious life; the passing of laws and decrees that discriminated against Hindus and aimed at encouraging their conversion; and the confiscation of properties left behind by those who fled the Portuguese controlled areas, etc. Conversion in the Portuguese colony of Goa meant more than just baptism and a change of religion; it involved changes ranging from the adoption of new names, customs, and the Portuguese language to lifestyle changes, such as the mode of dress and the consumption of beef and alcohol. In Goa, the establishment of the Inquisition in 1560, the ecclesiastical tribunal empowered to try and punish members of the Church—especially the recently converted—who were suspected of apostasy and pagan practices,5 was another step in the statesponsored imposition of the Catholic religion in all its orthodoxy under the Portuguese rule. A wealth of archival data and studies exist in relation to the Portuguese conversion efforts in Goa and about the manner, means, and methods employed by the Portuguese. But what transpires in these documents and studies is anything but a unitary picture of the extent and the effectiveness of such efforts. Counter to the impression that has often been transmitted of Portugal’s successful and clean religious and cultural takeover of Goa, more recent studies present a complex and nuanced picture of the socioreligious situation that arose in Goa in the wake of its Portuguese colonisation (Pearson 1984; Axelrod 5  A book published in 1687 by a French physician named Charles Dellon, who had himself been a victim of the Inquisition and was placed on trial and imprisonment in Goa, contains detailed descriptions about the activities of the Goan Inquisition (Ginio 1999: 9–10).

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and Fuerch 1996). Beyond the destruction of temples and the banning of public expressions of Hindu religious life, such as festivals, processions, weddings, and cremations, the Portuguese were powerless against Hinduism’s continued survival in Goa. The Hindus who stayed in Portuguese Goa during and after the conversion drive constituted a large portion of its population (Pearson 1984: 39–40, 42). As a matter of fact, Hinduism was to prove resistant to attempts to stamp it out, and it even found subtle ways of countering and neutralising the Portuguese conversion policies. The resettlement of Hindu idols, which were previously worshipped in Goan temples, to villages beyond the reach of the Portuguese authorities and the celebration of their festivals, in which masses of former devotees participated,6 as well as the fusion between certain Hindu and Christian festivities, point to the “everyday resistance” put up by Hindus in the face of sustained conversion efforts (Axelrod and Fuerch 1996: 392–98). The frustration the Portuguese authorities felt in both Lisbon and Goa concerning their inability to root out Hinduism and its attendant practices can be noted in some of the correspondence from this period, especially between the king of Portugal and his viceroy in Goa, and in a series of decrees, orders, and directions aimed at putting the conversion drive back on track (ibid.: 410–20). The Catholicism that came to exist in Goa was anything but a Portuguese import and imitation of European Catholicism. Županov notes that, in this period, in Portugal there was a growing perception that their tropical colonies in India had “gone native,” and this was meant in both a religious and sociocultural sense (Županov 2005: 12). After all, concerning its basic features, Goan Catholicism would not be any different from the rest of Indian Christianity, which, as Frykenberg has endeavoured to show in his book on Indian Christianity, has always been an indigenous phenomenon, contextualised and “‘embedded’ within a particular and local cultural matrix” (Frykenberg 2008: 17–18). Despite it going native in some significant ways, there would nonetheless be no real change in Goan Catholicism’s official attitude toward Hinduism. Apart from not making any attempt to know them better, the traditions and practices of Hinduism would continue to be looked upon with horror and suspicion. While the Catholic Church’s lack of curiosity about Hinduism can partly be explained by its then prevalent theology of religious exclusivism, which was expressed in terms of extra ecclesia nulla salus (there is no salvation outside

6  The Goan Inquisition’s demand that anyone returning to the Portuguese settlements after having spent any considerable time in “the lands of the infidels” should present himself before it for questioning should be understood in light of the this (Ginio 1999: 12–13).

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the Church), its hostility toward Hindu ritual practices may have had more to do with a general fear that they involved the worship of evil spirits. A shift in this Catholic attitude toward Hinduism, though, can be seen to take place with the arrival of learned, non-Portuguese Jesuit missionaries in India from 1575 onward. This shift was based on a new way of looking at non-Christian religions—from an anthropological perspective—and on making a crucial distinction between religious and sociocultural phenomena (Županov 2005: 14; Županov and Hsia 2007: 580). Hinduism would increasingly come to be seen as a product of humanity’s natural search for God without the aid of a divine revelation. Of course, this new understanding of Hinduism would start to be reflected in the Catholic missionary approach somewhat later and in places far from Goa, such as in the Madurai mission headed by Robert de Nobili. Rather strikingly, the greatest of all the Catholic missionaries to work in India and Asia, St. Francis Xavier, would not subscribe to any such view of other religions. There is no doubt that Xavier wanted to see them replaced with Catholicism, if not immediately then at least in the long run (Županov 2005: 62). 3

Beyond the Western Coast

From the perspective of the Catholic Church’s further diffusion in India in the sixteenth century, the conversion of Parava fishers living along the so-called Fishery Coast, a strip of land between Kanyakumari and Rameshwaram on the southern tip of India in today’s Tamil Nadu, is of considerable significance. St. Francis Xavier is credited with evangelising them, although they had at least nominally become Christians some years prior to his arrival among them. What is important in the case of the Paravas is that their conversion constitutes a counterexample to any conversion linked to external compulsion: A delegation led by the head of the Parava caste met with the Portuguese authorities in Goa, and the decision to adopt the Christian religion was taken as part of a deal struck in order to secure Portuguese protection of their fishing interests against their rivals and against exploitation by Muslim middlemen (Frykenberg 2008: 137–38). Traditionally relegated to the lowest rung in the cast structure of Hindu society, it is understandable that the Paravas should consider their adoption of a different religion as no big deal. But, following minimal assistance from Jesuit missionaries sent from Goa, the fact that their commitment to Christianity grew into a deliberate and conscious choice that became the focus of a newly forged identity, makes the conversion of the Paravas a significant episode in the history of the Catholic diffusion in India. Within a few decades after the arrival of Christianity along the Fishery Coast, according

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to Jesuit records, there were about 40,000 to 50,000 Christians in the place who paid for the building and maintenance of churches and for the service of the Jesuit missionaries (Thekkedath 1988: 170–71). Adopting Catholicism also seemed a viable option to many other fishing communities, like the Mukkuvas, who were located along on the Fishery Coast and beyond, as a means of escape from the caste discrimination they had endured for centuries. Caste, the Hindu ordering of the society based on religious notions of purity and pollution, which brings under its sway everything from one’s social position to one’s occupation, has been both a boon and a bane for Catholicism in India. Paradoxically, most of Catholicism’s adherents were drawn to it because of the Hindu caste system, but what they found, and often contributed to perpetuating, within the fold of Catholicism would be a replica of that same social system (Ballhatchet 1998). In some significant ways, the Christianity of the Parava and other converts—from both the coast and inland, among whom the Nadars and Veḷḷālars were of a somewhat higher caste status and had a later entry into Catholicism—was, as far as social attitudes and culture were concerned, very much Hindu: “their religion, while Christian, remained conspicuously ‘Hindu’ or ‘Nativistic.’ Ceremonials, rituals, and social structures remained ‘birth’ and ‘caste’ ( jāti) oriented” (Frykenberg 2008: 138). Separate churches and cemeteries for different castes or, wherever this was not possible, internal divisions in churches and cemeteries with separate entries for members of different castes, was often the practice followed in some regions where Catholicism came to be practised (Ballhatchet 1998: 8, 111–12). Caste was, on occasion, a cause of violent reactions and strife both within and outside the Church. While, on the one hand, Christians sought to defy caste-codes in their interactions with Hindus, often resulting in social friction, on the other hand they themselves subscribed to caste-considerations within the Church, which would be no less a source of conflict. Albeit in a different way, caste would be at the heart of the first Catholic mission carried out beyond the coastal regions and beyond the Portuguese sphere of influence: the Madurai mission in the Hindu heartland of present day Tamil Nadu. Started by Jesuits in the seventeenth century, its claim to fame is linked to the name of Robert de Nobili, an Italian Jesuit of noble descent. Arriving in Madurai in 1606, de Nobili would soon discover the intricacies of the Hindu caste system and understand how Catholicism’s identification with Pfaranghis—a derogatory term for the Portuguese, who were considered unrefined in their culture and manners—in the minds of Indians, and its perception as a religion of low-caste converts from the Fishery Coast, was an obstacle to any Hindus from higher castes accepting it. Stressing his Italian and noble origin, de Nobili publicly distanced himself both from the

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Portuguese and Jesuits working with the Parava and other low-caste converts (Frykenberg 2008: 139). His aim was to present a version of Catholicism that took on board the social and religious sensibilities and expectations of Hindus from higher castes. In what has come to be seen as a case of “adaptation,” de Nobili followed the customs and manners of Brahmans and adopted the lifestyle of a Hindu renouncer, a saṃnyāsin. Though his missionary style and method attracted sharp criticism and gave rise to a long-lasting controversy known as “The Malabar Rite Controversy” (Wicki 1973: 934–38; Županov and Hsia 2007: 583–84),7 at the height of his activity in Madurai, de Nobili converted a few hundred Brahmans to the cause of Catholicism. Apart from the question of caste, which de Nobili tried to deal with in a specific way, his work as a Catholic missionary remains emblematic. His experiment of “adaptation” was premised on a rather difficult, if not impossible, distinction that was drawn between the Hindu religion and its attendant social and cultural practices. From his perspective, everything about Hinduism that was not quintessentially religious in nature could, and even should, be adopted in the presentation of Christianity in India. Theological justification for this was sought in the notion that the religious core of paganism, in this case Hinduism, could be substituted with Christian religious beliefs and values, requiring minimal changes to the social and cultural lives of converts (Županov 2005: 18). What one finds new in de Nobili’s missionary approach is a genuine recognition of the social and cultural values found in the Hindu way of life. What came to be seen as controversial in his approach was the underlying conviction that these values could be separated from the Hindu religion as such and integrated into a Christian system of beliefs and practices. Proving that becoming Christian is not tantamount to becoming estranged from one’s social and cultural context is what can perhaps be understood as the genuine idea behind de Nobili’s missionary experiments. However, the ultimate significance of de Nobili’s work in Madurai might lie in his initiation of a more profound engagement with religious Hinduism than in his attempt to externally adapt Christianity to its social and cultural norms. De Nobili was the first foreigner to gain an in-depth knowledge of Hinduism through a familiarity with some of its scriptures, which he read in Sanskrit (Ross 2006: 480–81). Two of his Latin works, known by their shortened titles 7  It is worth remembering that de Nobili’s view of caste as devoid of religious significance, as well as his method of adaptation, were approved by Pope Gregory XV in 1623. The pope allowed four items in de Nobili’s attempt at adaptation: wearing the Hindu sacred thread; the kuḍumi (a tuft of hair on the head) and wooden sandals; and the practice of ablutions before any religious act (Wicki 1973: 934; Ballhatchet 1998: 7–8).

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Informatio and Narratio, represent the first examples of an intellectual engagement with Hindu theology and philosophy attempted by a Christian. Although other missionaries before and after him took up the intellectual challenge presented by Hinduism and sometimes came up with works containing detailed information and ideas about it, Halbfass is right in his estimate of de Nobili when he writes that “like few others, he exemplifies the idea and the problematic nature of the encounter between Christianity and Hinduism and, more generally, the hermeneutic ambivalence and dialectic of missionary teaching and scholarship” (1990: 38). In this connection, we may mention here some of the Catholic missionaries whose works, which explore Hindu religion and culture, have paved the way for what was later on to become, through the efforts of scholars such as Monier-Williams, Max Müller, and William Ward among others, an articulate and systematic body of knowledge on the Hindu religion and its pantheon of divinities, texts, practices, and beliefs. Meant for the royal council of Philip III, Frey Agostinho’s account of Hinduism, which was written in 1603 and contains a systematic presentation of the religion with clear notions about its basic texts and the Sanskrit language (Županov and Hsia 2007: 581), is probably the first of many texts of this kind to be produced by missionaries. The Portuguese Jesuit Diogo Gonçalves’ História do Malavar (1615) and the Italian Jesuit Giacomo Fenicio’s Livro da Seita dos Indios Orientais (1609), written in Portuguese, represent two additional early examples of missionary literature on Hinduism as it was found in Malabar in the seventeenth century. Biased in their attitude toward Hinduism and flawed in their description of it, in these texts, as Županov would note, “the desire for knowledge, or perhaps simply for telling curious and edifying stories, often surpassed the limits of the missionary framework and facilitated the ‘discovery’ and representation of the native social and cultural patterns” (2005: 172). Before its belated publication, the work of Fenicio would be circulated as a manuscript among Jesuit missionaries; a later work on Hinduism, known for its scientific rigour and scholarship, the Systema Brahmanicum (1791) of Paulinus of St. Bartholomew of the Order of the Discalced Carmelites (Tucci 2005: 139), would be indebted to it. Fenicio’s Livro deals extensively with the popular tales about Hindu divinities as found in the Purāṇas and the epics the Mahābhārata and Rāmāyaṇa, although the intention of Fenicio’s retelling of them is to decry their immorality and unreasonableness. As for unsympathetic views and opinions that were expressed in regard to Hinduism and its practices, Gonçalves’s work expresses a sentiment similar to that of Fenicio (Županov 2005: 175–92). Much less hostile and prejudiced toward Hinduism is the work of a Carmelite, Vincenzo Maria of St. Catherine of Siena’s Viaggio alle Indie Orientali (1672), which contains a

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wealth of information he gathered about various aspects of the religion during his stay in India that lasted a few years (Tucci 2005: 140–41). Apart from the scholarly treatises written on Hinduism, the missionary engagement in the wider field of Hindu or Indian culture has been considerable. Although the primary aim of such engagements, like composing dictionaries, writing grammar texts, and making translations, etc., was the communication of the Christian faith, often these efforts were also genuine exercises in intercultural communication and understanding. The Italian Jesuit missionary Costantino Beschi (1680–1742) was a close follower of de Nobili when it came to adapting himself to the lifestyle and social customs associated with Hinduism. But more importantly, he was an eminent scholar of Tamil language and literature who produced works around Christian themes, like the Kalambagam and Tēmbāvani, of such literary quality that these would be rated as Tamil classics (Tucci 2005: 136–38). The improvements in the knowledge of the Hindu religion and culture that have come about through the efforts of so many Catholic missionaries in India naturally belong in any appraisal of the Catholic Church’s encounter and interactions with Hinduism. 4

The Congregation of Propaganda Fide and Its Overture to Non-European Cultures

The Congregatio de Propaganda Fide or, more commonly, the Propaganda Fide or the Propaganda, that is, the Catholic Church’s official organ for its mission outreach, was established in Rome in 1622. Among the many reasons behind its institution, the main one was certainly a growing sense of dissatisfaction with the Spanish and Portuguese royal patronage (patronato/padroado) upon which the Church had, until then, relied for its expansion. Catholicism was the official religion of Portugal and its colonies; in practice, the king of Portugal wielded in the colonies as much power as the pope, if not more, in religious matters. Apart from the fact that this was a permanent cause of tension between Rome and Lisbon, this was also causing a problem for the Catholic Church’s image in the colonies ruled by Portugal. Inevitably, the Church was identified with Portuguese colonialism and seen as subservient to its political aims, affecting its moral standing among the people. Although Rome would not be able to immediately rescind the powers granted to the Portuguese crown through previous accords, by setting up the Propaganda Fide, the Vatican would seek to bypass such powers in places not directly under colonial rule. Bringing to life an old institutional figure, the Propaganda Fide would begin to appoint “vicars apostolic”, who had the power of jurisdiction over a territory and faculties

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equivalent to that of a bishop, and who would be directly answerable to the pope (Moffett 2005: 16). The ensuing struggle and conflict between the two overlapping authorities in charge of the Catholic mission in India—between the Propaganda and the Padroado establishment—constitute an important part of the convoluted history of the Catholic Church in India in the seventeenth century and beyond. The difference between the two would not be about matters of faith, but solely about their power of jurisdiction. Of interest to us here is the fact that, from this period on, it will be the Propaganda Fide that is the primary agent of Catholic expansion in India. Of greater interest to us, however, is a change in sensibility and in style, if not in substance, that would characterise the Propaganda Fide’s projection of Catholicism in India. Different from the Padroado ecclesiastical authorities in Goa, the Propaganda Fide was keen to recruit local candidates to priesthood and promote the native clergy to positions of responsibility in the Church. Not surprisingly, the first vicar apostolic of India, appointed by the Propaganda over the newly created vicariate of Bijapur, would be an Indian known by the name of Matteo de Castro, who was a Brahman Christian from Goa. The history of his troubles with the Padroado authorities in Goa would be a long and complex one (Wicki 1972: 551–55). The Propaganda Fide established the “Collegium Urbanum” in 1627, which was to grow, in the course of time, into today’s “Pontificia Università Urbaniana”8 whose aim is to provide intellectual and religious formation for candidates from mission territories. In this connection, it may be noted that Pope Urban VIII would mention reserving a number of seats in the “Collegium Urbanum” for candidates from Abissinia and India in his bull Onerosa pastorialis (June 21, 1639) (Wicki 1972: 564). Rescuing the image of the Catholic Church from its damaging association with Portuguese colonialism would be an urgent priority for the Propaganda Fide. But there was another priority as well: helping the Church move toward genuine integration into the cultural and social conditions of the places in which it existed. Taking its cue from the experiments of cultural adaptation pioneered by Matteo Ricci in China and by Robert de Nobili in India, the Propaganda Fide issued a remarkable document in 1659: its “Instruction to Vicars Apostolic,” which is considered by many to be the Magna Charta (Sievernich 2012: 323) of a new Catholic missionary engagement in the world. Although the “Instruction” did not specifically relate to Portuguese colonialism or to the Padroado missions in India, it would in no uncertain terms criticise the existing European missions that, according to the document, more often 8  “Sintesi del percorso storico (1627–2015),” available at: http://www.urbaniana.edu/urbaniana/ Informazioni%20Generali/IdentitaeStoria.aspx (accessed January 7, 2018).

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than not were run as extensions of colonial projects. The Eurocentric nature of the Christianity brought to mission lands was singled out for criticism. “What could be more absurd,” the document asked, “than to export France, Spain, Italy, or some other European country to China?” (Instructio Vicariorum Apostolicorum 1976: 702). The document would further recommend the conservation of the traditions, customs, and manners of the people, and would go so far as to ask the missionaries to gain familiarity with the traditions and customs of the people among whom they were sent. The “Instruction” told the vicars apostolic, “You should not attempt in any way to persuade these peoples to change their manners, customs and habits unless they be clearly contrary to religion and morals.” Rather thoughtfully, the document would continue: “Since almost all men naturally appreciate and love things that are theirs and their own country above all others, nothing causes more hate and alienation than the change of indigenous customs, especially when they go back to time immemorial, and more so if they are abrogated by substituting them with foreign customs” (Instructio Vicariorum Apostolicorum 1976: 702–3). The Catholic Church’s and the Propaganda Fide’s campaign against the missionary nationalism of the western colonial nations would, in fact, continue well into the middle of the twentieth century (Hastings 2003). Propaganda Fide’s activities in India were manifold. The presence of Catholicism in the central and northern parts of India owes its origin mainly to the various vicariates apostolic set up there by the Propaganda, even though conversions to Catholicism in these places remained few and far between. In the seventeenth century, Calvinist Holland appeared on the scene in India as a rival to the Portuguese power. In the latter half of the seventeenth century, Portugal would surrender to Holland, one after another, most of its colonial territories along India’s coasts, with the exception of Goa, Daman, and Diu. On its part, Holland was less interested in converting Hindus than in converting Catholics to Calvinism (Wicki 1972: 549). In 1673, France established its presence in Pondicherry and Karaikal on the east coast of India and, in 1790, would expand its presence to Chandernagar (north of Calcutta) in West Bengal. As a Catholic country, France supplied a number of missionaries who were active in disseminating Catholicism in and around its territories. But the major foreign presence to eventually dominate the subcontinent of India was Britain, through the East India Company. In 1661, Portugal ceded the island of Bombay to the East India Company as part of the Portuguese princess Catherine of Braganza’s dowry to King Charles II of Britain. At the start of the eighteenth century, there were about 16,000 inhabitants in Bombay, of which a significant percentage were Catholic (Wicki 1973: 939). In Wicki’s estimate, the eighteenth century would, on the whole, prove unfavourable to Catholic expansion

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in India. While the Propaganda-Padroado strife would take the wind out of the sail of Catholic missions, the political and cultural conditions prevalent in post-Enlightenment Europe would sap the Catholic missionaries’ moral energy. There were, in fact, fewer missionaries sent from Europe to India during this period; moreover, the pecuniary difficulties the Church faced in Europe inhibited all further progress of Catholicism in India (ibid.: 934). As a result, some Catholics would even defect from the Church. The Pontificate of Gregory XVI oversaw a revival of Catholic missions in India. Apart from allowing the Jesuits to return to their places in India, which had been left vacant following the suppression of the Jesuit Order in 1773, the papal brief titled Multa praeclare, signed on April 24, 1838, through which the Pope asserted his supreme authority over all Catholics in India, including those under the Padroado jurisdiction, was a significant step in this direction. The opposition from the Padroado notwithstanding, the efforts of Pope Gregory XVI would continue to be pursued by his successor, Pope Pius IX. Even so, the greatest merit for the revival of Catholic missions in India has to go the efforts of Clément Bonnand, the Bishop of Pondicherry and Vicar Apostolic of the Coromandel Coast, to bring order and discipline among the Catholics (Frykenberg 2008: 354–55). Through the formation of the Catholic Hierarchy in India, which was put into effect through Pope Leo XIII’s bull, Humanae salutis, of 1885, India had a Catholic Church of its own—made up of six archdioceses and ten dioceses and a vicariate apostolic, all of which were, until then, under the direct supervision of the Propaganda Fide (ibid.: 355–56). The archdiocese of Goa and the diocese of Mylapore would remain attached to Padroado, and thus to Portugal. Additions to the Catholic fold in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century would mainly come from the ādivāsi peoples living in the hilly areas in the central and northeastern parts of India. But, in such places, Catholicism had already been preceded by other Christian churches. Of particular note is the spread of Catholicism among the tribal people in the Jesuit mission of Chota Nagpur through the efforts of Constant Lievens, who fought against their oppression by their Hindu landlords (Moffett 2005: 430–31). The beginnings of the Catholic mission in northeast India can be dated to 1890 (Becker 1980), and this is an area of India where Catholicism would see a considerable upsurge in the number of its adherents in the twentieth century. Long before any real change in its attitude toward Hinduism would become apparent—for this, one has to wait until the middle of the twentieth century—the Catholic Church had already manifested its openness to aspects of the general culture bound to the world of Hinduism. It envisioned a kind of “purification” of the cultural elements bound to Hinduism and their adoption into the life and practices of the Catholic Church in India. It is right to say

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that relations with Hinduism in the ecclesiastical provinces, which were once under the direction of the Propaganda Fide and then under that of the Catholic Hierarchy of India, was certainly less confrontational than in Portuguese ruled Goa or the territories controlled by the East India Company. Rather tellingly, after the revision of its Charter in 1813, following which the East India Company would be obliged to allow Christian missionaries into its territories, there was a preference shown toward Catholic missionaries over others (Ballhatchet 1998: 13–22). In fact, for various reasons, the administrators of the Company would be warier of Protestant missionaries and their activities than of Catholic missionaries and their activities. It may also be noted that some of the Company’s officials would in fact not see much of a difference between Hinduism and Catholicism from the point of view of their external expressions (ibid.: 19–20). After all, it is not so surprising that—because of its prolific use of religious imagery, its sacramental religiosity, its attachment to rituals, ceremonies, and ceremonials and, more importantly, its ambiguous stance on the issue of caste—the nineteenth-century Catholic Church appeared, in the eyes of many Protestants and Hindus, at least externally, as no better than or no different from Hinduism (Doniger 2015: 590). For a long time, Hindu reactions, if there were any, to the presence of the Catholic Church in India were muted. Such a lack of reaction is coherent with what Halbfass has aptly called “a tradition of silence and evasion,” which characterised the Indian response to outside challenges up to around 1800 (Halbfass 1990: 437). Even when there was finally some reaction to Christianity by the Hindu elite (Young 1981), this was mostly directed at Protestantism. Likewise, in the nineteenth century, the Brahman resistance to newly converted Christians and Hindu-Christian clashes in the district of Tirunelveli, which was under the Madras Presidency of the East India Company (Frykenberg 2008: 274–84), mainly concerned the Protestant churches. Instances of Hindu reactions that were specifically directed against Catholicism, if any, were certainly very few, or went unreported. In reality, when Hinduism started to react, its reactions were directed at Christianity in general, with hardly any distinction made between its different confessions. From the nineteenth century onward, the centre of Hindu-Christian encounters and interactions would be Bengal and its capital Calcutta, which was the headquarters of British India until 1911 and was a region where Catholics were mostly absent. The Hindu-Christian encounters—both intellectual and religious, and leading to processes of both appreciation and assimilation and resistance and rejection—played a crucial role in the rise of Indian nationalism and the struggle for India’s independence. The precise role and influence of Christian ideas and practices in the Hindu reformist movements remains a debated issue. The Hindu reformers certainly contributed their own critical

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reflections on Christianity. The Hindu reactions to Christianity in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries were voiced primarily through the writings and utterances of Hindu leaders and thinkers, such as Rammohun Roy, Dayananda Saraswati, Swami Vivekananda, Mahatma Gandhi, Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, and others. 5

The Second Vatican Council: a Shift in the Catholic Church’s Attitude to Hinduism

Broadly speaking, the question of other religions—what to think of them theologically and how to deal with them practically—has elicited two kinds of responses in the history of Christianity. One response is to reject them on the premise of their falsity; the other is to accept them, albeit partially, on the basis that they harbour elements of goodness and truth. Since the sixteenth century, the period when the Catholic Church came into contact with religions that were previously unknown to it, the question of other religions presented itself with renewed urgency. The key moments and basic features of the Catholic Church’s engagement with Hinduism since its arrival on the west coast of India in 1498 has been the focus of this article so far. But what clearly comes to the fore in its encounter and engagement with Hinduism is the persistence of the two alternative, historically unresolved, perceptions about other religions mentioned above. It is in the sense of being a watershed event for the Catholic Church, which was responsible for defining and resetting its understanding of and attitude toward other religions, that the Second Vatican Council, or Vatican II (1962–65), becomes important for us here. In the Nostra Aetate,9 one of the last documents, and the shortest, the council explicitly addressed the question of other religions. Contrary to being viewed as entities to be shunned, repudiated, ignored, or fought against, other religions would become, in the understanding of the council, realities to be acknowledged, respected, appreciated, and engaged with through open dialogue. The radical novelty of this attitude toward other religions becomes clear when one understands that it is the very first instance where an official Church document has even acknowledged the existence of other religions. For a number of reasons, Vatican II’s new approach to other religions would amount to nothing short of a decisive shift in the Church’s 9  “Declaration on the Relation of the Church to Non-Christian Religions,” available at: http://www.vatican.va/archive/hist_councils/ii_vatican_council/documents/vat-ii_decl_ 19651028_nostra-aetate_en.html (accessed January 10, 2018).

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stance on other religions. Nostra Aetate, which literally means “in our time,” is a document that addresses the religious implications of a progressive drawing closer of humankind and of a growing interdependence among all peoples living on the face of the earth. It speaks of God as the “Father of all” (Nostra Aetate: n.5)—the origin and goal of all humanity—under whose loving care different peoples constitute one community, and whose goodness and saving design extends to all (Nostra Aetate: n.1). It includes such statements as “The Catholic Church rejects nothing that is true and holy in the religions. She regards with sincere reverence those ways of conduct and of life, those precepts and teachings which […] often reflect a ray of that Truth which enlightens all men,” and the following endorsement of interreligious dialogue: “The Church, therefore, exhorts her sons, that through dialogue and collaboration with the followers of other religions […] they recognize, preserve and promote the good things, spiritual and moral, as well as the sociocultural values found among these men” (Nostra Aetate: n.2). The Catholic Church’s, so to say, formal “rehabilitation” of other religions in Vatican II was the end result of a gradual change in this direction that had been influenced by a number of factors; not least of which was its experiences with other religious traditions in its missions, which was reflected in a new Catholic theology of religions in the making in the first half of the twentieth century (Prudhomme 2001). Hinduism is mentioned in the Nostra Aetate as a religion bound up with an advanced culture, and its contemplative experience of the divine, as well as its philosophical speculations into the divine nature, are singled out. The document further alludes to the three classical paths of liberation known in Hinduism: karma, jñāna, and bhakti; or, as the text itself describes them, “ascetical practices,” “profound meditation,” and “flight to God with love and trust” (Nostra Aetate: n.2). Behind the Catholic Church’s changed attitude to Hinduism, as we find it expressed in the Nostra Aetate, it is possible to see a series of contributing factors. Among these, its centuries long experience of encountering and engaging with Hinduism in India remains the most significant one. In a sense, through Vatican II’s Nostra Aetate, the Church was only formally recognising the positive approach to other religions already set in motion in its missions (Prudhomme 2001: 360–63). In India, dialogue with Hinduism was already an ongoing practice when the Second Vatican Council invited Catholics to dialogue with other religions. The protagonists of inter-faith dialogue with Hinduism around the time of the council were two French Benedictine monks—Jules Monchanin (1895–1957) and Henri Le Saux (1910–73). But the first Catholic to engage in serious theological dialogue with Hinduism was Brahmabandhab Upadhyaya (1861–1907) a Brahman convert from Bengal (Lipner 1999). Before

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the convocation of the council and its official declaration on the Church’s relation to other religions, there were Catholic theologians in India who were engaged in a positive reevaluation of Hinduism. Pierre Johannes (1882–1955) and his Jesuit companions working in Bengal acknowledged positive aspects in Hinduism and considered it as something of a steppingstone to Christianity or, in more appropriate, theological terms, as a praeparatio evangelica (preparation for the Gospel). Among others who engaged in dialogue and comparative studies with Hindu culture and religion in the pre-Vatican II years, we might mention Pierre Fallon, Josef Neuner, Robert Antoine, and Guy Deleury (Trianni 2016: 35). 6

Hindu-Catholic Dialogue

If the Nostra Aetate set the tone and parameters for the Catholic Church’s new relation with other religions, the institution of the “Secretariat for Non-Christians” by Pope Paul VI in 1964 provided it with an organisational structure within the Vatican curia. This Roman Catholic Church dicastery, entrusted with the promotion of understanding, collaboration, and dialogue between the Catholic Church and other religions, was renamed by Pope John Paul II in 1988 as the “Pontifical Council for Interreligious Dialogue.” Documents issued by the popes and the Vatican dicastery for interreligious dialogue after Vatican II not only reaffirmed the Church’s commitment to dialogue with other religions but also further refined and enhanced the theological thinking behind it and gave guidelines for exercising it. Among such documents, it is necessary to mention: the apostolic exhortation of Pope Paul VI titled Evangelii Nuntianti (1975); the Pontifical Council’s “The Attitude of the Church towards the Followers of Other Religions” (1984); the Pontifical Council and Congregation for the Evangelization of the Peoples’ (formerly, Congregatio de Propaganda Fide) conjoint “Dialogue and Proclamation” (1991); and Pope John Paul II’s encyclical Redemptoris Missio (1990) (Gioia 1994). Among other things, the last two of these documents are keen to affirm the autonomous nature of interreligious dialogue and its practices despite their being embedded in the Christian mission of proclaiming Jesus Christ as the saviour of mankind. This was actually in view of rectifying an erroneous perception that was taking hold of both Catholics and members of other religions about the true meaning and intention of interreligious dialogue: while many Catholics saw it as standing as a substitute for the proclamation of the Gospel, members of other religions would often interpret it as a mere strategy and means for Christian proselytising. It may be further noted that the Redemptoris Missio broke new ground in the Catholic view of other religions by placing them under the purview of

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the Holy Spirit: “The Spirit’s presence and activity affect not only the individuals but also society and history, peoples, cultures and religions” (Redemptoris Missio 1990: n.28). The Catholic Church’s dialogue with Hinduism takes place in a variety of ways and at various levels and places. Occasionally, the Pontifical Council for Interreligious Dialogue takes a joint initiative with other organisations to organise Hindu-Catholic dialogues, either in India or in places where a significant Hindu diaspora is present. Two such dialogue meetings may be mentioned here: in November 2011, in collaboration with the Indian Church, particularly with the Diocese of Poona, a three-day “Hindu-Christian Colloquium” was organised at the “Jnana-Deepa Vidyapeeth” in Poona in which thirty experts and leaders from both the Catholic and Hindu sides participated; in June 2013, in collaboration with the Episcopal Conference of England and Wales, a “Hindu-Christian Dialogue Meeting” was organised at the BAPS Sri Swaminarayan Temple premises in London. Naturally, the widest range of Hindu-Catholic interreligious meetings takes place in India, where they are mainly organised or patronised by the Catholic Bishop’s Conference of India’s (CBCI) “Office for Dialogue and Ecumenism” or by the individual dioceses. Although, it is not unusual to have the initiative for Hindu-Christian dialogue come from Hindu organisations and centres. The Catholic Church in India has enthusiastically embraced the new policy of dialogue with other religions endorsed by the Second Vatican Council, considering it not just important but, in the context of India, absolutely necessary and urgent. The multi-religious character of the nation and its tolerance of religious diversity, beginning in very ancient times in its history, have certainly influenced Indian Catholics’ willing embrace of dialogue. Since the 1960s, interreligious meetings organised at national, regional, and local levels have become a regular feature in India. In the meantime, the CBCI alone, or along with the Federation of Asian Bishops’ Conferences, has produced a number of official documents advocating, encouraging, and providing theological clarifications and practical guidelines for dialogue with other religions. These documents do bear witness to the importance the Catholic Church in India attaches to the question of interreligious dialogue and to its commitment to dialogue with other religions, especially Hinduism (Thuruthiyil 2010: 195–96). The Catholic Church’s engagement with Hinduism through interreligious dialogue in India is ongoing. The spiritual dialogue with Hinduism, which was started by Monchanin and Le Saux with the creation of “Christian Ashrams,” has continued under the leadership of figures like Bede Griffiths (1906–93) and Francis Acharya (1917–2002), in whose footsteps others have followed. Catholicism’s dialogue with Hinduism has produced scarcely any conversion

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to either side. But what it has nevertheless produced is very significant: It has given rise to better knowledge and a growing appreciation of Hinduism on the part of many Catholics, and the Christian message and values disseminated through it have resonated with a number of Hindus. Without willing to be part of the Catholic or other Christian churches, there are a number of Hindus today in India for whom the teachings of Jesus Christ have left a mark in their personal lives. On the academic side of Hindu-Catholic dialogue, even though not exclusively confined to the study of Hinduism and Christianity, the Jesuit Institute for the Study of Religion in Poona and the Institute of Dialogue with Cultures and Religions in Chennai deserve mention. Many Catholic theologians in India have delved into the Hindu philosophic-theological system of advaita and have produced original works of comparison between advaita and Catholic theology, particularly Thomism (Ganeri 2011: 129–33). Although Hindu-Catholic engagements, in the sense of academic studies and research, are today mostly done in India, historically the various pontifical athenea of Rome have been places of such engagement and continue to be so today. In some of them, the study of Hinduism was part of the curricula of studies long before the Second Vatican Council. Obviously, after Vatican II there has been much more attention paid to its study, and the perspective of such study also shifted away from Christian apologetics to interreligious dialogue. Among the pontifical universities that have contributed to the Church’s efforts at intellectual and cultural engagement with Hinduism one should first mention Urbaniana University, which is run under the auspices of the Vatican Congregation for the Evangelization of the Peoples, formerly known as the Congregatio de Propaganda Fide. Both a regular university course on Hinduism titled “Religio Indiana” and one on the Sanskrit language, “Lingua Sanskrita,” were offered at Urbaniana beginning in the 1950s,10 and they were taught by an Indian Carmelite by the name of Cyril Bernard Papali whose two-volume work Hinduismus (written in Latin and published in Rome in 1953 and 1960) was a widely used handbook for Hinduism in the pontifical athenea of Rome. Among the Roman pontifical university professors of Hinduism who should be mentioned for their contributions to Catholic reflections and research on Hinduism are Daniel Acharuparambil of the Urbaniana and Mariasusai Dhavamony of the Gregorian University. After defending his thesis, The Unknown Christ of Hinduism, Raimon Panikkar (1918–2010), one of the key figures of interreligious dialogue of our times, obtained his doctoral degree in theology from the Lateran University in Rome in 1961. Panikkar’s work is better known than most other research work produced in the pontifical universities 10  Pont. Athenei Urbani de Propaganda Fide et Pont. Instituti Missionalis Scientifici, Kalendarium (MCMLIV–MCMLV ): 75–76, 98.

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of Rome. An example of the ongoing attempts at Hindu-Christian research that are promoted and undertaken at pontifical universities of Rome is the recent Hindu-Christian Dictionary: Essential Terms for Interreligious Dialogue, which was jointly produced and published by the Urbaniana University, Rome and the Hindu K.J. Somaiya Bharatiya Sanskriti Peetham Institute, Mumbai in English and Italian. The Italian version of the dictionary carries the title Dizionario Hindu-Cristiano. Luoghi per il dialogo interreligioso (2017). 7

Conclusion

The history of the meeting and interaction between the Catholic Church and Hinduism, despite all its complexities and vagaries, is ultimately one of evolving attitudes on the basis of a gradual growth in the understanding and acceptance of each other. On the part of the Catholic Church, the history of its encounter with Hinduism has mainly been about how, from an initial position of almost total ignorance and antagonism toward it, over the centuries, the Church has come to: know and appreciate Hinduism; adapt its own message and ways to the Hindu cultural and religious sensibilities in India; and, ultimately, recognise Hinduism as part of a divine plan of universal salvation and a partner in interfaith dialogue. Though not in the same manner, Hinduism’s encounter and engagement with Christianity—not to say solely with Catholicism—over the last few centuries, to be sure, has also been a catalyst for change. But have all those changes been positive, going in the right direction? This is a question one would be tempted to ask in the face of a homogenised, politicised, militant, and intolerant Hinduism that is opposed to dialogue and interreligious harmony, which is very much on display in contemporary India. Still, the good news may be that, as Wendy Doniger in her inimitable style has put it, the other sort of Hinduism, the full-screen, pluralist, creative sort, remains in the majority, and it, too, can call up mass media to rally its forces. The film industry—both in Bollywood and among the many fine independent filmmakers of India—has broadcast, throughout India and abroad, powerful tales of inter-religious tolerance and protests against injustice, as have individual Hindu artists and writers, jamming the mindless transmissions of the bigoted blogs. The Hinduism of the future will have to survive in a multi-cultural, multi-religious India that simply will not be homogenized […]. The Hinduism of the future will continue to be light years ahead of the fundamentalists of all religions in its breadth of vision, depth of spiritual understanding and spellbinding stories. (2013: 147–48)

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References Axelrod, P. and Michelle A. Fuerch (1996) “Flight of the Deities: Hindu Resistance in Portuguese Goa.” Modern Asian Studies, 30: 387–421. Ballhatchet, K. (1998) Caste, Class and Catholicism in India 1789–1914. New York: Routledge. Battaglia, G. (2007) Cristiani indiani. I cristiani di san Tommaso nel confronto di civiltà del XVI secolo. Città del Vaticano: Urbaniana University Press. Becker, C. (1980) History of the Catholic Missions in Northeast India (1890–1915). Calcutta: Vendrame Missiological Institute. Doniger, Wendy (2013) On Hinduism. New Delhi: Aleph Book Company. Doniger, Wendy (2015) The Hindus. An Alternative History. New Delhi: Speaking Tiger Publishing Pvt. Ltd. Frykenberg, Robert E. (2008) Christianity in India. From Beginnings to the Present. New York: Oxford University Press. Ganeri, M. (2011) “Catholicism and Hinduism,” in G. D’Costa (ed.), The Catholic Church and the World Religions. A Theological and Phenomenological Account, 106–40. London: T and T Clark International. Ginio, Alisa Meyuhas (1999) “The Inquisition and the New Christians: The Case of the Portuguese Inquisition of Goa.” The Medieval History Journal, 2/1: 1–18. Gioia, F. (ed.) (1994) Interreligious Dialogue: The Official Teaching of the Catholic Church (1963–1995). Boston: Pauline Books and Media. Halbfass, W. (1990) India and Europe. An Essay in Philosophical Understanding. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass (Albany: State University of New York of Press, 1988). Hastings, A. (2003) “The Clash of Nationalism and Universalism within Twentieth-Century Missionary Christianity,” in Stanley, B. (ed.), Missions, Nationalism and the End of the Empire, 15–33. Grand Rapids, MI and Cambridge: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company. Instructio Vicariorum Apostolicorum ad Regna Sinarum, Tonchini et Cocincinae proficiscentium 1659 (1976), in Sacrae Congregationis de Propaganda Fide—memoria rerum 1622–1972. Vol. III/2, 1815–1972, 697–704. Rom-Freiburg-Wien: Herder. Jacobsen, Knut A. (2009) “Introduction,” in Knut A. Jacobsen et al. (ed.), Brill’s Encyclopedia of Hinduism, vol. 1, xxxiii–xliii. Leiden: Brill. Keay, J. (2000) India. A History. London: HarperCollins. Lipner, J. (1999) Brahmabandhab Upadhyay: The Life and Thought of a Revolutionary. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Moffett, Samuel H. (2001) A History of Christianity in Asia. Vol. 1, Beginnings to 1500. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Moffett, Samuel H. (2005) A History of Christianity in Asia. Vol. 2, 1500–1900. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books.

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Mundadan, A.M. (1984) History of Christianity in India. Vol. 1, From the Beginning up to the Middle of the Sixteenth Century. Bangalore: Theological Publications in India. Pearson, M.N. (1984) “Goa during the First Century of Portuguese Rule.” Itinerario, 8: 36–57. Preckler, Fernando G. (2017) History of the Church in Asia. A Historical Survey. Città del Vaticano: Urbaniana University Press. Prudhomme, C. (2001) “Mission et religions: le point de vue catholique 1939–1957,” in Jacquin F. and J. Zorn (eds.), L’altérité religieuse. Un défi pour la missions chrétienne, 347–64. Paris: Éditions Karthala. Ross, Andrew C. (2006) “Christian Encounters with Other World Religions,” in Stewart J. Brown and T. Tackett (eds.), The Cambridge History of Christianity. Vol. 7, Enlightenment, Reawakening and Revolution 1660–1815, 475–94. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sievernich, M. (2012) La missione cristiana. Storia e presente. Brescia: Editrice Queriniana. Thekkedath, J. (1988) History of Christianity in India. Vol. 2, From the Middle of the Sixteenth Century to the End of the Seventeenth Century. Bangalore: Theological Publications in India. Thuruthiyil, S. (2010) “Inter-Religious Dialogue between the Catholic Church and Hinduism,” in F. Imoda and R. Papini (eds.), The Catholic Church and Its Presence in Asia, 189–209. Milano: Edizioni Nagard. Trianni, P. (2016) Nostra Aetate. Alle radici del dialogo interreligioso. Città del Vaticano: Lateran University Press. Tucci, G. (2005) Italia e Oriente. Roma: ISIAO. Wicki, J. (1972) “Unbewältigte Probleme in Indien, Ceylon und Birma,” in Sacrae Congregationis de Propaganda Fide—memoria rerum 1622–1972. Vol. 1, 1622–1700, 547–71. Rom-Freiburg-Wien: Herder. Wicki, J. (1973) “Schwierige Missionsprobleme in Indien,” in Sacrae Congregationis de Propaganda Fide—memoria rerum 1622–1972. Vol. 2, 1700–1815, 933–61. Rom-Freiburg-Wien: Herder. Young, Richard F. (1981) Resistant Hinduism: Sanskrit Sources on Anti-Christian Apologetics in Early Nineteenth-Century India. Leiden: Brill. Županov, Ines G. (2005) Missionary Tropics: The Catholic Frontier in India (16th–17th Centuries). Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Županov, Ines G. and Po-Chia R. Hsia (2007) “Reception of Hinduism and Buddhism,” in Po-Chia R. Hsia (ed.), The Cambridge History of Christianity. Vol. 6, Reform and Expansion 1500–1660, 577–97. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

CHAPTER 5

Protestant Views on Hinduism Kajsa Ahlstrand “Protestantism” is a collective term for many different strands of Christianity, and Protestant attitudes to religions other than their own are many and varied. Some of the churches that grew out of the European reformations in the sixteenth century, such as the Lutheran, Anglican, and Reformed Churches, built institutions—often theological faculties at European universities—where the Biblical languages of Greek and Hebrew were taught, along with other subjects considered useful for clergy in these churches. Some of the churches that arose from the revival movements built similar institutions (e.g., Methodists), while other groups eschewed formal education and trusted that the Holy Spirit would bestow the knowledge needed for their leaders. Work on Protestant mission theology often favours churches and missionary societies that were or are involved in academic teaching and research and that also keep mission archives of a high standard. Many missionaries, Bible schools, and ordinary Christians have thus often been excluded from descriptions of “Protestant views” of Hinduism and other religions. During the long period from the early eighteenth century until the early twenty-first century, some Protestant missionaries were trained in theology and languages at the most prominent universities, while others had barely completed their primary education. Some were interested to learn about cultural and religious matters unknown to them; some were only counting success in conversion statistics. Some stayed for decades and raised families in India; some came on tourist visas and engaged in “smash-and-grab” evangelism. At least since the beginning of the twentieth century, Indian Protestant Christians have been engaged in Christian missions in India, and Indian Protestants have written about Hinduism for two centuries.1 The Protestant mission first set foot in India in 1706, and since then Protestant attitudes to Hinduism can be grouped into three main categories that often overlap. The first one is the evangelical attitude, which maintains 1  The Indian Missionary Society was founded in Tirunelveli (TN) in 1903, see http://www.imst .co.in/IMSWeb/ims/view/pages/ourhistory.html (accessed May 2, 2018).

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004432284_006

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that Hindus have been led astray by their religion and that they need to turn to Christ in order to be saved from eternal damnation. Hinduism is here mainly studied as a competing religious system; Christian missionaries need to familiarise themselves with its thoughts and rituals in order to refute them. We may call these Protestants “Evangelists.” It is, however, important not to paint a caricature of the Evangelists. Some missionaries became interested in the beliefs, languages, and culture of the people they came to convert. They turned into proficient linguists, anthropologists, and scholars of religion. The second attitude is that of liberal Protestants who wanted to understand Hindu philosophical and theological thought and were fascinated by the ancient language of Sanskrit. Not all Protestants subscribe to evangelical, conversionist Protestantism. Liberal Protestants wanted to discover “pure,” scriptural Hinduism, untainted by popular religiosity. Most of the time they were not overly concerned with questions of salvation, but some of them supported the Christian mission. We may call these Protestants “Indologists.” The third attitude was to be found both among missionaries and lay people. They evaluated Hinduism from the position of those marginalised within Brāhmaṇical Hinduism: untouchables (Dalits) and tribals (Ādivāsis). Many missionaries were not only interested in conversion from Hinduism to Christianity, they were also concerned about the situations of “untouchables,” girls, and women, and wanted to change them. Stories of the plight of the untouchables, of child marriage, “suttee” (i.e., sātī), and temple prostitution abound in the popular literature produced by missionary societies. Hinduism is here defined through its victims and the purpose of the Christian mission is to change these conditions. We may call these Protestants “Activists.” This subaltern perspective is currently the dominant view among Protestant theologians, but it is expressed in categories different from those maintained by missionaries from Europe during the nineteenth century. These three attitudes were more or less present among Protestants at least from the beginning of the nineteenth century, but they have not remained unchanged. The most important change may be that the majority of Protestant theologians who discuss the relationship between Hinduism and Christianity today are Indians. The exoticism and racism that characterised many of the earlier Protestant reflections on Hinduism are no longer present, or at least not to the same extent. Protestants have related themselves to what they called “Hinduism” in different ways, and they have moved away from a unitary view of Hinduism to something much more diverse.

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A Protestant Map of India: the South, the Hills, and the North East

If the Orthodox Christian heartland of India is Kerala, and the Catholic heartland is the Konkan coast, the Protestant heartlands can be described as “The South” (today’s Tamil Nadu, Karnataka, and Telangana); “the Hills” which refers to indigenous groups of people, “tribals” or Ādivāsis, some of which live on the plains; and “the North East” where the only Indian states with a majority of Christians are located: Nagaland (Baptists) and Mizoram (Presbyterians). The overwhelming majority of Protestants in India come from Dalit and Ādivāsi backgrounds. 2

The Evangelists: Pietist and Evangelical Views of Hinduism

The Protestant mission in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century India was rooted in pietism (German and Scandinavian missions) and evangelicalism (Anglo-Saxon missions). The emphasis was on the conversion of the individual, who must be saved from eternal damnation through faith in Jesus Christ and his atoning death on the cross. According to the evangelical worldview, humans are lost until they find a personal relationship with Jesus. The Bible mediates the knowledge necessary for salvation, and the person who has entered into this relationship with Jesus is expected to introduce more people to the saving knowledge. David Bebbington has succinctly described the four characteristics of evangelicalism as: “conversionism” (every human being needs to be transformed through a “born-again” experience); “activism” (missionary zeal); “biblicism” (the Bible is seen as the ultimate authority); “crucicentrism” (the atoning death of Jesus on the cross is what makes redemption possible) (Bebbington 1989). When looking at Protestant views of Hinduism, it is important to keep this theological map in mind. There are, as we shall see, exceptions to this theology, but these are the main characteristics that have shaped Protestant missionary understandings not only of Hinduism but of all religions, Christian traditions included. The first Protestant missionaries (even though the term “missionary” was not used by Protestants at that time) to arrive in India were the German Lutheran Pietists Bartholomäus Ziegenbalg and Heinrich Plütschau. They landed in the Danish colony of Tranquebar (Tharangambadi), in present day Tamil Nadu, in 1706. At that time, there had been Catholics in South India for centuries and Orthodox Christians for even longer. Protestants from Europe lived in India, but they showed little interest in interacting with the religious traditions present in India at the time. Plütschau and Ziegenbalg had studied

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theology in Halle, Germany, and were sent by the Danish king Frederick IV to Tranquebar, a Danish colony acquired by the Danish crown in 1620. Ziegenbalg had an unusual ability to learn languages, and he acquired proficiency in both written and spoken Tamil. He published a Tamil grammar (1716), translated the New Testament and major parts of the Old Testament into Tamil, and collected Tamil manuscripts to send back to Halle. In the field of the history of religions, Ziegenbalg wrote Genealogy of the South Indian Deities/Malabar Gods, which was partly built on empirical research. In Ziegenbalg’s approach to missions we can see many of the features that came to characterise Protestant attitudes toward Hinduism, even though the term “Hinduism” was not yet firmly established. These features included: translations of religious texts, both from European languages into Indian languages and from Indian languages into European languages; records of religious rituals as they were performed in villages; abhorrence of Hindu iconography and what they labelled “idolatry”; tensions between the desire to convert Brahmans and the defence of untouchables (Dalits); and critique of the situation of girls and women. Many of the missionaries had little interest in Hindu philosophies or theologies. They had come to India to convert the heathens, not to discuss sophisticated philosophies. They encountered practices such as child marriage, widow burning, hook swinging, the “Jagannāth,” and other extreme ascetic practices and were abhorred. Stories about such practices abound in Protestant missionary literature, thus shaping the view of Hinduism as the opposite of evangelical Protestantism. Many missionaries came from Calvinist traditions where “Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image” is the first of the Ten Commandments. These missionaries could not understand Hindu iconography or the veneration of the divine in images, and they called these practices “idolatry.” Their religion was focused on the Bible, an intimate relationship with Jesus, and moral behaviour according to the norms of their own tradition. Rituals, on the other hand, were seen as “empty,” and ideas about purity and pollution were utterly foreign to the evangelical view that “all have sinned and come short of the glory of God.” When writing about Hinduism, nineteenthcentury missionaries very rarely followed the rule to compare like with like; they were quite happy to compare the worst they saw in Hinduism with their own evangelical ideals. And Hinduism, needless to say, always fell short of evangelical Christianity. The genre of mission literature follows certain rules. One of these is to maximise the difference between Christianity/Christians and “Heathenism”/ “heathens”; the worst (in the eyes of the Western missionaries) in Hinduism is contrasted with the best in (Protestant) Christianity. The aim was to elicit

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interest in the mission and gain financial support for it. Sensationalist articles about cruelty and irrational behaviour related to Hinduism was in high demand. That “Hinduism” was a religion with a unified system of gods and sacred scriptures was not called into question. This system was presented as encouraging people to behave in ways that were outrageous and appalling, but also fascinating, to evangelical Protestants. Gayatri Spivak’s well-known phrase “white men are saving brown women from brown men” (Spivak 1988) can be applied to nineteenth-century Protestant missionaries in India. It should however be amended to “white men and women saving brown women …” because missionary women were particularly concerned with the welfare of Indian girls and women through education, health care, and evangelisation. At the time of the British Raj, missionaries often sided with the colonial power in their condemnation of what they saw as Hindu and Muslim attitudes toward women. Protestant missionaries during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries often studied works on Hinduism produced by Indologists. But the Hinduism represented in these works had little in common with the Hinduism the missionaries encountered in their own contexts. Their Hinduism was based on oral traditions, which were directed toward gods and goddesses that directly affected the lives of villagers. The Hinduism they encountered was not based on Sanskrit sources. Tamil was the sacred and widely used language in the south, but missionaries also learned and published in Telugu, Kannada, Tulu, Gondi, Santali, Malayalam, and many other languages, including the Tibeto-Burman languages of the northeast. Printing presses were brought from Europe or manufactured locally in order to print Bibles and educational material in many Indian languages. The Serampore Mission Press operated between 1800 and 1837 and published more than 200,000 books in close to forty-five languages (Ghosh 2003). Being able to hear the word of God in one’s own language is important to Protestants, hence the focus on languages and Bible translations. Although it was important to translate the Bible into local languages, it was also important to write educational material (catechisms), hymns, and prayers in the vernacular. And, in order to familiarise themselves with languages and popular genres, the missionaries also needed to learn traditional poetry, songs, proverbs, and epics. Their aim may have been to spread Christianity, but they consolidated and encouraged local cultural (and by extension religious) expressions almost by distraction. These missionaries were less interested in philosophical speculations and more attentive toward religious customs that they experienced in their immediate vicinity. They were anthropologists rather than Indologists, and some of them were also linguists. Some early missionaries, such as Ziegenbalg

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and Carey, were legendary because of their ability to learn Indian languages. Others are mainly known to specialists. An example of a missionary who became a linguist is Herrmann Friedrich Mögling (1811–81). He was a German sent by the Basel mission to Mangalore (in present day Karnataka) in 1836. He worked as a missionary in Kannada-speaking areas until 1860. He was engaged in the revitalisation of the Kannada language and started the first newspaper in Kannada. He also collected manuscripts and documented folk literature. He had a genuine interest in Kannada religious traditions and published, among many other texts, the Basavapurāṇa by the Liṅgāyat poet Basavaṇṇa and a collection of 170 Haridāsa songs. Mögling, like many other missionaries, was particularly interested in proverbs and compiled and published more than 3,000 Kannada proverbs.2 Most of the missionaries did not leave such a legacy, but those who stayed in India for decades learned about the forms of Hindu religiosity that they encountered and spread that knowledge through writings and mission talks. 3

The Indologists: Liberal Protestant Views of Hinduism

At the same time as the missionary movement was coming into full swing during the second half of the nineteenth century, scholars from Protestant backgrounds translated significant sacred texts from Sanskrit into European languages and discussed Hindu philosophies and theologies with Indian religious experts. They are often called secular scholars, and they were not employed by a church or a missionary society, but their background was that of cultural Protestantism. The Hinduism that they admired (and to some extent constructed) had much in common with the kind of Protestantism to which they related. Just as Protestant theologians studied the Bible in Hebrew and Greek and tried to find the oldest and “original” versions of the texts, the Indologists thought that Hinduism was “originally” monotheistic and that “original” Hinduism was contained in scriptures whose normative interpreters were Brahmans. This original Hinduism had deteriorated into polytheism and “meaningless” rituals. Hindu religious ideas were, in their minds, best studied through scriptures written in Sanskrit. There are many differences between Indologists and Evangelists, but there are also some notable similarities. Both groups thought that religions are based on sacred scriptures and that contemporary forms of popular religiosity are aberrations from the original religion. Those who had the best knowledge of the 2  See https://www.thenewsminute.com/article/how-german-missionary-fell-love-kannada-and -started-its-first-newspaper-73754 (accessed March 27, 2019).

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scriptures were to be regarded as religious experts, and Brāhmaṇical Hinduism was thus seen as the norm. Those who performed rituals, sometimes without knowing the meaning of the texts they recited, were seen as inferior ritual specialists, and their religiosity was of little interest to scholars of religion. These Orientalists and Sanskritists saw Hinduism through a Protestant lens. They wanted to find an original and pure Hinduism in Hindu sacred scriptures, as opposed to what they saw as the degenerate and superstitious forms of religiosity in festivals and village temples. A religion worthy of respect should have ancient scriptures that contain advanced philosophy and high moral teachings. The Hinduism that they admired was found in the Vedic texts, some of the great epics, and, not least, in the text that became known as “the New Testament (or Bible) of Hinduism”: the Bhagavadgītā. Charles Wilkins (1749– 1836) wrote about the Bhagavadgītā that it was “setting up the doctrine of the unity of the Godhead, in opposition to idolatrous sacrifices, and the worship of images.”3 Here, liberal Protestants found a religion they could relate to and admire. They also acknowledged that their knowledge of Sanskritic Hinduism (“real” Hinduism) was superior to that of uneducated Hindus from lower castes. The Hinduism that the Evangelists opposed was not the Hinduism that the Indologists admired. The Hinduism that won respect among European intellectuals was thus scriptural, Sanskritic Hinduism, whereas performed Hinduism often was classified as “superstition.” Both Evangelists and Indologists thought of Hinduism as a fairly unified religion that was governed by Brahmans. Until the midnineteenth century, Sanskrit was seen as the mother of all Indian languages, including the South Indian languages Tamil, Telugu, Kannada, and Malayalam. Knowledge of Sanskrit was thought to be the key to the Hindu mind. While the British administration and Sanskrit scholars were located in Bengal, many of the missionaries gained their experiences of Hinduism from the southern part of India and from non-Sanskritic forms of Hinduism. During the second half of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century, liberal trends in Protestant thinking were important in forming Protestant views of Hinduism. In Germany, we find Kulturprotestantismus, a strand of Protestantism that embraced German bourgeois modernity during the second half of the nineteenth century. It was less concerned with quests for salvation and more interested in contemporary scholarship, nationalism, selfcultivation, and the ability to appreciate high culture: literature, music, and idealist philosophy. It also entails opposition to Roman Catholicism, especially 3  C. Wilkins, The Bhagvat-Geeta or Dialogues of Kreeshna and Arjon in 18 Lectures with Notes (London: C. Nowse, 1785), quoted in King 1999: 121.

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popular religiosity. The nationalism contained racist elements. Some of the Protestant scholars, both from continental Europe and the Anglo-Saxon world, who were interested in Indian religious traditions, developed theories of a common Aryan identity and affinities, not only between Indo-European languages but also of “Aryan mentality” as opposed to “Semitic mentality,” where the former was seen as superior to the latter. During the nineteenth century we find a kind of Protestantism emerging that can be labelled “(Nondualist) Gnostic Protestantism.” In academic studies of Protestant, scholarly views on Hinduism, outstanding nineteenth-century scholars have been named (Sharpe 1965; King 1999; Oddie 2006). It is important to keep in mind that there was a market for the translations and studies the Indologists produced. The scholars belonged to a wider milieu of middleclass and upper middle-class European and American Protestants who were interested in religion as wisdom rather than as a way of salvation. American Transcendentalism and European Romanticism incorporated Hindu texts into their spiritual canon. Translations of the Upaniṣads and the Bhagavadgītā were read not only as source texts for the academic study of Indology or comparative religion but as testimonies of deep and ancient wisdom that could now also be attained in the Western world. It was the text, not artefacts or practised religion, that won the admiration of the educated public. It was important to maintain the distinction between the “original” text and the “degenerate” forms of practised Hinduism that existed in India. In the end it was texts, not people, that defined Hinduism as a religion on a par with, or surpassing, Christianity. Texts were more important than people, but some Hindus were also admired. Most of the Hindus that were highly regarded by gnostic Protestants were Bengali Brahmans. The Hindus admired by the gnostic Protestants were those who were similar to themselves. In the so-called Hindu reform movements, Protestants in Europe and North America saw evidence of a “renewed” and “purified” Hinduism. The founder of Brāhmo Samāj, Ram Mohan Roy (1772–1833), wanted to “return” to what he saw as “original” Hinduism (i.e., monotheism) without sacrifices. The poet Rabindranath Tagore (1861–1941), who was brought up in a Brāhmo Samāj family, was highly appreciated by cultural Protestants and was the first Indian to receive the Nobel Prize in literature (1913). Ramakrishna (1836–86) was seen as an example of tolerant Hinduism, as was his most famous disciple, Swami Vivekananda (1863–1902). In 1893 Vivekananda was invited to the World Parliament of Religions in Chicago, where he gave a much-acclaimed speech on religious tolerance, opposition to conversion activities, and the equality of all religions. His audience, mainly liberal Protestants, was enraptured.

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Outside of gnostic Protestantism, we find other European views of Hinduism that were far from consistently negative. William Jones (1746–94) warned missionaries against regarding the Hindu religion as inferior to Christianity (Sharpe 1965: 35). Charles Wilkins (1749–1836) translated the Bhagavadgītā into English in 1785 (ibid.). Although they had a Protestant background, they were critical of evangelical missions in India. Catholic missionaries produced paraphrases of the Gospels in the style of Hindu epics in Indian languages. The most well-known example of this is the Jesuit Thomas Stephen’s Krista Purana (1616), which was written in a mixture of Marathi and Konkani. In the nineteenth century, some Protestant Sanskritists used Sanskrit as a means to convey the Christian message. W.A. Mill in Calcutta published a Sanskrit version of the Gospel stories in 1831, and John Muir (1810–82) published a series of pamphlets on Christianity in Sanskrit verse (1839–54) (Sharpe 1965: 36). Both Max Müller (1823–1900) and Monier Monier-Williams (1819–99) were Indologists from Protestant backgrounds; Monier-Williams had evangelical sympathies that became more pronounced later in life. If the Vedas, the Upaniṣads, and the great epics were the focus of scholarly interest during the nineteenth century, in the twentieth century Protestant scholars turned to other texts and traditions. Eric Lott (b. 1934), a Methodist missionary and Vaiṣṇava scholar, has pointed out the Protestant fascination with South Indian bhakti religiosity. John B. Carman (b. 1930) is another Protestant missionary and scholar who has published scholarly works on Vaiṣṇava religious texts and traditions. Both men spoke several South Indian languages and were well-versed in Sanskrit. While many Catholic scholars of religion in the twentieth century have focused on Advaitic traditions, Protestants are more drawn to Ramanuja and the emotionally charged devotion to the divine. In 1929, the YMCA Heritage of India Series published the first English translation of a selection of Hymns of the Āḻvārs; the translator from Tamil was the Methodist missionary J.S.M. Hooper. Hooper’s selection may be criticised for leaving out passionate, sexual allusions, but he invited new readers into the world of South Indian bhakti. Some Protestant missionaries turned into anthropologists when they discovered that the Hindu traditions they encountered were invisible in Indological studies. Carl Gustav Diehl (1906–95) was a Swedish missionary in Tamil Nadu, a Senior Lecturer in the History of Religions in Lund and Uppsala, and a Lutheran Bishop of Tranquebar. In his doctoral dissertation (Instrument and Purpose 1956) he writes: “Inroads to a deeper understanding of the place and meaning of rituals and rites among the Tamilians can be had from the literature available. Not many works, however, deal directly with conditions in South India” (Diehl 1956: 41). His dissertation was one of the first academic studies of village religion in Tamil Nadu. It was followed by a new aspect within religious

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life in South India: the “intermingling” between Christian and Hindu religious rituals in South India (Diehl 1965). 4

Activism: Hinduism as Seen by the Poor and the Marginalised

Missionaries often lived and worked among low-caste people, Ādivāsis and Dalits, and sometimes spoke and wrote of Brāhmaṇical Hinduism as an oppressive system in which the lower castes had to serve and be governed by the Brahmans. These missionaries did not appreciate philosophical speculation or the “wisdom” of Brāhmaṇical Hinduism. They confronted what they saw as the unfair treatment of certain groups, especially women. Some missionary societies, such as the Lutheran Leipzig Mission in Tamil Nadu, accepted caste distinctions and saw them as belonging to the social realm rather than the religious one. They wanted to eradicate the “spirit of caste” but were prepared to accept caste separation in churches and schools. In many Protestant mission pamphlets and literature from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the oppression of “untouchables” is described in detail and the plight of the “untouchables” is seen as one of the reasons why Christianity should be introduced in India. Another trigger for Christian missions was the plight of women from all castes. High-caste widows are portrayed as being shunned by their families and risk having to join their husbands on the funeral pyre. The words in Manusmṛti about how a woman in childhood must be subject to her father, in youth to her husband, and as a widow to her sons, were quoted as proof of the bad situation for women in Hinduism. A special form of women-to-women mission, called Zenana mission, was created and gained the support of many missionary societies. The idea was that European and American missionary women should gain admission to women’s quarters (zenāna) in well-to-do Hindu families and entertain and educate Hindu women. The goal was to win these women over to Christianity, but there were few success stories. Pandita Ramabai (born as Rama Dongre, 1858–1922) was famous as a high-caste woman who was well-versed in Sanskrit and who converted to Protestant Christianity and founded schools for girls. As a young woman, she joined the Brāhmo Samāj and challenged the caste structures of Indian society, both when she married a man from a lower caste and later, when she was widowed and denounced all forms of caste discrimination. This could have made her a heroine of Protestant mission propaganda, and to some extent she was just that, but she was much too rebellious to allow herself to be cast in missionary stereotypes. When she first became a Christian, baptised in 1883 in Britain, she was an Anglo-Catholic. Later in life she had a second conversion and became an evangelical Christian; one of the early forms of

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Pentecostal revival happened in her Mukti orphanage. At the same time, her conversion to Christianity marginalised her within Indian history. Today there are more than 10 million Protestant Christians in India. The overwhelming majority of them come from Dalit, scheduled castes, or tribal backgrounds. Much of the scholarly work on Hindu traditions have focused on high-caste traditions. Protestants who have shown sympathy for Hindu scriptures have been accused of ignoring caste exclusion and caste oppression. In the 1980s, Christian Dalit theologians began to look at alternative traditions to Brāhmaṇical Hinduism. Early Dalit theology was less interested in looking at religious resources in Dalit communities, but instead it was primarily focused on liberation from caste oppression, both socioculturally and mentally-spiritually. By choosing the designation “Dalit,” they joined with B.R. Ambedkar in denouncing Hinduism as inherently based on caste distinctions and caste oppression. In the eyes of Dalit theologians, “Hinduism” equalled oppression and had to be completely rejected. The churches had colluded with Hinduism and accepted caste oppression in order to continue dialogue with Hinduism, sometimes in the form of learning and acquiring high-caste cultural and religious customs. Dalit theology is critical of traditional Christian theology and church practices. Its point of departure is “how can the Church be changed through Dalit experience,” whether this experience is called Christian or not. Dalit activists from Buddhist, Christian, Atheist, Muslim, and indigenous religious traditions joined forces in the endeavour to overthrow casteism. The history and existence of the marginalised majority was their focus. The first period of Dalit theology focused primarily on resistance to caste oppression, both in the Church and in Indian society. It looked for resources in the fields of the social sciences and revolutionary rhetoric. Dalit theology came to be recognised in several Protestant seminaries and theological colleges, and an interest in Dalit religious traditions emerged. Dalit theologians appreciate Dalit religious traditions and expressions, and questions of syncretism or incompatibility with Christianity are not articulated. On the contrary, the Church is said to have much to learn from Dalit (and Ādivāsi) religious traditions: humility in relation to nature, appreciation of the divine as feminine, solidarity, and resistance to all forms of oppression. Dalit theologians in general deny that Dalit religious traditions have anything to do with Hinduism. An anthropological turn in Dalit theology has led to participant observation studies of lived religion in Dalit communities (Clarke 2000; Patmuri 1996; Roberts 2016). Relationships between Dalits and caste Hindus have proven to be very intricate. Dalit rituals, narratives, and iconography are also found in Hindu communities, and the sharp distinctions between Dalit and caste traditions of the early years of Dalit theology are more

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complicated than what was thought during the first decades of Dalit theology. Dalit elements are found in much of bhakti religiosity, and the Dalit religion has also been affected by mainline Hinduism in various forms. The different views of different kinds of Hinduism presented by different groups of Protestants (Evangelists, Indologists, and Activists) have shaped many Western perceptions of Hinduism. References Ariarajah, S. Wesley (1991) Hindus and Christians: A Century of Protestant Ecumenical Thought. Amsterdam: Editions Rodopi, B.V. Bebbington, David W. (1989) Evangelicalism in Modern Britain. A History from the 1730s to the 1980s. London: Routledge. Clarke, Sathianathan (2000) Dalits and Christianity: Religion and Liberation Theology in India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Diehl, Carl Gustav (1956) Instrument and Purpose: Studies on Rites and Rituals in South India. Lund: C.W.K. Gleerup. Diehl, Carl Gustav (1965) Church and Shrine. Intermingling Patterns of Culture in the Life of Some Christian Groups in South India. Uppsala: Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis. Ghosh, Anindita (2003) “An Uncertain ‘Coming of the Book’ Early Print Cultures in Colonial India,” in Greenspan, Ezra and Jonathan Rose (eds.), Book History, vol. 6., 23–55. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press. King, Richard (1999) Orientalism and Religion: Postcolonial Theory, India and the Mystic East. London and New York: Routledge. Nirmal, Arvind P. (ed.) (n.d.) Towards a Common Dalit Ideology. Madras: Gurukul Lutheran Theological College and Research Institute. Oddie, Geoffrey A. (2006) Imagined Hinduism: British Protestant Missionary Constructions of Hinduism, 1793–1900. New Delhi: Sage Publications Inc. Patmuri, Joseph (ed.) (1996) Doing Theology with the Poetic Traditions of India: Focus on Dalit and Tribal Poems. Bangalore: PTCA/SATHRI. Roberts, Nathaniel (2016) To Be Cared For: The Power of Conversion and Foreignness Belonging in an Indian Slum. Berkeley: University of California Press. Sharpe, Eric J. (1965) Not to Destroy but to Fulfil: The Contribution of J.N. Farquhar to Protestant Missionary Thought in India before 1914. Uppsala: Almqvist and Wiksells Boktryckeri AB. Sharpe, Eric J. (1977) Faith Meets Faith. Some Christian Attitudes to Hinduism in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries. London: SCM Press Ltd. Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty (1988) “Can the Subaltern Speak?” in Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg (eds.), Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture, 271–313. London: Macmillan.

CHAPTER 6

German Indology and Hinduism Vishwa Adluri and Joydeep Bagchee 1

Introduction

Few European nations developed such a broad spectrum of research on India or sought so strongly to defend the notion of a privileged access to ancient India as Germany. Yet this German interest was peculiarly restricted to ancient India, and German scholars often contrasted its intellectual and social achievements with what they saw as the degeneracy of contemporary Hinduism. This contribution discusses the origins and growth of the German fascination with India. It surveys the main fields of Indological engagement and scholarship and explores reasons why, even today, in Indology we can hardly speak of Germany and Hinduism—except negatively—in a volume dedicated to Hinduism in Europe.1 2

Origins

The German fascination with India emerged out of an interest in Germanic antiquity; Indian studies was carried out as part of a wider programme of Indogermanische Studien or Arische Studien. Even today, Sanskrit programmes at German universities are often embedded in departments of Indo-Germanic studies. The earliest scholar to develop an interest in Sanskrit, Friedrich Schlegel (1772–1829), was primarily interested in questions of race and nationality.2 He 1  The studies of Hinduism in Religionswissenschaft and other disciplines in Germany are not dealt with in this chapter.—Eds. 2  Literature on Schlegel is extensive; the selections here are those pertinent to his work as an Indologist. Tzoref-Ashkenazi (2004) provides an overview of Friedrich Schlegel’s views on India, focusing especially on his ideas of religion, race, and the origins of European and especially German culture in India. Tzoref-Ashkenazi (2006) is a significantly revised and expanded version of this work, which focuses more on Schlegel’s role in the growth of German nationalism. Park (2004) looks at Schlegel in the context of the Pantheismusstreit. Dusche (2013) discusses Schlegel’s growing interest in India in the context of his antipathy toward the French, which reached a peak during his years of exile in Paris and thereafter significantly shaped his efforts to seek a non-Latinate origin for German culture. Adluri and Bagchee

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004432284_007

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assigned Sanskrit pride of place in his classification of Indo-European languages and claimed that the parallels between it and German evidenced a genetic relationship between the ancient Indians and the Germans. “When [Schlegel’s] Über die Sprache und Weisheit der Indier appeared in 1808, most reviewers received it as a revelation. This is unsurprising, since the so-called ‘Asian stock’—and along with it the Germans—experienced an unparalleled upward reevaluation in this Indian mythology. The Germans were no longer merely the heirs of the Teutons. Rather, to put it dramatically, along with the other peoples of their ‘human stock,’ they descended as a fully finished German cultural nation from the roof of the world” (Abreu 2003: 113). This provided a significant impetus for Indology in nineteenth-century Germany.3 For the most part, German scholars gained access to Indian texts via knowledge of Sanskrit, rather than out of an interest in Hinduism. Their research focused mainly on providing historical reconstructions of Indian antiquity, in particular its religious developments, which were viewed against the background of Schlegel’s ideas of racial kinship and cultural decline.

(2018b) present evidence of the Schlegel brothers’ interest in race and their borrowing of classificatory schemes from biology and comparative anatomy. 3  Within Germany, a number of competing terms have been in use for the discipline, including Indische Literatur, Indische Philologie, Indische Altertumskunde, Orientalische Philologie, Vergleichende Sprachwissenschaft, Sanskrit Philologie, Indogermanische Studien, Arische Studien, etc. Terms such as Vergleichende Sprachwissenschaft and Sanskrit Philologie demonstrate how closely the study of India was associated with linguistics and language. The term Indische Philologie was often used to imply a parallel to klassische Philologie (classical philology), just as Indische Altertumskunde (the study of Indian antiquity) expressed a parallel to Altertumskunde (the study of antiquity in general). However, the term that ultimately established itself was Indologie. In this article, the expression “German Indology” is used to distinguish the history, development, and practice of this discipline from South Asian studies in other countries. This distinction is justified both in terms of linguistic usage (German scholars have used the term deutsche Indologie to characterize their specific approach to Indian studies) and historical application (German Indology has a distinct history and traditions, and unique concerns that set it apart from other forms of research into India). For the purposes of this article and in general, the expression “German” in “German Indology” does not refer to national origins; many German Indologists came from outside Germany’s borders (e.g., the Austrians Moriz Winternitz and Erich Frauwallner or the Norwegian-born, though lifelong citizen of Germany, Christian Lassen), or they established institutions of “German” Indology outside its borders by exporting German ideas and values (e.g., the Americans William D. Whitney and E. Washburn Hopkins, who both studied under Albrecht Weber in Berlin).

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Expansion

The first chair for Indology was established in Bonn in 1818.4 With August W. Schlegel (1767–1845), Bonn simultaneously gained the most prominent advocate of Indian studies and a figure who transformed Indology from its Romantic origins into an academic discipline.5 Schlegel focused on editing and translating texts,6 but it was his student Christian Lassen (1800–76) who gave the Bonn school its historical focus through his large, multivolume reconstructions of Indian history and ethnography that were based on the Sanskrit epic, the Mahābhārata.7 In the nineteenth century, departments of German Indology proliferated across the academic landscape (McGetchin 2009: 81, 82–83). Berlin and Königsberg gained their first chairs in 1825. Three chairs were established in each of the following periods (1833–40 and 1841–48) and another two in each of the following (1852–57 and 1868–69). Following German victories in the Franco-Prussian War (1870–71), as many as four chairs were established during the period between 1872 and 1877. Thereafter, the pace of expansion slowed significantly; only four chairs were established between 1884 and 1914 (Rabault-Feuerhahn 2013: 309–22). 4  The title of the chair was actually Literature and Art History. Michaels erroneously claims: “In 1818 Wilhelm Schlegel received the first German chair for Indology in Bonn” (2004: 335). But he corrects it in Michaels (2015: 481). 5  Benes (2008) contains a useful account of Indology’s origins in Romanticism, focusing especially on philology as an instrument of German nationalism; Germana (2009) also covers this early period, with a special focus on Friedrich Schlegel and the Creuzerstreit; and Williamson (2004), although not specific to Indology, is helpful for understanding broader issues relating to Romanticism. Cowan (2010) covers the Romantic period, with forays into the philosophy of Georg W.F. Hegel and Friedrich Nietzsche. 6  See Adluri and Bagchee (2018b), which shows that Schlegel’s linguistic studies were motivated by a racial concern, specifically a desire to validate his mentor Johann Friedrich Blumenbach’s division of the world into five “races.” See also Bagchee (2019). 7  Karttunen (2007) provides a bibliographic overview of Christian Lassen’s writings but glosses over both Lassen’s racism and the methodological issues with his pseudohistorical reconstructions. Lassen (1837) marks the beginnings of Lassen’s independent publishing career as a “historian” of India. Lassen set forth this pseudohistorical approach in Lassen (1847–62): the first volume was published in 1847 (first half 1843; rev. ed. 1867), second volume in 1852 (first half 1849; rev. ed. 1873), third volume in 1858 (first half 1857), and fourth volume in 1861 (appendices 1862). Leading theoreticians of race such as Ernest Renan (1823–92) drew upon Lassen’s Indische Alterthumskunde for their descriptions of the “Aryan” race. “Renan’s contrast of Aryan and Semitic culture, which can be found most distinctly in the introduction to Histoire générale et système comparé des langues sémitiques (1858), sometimes follows almost exactly Indische Alterthumskunde” (Arvidsson 2006: 93). Gobineau and Chamberlain likewise relied on Lassen for characterisations of the different races, as discussed in Figueira (2002).

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Areas of Interest

The earliest phase of German studies on India was dominated by missionaries, especially the Pietists (Jürgens 2004, 2006a, 2006b). Many of them were responsible for bringing back collections of texts and establishing the earliest libraries. From these missionary beginnings, evangelical theologians such as Heinrich Ewald (1803–75) and Rudolf von Roth (1821–95) began taking an interest in the scriptural writings of non-Christian traditions.8 Ewald is widely considered the founding figure of German orientalism; his student Roth was responsible for establishing the disciplines of Allgemeine Religionsgeschichte (universal history of religions) and Indology at Tübingen. In the first phase of Indology, liturgical texts such as the Vedas were the focus of attention.9 However, emerging from Romantic roots,10 the growing 8  Roth belonged to the first generation of Indologists in Germany. He was the single most influential figure in the establishment of Indology at Tübingen, to which he, under the influence of his teacher Ewald gave a distinctly religious slant. Stietencron (1996) and Stietencron (2003) are brief looks at Roth’s life and work, rich in praise but not particularly informative. Zeller (1994), Zeller (1997), and Zeller (2003) are more useful, written by a librarian and archivist at Tübingen. Zeller (1996) is the accompanying book to an exhibition of Roth’s life and work at Tübingen, which was curated by Zeller. Richard von Garbe’s work (1907) is an adulatory look at Roth’s life and work by a former student and successor to the chair at Tübingen. Adluri and Bagchee (2014b) includes a detailed chapter on Roth, summarising his basic ideas about religion as well as the contents of all the articles, chapters, and books listed here. This is the best place to start when looking at Roth’s legacy within Indology. 9  Figueira (1994) looks at the reception and canonization of the Vedas in Europe but, among German scholars, covers mainly Schlegel’s and Georg Friedrich Creuzer’s interpretations. Weber (1850) is an important source text for the religious, reformatory, and evangelical concerns that motivated the German interest in the Vedas. Albrecht Weber’s remark that “the entire religious and cultural structure of the Indians rests on the Veda” (1850: 27) gives an indication of the expectations bound up with the study of the Vedas in this first phase of German Indology. Oldenberg (1894) provides a good introduction to German views of and attitudes toward the Vedas. Oldenberg (1915) shows how uniquely European concerns, such as the anxiety over pantheism, influenced German receptions of the Upaniṣads, the concluding portion of the Vedas. 10  Contra Michaels (2004), Grünendahl disputes “the Romantic roots of Indology” (2015: 185), thus hoping to maintain Indology’s status as a Wissenschaft free of any idealistic or romanticising associations. However, no doubt exists that German Indology emerged from the Romantics’ fascination with India. Neither is the thesis that Indology broke with these origins new: It is a central component of Oldenberg’s account of the discipline in Oldenberg (1886). Oldenberg explicitly displaces emphasis from Friedrich Schlegel’s Über die Sprache und Weisheit der Indier (1808) to Franz Bopp’s Über das Conjugationssystem der Sanskritsprache in Vergleichung mit jenem der griechischen, lateinischen, persischen und germanischen Sprache (1816) as the founding moment of Indology as a “Wissenschaft.” For

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i­ nterest in Germanic antiquity led scholars to increasingly focus on the Sanskrit epics, especially the Mahābhārata.11 This was especially the case in the Bonn school: Christian Lassen (1800–76) based his pseudohistorical reconstructions of Indian antiquity largely on this Indian epic. After this, Adolf Holtzmann Sr. (1810–70) proposed the existence of an archaic common Indo-Germanic and Greek epic tradition in which the Germanic warrior race had not yet succumbed to priestly manipulation (Holtzmann 1854), whereas his nephew Adolf Holtzmann Jr. (1838–1914) claimed that the Brahmans had destroyed the old heroic epic and used it as a vehicle for religious polemics in their crusade against the Buddhists (Holtzmann Jr. 1892). Hiltebeitel argues that the “tribal approach” to epic (i.e., regarding it as a record of a primitive conflict between ancient Indian tribes), especially in the hands of Christian Lassen and the two Holtzmanns, has “amount[ed] to racial profiling by culture” (Hiltebeitel 2012: 3). The interest in the Mahābhārata from a historicist perspective led to a revival of interest in the Bhagavadgītā within the religious-historical (religions­ geschichtlich) research of the Tübingen School (Adluri and Bagchee 2014b: 18–24). Although the Bhagavadgītā had been studied earlier by intellectuals such as Wilhelm von Humboldt (1767–1835), this revival far exceeded the earlier phase in terms of the number of works published and circulated.12 all their differences, Michaels (2015), too, is concerned to show that “Indology, since its factical institutionalization with the establishment of a chair for Literature and Art History […] for August Wilhelm Schlegel in 1818” was neither “romanticizing nor effusive about India” (romantisierend oder gar indienschwärmerisch). He argues that, whereas “the Romantic myth of India sought ‘an extra-academic field of activity,’” August W. Schlegel “led the proto-disciplinary interest in India into the ‘academic distance’” (Michaels 2015: 481). The Romantic movement’s influence on German culture, the arts, and intellectual history notwithstanding, Indologists have struggled with its legacy because they see it as undercutting Indology’s claim to be a positivistic, rational science and a university discipline worthy of state funding. 11  Sukthankar (1957) is an eloquent and uncompromising rejection of German “critical” scholarship on the Mahābhārata by the first general editor and architect of the Mahābhārata Critical Edition project. Hiltebeitel (1979) is an overview of scholarship (to date) on the Mahābhārata; written as a bibliographic essay, the article offers an excellent overview of the problems the thesis of Kṛṣṇa’s divinity posed for most Western scholars, who “would never have admitted that their ‘literary’ studies of the epic were laden with religious and theological presupposition” (Hiltebeitel 1979: 65–66). Adluri (2011) argues that German scholars of the Mahābhārata were motivated by the religious zeal to spread the Enlightenment to India. 12  Herling (2006) should be the starting point for any investigation of the “German Gītā” (a term the book coins), but it covers mainly the early phase of the German interest in India, as does Marchignoli (2004). Sharpe (1985) covers the Bhagavadgītā of Rudolf Otto and J.W. Hauer in chapter 7. Malinar (2007) provides an overview of German Bhagavadgītā scholarship from the early nineteenth century but uncritically borrows many of its

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German scholars also produced numerous technical works, dictionaries, grammar books, and catalogues of manuscripts, and many are still considered authoritative.13 They also contributed to the preservation and digitisation of manuscripts, and some excellent work was done on editing texts.14 In the postWorld War II years, after the emancipation of India, attention has focused on broader South Asian history and the history of religions in India (often under the name of “modern Indology”), even though work in the older style continues alongside it. 5

Modern India

As a rule, German Indologists have tended to be dismissive of the idea of modern Indian studies, claiming a special expertise in ancient India (Schulz 2005). A new branch of Indology, titled “modern Indology,” now exists, which has lately experienced an upswing in its fortunes, but wherever “Indology” is used without a qualifier, the reference is to ancient India. The few scholars who visited the country, such as Richard von Garbe (1857–1927), took an extremely negative view of India. Garbe’s colonialist and racist attitudes are detailed in his Indische Reiseskizzen (Indian travelogues) from 1889. Garbe claimed that Hinduism did not originate from the Aryans but from “the dark side.” In his view: “In the present day, the blood of the Hindus is without a doubt only Aryan to the smallest degree, and even the Brahman families have been starkly contaminated with aboriginal blood” (Garbe 1889: 86).15 More recently, by characterising self-aware and articulate Indians such as Vivekananda hermeneutic assumptions. Adluri (2010) is a critique of Malinar (2007), in which the author shows that Malinar’s separation of “scientific” German scholarship from allegedly “uncritical” Indian readings is untenable. 13  Böhtlingk and Roth (1855–75) and Cappeller (1887) are the main Sanskrit-German dictionaries. Böhtlingk (1879) is an abridged version of Böhtlingk and Roth (1855–75). Goldstücker (1856) and Benfey (1866) are two other Sanskrit-English dictionaries. Grassman (1873) is a dictionary for the Ṛgveda. Aufrecht (1893–1901) catalogues the main Sanskrit manuscript collections of that time. 14  German Indologists’ assertions of expertise in textual criticism have not always been borne out. See Silk (2019) for his criticisms of Hanneder (2017) and see also Adluri and Bagchee (2018a) for the shortcomings with Grünendahl’s and Michael Witzel’s editions. 15  Bagchi (2003) presents an excellent overview of Garbe’s Indische Reiseskizzen and draws on an unpublished dissertation (Bagchi 1996). Adluri and Bagchee (2014a) builds on Bagchi (2003) but takes Garbe to task for his unscientific and illogical theories. Myers (2014) presents Garbe as a self-deluded colonialist who, on his travels to India, convinced himself that the people of India were yearning for better, enlightened, Prussian colonial masters to rule over them.

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and Radhakrishnan as “neo-Hindus,” Paul Hacker (1913–79) sought to reinforce a sense of discontinuity by implying they were not true spokespersons of the tradition.16 Hacker’s work is critiqued in Bagchee and Adluri (2014). 6

Characteristic Features

Criticisms of Indian traditions have accompanied German Indology almost since its inception and have been a characteristic feature of it. To a certain extent, suspicion of local scholarship has been a feature of oriental scholarship in general, as well as a characteristic of the modern reception of ancient thought in general (Schmitt 2012). However, in German Indology this ideology of critique took on much stronger forms given the Protestant suspicion of traditional authority in general, including but not limited to the Scholastic tradition.17 Thus, German scholarship featured specific methodological and ideological commitments and some characteristic beliefs and attitudes, including: Aryan or Indo-Germanic ideology (especially around the “Nordic” origins of the Aryans); a marked suspicion of the tradition (especially in its “priestly” manifestation);18 anti-Brahmanism; a tradition of religious polemics (especially toward Hinduism); and criticisms of Hindu ecumenism as damaging and

16  Hacker (1958) and Hacker (1978) are important source texts for the development of the “neo-Hindu” concept, which later gained popularity among his students as a way of conceptualising Hinduism. 17  Though not specific to Indology, Howard (2000) is essential reading for understanding the role of historicism in shaping nineteenth-century disciplines such as Indology. Howard (2006) is a good introduction to the role of German academic theology in constructing a new Wissenschaftsideologie that was widely responsible for the spread of German academic methods to other lands. Gerdmar (2009) traces the anti-Semitic content in the writings of Protestant theologians of the historical-critical school. Chapter 4 of Adluri and Bagchee (2014b: 314–55) discusses how German Indology was a continuation of neoProtestant theology, applied to the texts of the Indian tradition, and a form of messianic, eschatological universalism. 18  Roth (1867) provides a glimpse into his views on the Vedas and the commentarial tradition, especially his rejection of Indian commentators as uncritical and unreliable, and it is an important document for understanding the gestures of rejecting the commentarial tradition that are by now de rigueur in modern scholarship. Roth (1855) and Roth (1876) contain overviews of the process of editing the Petersburg Sanskrit dictionary; once again, Roth’s distaste and suspicion of the Indian tradition feature prominently in his discussion. Hanneder (2005) and Jamison (1996) continue the tradition of polemicizing against the Indian tradition that was instituted by Roth.

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threatening to Christian ideas of exclusivity.19 Hermann Oldenberg comments that: Buddhism has disappeared from its Indian homeland. What has triumphed is the power we call “Hinduism.” Its gods are the misshapen, wild, cruel, lascivious Hindu gods, at their head Shiva and Vishnu. Its books are the gigantic epic, the Mahābhārata, and an unsurveyable host of literature [comprised] of epic poems, legendary works, narratives, fairy tales, dramas. Everywhere we find how this people, this faith, this literature, whose familial context, pointing to the West, clearly appears in the old period, distanced itself ever further from those origins [in the West] in the course of centuries. A transformation that affects the innermost core of the people, of the soul of the people. Mixing with the dark-skinned aborigines transforms the invaders, causes the Aryan to turn into the Hindu. Oldenberg 1886: 640

This typifies nineteenth-century attitudes toward Hinduism. Additionally, much German Indological scholarship focused on providing evidence in support of a Protestant narrative of religious degeneracy, and it was from this narrative that many of the supposed reconstructions of Indian history first gained legitimacy.20 19  The idea traces back to Paul Hacker. Although, for years, Hacker had been developing the concept of Inclusivismus (inclusivism) to characterise Hinduism’s assimilatory and syncretic tendencies, his clearest statement of the concept can be found in Hacker (1983). Hacker’s concept was readily, albeit uncritically, borrowed by many scholars, including the authors Wezler (1983) and Mertens (2004), without them understanding either its historical context or doctrinal content. Halbfass (1983) and Oberhammer (1983) are more sensitive to the personal issues at stake for Hacker in the concept. Bagchee and Adluri (2014) examines Hacker’s use of the term and concludes that “inclusivism” is Hacker’s synonym for “ecumenism.” In their view, Hacker’s criticisms of Hinduism reflect his deep unease with Catholic ecumenism. 20  Many German Indologists produced general histories of either Indian literature or Indian philosophy. These histories typically comprise compendia of preexisting views— especially concerning periodisation of Indian thought, ideas of religious development, and value judgments of religious or regional traditions—developed in the more specialist literature. These large “histories” in turn lent an air of canonicity to the views developed in these contributions to the history of religions, to such an extent that the two genres or two fields—study of Indian literature and study of Indian religions—fed off each other in a circle. Windisch (1917–20) combines an account of (the development of) Indian literature with an overview of the development of departmental and individual research specialisations. Winternitz (1905–22) is the classic work by a German Indologist on the history of Indian literature; he draws mainly on preexisting views (e.g., those of Garbe on the Bhagavadgītā). Glasenapp (1929) is a more popular and accessible work and

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German Indology, which emerged from German neo-Protestantism and was largely shaped by the cultural experience of the Reformation, was characterised by a strong suspicion of the Brahmans.21 Since its inception, the narrative of religious degeneracy played a major role in shaping German Indology. As mentioned above, German Indology characteristically focused on the ancient period of Indian culture; later developments and, above all, the colonial period were taken as evidence of India’s spiritual decline. This narrative not only shaped much of early Western historiography on India but also the various “reform” and “revival” movements of nineteenth-century India, which claimed that a return to the sources of tradition (above all, an ahistorical notion of the Vedas as the source of the “true religion” of the “Aryas”) would provide an antidote to modern India’s ills.22 Yet, this narrative was neither modern nor Indian in origin; its roots were specifically Protestant, receiving its sanction from the Bible and from Luther’s radicalisation of the Bible’s message. The widespread acceptance of this trope in the work of Indologists such as Max Müller (1823– 1900) and Albrecht Weber (1825–1901) makes it hard to pinpoint the exact moment of its origination, but Müller (1867) and Weber (1868) are important source texts for its prevalence. Müller (1867) is a valuable work that illustrates how deeply the Protestant narrative of religious degeneracy was rooted in the minds of nineteenth-century orientalists and how deeply this narrative influenced their work; Weber (1868) is one of several texts illustrating the projection includes colour illustrations. Frauwallner (1953–56) is still relied on by some sources (e.g., the Frauwallner school of Indology in Austria) but is undermined by the author’s reliance on racial and anthropological categories, such as philosophy, allegedly being a uniquely Aryan capacity. 21  Gelders and Derde (2003) demonstrate that suspicion of all forms of clerical authority, whether Catholic, Rabbinic, or Brahmanic, was a dominant feature of Protestantism and also shaped the Protestant intellectuals’ encounters with other cultures. Garbe (1894) is perhaps the best example of how dislike of the clergy could be projected onto nonChristian and non-Western cultures. Goldstücker (1864) is a plea for the Indian people to throw off the yoke of Brahmanic oppression and to join their free European brethren in the Enlightenment project. Figueira (2002) studies the resemblances between Jews and Brahmans in Aryan ideology. Bagchee (2011) shows that when nineteenth-century Mahābhārata scholars criticised Brahmanic “corruption” of Indian texts, they did not mean this in a text-critical sense (as scribal contamination) but in an ideological sense (as moral perversion and social control). Adluri and Bagchee (2014a) show how Richard von Garbe’s anti-Brahmanism was an attempt to adopt British colonial mores and values. 22  Dayananda Saraswati (1908; originally published in 1875 in Hindi) is the best source for this. Many of his statements about the Purāṇas as a decadent literature are anticipated in Goldstücker (1864, 1868). Glasenapp praises Saraswati as a “Hindu Luther” (1922: 444), but the ascription probably traces back to the Arya Samaj itself. Durga Prasad calls him “the Luther of India” in his introduction to Saraswati (1908)—two years before Griswold (1910) describes the “many points of contact” between Dayanand and Luther.

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of this Protestant prejudice onto the religions of the world. Of all its partisans, however, Rudolf von Roth was its most vehement advocate. In countless works, he laid the theoretical groundwork for importing and installing—in semisecularised form—the theological notion of religious degeneracy into the study of Indian religions.23 7

The Bid for Hegemony

As we have seen, the discovery that Sanskrit and European languages are linguistically related provided a major impetus for Indology. On the basis of this fact, which gave rise to the field of Indo-European studies, scholars soon built up theories of racial and intellectual kinship and superiority, often in the guise of conducting Wissenschaft. Especially during Nazism, Indologists (e.g., the Austrian Erich Frauwallner, 1898–1974) traded in these theories in order to enhance the prestige and funding for the discipline. From the Wilhelmine era to Weimer Republic Germany, German scholars generated a vast literature on Aryan/Indo-Germanic culture, religion, and race.24 Nazi Germany of course specialised in the production of such literature, now given an even more pronounced racial and anti-Semitic bent.

23  Roth (1853) is on a dispute between Roth and the Reverend J.M. Mitchell concerning the applicability of moral standards (as opposed to literary ones) to the Vedas. Roth (1846) is an early work covering the “Brahmanic, Buddhist, and Zarathustraist [sic] religious systems” (Roth 1846: 346), which is important for understanding Roth’s evolutionary model of religions. Roth (1852) and Roth (1857) also evince his interest in an evolutionary model, which is characterised by the decline of an originally pure and natural religious sentiment among humans under the influence of the priesthood. 24  Sieferle (1987) traces the evolution of the term “Aryan” throughout history; Lütt (1987) looks at the role India played in National Socialist (NS) ideology. Arvidsson (1999) examines the role of Aryan mythology in the work of the Sanskritists Max Müller and Georges Dumézil. Junginger (2003) looks at the role played by Indologists in establishing the Arische Seminar (Aryan seminar) at the University of Tübingen. Figueira (2002) studies how an Aryan ideology was built by European and Indian scholars from reading “Aryan” texts such as the Vedas. Frauwallner (1939) and Frauwallner (1953) illustrate how “scientific” Indology could be pressed into the service of racial agendas. Houben (1999) includes a discussion of Frauwallner’s thesis that rationality was an Aryan import. Schroeder (1914–16), perhaps more than any other work, is the book that legitimated the view of a specifically Aryan culture and outlook. It is cited gratefully by Houston Stewart Chamberlain in his Arische Weltanschauung as “a unique document […] of our knowledge of what one can, may, and must call ‘Aryan religion,’ presented at the turn of the 20th century as glimpsed from the observatory of science” (Chamberlain 1938: 95).

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With Germany’s defeat in 1945, the successful export of German scholarship in the form of both ideas and ideology was briefly interrupted.25 After the war, East and West Germany established very different directions in Indology. Although some cooperation continued, East German scholars decried their former traditions of scholarship as “bourgeois Indology” and propagated a “socialist” or “Marxist-Leninist” Indology (Gatzlaff, et al. 1975). In West Germany, scholars likewise sought new fields of activity (especially “modern South Asian studies”) and new sources of legitimacy (e.g., opposition to “Hindutva,” etc.).26 As a rule, German Indologists have maintained a pregnant silence on the issue of Indology’s National Socialist past. The general attitude is that the National Socialist involvement of certain Indologists, such as Jakob Wilhelm Hauer, Walther Wüst, or Erich Frauwallner, was the result of their personal ideological convictions and therefore not reflective of a wider problem in or with German Indology.27 Gaeffke summarises: “after the disturbing experiences of Nazism and the second World War, German Indology emerged in much 25  The list of scholars who held chairs abroad includes Friedrich Rosen (London), Theodor Goldstücker (London), Theodor Aufrecht (Edinburgh), Julius Eggeling (Edinburgh), and Max Müller (Oxford). Leopold von Schröder held positions in Dorpat, Innsbruck, and Vienna. Georg Bühler was appointed Professor of Oriental Languages at Elphinstone College, Bombay in 1863 and moved to Vienna in 1880. Georg Thibaut taught at Benares Hindu College (1875–88) and Muir College (1888–95) in Allahabad. Franz Kielhorn became a professor of Sanskrit at Deccan College, Pune in 1866. He remained there until 1881. Additionally, several scholars of foreign origin received training in Germany, including the Americans William D. Whitney (1827–94), Maurice Bloomfield (1855–1928), and Edward W. Hopkins (1857–1932), and Otto Böhtlingk (1815–1904), a Russian of German descent from St. Petersburg. Jacobsen discusses the cases of Alf Torp (1853–1916) and Sten Konow (1867–1948) in his contribution in this volume. 26  Franco (2016) makes this case, but this is complicated by the fact that in Franco (2009) he elides details pertaining to the anti-Semitism of his predecessor to the chair. See also Adluri and Bagchee (2019). 27  Junginger (2008) looks at the life and work of Walther Wüst (1901–93), one of the more active of the German Indologist members and partisans of the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei (NSDAP, aka the Nazi Party). Junginger (2003) focuses on Jakob Wilhelm Hauer (1881–1962) and the “Aryan Seminar” he founded. Wüst (1939) demands that Indology must conform to völkische, racist ideology. Wüst (1942) is an important source text for Wüst’s involvement in National Socialism. Steinkellner (2009) is an unsuccessful attempt to separate the “scientific” portion of Frauwallner’s Indological research from his virulent racial ideology in response to the criticisms of Frauwallner in Stuchlik (2009). Slaje (2010) is a defence of Frauwallner and borders on a trivialisation of National Socialism. In his response (Stuchlik 2011), Jakob Stuchlik points to the continued relevance of efforts to unearth the Nazi history of German Indologists in light of Walter Slaje’s mitigation of Frauwallner’s Nazism. See also Hanneder for the comment, “Naturally [!], like many others, he [Frauwallner] was a beneficiary of the expulsion of Jewish or [otherwise] politically undesirable scientists” (2012: 255).

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the same form as it had been […] although some Indologists had undergone various forms of deprivation, persecution, moral debasement, etc. […] when German universities opened their doors again, Indologists continued the textual studies of earlier times” (1997: 398). Many German Indologists also oppose discussion of the topic on the grounds that it represents a very brief episode in the long history of the discipline. Hufnagel (2003) is among the very few attempts by German researchers to address the issue of National Socialist complicity, but it focuses only on the most obvious candidate, J.W. Hauer. Steinkellner argues that Frauwallner’s racially motivated division of Indian history into an “Aryan” and an “Indian” period emerged from his biographical engagement with the “meta-historical ideas” of his “socio-political environment” (2009: 4). Hanneder (2010) applies a similar logic to exonerate his predecessors to the chair at Marburg. In general, the official line of German Indology has been that the National Socialist past is not a subject for discussion, and those who have raised it have suffered repeated personal attacks (e.g., Jakob Stuchlik, 2009, 2011, attacked in Steinkellner 2009, Slaje 2010, and Hanneder 2012, and Sheldon Pollock, attacked in Grünendahl 2005, 2006, 2008, 2012). 8

The Ideal of Method

The official (hagiographic) histories of German Indology do not mention these aspects. They are at pains to present an unproblematic historical and critical science that made great contributions to the elucidation and discovery of Indian antiquity.28 Albeit, in recent years, a handful of scholars have begun to turn the spotlight on the discipline, its origins and its praxis,29 but they suffer 28  Windisch (1917–20) is a standard first source for historical information but is not critical. Stache-Rosen (1990) crosses the line from hagiography to falsification of history, eliding the Nazi involvement of many practitioners. Hanneder (2010), a twenty-first-century history of Indology at Marburg, also downplays the Nazi involvement of Johannes Nobel. Rau (1982) contains no text but includes images of 135 Indologists. Leifer (1971) and Nölle (1963) are adulatory accounts that strive to discern a special connection between Germany and (ancient) India. Alsdorf (1942) and Nölle (1965) contain hyperbolic praise for the achievements of German Indologists. 29  The well-researched work by McGetchin (2009) provides a comprehensive, balanced account. Sengupta (2005) features microstudies of the establishment of departments, the growth of student numbers, and the politics between rival Indologists. Rabault-Feuerhahn is useful for its annexes on “Indicative Chronology” (2013: 295–307) and “Chairs in Indology in Germany” (ibid.: 309–22). McGetchin et al. (2004) and Esleben et al. (2008) contain a wide range of articles; though not comprehensive, many of the articles in these

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from the drawback that, in regard to an evaluation of German Indology’s claims to scientificity (Wissenschaftlichkeit), they still depend on the Indologists’ own, and inevitably biased, self-assessments.30 German Indology largely premised its superiority on the belief that it alone pursued methodologically rigorous studies. In particular, it insisted that its historicist and empiricist approach had no metaphysical or doctrinal commitments and, therefore, constituted the sole universal method.31 Heinrich von Stietencron contrasts Indian and Western scholarship thus: “The analytical thinking of Western scholars trained in historical and philological methodology stood in contrast to the traditional Indian commentators. The latter not only generously harmonized all the disjunctions in the text but, above all, attempted to recognise in particular passages of the text their own philosophical and theological concepts. This was done in order to secure for themselves the divine authority of Kṛṣṇa. In this manner, several philosophical schools developed Gītā interpretations of their own” (Stietencron 1996: 6–7). Contrary to Stietencron’s claims, however, the German Indologists’ allegedly historical reconstructions of the Bhagavadgītā and the Mahābhārata did not withstand critical scrutiny (Adluri and Bagchee 2014b). Their “histories” deriving from higher criticism likewise failed to satisfy the basic criteria for scholarly objectivity. Setting out from his prejudices about what the “original” Bhagavadgītā contained, every scholar arrived at his own idiosyncratic two volumes are excellent introductions to specific topics. Adluri and Bagchee (2014b) deconstruct German Indology’s claim to be a postconfessional science; the authors demonstrate that it was another stage in Europe’s religious encounter with non-Christian traditions. Sengupta (2004) provides a useful glimpse into the nexus between the university and politics, with profiles of how a succession of cultural ministers in the nineteenth century played politics both inside the university (by promoting candidates favourable to their religious views) and outside (by supporting Indology as part of an evangelical programme). 30   Rabault-Feuerhahn refers several times to Indology’s scientific “achievements” (2013: 22, 26, see also 118: “philological and linguistic achievements”), but these assessments are based on the Indologists’ own claims. Thus, on page 49 she notes that Franz Bopp (1791– 1867) put “great care” into his publications; her source is Bopp’s letter to Friedrich Schlegel describing his achievements. Likewise, the observation that Roth fulfilled his task “with great competency in his quality as a Swabian very much aware of the realities of the rural world” (ibid.: 121) is a paraphrase of Garbe’s biography of his teacher (Garbe 1907). Several sections are also based on the standard disciplinary histories of Indology (Benfey 1869 and Windisch 1917–20). See also Bagchee (2019). 31  Although formulated in various forms by earlier writers, the clearest statement of this claim can be found in Hacker 1961, where it is called the text-historical (textgeschichtlich) method.

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account of the text (see table 6.1). The German Indologists’ theories about an original Kṣatriya epic (the so-called Urepos) were rooted in racial, anti-Semitic, and anti-Brahmanic prejudices. In contrast to the Indian commentators, all of whom based their arguments on a received text and argued rigorously for their positions, the German Indologists made random changes to the text in the name of “critical scholarship.” Although what they were doing amounted—no less than the work of the commentators—to an interpretation, they dishonestly claimed that their work was “merely” historical and they were “only” interested in recovering the earliest form of the text.32 And, whereas they criticised all other traditions for being insufficiently self-aware, they were blind to the historical presuppositions of their own work.33 They were neither informed about developments in German philosophy, history, or science nor could they clarify what was “critical” about their work.34 Rather, as they used the term, “critical” meant an iconoclastic rejection of the tradition and, above all, of its view of the Bhagavadgītā as a philosophical and pedagogic text. Despite the fact they had no method and no experience with textual criticism,35 they 32  Adluri and Bagchee (2016) discuss how some Indologists falsified their own criteria to produce results conforming to the German Indologists’ expectations. Udumudi (2017) is an interview that discusses the Indologists’ problematic application of the historicalcritical method. 33  Oldenberg (1886), Oldenberg (1906), and Oldenberg (1907) are three classic statements of Indology’s understanding of itself and its methodology, tasks, and aims. Oldenberg’s style is long winded, but the texts reveal important glimpses of German Indology’s attempts to define and establish itself vis-à-vis other disciplines, such as philology, as well as other national traditions, such as British Indology. Adluri (2011) summarises the most-important points of Oldenberg (1886) and Oldenberg (1906). Adluri and Bagchee (2014b) propose an alternative definition of German Indology: a form of religious discourse originating in the German neo-Protestantism of the eighteenth century. 34  A number of authors question the idea of a “science of India,” mostly through applying perspectives that can be considered broadly Foucauldian or Saidian. Inden (1990) and King (1999b) are early examples. Adluri and Bagchee (2014b) coauthored the first work to engage with the question: “What makes Indology a science?” Against the background of a reading of the history of nineteenth-century scientific positivism, the authors subject the “scientific” assertions of German Indologists to a critical review. 35  Adluri and Bagchee (2018a) demonstrate the problems with the so-called text-historical approaches to the Indian epic, the Mahābhārata, and argue for strictly distinguishing textual criticism, or the Lachmannian method, from the historical-critical or text-analytic methods. Olivelle reinforces these conclusions by showing that, in the case of the Upaniṣads, none of the “so-called ‘critical editions’ [of the Upaniṣads created by German scholars] used manuscript material; even where manuscript differences are noted, the editions were not based on a careful sifting and collation of all the available manuscript evidence and the application of recognized editorial principles” (1998: 174).

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Table 6.1 Indological reconstructions of an “original” Bhagavadgītā

Source

“Critical” criterion

Holtzmann Jr. (1893) Only the pantheistic elements are original Garbe (1905) Only the theistic elements are original Schrader (1910) The original Bhagavadgītā, as part of the pre-Viṣṇuite Mahābhārata, ends with 2.38 Garbe (1914) Garbe’s second attempt incorporates Winternitz’s suggestions Jacobi (1918) Only the epic elements are original Oldenberg (1919) The key to the poem is in 2.39; everything ­thereafter belongs to the “didactic poem” Charpentier (1930) Amalgam of other scholars’ ideas about the “original” Otto (1934) Only elements relating to Arjuna’s “situation” are original; the Bhagavadgītā is an instance of the numinous experience of the mysterium tremendum found in Luther’s “On the Bondage of the Will” Hauer (1937) The Bhagavadgītā is a “metaphysics of battle and action” that combines “the two life poles of the Indo-Germanic nature” Von Simson (1969) It is a “secondary interpolation” following a first interpolation from 6.16.21 to 6.20.22 and 6.42.1 Ježić (1986) Attempt to validate German scholars’ ideas of the Bhagavadgītā: “The poetic parts of the Gītā are relatively more ancient than the didactic parts attached to them”

Verses retained (of 700) 164 528 85 353 71  85 or 82 66 139

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–991 60

continued to assert that “‘German Indology’ is not, at its core, a ‘nay’ science; rather, ‘German Indologists’ wanted to accomplish for India what their fellow philologists had accomplished for Ancient Greece and Rome—and presumably, some of them still have this aim” (Franco 2016: 713).

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The Emphasis on History

German Indology’s defining feature, as understood by its practitioners, was its emphasis on historical modes of contemplation. German Indologists argued that, as the Indians failed to develop a historical sense,36 they had no access to the genuine meaning of their texts, which, conditioned by the historical-critical method, the Indologists equated with the historical meaning.37 Oldenberg accuses the Indians of failing to develop “historiography in a scientific sense” (Oldenberg 1922: 11). He describes the Indians as a “people without a history” (Oldenberg 1886: 406). Oldenberg (1886), Oldenberg (1906), and Oldenberg (1907) are three classic sources for the view that the Germans had unique access to ancient India. The problem is, the Indologists did not actually undertake historical research. As we have just seen, their so-called histories were a priori accounts drawn from texts such as the Bhagavadgītā and the Mahābhārata, in which they applied their prejudices about the downfall of the heroic Aryans and the evils of “Brahmanism.”38 Moreover, the emphasis on history and historical methods loses its polemical force when we realise that, when it comes to historical inquiry, the Indologists make an exception for the tradition to which 36  Franco (2016) cites Lévi (1925) as the source of the observation, but it already occurs in Cousin (1828), and the prejudice is as old as Mill (1817). But it first acquires its polemical contrast with Hegel’s Philosophy of History (1822), where the Indians’ failure to develop history is: (1) attributed to their failure to develop a state (Hegel [1822] 1956: 161) and (2) contrasted with the Germans as the historical people par excellence, the first to realise the modern state as the condition of the individual’s freedom (ibid.: 466). Insofar as he criticises Indians for having failed to develop a cult of history as the Germans did, Franco only repeats Hegel’s “tribalism […] totalitarianism [and] worship [of] the state, history, and the nation” (Popper 1949: 29). 37  Levenson (1993) discusses the problem with elevating the historical context over other contexts in the interpretation of the Bible. He illustrates how “historical context” functions as a code for a Protestant Christian reading of scripture. Howard discusses the paradox of historical consciousness. “Even belief in history must be sacrificed to history. The conception of history that emerged from post-Enlightenment, elite European culture has no privileged observer status. The inevitability of cultural relativism articulated by Troeltsch and others, moreover, is logically—if not epistemologically—self-destroying: if all truth is culture-specific, so is the truth of cultural relative analysis. Hence it cannot be said to be true” (Howard 2000: 16). 38  Von Simson (1969) and von Simson (1984) are classic examples of the German antiBrahmanic prejudice. Von Simson argues for removing the Bhagavadgītā from the Mahābhārata as it is an “ideological justification” added by “later Brahmanic revisionists [of an earlier, heroic Kṣatriya epic]” (1969: 173). Von Simson thinks the Mahābhārata is “a document of counter-reformation against Buddhism, Jainism and other heretical sects” (1984: 223), a criticism anticipated in Holtzmann, who uses the same term (1892: 98) and also calls the Mahābhārata a “weapon” in the “battle against Buddhism” (ibid.: 97–98, 151).

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they belong, and they have neither historical training nor an explicit concept of historiography. Their idea of “historical research” has been a crude positivism, in which they equated the texts with historical events and claimed to discern in the logic of the texts’ composition the most banal of human motives (greed, lust for power, a desire to convert, etc.). Insofar as no evidence exists for these inferences, we may suspect that the logic the Indologists saw in the texts was simply a reflection of their own petty concerns. The domination of historicism to the exclusion of other kinds of exegetic concerns has been baleful for the humanities.39 The example of German Indology demonstrates that the thoughtless valorisation of “history,” especially in the form of so-called historical explanations, often without evidence or even the barest semblance of argument,40 has led to the discrediting of history as an episteme. The Indologists’ so-called text-historical method failed to provide either independently verifiable procedures for discovery or scientifically legitimated conclusions, and the question arises: Whence their privileging of history? The idea of “history,” in relation to ancient Indian texts in particular and the humanities in general, can be traced to Hegel. “World history” provided a teleological, metanarrative programme for classifying and ordering humanity 39  Nietzsche notes the danger that an excessive concern with history in the form of historical research presents in The Gay Science, § 7 (“Something for the industrious”). It recurs, of course, as the theme of his second “Untimely Meditation” titled “The Uses and Disadvantages of History for Life.” See Nietzsche ([1822] 2001) and ([1874] 1997). 40  Jamison and Brereton’s work is a good example: “This last hymn in the Ṛgveda has a programmatic and propagandistic agenda. The Ṛgveda Saṃhitā (‘Collection’) has assembled the poetic products of numerous separate clans, who also had their own cultic practices and who presumably coexisted in an uneasy vacillation between semi-hostility and wary cooperation. This hymn collection was produced under the new circumstances of a centralized (or centralizing) sociopolitical regime, generally considered to be the Kuru kings, which sought to impose (or encourage) a standardized, shared ritual culture—the Ṛgveda collection being its most enduring product—that would also support the political unification. The hymn begins (vs. 1) with the ritual fire, which brings all the Ārya together, including those who don’t seem to want it (1b), and is the most visible representation of the underlying unity of their ritual praxis. There’s an implicit warning in this verse: the ritual fire itself will appropriate the goods of any hold-outs. Verse 2 then provides a positive model: like the gods, who put aside their differences to take their common shares in the sacrifice, we should make a common sacrifice (which, implicitly it is said, will make us more successful, once we no long have to compete among ourselves all the time). Verse 3 outlines the results of the program to devise a standardized ritual shared by all. The second half of this verse is a virtual speech act: the speaker performs the two fundamental components of the ritual—ritual speech (the mantra) and ritual action (the oblation)— thus by this announcement effectively creating the new, shared ritual. Verse 4 promises that the results will be worth the effort” (2014: 1660–61).

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and the humanities. But this notion of history was neither universal (all other cultures are subsumed within a narrative of progress that “ends” in the modern Prussian state) nor secular (world history is an explicitly Christian, Lutheran vision of divine providence unfolding in the world). With Hegel, the dialogue among cultures came to an end, and instead, “the immeasurable distance” and “the totally unique nature of Antiquity” set the programme for a new epistemic endeavour (Schlegel [1797] 1981: 35–41)—one Schlegel called Historismus (historicism). In the Indological research that ensued, “objectivity” and “othering” were indistinguishable.41 As a “science,” Protestant hermeneutics continued its obsession with realia and an obligation to emancipate Hindus from the Brahmanic clergy by reforming them. The German understanding of history, however, quickly moved beyond Hegel. Ranke and Burckhardt presented alternate conceptions of history. Droysen, Trietschke, and Dilthey followed Ranke’s conservative, nationalistic, and Christian understanding of history and its relation to man, whereas Nietzsche followed Burckhardt. Indological studies did not move past the Hegelian paradigm, although it opportunistically presented itself in Marxist (Ruben 1954) or Rankean (Pollock 2014, 2016) language. Under Ranke’s slogan “wie es eigentlich gewesen” (how it really was) or, alternatively, under a secular, non-Hindu utopia as the necessary future, a dialogue with Hinduism as it existed was avoided.42 Tomes of alternative histories continue to be written even to this day.43 The episteme has remained unchanged since Lassen. Through this lack of selfcriticism and innovation, Indology has become a cult of nineteenth-century manners (Adluri and Bagchee 2017a). From the perspective of Nietzsche’s criticism of philology and history, Indology, having abandoned its pedagogical function in addition to any dialogic function with other cultures, can no longer contribute to the humanities. Ironically, it can still serve a historical function. 41  Like Schlegel, the Indologists gladly appropriated the idea of historicism to separate antiquity and modernity, and to justify their privileged position as the surveyors and taxidermists of a superseded antiquity. Paradoxically, this embalming function was then also applied to contemporary traditions, such as Hinduism; the Indologists insisting, despite every sign of vitality, that the decomposition process had already set in and death was inevitable. 42  Stietencron (1989, 1995, 2009) questions the very notion of a coherent Hindu identity. Lorenzen argues “the claim that Hinduism was invented or constructed by European colonizers, mostly British, sometime after 1800 is false” (1999: 631). King (1999a) refuses to underwrite the blanket assertion that Hindu identity is a European construct. 43  Doniger (2009, 2014) presents alternative histories of Hinduism; Doniger (2009) explicitly so. Doniger (2014) tries to make a case for nirguṇa brahman as a Brahmanic imposition on saguṇa images of a folk deity.

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As a canary in the coal mines of the research university, it can point to the dangers of not forging the “un-historical” and “supra-historical” episteme that Nietzsche had recommended (Nietzsche [1874] 1997).44 10

Conclusion: Current State and Future Prospects

The enormous literary productivity during its heyday notwithstanding, the core of German Indology is comprised of certain methodological, intellectual, and institutional commitments that answered to a specific historical constellation. As this constellation changed, Indologists found themselves scrambling for new roles and new sources of legitimacy; a transition not always successfully mastered.45 With the precipitous decline in the number of chairs, an entire system for generating scholarship, along with its implicit and explicit biases, finds itself facing imminent demise. The decline in Indology, however, is not representative of the situation of Hinduism in Germany. The large number of publications, lectures, and other events attests to an unwavering German interest in Hinduism, including its soteriological, ritual, and transformative aspects.46 While Indologists continue to lament the loss of positions and blame the government, “post-orientalist”

44  Myers (2013) takes a broad look at the role Indologists played in the political and cultural life of Wilhelmine-era Germany. One of the first works to critique the idea that a stable, essential, and value-free domain of knowledge known as “Indology” exists was Inden (1990), who extends Edward Said’s critique of orientalism. Though not specific to German Indology, King (1999b) explores how terms such as “mystical,” “secular,” etc. came to define discussion of non-Western religions. 45  At the beginning of World War II Sanskrit was taught in twenty-one universities. During the war, there were plans for an Aryan seminar at the University of Tübingen under Hauer’s leadership. Wüst held a chair for Aryan philology in Munich (Junginger 2003, 2008). Frauwallner and Johannes Hertel argued for an aggressive reorganisation of German Indology in service of National Socialism and advocated limiting the “Semitic” influence (Stuchlik 2009; Adluri and Bagchee 2017b). Despite these expressions of ideological loyalty (twelve professors were members of the National Socialist party, and three others signed the Bekenntnis der deutschen Professoren zu Adolf Hitler), the contraction continued unabated. Student enrolment peaked between the years 1860 and 1880 (Sengupta 2005), but, after 1945, the decline into social and intellectual irrelevance has been irreversible. 46  Outside of state-sponsored Indology and its Protestant reformatory concerns, there has always been a flourishing tradition of engagement with Hinduism in Germany through poets such as Heine and Novalis and through modern art, Anthroposophy, and philosophy. It is this tradition that Hanneder (2008) attacks.

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critics,47 and unspecified outsiders for this decline,48 the fact is that this loss represents neither a loss of knowledge (except in the peculiar form that Indian studies took in German Indology—as a narrative of suspicion, oversight, and control) nor a reduction in interactions between Germany and India.49 The death of Indology marks a historic caesura in the relationship between the two nations.50 It allows their relationship to unfold in an atmosphere of dialogue and mutual respect, unclouded by racist and nationalist concerns.51 There is every hope that outside of Indology and its Protestant reformatory concerns, art, music, literature, and philosophy will continue to fulfil the early and naïve German longing for India (i.e., such as existed before the emergence of academic Indology and its Lutheran theological agendas), as they have indeed done for the past two centuries.52

47  Gaeffke blames “blind resentment and unfocused anger about postcolonial politics” (1990: 71) for the decline in interest in orientalist studies. Hanneder cites “the powerful, but ultimately fruitless rhetoric of the post-colonial and other discourses, which ‘has become a major preoccupation in American and British academia’” (2001: 239). 48  Stietencron (1981) surveys the decline of Indology, but it is now outdated in light of the many closures of departments since then. Slaje attacks the “mercantilism” of the German government in response to these closures and attempts to insist on the current relevance of German Indology as part of the “spiritual universe” of the European humanities (2003: 311). Franco blames “neo-liberalism, secondary school and university reform, and the cultural turn in the humanities” (2016: 713). Hanneder makes a fervent appeal for a “functioning Indology” as a “defense of the achievements of the Enlightenment against religiously determined views, which mask themselves as science” (2010: 87). Houben (2008a, 2008b) asks what a “new Indology” might look like. 49  Hanneder (2010) is the best source for this. See previous note. 50  Compared with a peak of twenty-six chairs, only fourteen chairs are currently active. Michaels (2004: 334) lists the number of surviving chairs as sixteen, but his figures are outdated. He lists “Berlin, Bochum, Freiburg, Göttingen, Halle, Hamburg, Heidelberg, Kiel, Köln, Leipzig, Mainz, Marburg, München, Münster, Tübingen und Würzburg” (ibid.: 334n46), but in the meantime, Berlin (East and West), Bochum, Freiburg, Kiel, and Münster have closed. The Arbeitsstelle Kleine Fächer has twenty-two and a half chairs, see https://www.kleinefaecher.de/entwicklung-der-professuren-und-standortzahlen-in-den -kleinen-faechern/ (accessed March 20, 2018); but its base year is 1997 (i.e., after closures in Königsberg and Breslau—lost after the war—and Rostock and Jena—closed during the GDR period). See also Sellmer 2012 and Voigt 2008. 51  Abreu (2003) discusses how Friedrich Schlegel, an ardent, self-serving nationalist, misused the linguistic affinity between Sanskrit and German to postulate a theory of the Germans as members of the most advanced race of humanity. Bagchee (2019) does the same for his brother August Schlegel. 52  Adluri discusses the Indologists’ parochialism, their failure to contribute to the humanities, and how they “betrayed Kant’s and Humboldt’s legacy” (in Crary 2017).

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CHAPTER 7

The European Construction of “Hindu Astronomy” (1700–1900) Dhruv Raina This chapter examines the construction of the entity of “Hindu astronomy” through the writings of European scholars between the beginning of the eighteenth century and the end of the nineteenth. What compelled these scholars to write about the history of the astronomical practices of South Asia? Who were the chroniclers, what were their sources, and what were the imaginaries that shaped the narratives and identity of Hindu astronomy? The theme of European scholarship on the sciences of India has been addressed before (Sen 1985). But the term Hindu astronomy is a European construction, for that is not how the astral sciences of India are referred to in all their diversity (Pingree 1978). We could well argue that the term is a creation of the disciplines of the history of science and Indology. The first disciplinary histories of astronomy, such as Jean-Sylvain Bailly’s Histoire de l’astronomie ancienne depuis son origine jusqu’ à l’établissement de l’école d’Alexandrie and Traité de l’astronomie indienne et Orientale, engage with “Indian astronomy” (Bailly 1787). And this is more or less the practice until the arrival of British Indology. The founder of British Indology, William Jones, uses both terms—speaking of “Hindu chronology” and the “Indian zodiac” (Jones 1790a, 1790b). The chronology was possibly deduced from a reading of the Hindu scriptures and mythology, while the zodiac was deduced from the corpus of the astral sciences. A rather broad inference that could be made is that the historians of astronomy preferred the label “Indian astronomy” while the Indologists preferred the use of the term “Hindu astronomy,” particularly when referring to a body of astronomical texts in Sanskrit.1 This is especially noticeable in the nineteenth century. By the end of the nineteenth century, even some Indian scholars echoed the Orientalist practice of employing the terms “Hindu sciences” or “Hindu chemistry” (Ray 1902; Seal 1915). On our part, we understand Hindu astronomy to connote the part of the astronomical tradition that envelops a corpus of texts in Sanskrit, which includes the Siddhāntas, 1  Bentley 1825; Biot 1862; Chasles 1836, 1835–50, 1846; Davis 1790, 1792; Guerin 1847; Jones 1790c; Liétard and Cordier 1989.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004432284_008

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Karaṇas, and Pañcāṅgas, etc. However, perhaps it would make sense to adopt Pollock’s idea of the “Sanskrit cosmopolis” when referring to the family of these astronomical works (Pollock 2006: 183). Several of these texts could also have been authored by Jaina astronomers and astrologers. Thus, the term Indian astronomy connotes a far more heterogeneous and ecumenical tradition of astronomical practices that were spread out over the subcontinent. On the other hand, the discipline of the history of sciences in the modernist vein had its origins in Europe. History as a modern discipline and the history of science in its modern manifestation more or less emerged around the same time—between 1750 and 1840—or, put differently, between Condorcet and Comte (Laudan 1993). The discipline of the history of science emerged more or less at the same time as modern science came to be institutionalised, and it played an important role in conferring an identity upon modern science and specialist histories; the history of mathematics or chemistry played a similar role as newer specialties emerged (Kragh 1987). During the Enlightenment the encyclopaedists, such as Diderot, D’Alembert, Condorcet, Voltaire, and others, proposed the preparation of a universal compendium of learning, from antiquity to their own times, that would disclose the true progress of mankind in the realm of thought (Bentley 1997). The period was one of the differentiation of disciplines on the one hand and the institutionalisation of these emerging disciplines on the other. Both processes played a role in marking disciplinary boundaries and in the crystallisation of disciplinary identities. The histories of the sciences played an important role in this process of boundary marking, and they did important conceptual work for stabilising these identities (Thackray 1980). This entailed the elucidation of genealogies, originations, and mapping the lines of diffusion. This chapter concludes with European writings on Indian/Hindu astronomy up to the middle of the nineteenth century. So, while the eighteenth century is the formative period for the emergence of several discourses on colonialism, European writings on India comprised a network of intersecting and contending representations (Teltscher 1995). These contending representations were often shaped by “national and religious rivalries, domestic concerns,” and the cognitive or intellectual cultures of the respective interlocutors, as well as national settings and religious contexts (ibid.; Raina 1999). Thus, European traditions of writing about India, by the middle of the eighteenth century, can be divided into several national traditions. The birth of a specifically British tradition can be traced to the Asiatic Society of Bengal in the 1780s, and it is marked by the impulse of British writers to “foreground the textual nature of their activity” through the specific study of classical texts produced in India

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(Teltscher 1995: 6; Kejariwal 1988). The point is that, by the end of the nineteenth century, while distinct “national interpretive traditions” retained their salience, these traditions were conversing with and contesting each other in more international academic settings—and more importantly, Indian scholars begin to comment on these texts as well. 1

The Idea of the Antiquity of the Sciences of India

Central to the inauguration of this corpus of scholarship are the writings of the Jesuits in India. Between 1620 and 1680, Jesuit science emerged as an “influential alternative” on the European cultural map. By the end of this period, Rome had lost its monopoly as the sole centre of Jesuit learning. And in the Italian provinces, alternative forms of Jesuit activity crystallised in the cultural field such as physico-mathematics; among the French Jesuits there arose the tradition of producing mathematical texts—as mathematics itself later became institutionalised in the German and Italian provinces. However, by the early eighteenth century, the Jesuit sciences became marginal within the mainstream institutionalisation of science, but Jesuit scientists themselves had not become marginal (Feldhay 2000: 109). In other words, Jesuit scientists continued to pursue their scientific activity at their missionary outposts. While the discourse on the Orient emerged in the eighteenth century, studies on the Jesuit sciences and Jesuit knowledge signal other genealogies of Orientalism. So much so that a French historian of Chinese science took offence that William Jones was counted among the inaugurators of “indianisme” when the rightful inaugurator, according to him, was the Jesuit and Sanskrit scholar Père Calmette Pons (Raina 2000). The four early Christian religious orders in Asia included the Jesuits, Franciscans, Dominicans, and Augustinians. But the Jesuits had already entered the field of missionary activity in the region by the 1540s (Subrahmanyam 2012: 230–35), and Portuguese Jesuitical writing from the sixteenth century impacted the subsequent tradition of European travelogue writings on India and also played a role in shaping European tastes and scholarship on South Asia (Teltscher 1995; Lafont 2000; Biès 1974). Research on the practices of knowledge making in the missionary world suggests that the presence of “Catholic Orientalism” predates the French missionary accounts. The history of this Orientalism is situated within a longer history of the Portuguese empire, and the production of knowledge about South Asia disseminated through the global networks of the Portuguese empire (Xavier and Županov 2015). Thus, by the middle of the seventeenth century, centres

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of Catholic Orientalism surfaced outside the Iberian world, notably in Paris, and by the end of the century, Catholic Orientalism had more of a French and Italian flavour. While there was a diversification of the genres of writing on India, the Jesuit writings exhibit a first-hand, scholarly acquaintance with Indian languages (Kejariwal 1988). From among the French Jesuit missionary order there would emerge a tradition of scientific, religious, and cultural commentary that provided Europe with a proto-ethnographical account of the knowledge-related practices of the Indian subcontinent (Murr 1986). In this discourse on India, the Jesuits elaborated upon the systems of mathematical and astronomical knowledge they encountered, and it is evident that they recognised there were several knowledge systems that were of great antiquity. This idea played a fundamental role in shaping subsequent European accounts of the history of the sciences of India that began to be crafted toward the end of the eighteenth century as the sciences in the West were entering their most intense phase of institutionalisation (Raina 1999). These Jesuit narratives appear to us in the form of letters they wrote home (Lettres Édifiantes 1810–11) and in reports of astronomical expeditions and observations of astronomical events mailed to Giovanni Domenico Cassini, Joseph-Nicolas Delisle, and others concerning the mathematical and astronomical knowledge of the region. These observations were not based on the textual interpretation of the “high Indian” tradition but were based on conversations between Jesuits and informed almanac makers who had little scholarly knowledge of Siddhāntic astronomy (Raina 2010). These proto-ethnographic reports served as resources for French astronomers and mathematicians writing disciplinary histories in the middle of the eighteenth century on matters relating to India. The histories of G.J.H.J.B. Le Gentil, the master narrative of Jean-Sylvain Bailly, and the professional history of Jean B.J. Delambre, authored between the turn of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century, were indebted to Jesuit sources (Bailly 1775, 1787; Delambre 1817, 1819). Thus, these proto-ethnographic accounts metamorphosed into a history under the gaze of savants interested in producing an encyclopaedic history of science. Through these histories of the sciences, l’Europe des sciences2 became acquainted with the legacy of the sciences of India. These encyclopaedic histories would further inspire British Indologists in their search for the original Sanskrit and Tamil sources of Indian mathematics and astronomy (Raina 2008), as well as inspire French Indology that influenced French social science research on India (Lardinois 1995; Raina 2014). 2  This happens to be the title of an important book by Blay and Nicolaïdes (2001).

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But the Jesuit encounter with India and other cultures and regions of the world strained their mental repertoire. As Županov reminds us: “The other, the foreign, the strange was seen as a ‘factum’ to be surveyed, enumerated, described, explained, catalogued. The data thus produced and collected […] remain a witness of various experiments in the methods of conversion, persuasion, surveillance and social engineering” (1999: 22). Thus, the problem of reconciling the other was approached along three orthogonal axes: axiological, involving value judgements about equality and inferiority; one involving a rapprochement, an identification or submission to the other; and epistemic, ignorance of the other’s identity, invoking a gradation between “lower or higher states of knowledge” (Todorov 1984: 185). Jesuit desire to construct the other as the “self-same” nearly obliterated Amerindian practices and cultures. In regions where pagan civilisations were seen to be far more “resilient,” the Jesuits went native (Županov 1999: 24). The French Jesuits working at the Madurai and Pondicherry missions followed the Jesuitical practices of accommodation in India and China and lived the austere lives of Indian saṃnyāsins, thus following in the footsteps of de Nobili and Bouchet (Clooney 2005: 3). A recent biography of the life of Bouchet, easily the most important Jesuit astronomer along with Boudier, is based on a reconstruction of nine letters published in the Lettres, whose length vary between four and seventy-six pages and which were written between 1700 and the 1720s. Interestingly, the biographer Francis Clooney reads the letters along three axes: 1) Observations about India, 2) dramatisation of the mission and the missionary, and 3) theologising India and Europe (ibid.: 9–11). Thus, the correspondence and reports of the French Jesuit astronomer and cartographer Claude Stanislas Boudier (1687–1757) earned him an invitation to Jai Singh’s court in 1734, where he entered into a discussion with the astronomers at the Jantar Mantar in Jaipur. It could be argued that the years 1730 to 1735 comprised the high tide of French Jesuit astronomical activity in India. The French Jesuits arrived on the Coromandel Coast of India as evangelists. Pères Tachard, Fontenay, Bouvet, Gerbillon, Le Comte, and Visdelou were the first French missionaries to arrive in India (Bamboat 1933: 85). Tachard was among the first French missionaries of the Society of Jesus to choose India as the “theatre for their apostolic work,” having been sent by Louis XIV to Siam in 1685; in 1686 he accompanied the French ambassador to Siam to meet Louis XIV and the Sovereign Pontiff (the pope). Returning to Pondicherry at the end of the decade, he acquired a reputation for making accurate astronomical observations, which are contained in his diary and letters (ibid.: 89–91). He and the French ambassador to Siam, M. de la Loubère, visited Louis XIV in Paris in 1687, and they carried with them a Sanskrit manuscript from Siam.

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This manuscript contained rules for the computation of the longitudes of the sun and the moon, and it served as source material for Le Gentil and Bailly several decades later. At the time, Gian-Dominico Cassini, then heading the Paris observatory, deciphered the computational rules contained therein into the language of modern astronomy (Sen 1985: 49).3 Cassini’s computations were presented in the Mémoires of the French Royal Academy. Based on the ratio of omitted lunar days to the total number of days, which Cassini took to be 11/703, he calculated the synodic month to be twenty-nine days, twelve hours, fortyfour minutes, and 2.39 seconds. Having established that 228 solar months were equivalent to 235 lunar months, Cassini showed that the Indians who had generated these astronomical rules knew about the Metonic cycles (Sen 1985: 50). The sun underwent 800 revolutions over a computed period of 292,207 days, and thereby Cassini estimated the length of the sidereal year to be 365 days, six hours, twelve minutes, and thirty-six seconds. Since this figure agreed with the value obtained in the Paulisasiddhānta of Varāhamihira (ca. 505–558 CE), it was argued much later that these computational rules were derived from the latter text (ibid.). Père Bouchet’s discussion of metempsychosis (Lettres Édifiantes 1810, 12: 136–93) reveals his perplexity with the doctrine of the transmigration of the soul and prompts a comparative discussion of the doctrine of the soul among the Indians, Pythagoreans, Platonists, and Christians (ibid.: 145–53). The most significant preoccupation was with eschatology, Indian cosmology, the theory of the beginning and the end of the world, and the Indian book of genesis (ibid.: 155). This interest persisted into the secular history of astronomy produced by non-Jesuit French savants, and it is possibly the signature of the eighteenth-century preoccupation with the origins of the universe and the commencement of human history. This exposition moves along a fluid boundary between the scriptural and the scientific, and it is a secular discourse on Biblical chronology. Chronology was not only about the unfolding of time and human history. For those nurtured on Christian doctrine, human time, like history, began after the deluge. Consequently, the search for analogues of the Noahic deluge figures in their readings of other scriptural traditions, as if the 3  Three chapters of the second volume of this text, titled Description du royaume de Siam par M.de la Loubère, deal with astronomy. Pages 113–49 deal with Siamese astronomical rules for calculating the motion of the sun and moon; these were decoded by Cassini, who suggests that these rules clearly suggested an Indian influence. The second chapter, a long one— pages 150–234—is a reflection on the Indian computation rules and is based on material obtained on Père Tachard’s voyage to Siam. Cassini suggests that these rules could be used to fix the Siamese calendar. I am indebted to Jean-Marie Lafont for the details on this text.

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deluge was a mythopoeic universal that informed our meditations on celestial time (ibid.: 157). In terms of the scientific interpretation of the Bible, as the history of science moved toward becoming a secular discipline, the chronology of the Dispersion of Nations and the Deluge were to become fixed. 2

The Duchamp Manuscripts

Two early Jesuits manuscripts were those of Père Patöuillet and Père Xavier Duchamp, whose careers in historical scholarship is evident. Two of the three important sources appearing in Jean-Sylvain Bailly’s Traité de l’astronomie indienne et Orientale were based on so-called Sanskrit manuscripts (Bailly 1787). One of them was sent from India by Père Patöuillet to the astronomer Joseph de Lisle in 1750. This was a copy of the Pañcānga Śiromanī (Sen 1985: 50). The Duchamp manuscript referred to here as is extant and is held at the Observatoire de Paris (Duchamp 1750).4 The manuscript is not a Sanskrit manuscript but is an account of Indian astronomical practices and calculations of eclipses based on the explication of the procedure followed by Tamil astronomers at Pondicherry, and it contains a glossary of astronomical terms employed in Sanskrit and Tamil. These ethnographic accounts were not obtained through contact with astronomers familiar with the Siddhāntas but were produced through exchanges with calendar makers who worked with astronomical manuals. Thus, the interlocutors of the Jesuits were possibly not the leading astronomers of the region. Both Patöuillet’s manuscript and the Duchamp manuscripts were the focus of much discussion by the astronomers Bailly, Laplace, and Delambre. Père Duchamp’s manuscripts suggest that within the Indian astronomical tradition there existed many methods for identifying the meridian and calculating the equations of the sun, moon, and the planets. A perusal of another version of the manuscript (Duchamp 1734) suggests that the procedures documented have to do with operations that were employed to calculate past eclipses. To validate his reconstruction of the computations of the Brahmans, Duchamp requested the help of a Brahman astronomer (“pañcāṅganiste,” a calendar maker), and he used his method as an exemplar in order to illustrate the method employed (Duchamp 1734, folio 000002). During this ethnographic phase of French Indology, the Sūryasiddhānta began to be canonised as the Indian Almagest. In the second manuscript (Duchamp 1750: 1), Duchamp 4  For a detailed discussion of two versions of the manuscript, see Raina 2010.

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begins by pointing out that there is a method called the “Souriasiddantam,” though it is not clear at this juncture whether he knew of the work by the same name, or whether the method is to be found in a work that goes by that name: Il faut avouer qu’il y a une methode nommée Souriasiddantam qui sert a ce qui paroist de regle, mais cette regle a eté entendue autre fois, car aujourd’huy personne ne l’entend, qu’oy que tous les calculateurs Indiens, disent qu ils calculent sur le Souriasiddantum mais l’ors qu’on leur fait remarquer des fautes dans leur calcul, alors ils replquent que cela n’ariveroit pas, si on entendois bien le Souriasiddantum […] je ne crois pas que les sçavans parviennent au bout de le dechiffrer; mais le Souriasiddantum luy méme n’est pas sont faute, et le contour que cette method donne a la terre est prodigieux on aura peut etre lieu de le marquee. (emphasis added) (Ibid.) I have elsewhere pointed out that the French Jesuits invented two tropes, disfigurement and forgetting, to accommodate non-European peoples into a Christian conception of time (Raina 2003). The Enlightenment historians of astronomy, Le Gentil and Bailly, transformed them into tropes wherein the Indians had forgotten the rational of the astronomical methods employed, and that they had disfigured the methods acquired from an ancient people. Earlier versions of these tropes in the history of science prefigure in the Jesuit accounts. Clearly, both tropes are fairly explicit in the passage above, and they are encountered repeatedly in text. Thus, a couple of lines later, Duchamp remarks: Qu’oy que les sçavans Indiens de ce tems ne scachent que la mechanique de leur Calcul, il est difficile de les fait parler: ils ont plus d’un interest dans ce silence si la crainte en general que par la ils ne perdent une resource pour vivre en vendant leur almanacs, ou si l’on veut leur connoissance de tem, a ceux des brames qui courent leur village, pour anoncer les nouveaux mois, les bons et mauvais jours. (Ibid.) If the trope of forgetting is evident here, the other trope follows closely; Duchamp indicates that the method that was communicated to France through the French ambassador M. de la Loubère was totally in ruins or disfigured: “sans doute que le sçavans ne communiqué qu’une method toute delabrée” (ibid.). Duchamp further indicates that there is a lot more they would like to do in the field to satisfy Louis le Grand and, more importantly, to gratify their colleagues—“sçavans de france.” In so doing, Duchamp simultaneously cautions his readers from romanticising the world of learning in India and the

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authority of his words and observations derived from the fact of his being stationed in India: Quand je nomme sçavans Indiens, il ne faut pas s’imaginer que cette science soit fort vaste, communement les Brames sont les seuls qui scachent lire, et de ceux cy un nombre borne la science a sçavoir calculer, peu a avoir lû les livres ou sont des principles de raisonnement, et un certain nombre tres rare a calculer les eclipses. Quelques uns de la plus haute caste des Brames lisent et apprennent par coeur les vedams, mais il ne les entendent pas, un nombre parmy eux a peine sçavent ils lire. (Ibid.) We learn of the literate class on the subcontinent, which is rather small and restricted to the Brahman caste, and among them were an even smaller number who understood the principles and the reasoning behind specialised technical texts, and even fewer who knew how to calculate eclipses. In any case, the Jesuits played an important role in propagating the idea that the Brahmans were the authentic interlocutors of the civilisation. Furthermore, an essential feature of the Jesuit astronomical project was to compare the predictions of eclipses obtained by the methods practised on the subcontinent with the actual onset of the eclipses and to determine the deviation of the prediction from the actual onset. Thus, the manuscript discusses the eclipses of July 4 and July 8, 1731 as exemplars and the deviation from the predicted values (ibid.). This tells us something about when the manuscript was written, which is in and around 1734—the time of the preparation of the other Duchamp manuscript (Duchamp 1734). The comparison between the computed and observed values of the eclipses led the Jesuits to comprehend the theories and measurement of time as practised on the subcontinent. In any case, they were preoccupied with Indian chronologies. They reckoned that the Indian year consisted of twelve months and was founded on the lunar calendar, with an additional month being intercalated periodically. Duchamp shows an awareness of the cycle of sixty calendar year names (kīlaka being one of them) and the names of the lunar months (e.g., bhādrapada). Thus, 1725 was an intercalary year, and he goes on to identify the naming of the months and the seasons and the units of time, such as the ghaṭis. Clearly Duchamp had picked up these theories and measures from a local astrologer. This is based on his reference to the Hindu calendrical days referred to as the pañcāṅga. This five-fold division is comprised of tithi (lunar day), vāra (weekday), nakṣatra (asterism), yoga (sum of the lunar and solar longitudes), and karaņa (half-lunar day). He identified two of these as “iogam and karanam” (Duchamp 1750: 2).

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The point that Duchamp’s entry into the world of Indian astronomy was not through the texts of Siddhāntic astronomy but through the makers of pañcāṅga is evident by his own admission: J’ay vu un almanach fondé sur des strophes, oừ après avoir raisonné sur ces matières et donné des principes généraux, on parcourt chaque ’année de siécle Indien, et on prédit l’abondance ou la stérélité ce peut être ce qui se fait avec la plus d’apareil, et ce qui est e pluscru […] Là vient le Brame panchanganiste et il annonce tout a ce qui regarde de l’année qu’on commence. (emphasis added) (Ibid.) The Duchamp manuscript indicates that the Jesuit’s interlocutors were not astronomers. Secondly, by their own admission, the task of translation was marked by a degree of incomprehension; a feature that the French astronomer Le Gentil would exploit (Raina 1999). But this inability to decipher the text was resolved through the evocation of the trope of forgetting that would go into European mathematicians’ and astronomers’ constructions of the antiquity of Indian astronomy and mathematics. Duchamp did not acquire a copy of the Sūryasiddhānta or any of the Sanskrit astronomical Siddhāntas, and through his native informers, he attributed the source of the methods he carefully transcribed to this subsequently canonised text. In fact, there is a great deal of tentativeness about his conclusions, which derives from his misgivings concerning the textual source of the method. Duchamp transfers this textual inadequacy to the secretiveness of his Brahman interlocutors. But he had succeeded in insinuating the idea that this text was the Indian Almagest, and less than half a century later, the British Indologists would not only locate it but provide us with the first translation in English (Davis 1790). The first French translation would have to wait for another fifty years (Guerin 1847). But the textual vacuum centred Duchamp as the appropriate authority to interpret this text; for the Jesuit privilege of first-hand knowledge validated their claims back home in Europe. Thus, Bouchet writes: “I have in fact been aware of the opinions of the Brahmans. I have read many books by wise Indians, and I have often engaged their more able teachers: from reading the former and engagement with the latter […] I have drawn all that detailed information which can aid me in probing deeply their system regarding the transmigration of souls” (Bouchet quoted in Clooney 2005: 54). By the end of the seventeenth century, and during the first quarter of the eighteenth century, there was a growing demand for a view of India based upon Indian texts. There was now a desire to access more direct sources of information—a new obsession for original texts in various languages and

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for their accurate translation had taken root (Lafont 2000: 34). The quest for Indian manuscripts was initiated by Abbé Jean-Paul Bignon in 1727, and Etienne Fourmont furnished a memoir that inventoried a list of specific works in Sanskrit and Persian that should be acquired. This task was undertaken by Hebrelot de Molinville, whose Bibliotheque Orientale was published in 1697 (ibid.: 335). Bignon’s and Fourmont’s requests included works on Indian chronology, dynastic histories, and the religions and customs of India. All three concerns fell squarely under the Jesuit project in India, and possibly elsewhere. Between 1729 and 1735, 287 volumes reached Paris, and they constituted the Bibliothèque nationales’ earliest Indian collection. In 1732, the Jesuit scholar Pons shipped 168 books from Chandernagor to Paris: this included thirty-one books on philology (which was largely his preoccupation and certainly a Jesuit specialty), twenty-two mythical and philosophical poems, twenty-five Purāṇas, eight books on astronomy and astrology, nine books on poetry, twenty-five books on laws, customs, and the worship of the gods, twenty-nine books on nyāya darśana, and nine on the other darśanas (ibid.: 36). Given the then current preoccupation with questions of historical chronology, racial origins, and the urgent Jesuit task of reconciling Biblical chronology with Indian history, the Jesuit reports and manuscript collections gathered between 1730 and 1765 shaped the invention of the history of Indian astronomy and mathematics (Raina 2003).5 The formal end of Jesuit Indology and the beginnings of secular Indology coincide with the ban on the Jesuit order, although the Académie des Sciences had revealed their desire to produce secular histories at least three decades earlier. By the second half of the eighteenth century, with the suppression of the Jesuits, the Académie des Sciences’ interest in India from the anthropological point of view was more accented, and it attempted to produce a positive discourse on the people of India (Murr 1983: 243).

5  Bouchet’s correspondence with Pierre-Daniel Huet, the author of Demonstratio Evangelica (driven by the certainty of putting religion on geometrical lines), seeks to aid the latter with confirmatory evidence from a fresh venue—India. In this letter, he traces the sources of India’s wisdom to the Bible, thereby validating Huet’s thesis “that all the religions of the world could be derived from the truths, revealed to the people of Israel in the Bible.” Thus, Bouchet’s scholarship is driven in support of a settled hypotheses (Clooney 2005: 46–47). He writes: “[…] I have given to you an account of the detailed information I have gathered among the people of India, who were apparently in other times Christian and then for a long time plunged back into the shadows of idolatry” (Bouchet quoted in Clooney 2005: 52).

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The Enlightenment History of Indian Astronomy

Bailly’s Histoire, published in 1775, and the Traité, published in 1787, were programmatic efforts directed toward the compilation of a universal tableau of the history of sciences and astronomy. For the next three decades, these two books served as the master narrative for historians of astronomy and mathematics who were writing on the history of astronomy of India. In the last decades of the eighteenth century Montucla had discredited Bailly’s work. This critical strain was taken up by French astronomers-savants such as Delambre and Biot (Raina 2000)6 in the first decades of the nineteenth century. The investigations of the British Orientalists had by this time surpassed the questions raised by Bailly’s Histoire. But the themes that were first articulated in that work continued to preoccupy later generations of historians. In his history of astronomy Bailly had proposed the thesis that the light of science and philosophy had first descended on a very ancient people who had long since been forgotten and who possibly had left no traces behind.7 A knowledge of the sciences was transmitted to the Indians and the Chaldeans from this source.8 The scriptures provided a backdrop for dating and localising the origin of scientific ideas, and subsequently the source of transmission. Bailly commences his letter to Voltaire, which is dated August 10, 1776, by informing the latter that the philosophical systems encountered among the Brahmans were no different from those of the Greeks, evidence of which was amply available in antiquity.9 Jean-Sylvain Bailly’s Traité de l’astronomie indienne et orientale was based on the two texts mentioned above. Père Patöuillet’s copy of the Pañcāṅga Śiromanī. The manuscript may have come from Masoulipatnam or Narsapur, but Bailly felt that it came from Benaras, which has the same meridian as Narasimhapur, whose provenance was questionable (Bailly 1787: iii; Sen 1985: 50). The other text was the Duchamp manuscript discussed above. Drawing upon these 6  For a discussion of Delambre’s criticism of Bailly, see Raina 2001. 7  Coeurdoux had proposed more than two decades earlier that the Brahmans had descended from a people who came from the north and reached India via the Caucasus Mountains (Murr 1987: 177). 8  In his eighth letter to Voltaire, dated September 14, 1776, Bailly again referred to his thesis regarding the fiftieth parallel, wherein the people living along this latitude are endowed with a knowledge of the sciences, whose light spread over the middle of the earth (1777: 224). 9  Bailly: “De là cette foule de témoignages que l’antiquité fournit en leur faveur. Mais ces lumières étaient-elles nées aux Indes? Ont-elles pu naître egalement à la Chine & dans la Chaldée? Voilà une grande question qu’il ne me paraît pas impossible de résoudre” (1777: 16).

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sources, Bailly informs his readers of the two divisions of the Indian zodiac: the one consists of twelve equal signs, each of thirty degrees, and the other of twenty-seven asterisms, each of 13°20′. These twenty-seven asterisms were designated by stars that had no relation with the twelve signs. These asterisms were seen merely as a device for calculations that generated the positions of the astral bodies in these twelve signs. The zodiac of twenty-seven asterisms, he suggests, is the true zodiac for the Indians. This in turn suggested that lunar astronomy took precedence over solar astronomy (Bailly 1787: iii–iv). The sixth chapter of the book offers a comparison of Indian astronomy with the astronomy of the Greeks in Alexandria as well as other neighbouring peoples. In order to establish his antediluvian hypothesis concerning the origins of Indian astronomy, through comparison, Bailly first seeks to establish that the Indians had borrowed nothing from other peoples. This task is undertaken sequentially through the elimination of various sources of influence, and thereby illustrates where Indian astronomy differed from the others (ibid.: 154). Secondly, he went on to compute the length of the sidereal year and the equation of the sun and moon. From the Duchamp manuscript, Bailly obtained the tables and Siddhāntic rules and computed the lunar eclipse of July 29, 1730 and the solar eclipse of July 1731, and these were found to be in good agreement with the observed values. From the Patöuillet manuscript, he computed the length of the sidereal year to be 365 days, six hours, twelve minutes, and thirty seconds (ibid.: 155–59). The originality and antiquity of Indian astronomy, for Bailly, resided in the accuracy and diversity of most of the methods. In addition to the sidereal year, the duration of the tropical year was 365 days, five hours, fifty minutes, and thirty-five seconds, a figure that, according to the modern calculations of Lacaille, was 365 days, five hours, forty-eight minutes, and fifty-nine seconds (ibid.: 159). These features of Indian astronomy so enamoured Bailly that he felt the evidence was sufficient to suggest that Indian astronomy was not plagiarised and that the finer points of their mathematical rules were evidence of the superiority of the methods employed (ibid.). There are two themes within the Jesuit “discours sur l’Inde” that reappear in Bailly’s history of science, albeit in a different form. These we have referred to as the trope of disfigurement and the trope of forgetting. Both tropes are encountered in the Jesuit corpus, from Pères Duchamp to Coeurdoux, in the eighteenth century and then again encountered in the writings of Le Gentil and Bailly, although Coeurdoux and the latter apply the theories to different knowledge domains. Coeurdoux’s formulation, it may be suggested, was the generic form of the theory that was later refurbished in the history of astronomy.

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Since the end of the eighteenth century, the Jesuit astronomers in India had discussed the Indian calendar, which referred to a deluge in remote antiquity. The Jesuits equated this deluge to the “universal deluge” of the Bible. The Jesuits struggled to establish that the Indian deluge was not incompatible with the versions of the deluge mentioned in the Bible. The crucial difficulty was to accommodate ancient peoples, such as the Indian and Chinese, within Christian chronology when confronted with the possibility that these civilisations could have predated Christian civilisation. Consequently, the Jesuits sought to arrive at the date of the Indian deluge using that mentioned in the Bible (Murr 1787: 174–75). By rendering the Indian chronology compatible with that of the Book of Genesis, the Jesuits were attempting to bridge the gulf separating the Indian and the Biblical worlds and to integrate the former within Judeo-Christian historiography (ibid.). The Jesuits produced a version of the antediluvian hypothesis in order to integrate these other civilisations and their knowledge forms within Christian cosmology. However, Coeurdoux was more concerned with comprehending the passage of the Indians from true religion to idolatry—this fall was a moral disfigurement (ibid.). Within the secular discourse of the history of astronomy, this idea of a moral disfigurement is reformulated as an intellectual or cognitive disfigurement. Coeurdoux’s evaluative posture requires that he finally assign the responsibility for the fall of the Indians into idolatry to the Brahmans. The table below captures this reformulation. The historian of astronomy Sen remarks that Bailly believed in the antiquity of Indian astronomy, and that it was this astronomy that was transmitted to the Chaldeans and the Greeks (Sen 1985: 51).10 But this reading of Bailly arises from a literal reading of his history in as much as it accords priority to the origins of Indian astronomy. Present-day Indian historians of astronomy who read Bailly approvingly do so because they have ignored Bailly’s exchange with Voltaire and have not closely scrutinised what lies behind antediluvian history. Bailly’s letter to Voltaire, dated August 13, 1776, addresses the stagnation of the 10  Bailly writes: “[…] les indiens semblent avoir connu le véritable mouvement des étoils dans la même précision que nous observons aujourd’hui, & de l’autre que M. […] Bernard attribue aux prêtres Egyptiens, […] c’est une raison de croire que les chaldéens, placés entre les indiens & les égyptiens, ont pu avoir cette même connoisance” (1787: 271). From there he goes on to suggest that: “Il paroit donc que Ptolémée a eu une commerce indirect de connoissances avec l’Inde par le moyen des chaldéens; mais on peut croire encore que les Grecs d’Alexandrie ont eu une connoissance plus particulière des observations & des méthodes indiennes” (ibid.: 278).

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Views of the Jesuits and Coeurdoux of the responsibility of the Brahmans for the fall of the Indians into idolatry

Trope of forgetting Trope of disfigurement Jesuit savants

Astronomer-savants of the French Enlightenment

The Brahmans had forgotten the original, true Noahic religion from which they had descended and fallen into idolatry The Brahmans had forgotten the intelligence of the astronomical methods that had been their legacy from an ancient people

The religion of the Brahmans had been disfigured over the centuries as they had tumbled into idolatry and superstition The Brahmans had disfigured the core of an ancient science that they had inherited from a people living close to the fiftieth parallel

Historiography

The Jesuit historiography of India

Enlightenment historiography of astronomy

many sciences practised in India. Bailly returns resolutely to the hypothesis that the Indians had inherited an older tradition of science and astronomy that was far from perfect. His theory of the origins of science was a racial one inasmuch as it evoked certain races as either the originators or transmitters of science. The quality of the science was determined in part by the climate and in part by national character. Bailly did not accord serendipity an important role in either the origins of science or in scientific discovery and invention, and while chance did play a role, this possibility was remote (ibid.). Bailly’s thesis concerning the wisdom of an ancient people whose ideas were diffused to various parts of the globe came to be considered a myth by his Enlightenment compatriots: they much preferred centring the origins of science in ancient Greece. The Noahic worldview that had preoccupied French savants and astronomer-savants, as well as the early French Jesuits in India, was now mobilised differently when composing the history of astronomy. By the end of the eighteenth century, the pursuit of Sanskrit was no longer important

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for the savants, because verifying the assertions of the Bible or returning to its antiquity was no longer important. The chronology proposed by Bailly ceased to be taken seriously (Biès 1974: 81). 4

The Chronology of Oriental Astronomy

Contrary to his reflections about civilisations and pre-history, as a trained astronomer writing on the history of astronomy, Bailly was on more solid ground. The exposure to the astronomical knowledge of India, however limited in its own time, gave cause for wonderment, and it led to Bailly’s conviction that the sciences, and above all astronomy, was the common object of study among all peoples (Bailly 1777: 134). Bailly was indeed surprised to find that the zodiac divided into twelve equal portions, or that twenty-eight lunar mansions were found among the peoples of Asia as well as the Egyptians and Chinese, who were separated by a distance of 3,000 leagues. Further, all these people had a week consisting of seven days; and the Chinese, Indians, and Egyptians named the days of the week after the name of the planets, which all appeared in some arbitrary order. Such agreements in ideas and concepts across time and space could not have been the product of chance (ibid.: 151). Influence can only be inferred if these different astronomical measurements bear an exact and determined relationship between themselves. In other words, an astronomical measure in one astronomical system must be a multiple of a unit of measurement in another astronomical system (ibid.: 149–51). The fifth book of Laplace’s magnum opus Exposition du Système du Monde contained a brief summary of the history of astronomy (Laplace 1813). The book charted out a genealogy for celestial mechanics from antiquity to the theory of gravitation. There is a section covering the history of ancient astronomy from antiquity till the founding of the school of Alexandria. This is more or less the form of Bailly’s history of astronomy—there is a semantic concordance between the title of Bailly’s book and the title of the chapter in Laplace (Bailly 1775). This is followed by a discussion on the schools of astronomy in the Arab speaking world (Laplace 1813: 572). The third chapter covers the evolution of astronomy from Ptolemy to its renewal in Europe (ibid.: 586). The book closes with a discussion on astronomy in modern Europe and the discovery of universal gravitation. The perfected state of astronomy discussed by Laplace did not descend from the skies overnight. The state was realised through the comparison and deduction of the laws of celestial motion and the causes of their inequalities that were obtained from the ensemble of ancient and modern observations (ibid.:

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558). The search for this perfected state of astronomy could be conducted through the incorporation of an extensive array of astronomical data: this was partially provided through the efforts in historical astronomy. Laplace computed that the Indian value of the apparent and mean annual motion of Saturn as 12°13′13″ at the beginning of the kali yuga, which Bailly had dated as 3102 BCE, closely agreed with the value determined by modern methods—12°13′14″ (Laplace 1787: 80). Unwittingly though it may appear, Laplace was validating Bailly’s chronology. 5

The Origins of British Indology

British studies on Indian astronomy and mathematics may be said to lie at the conjuncture of two different historiographies: the French historiography of Indian astronomy and British studies on Indian society and culture. Without stretching a point too far, it could be added that British Indology on the sciences of India commences with the pioneering work of John Zephaniah Holwell (1711–98). To historians of science he is best known for his An Account of the Manner of Inoculating for the Smallpox in the East Indies (1767). The relevant issue here is not Holwell’s article, but the different point of view he adopted for studying the traditions, cultures, and sciences of India. Straying from Jesuit historiography, he proposed that Indian antiquity was not reconcilable with the “Christian view of History” (Holwell quoted in Kejariwal 1989: 19). Departing from earlier European scholarship that he considered “defective, fallacious, and unsatisfactory,” Holwell instead proposed a philological approach to the “sublime rational source and foundation” of what, to the Western eye, appeared preposterous superstition founded on irrationality (ibid.). Thus, one of the earliest British Indologists to speak of the distinctive tradition of Indian algebra was Rueben Burrow. The prior French tradition had been preoccupied with the origins of Indian astronomy, while Burrow focused on the question of the origins of Indian algebra and arithmetic. Sharing Holwell’s perspective, Burrow writes: Notwithstanding the prejudices of the Europeans of the last century in favour of their own abilities, some of the first members of the royal society were sufficiently enlightened to consider the East Indies and China & c, as new worlds of science that remained undiscovered […] had they not too hastily concluded that to be lost, which nothing but the prejudice of ignorance and obstinacy, had prevented being found, we might at this time (be) in possession of the most finished productions of Asia as well

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as Europe; the sciences might, in consequence, have been carried to a much higher degree of perfection with us than they are at present; and the elegance and superiority of the Asiatic models might have prevented the neglect and depravity of geometry, and that inundation of Algebraic barbarism which has ever since the time of Descartes, both vitiated taste, and overrun the publications, of most of the philosophical societies in Europe. (Burrow 1783: 94–95) Similarly, for Burrow, the study of the procedures employed by Indian astronomers in calculating eclipses would advance the progress of modern astronomy as well: “[…] and the more so as our methods of calculation are excessively tedious and intricate” (ibid.: 101). The sentiment echoes that of Le Gentil, with whose work he was acquainted (ibid.: 116). This fascination with the computational procedures employed in astronomy led Burrow to infer the existence of an advanced algebraic tradition in 1783: “It is also generally reported that the Brahmins calculate their eclipses, not by astronomical tables as we do, but by rules […] If they (the rules) be as exact as ours, […] it is a proof that they must have carried algebraic computation to a very extraordinary pitch, and have well understood the doctrine of ‘continued fractions,’ in order to have found those periodical approximations […]” (ibid.: 101). Burrow would develop his argument for the existence of an advanced algebra among the Indians. The paper emphasised the originality and importance of algebra among the Hindus and contained extracts that were translated from the Bījagaṇita and Līlāvatī. He pointed out that many of the approximations used in astronomy were “deduced from infinite series; or at least have the appearance of it.” (Burrow 1790: 115) These included finding the sine from the arc and determining the angles of a right‐angled triangle given the hypotenuse and sides without recourse to a table of sines, etc. Burrow thus emphasised the need for the collection of available astronomical and mathematical texts that, until then, had not been the focus of the French Académiciens’ attention. The British Indologists were departing from the reading of Académiciens, which was grounded in Jesuit proto-ethnography, by textually locating their work. This textual grounding would revise the portrait of the French savants. A hundred years later, in a review of the history of Indian astronomy, Burgess would write: “Mr. Davis’ paper, however, was the first analysis of an original Hindu astronomical treatise, and was a model of what such an essay ought to be” (1893: 730–31). Two papers by William Jones followed closely on the heels of Davis’ papers, and a cursory glance at them reveals that they mutually

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respected and supported each other’s enterprises. And yet they both were in agreement with Bailly’s thesis of the independent origins of the Indian zodiac, and differed very strongly with Montucla on this count: “I engage to support an opinion (which the learned and industrious M. Montucla seems to treat with extreme contempt) that the Indian division of the zodiac was not borrowed from the Greeks or Arabs, but having been known in this country from time immemorial and being the same in part with other nations of the old Hindu race […]” (Jones 1790: 289). Bailly’s Histoire inspired the work of the British mathematician John Playfair and provided a stimulus to subsequent generations of British Indologists writing on Indian mathematics; although they disagreed with the details of Bailly’s Histoire, adding some nuance in places and digressing from it in other contexts. Bailly’s work was introduced to English-speaking readers through an article authored by the mathematician and geologist John Playfair (1748– 1819) (Playfair 1790). The article draws extensively, need I say almost exclusively, upon both the Memoirs (1785) of Le Gentil, which was published by the Académie des Sciences in Paris, and Bailly’s Astronomie Indienne. Playfair’s article was of prime importance for Indologists working on the history of Indian astronomy for the next four decades. But Marsden and Bentley were the first to contest Bailly’s assumptions and calculations (Bentley 1825). This opened the floodgates of criticism in France. Playfair jumped into the controversy by attacking Bailly’s critics for their amateurism and daring to question Bailly’s superior abilities. One of the early papers of the legendary William Jones was dedicated to defending Bailly’s thesis concerning the origins of the Hindu zodiac (Jones 1790a). In his 1792 paper, Playfair would pose six questions to the researchers of the Asiatic Society. The first was: “Are any books to be found among the Hindus, which treat professedly of Geometry?” (Playfair 1792: 151). At the time, scholars belonging to different disciplines were working with texts in which astronomy and mathematics were not differentiated, and the concerns of the two disciplines’ histories were entangled—namely, the origins of astronomy and mathematics in India. For one, it could be said that the question as to whether or not the geometry of the Hindus could have a different basis from the Greek one is implied by the word “professedly” in the question. That this is what Playfair meant might be inferred from his elaboration upon the question he posed: “I am led to propose this question, by having observed, not only that the whole of the Indian Astronomy is a system constructed with great geometrical skill, but that the trigonometrical rules given in the translation from the

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Sūryasiddhānta, with which Mr. Davis has obliged the world, point out some very curious theorems, which must have been known to the author of that ancient book” (ibid.: 151). The rule according to which the “trigonometrical canon” of Indian astronomy is constructed, according to Playfair, is based on a theorem: “If there be three arches of a circle in arithmetical progression, the sum of the sines of the two extreme arches is to twice the sine of the middle arch as the cosine of common difference of the arches to the radius of the circle” (ibid.: 152). The immediate task for Playfair appears to have been to identify those mathematical works where the theorem on which the trigonometrical rule employed in astronomy is first laid out. Playfair’s central contribution resided in proposing a set of tasks that could be considered as a research programme for the Asiatic Society. These included: 1) to search for and publish works on Hindu geometry; 2) to procure any books on arithmetic and, going by Burrow’s article on the binomial theorem among the Indians, to ascertain those arithmetical concerns whose trace is not to be found among the Greeks; 3) to complete the translation of the Sūryasiddhānta as initiated by Samuel Davis; 4) to compile a catalogue raisonné, with a scholarly account of books on Indian astronomy; 5) to examine the heavens with a Hindu astronomer in order to determine their stars and constellations; and finally, 6) to obtain descriptions and drawings of astronomical buildings and instruments found in India (Playfair 1792: 152–55). To introduce an English‐speaking audience to Indian astronomy Playfair wrote: The astronomy of India is confined to one branch of the science. It gives no theory, nor even any description of the celestial phenomena, but satisfies itself with the calculation of certain changes in the heavens […] The Brahmin […] obtains his result with wonderful certainty and expedition; but having little knowledge of the principles on which his rules are founded, and no anxiety to be better informed, he is perfectly satisfied, if, as it usually happens, the commencement and duration of the eclipse answer, within a few minutes, to his prediction. (1790: 51) Three core ideas run consistently throughout the European construction of Indian astronomy and mathematics at the time. Inasmuch as Indian astronomy is a science it differs from modern astronomy in that it: 1) lacks a theoretical basis, 2) does not provide a description of celestial phenomena, and 3) is not methodologically reflective. On account of the predictive accuracy of the astronomy it merits being a science, and the Indian astronomers were only concerned with it than in this instrumental context.

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By the first decades of the nineteenth century, H.T. Colebrooke’s translations mark a departure in the study of the history of Indian mathematics (Colebrooke 1817, 1873). Stated briefly, two main historiographic currents in the eighteenth century oriented the study of the history of the mathematics and astronomy of India. The first approach was that pursued by the Jesuit savants in India, who were observing the astronomical and computational procedures circulating among Indian astronomers and that has been discussed above. British administrator-scholars, who studied texts, collated fragments of texts, and published translations with critical editions and commentaries, while indebted to the first, pursued another approach. In the late eighteenth century, Sanskrit commentaries and canonised astronomical or mathematical works were considered the key to obscure technical terms and texts. Both Colebrooke and Davis worked with commentaries on canonised astronomical and mathematical texts. Inspired as it were, by the textual exemplars of Davis and Burrow, and guided by the research programme John Playfair had drawn up for the Asiatic Society researchers, Colebrooke highlighted the pathway to his own work: “In the history of mathematical science, it has long been a question to whom the invention of algebraic analysis is due, among what people, in what region was it devised, by whom was it cultivated and promoted, or by whose labours was it reduced to form and system” (1817: 121). With the appearance of Colebrooke’s translations, the terrain of historical studies on Indian mathematics and astronomy had taken steps toward its institutionalisation within Indology (Raina 2012). 6

Contesting Histories

Colebrooke’s work on the history of science in the Indian tradition prompted criticism from other European, national interpretive traditions, such as the French. Scholars such as Delambre, J.B. Biot, and Michel Chasles were practising scientists, and it would be some time before professional French Indologists would enter the discussion. I will not discuss the important criticism of Colebrooke that came from the work of Delambre;11 most of that criticism focused on the mathematical aspect of Colebrooke’s translation. I will instead briefly discuss the lesser-known work (in the Indian context) of J.B. Biot, namely the Études sur l’astronomie indienne et sur l’astronomie chinoise (1862). 11  For a detailed discussion see, Raina 2001.

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Though the Sūryasiddhānta was the only text he had read in translation, he wrote that the Sūryasiddhānta and other Sanskrit texts deriving from it did not appeal to human intelligence (Biot 1862: 177). For Biot, these texts consisted of collections of numerical rules and codes. Furthermore, astronomical knowledge and procedures were transmitted by rote, faithfully verse for verse, such that the words could be uttered in an order without missing a single word. The procedure for calculation was to sequentially follow the operations prescribed. This would mechanically produce, for every assigned instant, the apparent positions of the moon, the sun, and the five planets; predicting the moment of the lunar eclipse, and thus its principal phases, would in this way not require any intelligence (ibid.: 177). He was thus critical that this algorithmic procedure was sufficient for drawing up almanacs and astrological forecasts, which the Brahmans considered the final objective of astronomy (ibid.). In the process, he articulated the distinction between astronomy and science as pursued in contemporary Europe and the discipline that the British Indologists claimed was Indian astronomy. By the end of Biot’s life, with the emergence of comparative philology and a substantial Oriental tradition, the scientific dimension of the rivalry had nearly disappeared, and this was more than evident in the responses to Biot’s intervention on the nakṣatra problem. There emerged, in the background and constrained by national interests, a rivalry and competition between different Orientalist traditions who were vying for academic patronage. This is evident in the manner in which Benfey takes the whole controversy about the Indian or Chinese priority of the invention of the nakṣatras into the realm of philology, which lay outside Biot’s expertise. But the lack of French engagement with the Sanskrit texts at the time is reflected in Biot’s remark, which echoed that of Delambre almost half a century earlier, that Sanskrit translations should be accompanied by the original in order to check translators from introducing their proper ideas rather than accurately convey textual meaning (Biot 1862: 395–96). Furthermore, in the nineteenth century, priority disputes became an important subject of discussion in histories of science and mathematics as national scientific traditions and societies began to gather increasing visibility. However, the dispute Biot initiated would persist into the present. It was earlier thought that the lunar mansions probably originated in Mesopotamia (Pingree 1978); however, archaeological excavations in both India and China revealed that both civilisations were older than was previously thought, in which case it became difficult to specify the direction of transmission and thus leaves the question open (Ho 1977). Gradually, Biot shifted his interest from the work of British Indologists to the new work of American Indologists. The American Indologist Rev. Ebenezer

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Burgess made a new translation of the Sūryasiddhānta available with the help of an Indian interlocutor, Bāpu Devā Śāstri, then a professor at the Sanskrit College, Pune and later at Benaras, and Hubert A. Newton, a professor of mathematics at Yale College, New Haven (Burgess 1860).12 Burgess was clearly familiar with the oeuvre of the British Indological tradition that preceded him. He thus emphasised that this noble concourse of erudition and positive science left little else to be desired by way of acquiring an intimate knowledge of the Sūryasiddhānta; this work, according to Biot, being the work where all the science of the Hindus was concentrated (Biot 1862: 157). The entire corpus of Indian astronomy had been conveniently condensed into one text, and the text itself was canonised as the Indian Almagest. It is remarkable how Biot establishes solidarity with the French and American Indologists, which he then employs as a bulwark to reject the claims of the British Indologists (Raina 2000). Biot’s obsessive need to clinch the nakṣatra problem in favour of the Chinese—a key concern of his Études— drove him to search for other sources that would buttress his claims. Ironically, despite the high praise he showered on the American Indologists, they never came around to his view on the matter. In order to resolve the dispute of the priority of the invention of the zodiac, Biot evoked the scholarship of the American Indologists, but in the end, that was not a very promising opening. This brought Biot around to questioning the foundations of Indology itself. 7

Conclusion

If Colebrooke, Davis, Ruben and others played a foundational role in creating a scholarly community around the subject of the history of Indian astronomy, this meant that these communities were not only rooted within and outside Europe in the nineteenth century, but that, by the third decade of the nineteenth century, Indian scholars began to emerge who were now writing in English and concurring with, elaborating upon, and disagreeing with their European colleagues. One of the most significant of these, who was previously mentioned, was Bāpu Devā Śāstri, followed by numerous others—but then, this is not a paper about their work. Śāstri and his colleagues commenced 12  The work was first published in the Journal of the American Oriental Society, and it was later republished by Calcutta University in 1935 with a new introduction and retitled as Translation of the Sūrya-Siddhānta, A Text-Book of Hindu Astronomy with Notes and an Appendices. The change in title is indeed interesting—for one, the Almagest of Indian astronomy had now become a textbook.

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their own historical investigation on Indian astronomy and mathematics and, frequently enough, began to contest the historical conclusions of the British Orientalists on these matters. One of the last notable figures to mention here is G.R. Kaye who, at the end of the nineteenth century, wrote extensively on Indian astronomy and mathematics (Kaye 1915, 1917, 1924).13 Clearly, the work had to engage with the need to distinguish between history, astronomy, and mathematics, a problem that is difficult to address when novel mathematical procedures were invented to solve astronomical problems. Kaye seemed to be making the point that a great deal of mathematical activity was pursued from late antiquity to the early medieval period, namely from 400 CE to 1200 CE. The importance of the work is that it went on to inform the work of other historians of mathematics of the time, such as Florian Cajori, David Eugene Smith, and others who wrote synoptic histories of mathematics. So, while his work was influential outside India, a new generation of Indian scholars writing in English began to challenge many of his conclusions and interpretations. For one, they disagreed that the mathematical tradition flourished between 400 and 650 CE and then gradually went into decline. In addition, further disagreements also revealed that he discredited the findings of most of his predecessors as unreliable, and there arose the feeling that this dismissal was not warranted on scholarly grounds; not to mention that he had drastically minimised the contribution of Indian astronomy to the global pool of mathematical knowledge (Ganguli 1929). In a way, the tradition had come full circle. A modern disciplinary field had been created at the intersection of the history of science and Indology, and as we see, the internationalisation of the field was reflected in Ganguli’s presentation in an international journal like Isis. Out of the hands of the Indologists, interest in the area had been reoriented in terms of Indian astronomy. In 1925, a regular contributor to the English science journal Nature, signing contributions as J.L.E.D., published a piece on “Hindu Astronomy,” basing himself on the work of Kaye and the historical review of the studies on Indian astronomy by James Burgess cited above. The article commences with the following sentence: “The study of the origin and progress of Indian astronomy has attracted a good deal of attention among Orientalists and historians of astronomy during the last 140 years and has given rise to considerable controversy, which now seems to have ceased at least among competent scholars” (“Hindu Astronomy” 1925: 770–71). Evidently the anticipation of closure was premature.

13  He also published a very important work on a medieval text of Indian mathematics—The Bakshali Manuscript.

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Appendix 1: Genealogy of 18th-century European scholarship on the sciences of India FRENCH SAVANTS

BRITISH INDOLOGISTS

FRENCH JESUITS (1680–1760) JOHN ZEPANIAH HOLWELL (1760–1798)

LE GENTIL (1760–1780)

ETIENNE MONTUCLA (1760–1800) REUBEN BURROW (1783–1790)

JEAN–SYLVAIN BAILLY (1775–1790) JOHN PLAYFAIR (1790–1810)

EDWARD STRACHEY

DELAMBRE (1800–1820)

Samuel Davis (1780–1819)

WILLIAM JONES (1780–1794)

H.T. COLEBROOKE (1810–1830)

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Laudan, Rachel (1993) “Histories of the Sciences and their Uses: A Review to 1913.” History of Science, 31: 1–34. Le Gentil, G.H.J.B. (1785) “Mémoires sur l’origine du zodiaque,” in Mémoires de M. Le Gentil de l’Académie des sciences, Publié dans le volume de cette Académie pour les années 1784 et 1785. Lettres Édifiantes et Curieuses: Memoires de l’Inde 1810 (1810–1811) Tomes 11–15. Toulouse: Noel-Etienne Sens, Imprimeur Libraire. Liétard, Gustave and Plamyr Cordier (1989) Travaux sur l’Histoire de la Médicine Indienne: Documents réunis et présentés par Arion Rosu. Paris: College de France. Murr, Sylvia (1983) “Les conditions d’emergence du discours sur l’Inde au siècle des lumières.” Collection Purusartha, 7: 233–84. Murr, Sylvia (1986) “Les Jésuites et l’Inde au XVIIIe siècle: Praxis, utopie, préanthropologie.” Revue de l’Université d’Ottawa, 56 (1): 9–27. Pingree, David (1978) “History of Mathematical Astronomy in India,” in C.C. Gilispie (ed.), Dictionary of Scientific Biography, 25: 533–633. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. Playfair, John (1790) “Remarks on the Astronomy of the Brahmins.” Transactions of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, 2 (1): 135–92. Playfair, John. (1792). “Questions and Remarks on the Astronomy of the Hindus.” Asiatic Researches, 4: 151–55. Pollock, Sheldon (2006) The Language of the Gods in the World of Men: Sanskrit, Culture and Power in Premodern India. Berkeley: University of California Press. Raina, Dhruv (1999) “French Jesuit Scientists in India: Historical Astronomy in the Discourse on India (1670–1770).” Economic and Political Weekly, 34: 30–38. Raina, Dhruv (1999) “Nationalism, Institutional Science and the Politics of Knowledge: Ancient Indian Astronomy and Mathematics in the Landscape of French Enlightenment Historiography.” PhD diss., Göteborgs Universitet, Rapport Nr. 201. Raina, Dhruv (2000) “Jean-Baptiste Biot on the History of Indian Astronomy (1830– 1860): The Nation in the Post-Enlightenment Historiography of Science.” Indian Journal of History of Science, 35 (4): 319–46. Raina, Dhruv (2001) “Disciplinary Boundaries and Civilisational Encounter: the Mathematics and Astronomy of India in Delambre’s Histoire (1800–1820).” Studies in History, 17 (2): 175–209. Raina, Dhruv (2003) “Betwixt Jesuit and Enlightenment Historiography: The Context of Jean-Sylvain Bailly’s History of Indian Astronomy.” Revue d’Histoire de Mathématiques, 9: 101–53. Raina, Dhruv (2008) “Science East and West,” in Helaine Selin (ed.), Encyclopaedia of the History of Science, Technology, and Medicine in Non-Western Cultures, 1934–44. New York: Springer.

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Raina, Dhruv (2010) “The French Jesuit Manuscripts on Indian Astronomy: The Narratology and Mystery surrounding a Late Seventeenth–Early Eighteenth Century Project,” in Florence Bretelle-Establet (ed.), Looking at It from Asia: The Processes that Shaped the Sources of the History of Science, 115–40. Boston Studies in the Philosophy of Science. Dordrecht: Springer. Raina, Dhruv (2012) “Contextualizing Playfair and Colebrooke on Proof and Demonstration in the Indian Mathematical Tradition,” in Karine Chemla (ed.), The History of Mathematical Proof in Ancient Traditions, 228–59. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Raina, Dhruv (2014) “A Neglected Field: Narrative Frames for the Jesuit Sciences in India,” in Anand Amaladass and Ines G. Županov (eds.), Intercultural Encounter and the Jesuit Mission in South Asia, 259–89. Bangalore: Asia Trading Corporation. Ray, P.C. (1902) A History of Hindu Chemistry. vol. 1. Calcutta: Chuckervertty and Co and Kegan Paul. Seal, B.N. [1915] (1985) The Positive Sciences of the Ancient Hindus. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidas. Sen, S.N. (1985) “Survey of Studies in European Languages,” in S.N. Sen and K.S. Shukla, History of Astronomy in India, 49–121. New Delhi: INSA. Strachey, E. (1816) Bija-Ganita or the Algebra of the Hindus. London: W. Glendinning. Subrahmanyam, Sanjay (2012) The Portuguese Empire in Asia: A Political and Economic History. Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell. Teltscher, Kate (1995) India Inscribed: European and British Writing on India 1600–1800. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Thackray, Arnold (1980) “History of Science,” in P.T. Durbin (ed.), A Guide to the Culture of Science, Technology and Medicine, 3–69. New York: The Free Press. Todorov, Tzvetan (1984) The Conquest of America: The Question of the Other. Translated by Richard Howard. London: Harper Perennial. Xavier, Angela Bareto and Ines Županov (2015) Catholic Orientalism: Portuguese Empire, Indian Knowledge (16th–18th centuries). Delhi: Oxford University Press. Županov, Ines G. (1999) Disputed Mission: Jesuit Experiments and Brahmanical Knowledge in Seventeenth Century India. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

CHAPTER 8

Hinduism, Western Esotericism, and New Age Religion in Europe Julian Strube The reception of Indian ideas plays an essential role in what is commonly labelled as “Western esotericism.” For instance, European or American interpretations of yoga and tantra historically were inherently intertwined within the context of esotericism. Concepts such as karma, cakra, or the kuṇḍalinī, which often travelled across the globe through the esotericists’ interpretive lens, have become integral parts of modern spiritual and health cultures. In what follows, several examples will be given of how esoteric engagements with Hinduism in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century exerted a lasting influence on the religious landscape of Europe. Most prominently, this concerns the amorphous field of “New Age,” which emerged in the 1960s. Looking at the relationship between esotericism and Hinduism not only explains the presence of Indian notions since the appearance of New Age religions, it also reveals deep insights into the complex exchanges between the “East and West” that took place, at least a century earlier, against the backdrop of orientalism, colonialism, and the emergence of new religious identities in Europe. Its regional label notwithstanding, Western esotericism serves as an exceptionally instructive example of nineteenth-century global history and, for this reason, shares many of the same complexities as the relationship between Europe and its Indian colonies. Because of this, there are ongoing discussions in the field of Western esotericism about its regional demarcations (Granholm 2014b; Asprem 2014; Bergunder 2014, 2016; Hanegraaff 2015). Although interest in the global dimensions of nineteenth-century esotericism has greatly increased in recent years, much of the relevant terrain remains unexplored, and a general overview has yet to be written. For this reason, this paper will first discuss how the categories of “East” and “West” have been interpreted, and then it will look at how perceptions of Hinduism have coined what is commonly summarised as Western esotericism. One of the main concerns of this broad and necessarily selective overview is to demonstrate that the Western esoteric reception of Hinduism can only be fully comprehended from a global perspective. This means that we should not regard Western interpretations of Indian concepts as part of a bipolar,

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dichotomic relationship in which the coloniser simply “appropriated” the colonised’s ideas; neither should we regard Indians as passive recipients of Western ideas. The examples in this chapter serve to show the complexity of mutual, diachronic and synchronic, intellectual exchanges that often complicated, transcended, or even inverted, colonial power relations. To understand these entangled exchanges, it is important to recognise Indians and other colonised people as active actors, not only in their local contexts but also through their influence on Westerners. This is further underlined by the high geographical mobility of both Westerners and Indian intellectuals, whose countless travels demonstrate that we should not limit our research within regional boundaries. 1

Esotericism and the Orient

The demarcations of “esotericism” are disputed and often unclear, especially before the nineteenth century. There is no question, however, that the growing fascination with India in esoteric contexts reflected broader historical trends. The search for pristine knowledge in “the East” has a long tradition, and it found a prominent expression in what has been called “Platonic Orientalism”: the idea that Plato and his philosophical descendants were initiated into secret knowledge in the East, more specifically while they were in Egypt (Hanegraaff 2012: 12–17). The Renaissance fascination with Neoplatonism and Hermeticism— that is, with the alleged writings of Hermes Trismegistus, the greatest Egyptian sage—was largely indebted to this search for a tradition of ancient wisdom, whether it was expressed as philosophia perennis or prisca theologia. In this context, learned Europeans imagined Egypt, Chaldea (the home of the magi), or the “Orient” in general, as the source of Hermetic, Zoroastrian, and other related teachings that contained divine truths. Some people believed that Moses was taught these truths in Egypt, which made the “ancient wisdom narrative” immediately relevant for Christian, Jewish, and Muslim thinkers. This played an important role in the surge of Egyptomania at the end of the seventeenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century (Hornung 2001). In Freemason and Rosicrucian contexts, fascination with Egypt and Hermeticism was commonplace, as they adopted many “Egyptian” elements, usually on an aesthetic level. Such ideas became interwoven with the Romantic fascination for Eastern wisdom, which was stimulated by the emerging field of orientalist studies and expressed in famous works such as Friedrich Schlegel’s Über die Sprache und Weisheit der Inder (1808). As is well known, the “discovery of religious history” (Kippenberg 2002) fuelled contemporary debates about the relationship

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between Christianity and other religions, and not least about the very meaning of the term “religion.” Searches for a common origin of all religions, as well as endeavours for the establishment of a universal religious unity, were widespread. In this context, India played an increasingly central role as the birthplace of religion and the realm of a spirituality that had been lost in the materialistic West (Schwab 1984; Halbfass 1988). In the process, India would overtake—if not replace—Chaldea and Egypt as the prime location to find pristine wisdom and religious truth. The initial esoteric engagement with Indian ideas was quite superficial. This would only change—albeit with great intensity—toward the end of the nineteenth century. A good example of this change are the writings of Eliphas Lévi (i.e., Alphonse-Louis Constant, 1810–75), who popularised the terms occultisme and ésotérisme in the 1850s and is regarded as the founder of modern occultism. Today, he still remains one of the most influential esoteric authors. Although his writings abound with references to “India” or “Brahmanism,” the underlying information is scarce and erroneous. In fact, India served Lévi almost exclusively as a negative foil and opposite to “good” Christian magic. As in typical missionary accounts, Lévi represented India as the epitome of black magic and religious degeneration, although he sometimes hinted at concepts such as the “Trimourti,” which he identified with the Christian Trinity, to demonstrate the primitive origin of all religious traditions (e.g., Lévi 1860: 67–76). His major source for “first-hand” knowledge was the translation of the Oupnek’hat, which Anquetil-Duperron published between 1801 and 1802. Lévi regarded the Oupnek’hat as “le livre de l’occultisme indien,” which had generated into black magic, idolatry, obscenities, and superstition. His depiction of Egypt as the treasure of esoteric knowledge stands in stark contrast to this, although he repeatedly mentioned Egypt and India as the two main loci of secret initiations (e.g., Lévi 1861: 303). Despite these ambiguous remarks, Lévi was convinced that, even if India had shared in the primitive revelation of truth, this knowledge had long been corrupted. For him, no Indian tradition offered the key to occult wisdom; rather, one should look toward Kabbalah. 2

The Theosophical Society

The end of the nineteenth century saw an “institutionalisation” of esotericism in the form of societies or esoteric orders. By far the most influential of these societies was the Theosophical Society that, in 1875, was founded in New York by Helena Petrovna Blavatsky (1831–91), Henry Steel Olcott (1832–1907), and

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William Quan Judge (1851–96). The Theosophical Society, as well as the different individuals and currents it inspired, played a major role in contemporary understandings of “Hinduism” in Europe. The phenomenon of Theosophy should not be regarded as a mere Western interpretation of Indian ideas. In India, as elsewhere in Asia, it had an important impact on native identity formations, which in turn decisively influenced Western perceptions of Hinduism. However, major works on global history mention the Theosophical Society but do not discuss it in detail (e.g., Bayly 2004: 365; an exception is van der Veer 2001). Although it has been called “perhaps the first global post-Christian organization” (Hammer and Rothstein 2013: 4), scholarship on the Theosophical Society is usually restricted to the sphere of Western esotericism. It is often regarded as an agent of a mainly mono-directional globalisation of Western ideas, if a global dimension is even discussed (Godwin 1994; Santucci 2006; Goodrick-Clarke 2008; Lavoie 2012). Until now, only Western Theosophists have received dedicated biographies, and these tend to look exclusively at their white protagonists. The state of scholarship on Indian Theosophists leaves much to be desired. Prominent representatives, such as Tallapragada Subba Row (1856–90), Bahman Pestonji Wadia (1881–1958), and many others, are not only interesting in the context of Indian Theosophy, but also because their ideas were influential on notions that coined the image of Hinduism in Europe, and in the West in general. Nevertheless, even recent works exclusively focus on European and North American contexts, and Theosophists’ engagement with Indian ideas is often dismissed as “Asian costume and fabulous intermediaries” that mask an essentially “Western Hermetic motive, logic, and end” (Goodrick-Clarke 2013: 303). These lacunae are problematic because they obstruct a deeper understanding of the historical context of Theosophy and its impact on Europe. The reception of Hinduism in Europe cannot be fully understood if the relationship between esotericism and Hinduism is only regarded in light of Western actors and within regional borders. In May 1877, the Society was renamed “The Theosophical Society of the Arya Samaj of India.” Although the connection to Dayananda Sarasvati’s organisation was short-lived, the Theosophical Society quickly established itself as a firm part of the Indian cultural and political landscape. Blavatsky and Olcott reached Mumbai (then Bombay) for the first time on February 16, 1879, and the society moved its headquarters to Adyar in Chennai (then Madras). In the following years, many lodges were established across the Indian subcontinent. Theosophy’s role for emergent Hindu identities and Indian nationalism is well-known and perhaps most prominently

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exemplified by Annie Besant, who was elected president of the Indian National Congress in 1917 (Wessinger 1988; Bevir 1998, 2000, 2003; Viswanathan 1998; Lubelsky 2012). Leading Theosophical journals, such as The Theosophist, provided a voice for a Hindu intelligentsia that was often heard for the first time on a global scale, opening up channels of communication to Europe and North America. European authors, often writing in one of the countless esoteric periodicals, would actively engage with this new information, and so far, only a fraction of this vast landscape of publications and the complex networks behind them has been researched. A certain ambiguity underlies the evolution of Theosophical engagement with Hinduism. It has been noted that the society saw an increase in its orientation toward the “East” in the years after its foundation (Prothero 1993; Pasi 2010). This process marked a reevaluation what “the East” or “Orient” meant more than it did the appearance of the East at the centre of Theosophical writings. Starting in her earliest writings, for example in the article “A Few Questions to Hiraf” (1875), Blavatsky referred to “the East” as the “cradle of Occultism”— that is, “India, Asia Minor, and other countries” or “Chaldea, India, Persia and Egypt” (1875: 103, 110). Her references to India were vague, while her focus rested on topics such as Chaldean magic, Hermeticism, and Rosicrucianism, as well as their relationship to present-day Spiritualism. However, early on, Blavatsky’s search for pure “Oriental Occultism” went beyond the sphere of the Mediterranean. In the process, India’s role underwent a change that is exemplified in her most famous books, the first of which is Isis Unveiled (1877). In it, Blavatsky juxtaposed the “Oriental Kabbalah,” which primarily represented ancient wisdom, to the degenerated Christianity of the Churches. Eliphas Lévi served as one of her central sources for this. India appears as a main point of reference, but usually in the context of Kabbalistic or Hermetic knowledge. At the same time, Blavatsky repeatedly hinted that Kabbalistic doctrines originated in India (1877: 136, 578) and suggested that India and Egypt were “akin” (ibid.: 515), again mirroring what Lévi had written. She also discussed the common origin of Vedic, Hermetic, Chaldean, and Kabbalistic teachings (ibid.: 580) and, unlike Lévi, introduced a narrative of the transformation of “Aryan” knowledge, which was linked to the physical migration of the “Aryan race.” These notions are further developed in her Secret Doctrine (1888), where Hinduism is elevated to the most prominent place. In her writings from that period, we now find notions like karma and saṃsāra at the centre of her thought. The reinterpretation or reframing of such notions was often far-reaching, and also concerned the idea of cosmic cycles or ages (yuga), as well as an evolutionary concept whereby the “Aryan race” was regarded as the fifth and

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currently most advanced of seven “root races.” It is remarkable that Blavatsky claimed to receive her knowledge from Indian initiates or “Mahatmas,” who served as the legitimising authority for her insights into the secrets of esotericism. It has been observed that this appeal to Indian masters represented an, often ambiguous, reversal of colonial power relations (Viswanathan 2000). In any case, the source of esoteric wisdom was now firmly located in India. A comprehensive analysis of the sources and influences on Blavatsky’s writings is still lacking, although it is clear that Romantic ideas and orientalist scholarship played a prominent role in her understanding of India, at least in the beginning (Partridge 2013). Despite these blind spots in scholarship, it is evident that the influence Indian actors exerted on her thought increased over the years, although several prominent Indian members had evolving relationships with the Theosophical Society. It has also been pointed out that Blavatsky’s views on Hinduism, as well as on Buddhism, were fundamentally informed by her Western perspective and were highly selective. Concepts such as ātman and brahman were conflated, whereas key concepts such as nirvāṇa barely received attention. While it is easy to dismiss Blavatsky’s and other Theosophists’ interpretations of Indian traditions as not conforming to scholarship and established local practices, it appears to be more fruitful to regard them, at least from a scholarly perspective, as the outcome of exchanges and transformations that seem to be the standard rather than the exception in religious history. Theosophical Hinduism certainly differed from preexisting Indian traditions, but instead of dismissing it as a deviance from or a simple misunderstanding of a pure, unchanging orthodoxy, it serves as an instructive example in regard to the emergence of new global religious identities, which not only influenced the ways Hindus perceived their own religion but also how Europeans perceived it. Unfortunately, such a perspective is often presented in the form of an afterthought rather than as a consistent methodology for analysing Theosophical ideas (Franklin 2008: 86–87). The writings of other Theosophists, such as Besant, Olcott, or Charles Webster Leadbeater (1854–1934), developed many notions that were central to contemporary and later esoteric discourses, including discussions of the cakras, the human aura, and the Astral Body, which was merged with Indian subtle physiology. In the process, ideas from Swedenborgianism, Mesmerism, Spiritualism, occultism, New Thought, and Christian Science were combined with Indian concepts and diffused in many different and complex ways, so much so that the current state of scholarship only allows glimpses into it. One of the Theosophists’ main concerns was the demonstration of the “scientific”

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character of Indian doctrines, which would herald a future “synthesis of science, religion, and philosophy” (the subtitle of Blavatsky’s Secret Doctrine). The notion of “scientific Hinduism” became enormously popular in both India and Europe. It is remarkable that the Theosophists explicitly identified European monism, as it was represented by authors like Ernst Haeckel (1834–1919), and Advaita Vedānta. Again, this identification is reflected in a wealth of European and Indian publications. For example, the German, Theosophically-inclined, journal Sphinx (1886) declared in its subtitle that it wanted to establish its doctrines “on a monistic foundation.” It must be noted, however, that the specific receptions of Hinduism in the context of European Theosophy are largely obscure and await a comprehensive exploration. The Theosophical Society went through several schisms, which resulted in the foundation of several Theosophical branches all over the world. The original main branch in Adyar was influential until the 1930s, when it saw a steady decline in membership. One of the final stages in the development of the Theosophical Society, or Societies, was the promotion of Jiddu Krishnamurti (1895–1986) by Besant and Leadbeater. This young boy was raised to become the “World Teacher” or “Maitreya”—a role he eventually declined. An Order of the Star in the East was created, not without success, to herald his coming. It was based in Benares but held its first international congress in Paris in 1920, which attracted around 2,000 attendees. In the following years, several “Star Camps” were held in the Netherlands and the United States, as well as in India. In 1929, Krishnamurti dissolved the Order, which counted around 30,000 members. Its failure contributed to the decline of institutional Theosophy that began in the following decade. This institutional marginalisation notwithstanding, Theosophical ideas remain highly important for perceptions of Hinduism and Indian ideas in Europe well into the present day. 3

Partings between East and West

In order to understand Western esotericism’s engagement with Hinduism, it is important to pay attention to the development that began at the end of the nineteenth century and gave rise to the notion of “Western esotericism” in the first place. It can be argued that the establishment of the Theosophical Society created a decisive impulse toward the aforementioned “institutionalisation” of esotericism, since the best-known and most-influential rival societies were founded in the 1880s, sometimes as an explicit reaction to it. During this period, we find a split between Hindu- or Buddhist-inspired Theosophy and a camp that would identify itself as “Christian,” “Kabbalistic,” or “Hermetic”

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(Pasi 2010: 14; Godwin 1994: 333–79). It was within this context that a decidedly “Western” esotericism was created in opposition to an “Eastern” or “Oriental” one (Strube 2017). From within the Theosophical Society, English members Anna Kingsford (1846–88) and Edward Maitland (1824–97) founded the Hermetic Society in 1884, which propagated an “esoteric Christianity.” The same year saw the emergence of the Hermetic Brotherhood of Luxor (for the context of its emergence, see Godwin, Chanel, and Deveney 1995). In 1888, the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, one of the most illustrious magical orders, was formed in Britain. On the Continent, the Ordre Martiniste was founded in 1891. Although it was originally favourable toward the Theosophy of Blavatsky, it soon adopted a Christian (Catholic)-Kabbalistic identity, rejected oriental doctrines, and instead proclaimed an ésotérisme occidental (Strube 2017). Within the more fractured esoteric landscape of Germany, the most prominent schism happened when Rudolf Steiner (1861–1925) founded his Anthroposophical Society, whose doctrines are still highly influential in the Waldorf (or Steiner) Schools, as well as in biodynamical agriculture and health and beauty products. Again, one of the main reasons for the schism was Steiner’s propagation of an “esoteric Christianity” based on Hermeticism, Gnosticism, and Kabbalah, as opposed to Oriental Theosophy (Zander 2007; Staudenmaier 2014). It is noteworthy how, in this process, formerly “Eastern” contexts—such as “Platonic Orientalism,” Hermeticism, Chaldean magic, or Kabbalah—came to be regarded as part of “Western esotericism,” while the location of “the East” was moved further into Asia. This development is important for understanding later hierarchies of esoteric knowledge that favoured “Indian wisdom” over Christian, Jewish, or Islamic traditions, as observed in the New Age context. These schisms between East and West are still inscribed in contemporary scholarship. 4

Occultism

Occult appropriations of Indian concepts are usually associated with magical practices that are elaborated in societies, such as the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn or the Ordo Templi Orientis, and by the numerous individuals who were influenced by these societies. While it is problematic to make general statements about a highly heterogeneous field such as occultism, it can be said that occultists emphasised the need for “practice” and “experiments.” They often accused Theosophists of mere theorisation and abstraction, but they shared the Theosophists’ wish for a synthesis of science and religion, as

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well as the idea of religious universalism. Occultists often strove to discover the same techniques and doctrines in different religious traditions that came from the same font of ancient wisdom. The occultists’ goals were often to attain a higher state of consciousness, develop the self, and focus on power and will. As the term suggests, “occult” knowledge was restricted to an elite group, and the need for “initiation” and personal qualification was stressed. Strict hierarchies of knowledge were established and often expressed through different degrees of initiation, which were modelled after Freemasonry. Authority and legitimacy were based on certain “traditions,” whose proper understanding was restricted to those who held the key to their decipherment. These characteristics made certain Indian traditions, in the form in which they were perceived, especially attractive. It will be recalled that the image of India as the source of ancient wisdom had been established since the Romantic period and that many contemporaries constructed Hinduism and Buddhism as “scientific” or “psychological” religions (Bergunder 2016). In turn, Indian reformers had been receptive to such notions for their own constructions of Hindu identity—a tangle of global exchanges that prepared the ground for a shared language and set of ideas that occultists were able to identify as an “Eastern occultism” at the end of the nineteenth century. Given the strong reformist tendencies in occult milieus, ideas of social, religious, scientific, and human reform could potentially be shared by both European and Indian reformers. It is telling that yogic practices, especially tantra, were of major interest for occultists. Tantra was seen by occultists as an expression of sexual spirituality and liberation. Its attractiveness was further facilitated by the fact that missionary and orientalist accounts of Indian religious practices had identified siddhi with “magical powers” and jñāna with “gnosis”—translations that are, although somewhat problematic, still common in contemporary scholarship. Identifying tantra as an “esoteric” form of Hinduism remains a firmly established construct in scholarly circles. Concepts like dīkṣā could be identified with Western esoteric concepts of initiation, and practices such as breathe control and rules for self-improvement, since they were popular in New Thought circles, could easily be adapted to yogic practices. It does not come as a surprise then that the reception of Indian concepts— or rather the respective terms mentioned above—formed an integral part of occult practice, at least since the 1880s. A prominent example is the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, which was founded in 1888. Among Golden Dawn magical practices, we find concepts such as “Tattwa meditation,” in which the practitioner meditated on five tattvas categorised as “Akasa,” “Vayu,” “Tejas,” “Apas,” and “Prithivi,” in order to engage in “Astral Travel” (Owen 2004: 150).

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This technique was based on a series of essays about “Nature’s Finer Sources,” which was first printed in The Theosophist by the Indian Theosophist Ram Prasad. It was first serially printed in The Theosophist between 1887 and 1889 and then published as The Science of Breath and the Philosophy of the Tattvas by the Theosophical Publishing Society in 1890. This is one of many examples of the appropriation of Indian terms in a practical, occult context, which were often combined with practices such as prāṇāyāma and āsana. Again, much of this context is unexplored by scholarship, and our knowledge of the sources for these appropriations is fragmentary. A number of studies have advanced our understanding of modern occultism in diverse national contexts (e.g., Owen 2004; Treitel 2004; Monroe 2008; Strube 2016). However, the complex exchanges between occultists from different European countries, let alone their travels to Asia, are largely obscure. Given the extraordinarily high mobility of these actors, this is a significant lacuna. The reception of Indian concepts and yogic practices came to be closely associated with tantra. Indeed, the present-day image of tantra as a form of liberation from bodily and social restraints, and most notably as an expression of positive and affirmative sexuality, can be traced back, at least to a substantial degree, to the occultist milieu of the 1900s. A major example is the combination of yogic practices with sexual magic associated with the Ordo Templi Orientis (Urban 2003, 2006). The historical emergence of this magical order is unclear, but it appears to go back to a collaboration between Carl Kellner (1850–1905), Theodor Reuss (1855–1923), and Franz Hartmann (1838–1912) in the 1890s. However, the actual foundation of the order does not become evident until 1906, or possibly 1910 or 1912 (Pasi 2006b; Möller and Howe 1986). In any case, Kellner’s Yoga: Eine Skizze über den psycho-physiologischen Teil der alten indischen Yogalehre (1896) was among the first publications devoted to yoga in Europe, and it focused on haṭhayoga. In the milieu of the Ordo Templi Orientis, yoga practices, that is, haṭhayoga in its modern postural form, were discussed in the same context as Lebensreform and other contemporary reform movements. Rumours about sexual practices first emerged around the activities of Reuss, who had many connections to Britain, where he lived for long periods: among his contacts was William Wynn Westcott (1848–1925), a cofounder of the Golden Dawn. It is unclear if and to what extend the accusations of sexual practices were true, but it is evident that sexuality played an increasing role in Reuss’s ideas about magic. This becomes evident in 1906, which was when his Lingam-Yoni was published. In the following years, theories and practices of sexual magic would emerge with increasing prominence. However, it has been pointed out that Reuss did not relate yogic practices with sexual magic or tantra (Bogdan 2006: 221–22).

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At this point, we are confronted with the lack of clarity about the sources occultists used to elaborate these concepts and related practices. Popular interpretations of haṭhayoga can be traced back to specific forms of modern postural yoga that were themselves the outcome of complex global exchanges, as will be shown in the next section. Many of the sources that were used by occultists, however, emerged in a Western context. For example, Reuss’s Lingam-Yoni was basically a German translation of Hargrave Jennings’s Phallicism (1884), which was a prominent representative of a highly popular genre of literature that sought to explain the origin of religious traditions in phallic worship. It has also been argued that the conceptualisation of sexual magic, even if Indian terms were appropriated, relied on earlier Western authors such as the African American Paschal Beverly Randolph (1825–75) and the elaboration on his writings within the Hermetic Brotherhood of Luxor (Godwin, Chanel, and Deveney 1995; Deveney 1997; Urban 2006). Furthermore, it is obvious that contemporary perceptions of a highly sexualised Orient, which can be found in the writings of authors such as Richard Burton (1821–90), served as a major source of inspiration. At the same time, numerous occultists stand out as examples of the high degree of mobility that is typical for the period around the early 1900s. Practitioners such as Franz Hartmann and sympathetic observers such as Hermann Keyserling (1880–1946) departed for long journeys across Asia and sometimes wrote highly influential accounts, such as Keyserling’s Reisetagebuch eines Philosophen (1919). In turn, Indian gurus, such as Bheema Sena Pratapa and Mahatma Agamya Paramahamsa, began touring Europe. It has been claimed that these gurus taught Kellner yogic practices, but it is highly likely that this had no consequence for the practices that were developed within the Ordo Templi Orientis (Bogdan 2006). Unfortunately, very little is known about the backgrounds or activities of these travelling gurus. This brief overview underscores the extent to which our knowledge of these contexts is limited. The landscape of European occultism in and around the early 1900s, and certainly its ties to Asia, are only beginning to be discovered. The majority of esoteric periodicals, not to mention the general mass of grey literature and unpublished correspondences, have yet to be evaluated. A glimpse at esoteric sources from the early twentieth century reveals the general presence of discussions about Hinduism, and the appropriation of Indian terms is evident in the journal Prana (1909–19), which was published by the Theosophisches Verlagshaus that was run by the influential Theosophist Hugo Vollrath (1877–1943) and edited by Karl Brandler-Pracht (1864–1939). We encounter such discourses about Hinduism within a tangled network of occultism, Spiritualism, Theosophy, the völkisch and Lebensreform milieus, and

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radical offshoots like Ariosophy. Hinduism was often perceived as an “Aryan” tradition and thus assumed an often racially charged, political dimension. Much more research is needed to understand this ambiguous reception of Hinduism. There are a number of recent studies of better-known representatives of these milieus that discussed sexual magic, tantra, and yoga, such as Heinrich Tränker’s (1880–1956) “Pansophic” movement (Lechler 2013) or the Fraternitas Saturni founded by Eugen Grosche (1888–1964) (Lechler 2015). Apart from these European groups, the most explicitly “tantric” one was the Tantrik Order that was founded in the United States in 1906 by Pierre Bernard (1875–1955), a “yogi” who rose to some fame as the Omnipotent Oom (Urban 2003). Perhaps the best-known example of an occultist advocate of yoga and tantra is Aleister Crowley (1875–1947), who began his career as an occultist when he joined the Golden Dawn in 1898. Due to Crowley’s fame, we can rely on a range of studies about the formation of his ideas (e.g., Kaczynski 2010; Pasi 2006a; Bogdan and Starr 2012). After meeting Reuss between 1910 and 1912, Crowley increasingly turned to the practice of sexual magic and eventually founded his own highly influential system known as Thelema. In his writings, Crowley often positively referred to yoga and tantra. He recommended the practice of yoga to his disciples, and around 1901, he received training in yoga from Ponnambalam Ramanathan (1851–1930), a Tamil Śaiva who was the solicitor general of Sri Lanka (then Ceylon). At that time, Crowley was visiting his friend Allan Bennett (1872–1923), a convert to Theravāda Buddhism who had been taught by Ramanathan. Crowley also met the aforementioned Mahatma Agamya Paramahamsa and was influenced by the teachings of Sri Sabhapati Swami. There is a broad consensus among scholars that Crowley’s knowledge of yoga—and tantra even more so—was superficial at best. As far as is known, his practice of sexual magic was not directly inspired by tantric traditions but rather by the sexual magic found in the Hermetic Brotherhood of Luxor and other related currents (Urban 2003, 2006; Bogdan 2006: 223–26; and see the rather phenomenological approach of Djurdjevic 2012). Regardless of questions about origin and authenticity, yoga and magic served as important points of reference for Crowley (Pasi 2011). Inspired by authors such as William James or James G. Frazer—and thus reflecting broader tendencies in the European history of religions—Crowley compared diverse religious traditions and searched for techniques to develop the self and create religious genius by means of physical, chemical (i.e., drugs and other substances), and psychological practices. In this context, Crowley saw yoga as an ancient form of psychological and physical self-enhancement, a wisdom that could now be “scientifically” harnessed to create a higher form of magic, which

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Crowley famously dubbed “Magick” (Crowley 2011). His disciples would further develop this notion of yoga and magic. Israel Regardie (1907–85) viewed the pair of “yoga and magic” as “psychologies of the past” (1970: 15–16) and, in the vein of Wilhelm Reich and Carl Gustav Jung, combined it with psychoanalysis. Other former disciples of Crowley, such as Gerald J. Yorke (1901–83) and Kenneth Grant (1924–2011), highlighted the roles of yoga and tantra in their magical systems and explicitly linked them to the Ordo Templi Orientis and related teachings. Striking similarities to present-day yoga classes, self-help courses, and guidebooks are no coincidence; they can be explained against the background of a highly heterogeneous occultist-reformist milieu that exerted a lasting influence. There is no doubt that esotericism in and around the early 1900s decisively coloured modern understandings of religion, science, and “spirituality.” 5

Global Entanglements

It is now evident that an analysis of the reception of Hinduism by European esotericists has to be undertaken from a global perspective. Likewise, “esotericism” should not be regarded in isolation from broader historical contexts. The role of esotericism—be it in the form of the Theosophical Society or the many individual esotericists travelling around the world—has been widely neglected in discussions of the general emergence of modern understandings of religion (Bergunder 2016). The Western image of Hinduism serves as a particularly instructive case. The Theosophical Society and its many diverse members and sympathisers contributed significantly to a modern understanding of Hinduism, not only in the West but also in India. For example, it has been demonstrated that Theosophists played an essential role in the popularisation of the Bhagavadgītā as a central scripture of Hinduism (Bergunder 2006). The ideas of Hindu reformers from Swami Vivekananda (1863–1902) to Mahatma Gandhi were considerably influenced by Theosophical and other esoteric discourses. Gandhi’s understanding of Hinduism, Christianity, and the universal character of religion is largely indebted to his reception of Theosophy (Bergunder 2014). In fact, he is an exemplar of global entanglement: Theosophical ideas that Gandhi encountered in India, South Africa, and Britain—and which were already the outcome of complex global exchanges— would later be perceived, by both Westerners and Indians, as the expression of a genuine, pure understanding of Hinduism. Nevertheless, only a few studies attempt to approach esotericism in and around the early 1900s from a global

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perspective, and they struggle with methodological and theoretical challenges (e.g., Bogdan and Djurdjevic 2013; Djurdjevic 2014; Green 2015). Yoga has emerged as the most productive field of research for furthering our understanding of these contexts. There are now numerous excellent studies that not only demonstrate the global character of these exchanges, but often they also demonstrate the remarkable role of esotericism in them (De Michelis 2004; Alter 2004; Strauss 2005; Singleton and Byrne 2008; Baier 2009; Newcombe 2009; Singleton 2010; Hauser 2013; Singleton and Goldberg 2014). Contexts such as Theosophy, New Thought, Spiritualism, life reform, and occultism form an important part of the background to the emergence of modern yoga, which was popularised by figures such as Swami Vivekananda or B.K.S. Iyengar (1918–2014). In many cases, the personal networks between esotericists and Hindu reformers are deeply intertwined. For instance, Mirra Alfassa (1878–1973), a collaborator with Sri Aurobindo (1872–1950) who became known as “The Mother,” had been part of the Cosmic Movement established by Max Théon (1848–1927), a founding member of the Hermetic Brotherhood of Luxor, and was married to Paul Richard (1874–1967), who maintained close ties to the Theosophical Society. This demonstrates that it does not make sense to separate these discourses or to divide them along regional or even national borders. Another fascinating case is the reception of tantra in the writings of John Woodroffe (1865–1936), who almost single-handedly initiated the academic study of tantra and transmitted a certain understanding of tantra to the West (Urban 2003; Taylor 2001). His pseudonym, “Arthur Avalon,” is an amalgam of several authors, most notably the Bengali author Atal Behari Ghose, who provided linguistic proficiency as well as knowledge about the sources and their context. Beginning in 1890, Woodroffe worked at the High Court of Kolkata (then Calcutta) and was appointed as a judge in 1904, a position that he held until 1922 when he left India to teach Indian law at Oxford. He stands out as a character who was involved in the circles of Hindu reform, “orthodox” tantrics, Theosophy, the Vivekananda Society (as president), and the Indian art scene. Given this background, it is not surprising that he not only drew many comparisons between tantra and New Thought, Psychical Research, or Theosophy, he also repeatedly and explicitly identified tantra as “Indian occultism” and expressed the conviction that “the occultist” will understand tantric doctrines better than “the Orientalist and Missionary” (e.g., Woodroffe 1929: 73–74, 464). In his writings Woodroffe: emphasised the “scientific” and “psychological” character of tantra; identified Advaita Vedānta with monism; stressed the need for personal experience, practice, and experiment; highlighted the role

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of will and power, as well as the necessity for dīkṣā and personal qualification (adhikāra); identified Hindu notions with “the Western Hermetic maxim” of the Microcosm and Macrocosm; and maintained that tantra represented the esoteric core of a universal religious tradition. It is obvious that these identifications were only possible when looked at against the background of esotericism as it has been summarised above. However, Woodroffe was not merely an esotericist or occultist, since his references to esotericism have to be seen within the larger context of global discourses on the meaning of religion. This also suggests that his interpretations cannot be regarded as only “Western.” Indeed, his perception of tantra was largely influenced by Bengali circles related to the guru Shivachandra Vidyarnava, whose Tantratattva was edited by Arthur Avalon as Principles of Tantra (1914). The personal networks surrounding Shivachandra Vidyarnava and his disciples, including Ghose, await scholarly investigation. It is significant that, as early as the 1880s, Bengali tantrics published a series of articles in The Theosophist that would radically transform Theosophical perceptions of tantra (Baier 2009: 324–29). Theosophical authors had previously perceived tantra as black magic and a manifestation of moral degeneration, but they became convinced that the “Tantrik Occultism” presented by the Bengali authors represented the esoteric core of Hinduism, and thus of the universal esoteric tradition of humanity. It was also due to the impetus from Indian authors that Theosophists recognised the practice of kuṇḍalinī yoga and the concepts related to it, such as the cakras (Baier 2012, 2016). Among them, we not only find the aforementioned Sabhapati Swami, but also Bengalis such as Barada Kanta Majumdar, Woodroffe’s close collaborator and a representative of the circles related to Shivachandra Vidyarnava, that stand behind Woodroffe’s perception of tantra. The situation is further complicated by the fact that Woodroffe’s specific depiction of tantra came to be regarded as an authoritative account of “authentic, genuine” tantra—his influence extended not only to esotericism but also to academic discourses. Indeed, it can be argued that, at least until the second half of the twentieth century, it is difficult to draw strict borders between these discourses. Woodroffe’s books served as a major source for prominent esoteric authors, such as Julius Evola (1898–1974), whose praise of him was in turn cited by Woodroffe. In the second half of the twentieth century, tantra would become highly popular in so-called “Left-Hand Path” currents of occultism, which were inspired by vāmācāra practices (Granholm 2012, 2014a). In these cases, the often “occultist” language in Woodroffe’s works facilitated their adaptation in occultist circles. At the same time, Woodroffe served as the central authority for academic scholarship well into the 1970s. This was not only a result of the exclusivity of Woodroffe’s writings, but also of a shared historical

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setting. The confluence of esoteric and academic contexts perhaps becomes most evident in the context of the Eranos meetings (Hakl 2001), where Woodroffe’s studies informed diverse authors such as Mircea Eliade, Jakob Wilhelm Hauer, Carl Gustav Jung, and Heinrich Zimmer. The understanding of “Tantra as Indian esotericism or occultism” became cemented in the diverse orientalist and Indological works of Sylvain Lévi and Paul Masson-Oursel, Walter Evans-Wentz, Agehananda Bharati, and Lilian Silburn. A closer inspection of these contexts promises a deeper understanding, not only of the history of esotericism and the reception of Hinduism in Europe, but also of the history of Indology and South Asian studies. 6

New Age Religion

It has been argued that esotericism forms the historical background for the emergence of what has become known as New Age religion (Hanegraaff 1996). Many of the ideas and practices in this field can be directly traced back to Theosophy, Anthroposophy, Spiritualism, New Thought, Christian Science, and the broad spectrum of occultist ideas. “New Age,” like esotericism, is a highly elusive term and refers to a heterogeneous phenomenon, but the many conceptual and personal overlaps allow for the examination of many fundamental links between the spheres of “alternative” religion in the early 1900s and in the second half of the twentieth century. Most obviously, the language of an “Age of Aquarius” and the beginning of a “new age” can be traced back to the writings of the Theosophist Alice A. Bailey (1880–1947), who is credited with introducing the term (Bochinger 1994), and the I AM Activity movement founded by Guy Ballard (1878–1939). Popular New Age practices, such as channelling, contacting angels and other entities, studying the human aura, “holism,” the practice of specific forms of yoga, and the reception of concepts such as the cakras and kuṇḍalinī, emerged in the esoteric sphere around 1900. We encounter strikingly similar concerns about a “synthesis” of science and religion that continue to be propagated by popular authors such as Fritjof Capra and Deepak Chopra. Furthermore, notions of a universal religion, a transformation of the individual and humanity as a whole, and the opposition to supposedly “corrupted” or “dogmatic” established religious institutions is as central to New Age discourses as it was to the “alternative” religious milieu of esotericism in and around the early 1900s. Moreover, the figure of the guru as the authoritative transmitter of esoteric knowledge plays a central role for New Age practitioners, and both Indian gurus and Western disciples show a high degree of mobility that defies drawing regional borders. Guru-based movements, such as the International Society for Krishna Consciousness (ISKCON)

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and those of Bhaghwan Shree Rajneesh (later known as Osho) (1931–90) or Swami Muktananda’s (1908–82) Siddha Yoga, established themselves in the West and in India and attracted thousands of followers. Although New Age religion emerged in subculture and youth movements, it attained a certain degree of institutionalisation in the 1960s through the founding of organisations such as Findhorn in Scotland and the Esalen Institute in California, both established in 1962. The personal and ideological relations between this new generation and the contexts discussed above are close and often inseparable. David Spangler, who came to play a central role in the Findhorn community, was significantly indebted to Theosophical ideas as articulated by Bailey. Michael Murphy, founder of the Esalen Institute, was influenced by Sri Aurobindo. Central to this transmission of “Eastern” knowledge, which was itself already the outcome of the exchanges discussed above, was the popular concept of the retreat, which was often modelled as an āśram. Like their occultist predecessors, New Age practitioners strove for enlightenment, liberation, and empowerment through self-improvement. And like its predecessor, the large spectrum of New Age culture was an expression of modern forms of alternative religion that sought to redefine the meaning and place of religion in society, and its relationship to science, philosophy, and politics (Sutcliffe 2003; Sutcliffe and Gilhus 2013). New Age religion puts a heavy focus on health and “holistic” approaches that attempt to treat “mind and body” as a unity, which is often inseparable from a larger “cosmic” context. Some New Age elements, for instance those related to yoga and the reception of āyurveda, have now become established parts of “mainstream” culture. The practice and conception of “yoga” is often a further development, if not a direct continuation of, the contexts discussed above. For example, Gerald Yorke, a former disciple of Crowley, has been influential in disseminating the ideas of B.K.S. Iyengar in Britain, not only making them accessible to an esoteric audience but also to a broader readership (Newcombe 2013). Similarly, we find that esoteric discourses on yoga and tantra significantly influenced trends such as the Human Potential movement (Kripal 2012). The decidedly nonsexual tantric interpretations, which have been discussed in relation to John Woodroffe, seem to resurface in the writings of authors such as David Frawley after prominent gurus like Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh made tantric notions known to a Western mass audience (Urban 2003). These popular appropriations, which went hand in hand with increasing commercialisation, have been controversially discussed by scholarship. Not unlike the earlier esoteric appropriations of Hinduism, they are easily dismissed by scholarship as historically inaccurate misunderstandings, or even “pathetic hybrids” (White 2003: 258). However, it appears to be more instructive to regard modern forms of yoga and tantra in their historical contexts after

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the nineteenth century, rather than to contrast them with more “authentic,” historically static traditions of the past. Religious traditions have always been subject to change and adaptations and, despite legitimate criticisms of cultural appropriation and commercial exploitation, New Age religion deserves to be studied in its own right as an expression of modern religiosity that exemplifies the increasing entanglement of “East and West” since the end of the eighteenth century. Investigating the historical roots of New Age religion requires us to take into account the field of esotericism. This not only yields insights into the emergence of new, alternative religious identities after the nineteenth century, but it also promises for a better understanding of the genealogy of scholarship itself, which is itself indebted to a historical context of which esotericism formed an integral part. From a more general perspective, it becomes evident that the context of esotericism and its reception of Hinduism reflect broader global discourses about the modern meaning of religion and science, their place in society, and their continually contested relationship. References Alter, Joseph S. (2004) Yoga in Modern India. The Body Between Science and Philosophy. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Asprem, Egil (2014) “Beyond the West. Towards a New Comparativism in the Study of Esotericism.” Correspondences, 2 (1): 3–33. Baier, Karl (2009) Meditation und Moderne. Zur Genese eines Kernbereichs moderner Spiritualität in der Wechselwirkung zwischen Westeuropa, Nordamerika und Asien. Vol. 1. Würzburg: Königshausen and Neumann. Baier, Karl (2012) “Mesmeric Yoga and the Development of Meditation within the Theosophical Society.” Theosophical History, 16 (3–4): 151–61. Baier, Karl (2016) “Theosophical Orientalism and the Structures of Intercultural Transfer. Annotations on the Appropriation of the Cakras in Early Theosophy,” in Julie Chajes and Boaz Huss (eds.), Theosophical Appropriations. Esotericism, Kabbalah, and the Transformation of Traditions, 309–54. Beer Sheva: Ben-Gurion University of the Negev Press. Bayly, Christopher A. (2004) The Birth of the Modern World, 1780–1914. Global Connections and Comparisons. Malden/Oxford: Blackwell. Bergunder, Michael (2006) “Die Bhagavadgita im 19. Jahrhundert,” in Michael Bergunder (ed.), Westliche Formen des Hinduismus in Deutschland, 187–216. Halle: Franckesche Stiftungen. Bergunder, Michael (2014) “Experiments with Theosophical Truth. Gandhi, Esotericism, and Global Religious History.” Journal of the American Academy of Religion, 82: 398–426.

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Schwab, Raymond (1984) The Oriental Renaissance. Europe’s Rediscovery of India and the East, 1680–1880. New York: Columbia University Press. Singleton, Mark (2010) Yoga Body. The Origins of Modern Posture Practice. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Singleton, Mark, and Jean Byrne (2008) Yoga in the Modern World. Contemporary Perspectives. London: Routledge. Singleton, Mark, and Ellen Goldberg (2014) Gurus of Modern Yoga. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Staudenmaier, Peter (2014) Between Occultism and Nazism. Anthroposophy and the Politics of Race in the Fascist Era. Aries Book Series 17. Leiden: Brill. Strauss, Sarah (2005) Positioning Yoga. Balancing Acts Across Cultures. Oxford: Berg. Strube, Julian (2016) Sozialismus, Katholizismus und Okkultismus im Frankreich des 19. Jahrhunderts. Die Genealogie der Schriften von Eliphas Lévi, Religionsgeschichtliche Versuche und Vorarbeiten. Berlin: De Gruyter. Strube, Julian (2017) “Occultist Identity Formations between Theosophy and Socialism in Fin-de-Siècle France.” Numen, 64 (5–6): 568–95. Sutcliffe, Steven (2003) Children of the New Age. A History of Spiritual Practices. London: Routledge. Sutcliffe, Steven and Ingvild Sælid Gilhus (eds.) (2013) New Age Spirituality. Rethinking Religion. Durham: Acumen. Taylor, Kathleen (2001) Sir John Woodroffe, Tantra and Bengal. An Indian Soul in a European Body? Richmond: Curzon. Treitel, Corinna (2004) A Science for the Soul. Occultism and the Genesis of the German Modern. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Urban, Hugh B. (2003) Tantra. Sex, Secrecy Politics, and Power in the Study of Religions. Berkeley: University of California Press. Urban, Hugh B. (2006) Magia Sexualis. Sex, Magic, and Liberation in Modern Western Esotericism. Berkeley: University of California Press. Veer, Peter van der (2001) Imperial Encounters. Religion and Modernity in India and Britain. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Viswanathan, Gauri (1998) Outside the Fold. Conversion, Modernity, and Belief. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Viswanathan, Gauri (2000) “The Ordinary Business of Occultism.” Critical Inquiry, 27 (1): 1–20. Wessinger, Catherine L. (1988) Annie Besant and Progressive Messianism, Studies in Women and Religion. Lewiston: Mellen. White, David Gordon (2003) Kiss of the Yogini. ‘Tantric Sex’ in its South Asian Contexts. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Woodroffe, John (1929) Shakti and Shakta. 3rd ed. London: Luzac and Co. Zander, Helmut (2007) Anthroposophie in Deutschland. Theosophische Weltanschauung und gesellschaftliche Praxis 1884–1945. Vol. 1. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht.

CHAPTER 9

Hindu Soldiers in Europe during the First World War Religious Books, Symbols, and Practices Kristina Myrvold The Hindus who arrived in Europe under perhaps the most challenging conditions were the soldiers who fought for the British Army during the First World War (1914–18). In the autumn of 1914, nearly one third of the British forces on the Western Front were Indians from the British Indian Army (Jarboe 2016: 3). The decision to send troops from the Indian Army to the war zone in Europe was debated in imperial circles but gained support from the Viceroy Lord Hardinge and King George V. The first divisions arrived in France in late September and early October 1914 and were quickly dispatched to the front near Ypres in Belgium. The following spring, they were involved in Allied attacks on several lines of German trenches around Neuve Chapelle. Most units left Europe in late 1915, but at least two Indian cavalry divisions remained on the Western Front until the end of the war in 1918 (Omissi 2012: 39). According to statistics from the War Office, the total number of servicemen sent overseas from India during the war was 1,381,050, which included men from all ranks (British and Indian). The Indians serving in Europe on the Western Front included 89,335 combatants (officers, warrant officers, and other ranks) and 49,273 noncombatants, which in total amounted to 138,608 men (The War Office 1922: 777). Many of these soldiers were Muslims and Sikhs from northern areas of India whom the British considered exceptionally “warlike,” but a considerable number of the soldiers were from various Hindu groups (Markovits 2010: 34; Morton-Jack 2014: 2; Omissi 1998: 12). This chapter explores the importance of religion during the First World War and the provision of religious comforts and practices for Hindu soldiers. The first section examines how racial ideologies developed in colonial India and how they served as the basis for recruitment during the war. Specific Hindu caste groups were incorporated into colonial perceptions of “martial races” and were favoured for military duty. The chapter continues by studying letters written by Hindu soldiers and exploring how their experiences and interpretations of the war situation in Europe were expressed in religious terms and contained analogies to Hindu scriptures, cosmology, and caste-based ideals of

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heroic warriors. The final section describes how the Indian soldiers’ religious needs became a concern for military authorities, charities, and different individuals in India and Britain who procured and distributed religious artefacts and arranged spaces and practices, which were adjusted to caste and other religious traditions. Special attention is given to the work of the Indian Soldiers’ Fund, which served as an important charity and provided clothes and comforts to soldiers at the front and in hospitals. The chapter is based on a study of archival material that includes copies of letters from soldiers that were used in the reports on the censor of Indian mail in France, papers from the Indian Soldiers’ Fund, and the private papers of Walter Lawrence, as well as British newspapers and other colonial material. 1

Hindu Soldiers and “Martial Races” in the Indian Army

During the early colonial phase in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century the British established three armies of Sepoys in the presidencies of Bengal, Madras, and Bombay. While the southern presidencies recruited soldiers belonging to various castes and religions, the Bengal Army was almost completely made up of high-caste Hindus, such as Brahmans and Rajputs from Awadh and Bihar, and it implemented practices to respect caste customs. According to the traditional beliefs of high-caste Hindus, crossing kālā pānī (black waters), the oceans surrounding India, and sharing food, shelter, and clothes with Hindus from other castes, or with non-Hindus, resulted in the loss of caste. This notion about ritual pollution related to travel outside of India, which could be a threat to the community’s borders, only applied to Brahmans but also spread to other high-caste groups (Ojwang 2013: 55). High-caste soldiers in the army were consequently not required to cross the sea for military operations and were exempt from work traditionally associated with low-caste occupations (Omissi 1998: 2–3). However, the colonial recruitment policies of the army and the composition of the Bengal Army began to change drastically during the late nineteenth century in the aftermath of a mutiny, the Indian Rebellion of 1857. There were several underlying social, political, and economic reasons behind the revolt but some of the immediate triggers were the army’s use of the new Enfield rifles that had cartridges greased with cow or pig fat, which was considered ritually polluting for Hindus, and the General Services Enlistment Act of 1856, which required recruits to serve overseas if ordered (Dowling 2006: 65; Mason 2004: 261; Robinson 1996: 38). Whereas most of the regiments in Bengal participated in the revolt, the armies in Madras and Bombay had soldiers from a broader social base and were less prone to dissent.

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The British thus linked the mutiny to caste and the recruitment of Brahmans from certain areas. The colonial discourses that followed emphasised that disloyal, high-caste Hindus should not have a dominant presence in the army and religion and caste sentiments should not influence military commands. After the mutiny, the British consequently changed their biased recruitment of Hindus to instead favour men from the “martial races” in northern India, especially from the northwestern province of Punjab, which had been annexed to the British Empire in 1849 (Omissi 1998: 4, 6). Even if religious consideration was reduced, the British maintained and encouraged religious accommodations and identities in the army after the mutiny in order to foster morale and loyalty. The soldiers were obliged to observe the normative religious practices and identities of their religion during military service, each unit had a British officer who was knowledgeable about the soldiers’ language and religion, and religious festivals were a part of the regimental calendar (Jack 2006: 335; Robinson 2015: 6). According to martial race ideologies that developed in colonial India during the nineteenth century, certain “races” were considered especially loyal and well-suited for military service. Initially, the essentialist category of “race” was used by the British to morally and hierarchically differentiate people and their progress toward a civilised state, but after the mutiny it came to be associated more with physical characteristics that could be measured and used as a manipulative tool to secure the empire from internal insecurities (Roy 2013: 1311–27; Streets 2004: 7–9). Lord Roberts, the commander in chief of the Indian forces between 1885 and 1895, deemed Sikhs, Gurkhas, Dogras, Rajputs, and Pathans in the north to be races naturally disposed to fighting. Men from northern and colder regions with rural backgrounds in particular were considered more loyal and more courageous warriors than others (Roy 2013: 1312). The British actively recruited from Punjab in the 1880s, and when the armies of the three presidencies (Bengal, Madras, and Bombay) merged into a single Indian Army in 1895, almost half the recruits were from this province, while men from several regions in southern India were excluded from the army (Omissi 1998: 14; 2012: 27; Tai-Yong 2005: 70). Colonial racial imaginations, which were connected to indigenous stereotypes of different Indian groups, entered handbooks for army officers and formed the basis of recruitment strategies for specific groups. Through the lens of martial races, factors that determined a group’s fitness for military service included caste, religion, region, and hereditary warrior traditions. Except for a clear recruitment bias toward Sikhs and Muslim tribes from Punjab that were considered warlike in historical and religious traditions, various Hindu caste groups were included among the marital races and favoured before

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the First World War. These included Rajputs from different regions, Jats from Punjab, Dogras from Punjab and the Kashmir hills, and Garhwalis from the United Provinces of Agra and Oudh (Morton-Jack 2014: 3; Lord Sydenham of Combe 1915: 19). The Jats were landowners and cultivators with warrior traditions who, unlike intellectual Brahmans, were considered less imaginative but in possession of a marital spirit and courage that suited warfare (Omissi 1998: 9, 17; Singh 2014: 21). As the Punjab government reported, Hindu Jats in the district of Rohtak in particular enlisted during the First World War due to campaigns carried out by the Hindu reform movement Arya Samaj and the tempting prospect of fighting against the Turks (Leigh 1922: 45). Martial race ideology was also connect to theories about the invasion of the Aryan races and Vedic literature. Rajputs, Gurkhas, Garhwalis, and Dogras were groups considered to be descendants of the Aryan races that invaded the Indian subcontinent and, therefore, had distant links to Europeans. According to these theories, the Kṣatriyas were the traditional warriors in the Aryan varṇa system, ranked higher than Vaiśyas and Śūdras but below the Brahmans. Their hereditary caste and descendants were the Rajputs who spread out in the northern areas and intermixed with locals. The offspring of Rajputs who settled in Nepal were believed to be the Gurkhas, while Rajput communities who inhabited Punjab turned into Garhwalis and those in the hill areas of Punjab and Kashmir became the Dogras (Omissi 1998: 18; Roy 2013: 1314, 1326). Along with appeals to raise the spirit of heroism and self-sacrifice, genealogical stereotypes about the Kṣatriyas identities and kinship were actively invoked during the war to create loyalty to the British crown and encourage army recruitment (Basu 2015: 348; Robinson 1996: 39). By the eve of the First World War, the abovementioned groups constituted the majority of Hindu soldiers in the Indian Army, and the “marital race theory” remained alive throughout the war. Lists of the total number of men recruited between August 1914 and November 1918 shows that Punjabi Muslims (136,526) and Sikhs (88,922) made up the largest categories of soldiers mobilised for the war. After them, other groups recruited from the “martial races” of various Hindu traditions were Rajputs (62,190), Gurkhas (55,589), Jats (55,239), Dogras (23,491), and Garhwalis (7,167) (Roy 2013: 1340). Punjab was an important area from which manpower was drawn, and Hindus were estimated to make up 22.6% of the combatants from the province. The Punjabi government stated that there were 19,615 Hindu combatants in the Indian Army by January 1915, and the total number of Hindus recruited from the province between 1915 and 1918 was assumed to be 63,900 men (Leigh 1922: 44). With combatants in high demand, however, the martial race theory was modified, and the army came to enlist men from both rural and urban areas of India. Despite beliefs that

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some groups were less suitable for warfare, such as the Maratha and Deccan Brahmans, as well as low-caste and untouchable Hindus, they were mobilised during the latter part of the war (Omissi 1998: 20; Roy 2013: 1342). When the war broke out, King George V and the Viceroy of India appealed for support from the people of India in September 1914, and the various provinces and Indian native states responded enthusiastically with resolutions of loyalty. Even if critical opinions among the Indian intellectual elite, as well as Indian nationalism, flourished during the war, support for the British was widespread, even among unexpected groups, and Hindu and Muslim politicians cooperated (Corrigan 2006: 23; Das 2017: 11; Hyson and Lester 2012: 20; Lord Sydenham of Combe 1915: 55–74). Throughout the country different religious communities, such as the Arya Samaj and the Punjab Hindu Conference, held meetings and resolved to offer prayers and even religious worship for the success of the British Army.1 The Sanatan Dharma Sabha in Peshawar, for instance, organised a mass meeting for Hindus during which “all the leading and educated Brahmans of the city” arranged a pūjā and havan (fire ritual) before Durgā, “the terrible goddess of war,” with prayers for the success of the British Army. A portrait of Kṛṣṇa was installed for worship and musicians performed Sanskrit poems in praise of the deities Rāma and Kṛṣṇa, as well as the British king, that were written by a local paṇḍit and teacher.2 In rhetoric aimed at the Indian soldiers, British authorities emphasised the religious ideas of honour and loyalty when undertaking service to the British Empire, which was personified by the king, for a righteous cause (Robinson 2015: 7). 2

Religious Experiences during the War

The Indian soldiers who travelled to Europe to fight had previous experience with colonial fighting, but they were thrown into a continental and industrial warfare for which they initially were not trained or equipped. As the soldiers faced the trials of trench warfare, great losses in combats, and severe cold during the winter on the Western Front, their endurance and morale were tested. One of the few historical sources that has been preserved and reveals their experiences in Europe is a collection containing extracts from letters that were copied by the British military censor between 1914 and 1918. Writing letters 1  For more on this, see the Letter from Secretary to the Government of India to T.W. Holderness, 15 January 1915; 1 February 1915; Papers Relating to the Support Offered by the Princes and Peoples of India, 1914. 2  Letter from Secretary to the Government of India to T.W. Holderness, 16 February 1915.

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was the soldiers’ primary means of communication with family and friends in India and was actively used. It has been estimated that Indian soldiers in France and Britain wrote more than 20,000 letters per week in March 1915. Some wrote their own mail while others used scribes, since many of them were illiterate (Omissi 1999: 4, 7).3 All letters were censored at the regimental level to prevent military information from being leaked to the enemy. In order to check the mail written in different Indian languages, the military authorities set up a special Indian Base Post Office, first in Rouen and later in Boulogne, with Indians and British who knew the languages. At first, the purpose was to censor seditious material addressed to the soldiers, but soon the office extended its activities to outgoing mail in order to gather information about the soldiers’ morale and block material that could create unrest in India (Omissi 1999: 6). The censor provided reports with extracts from the soldiers’ letters that were translated into English, which included information about the senders’ castes or religious affiliations. Even if the letters were not in their original form but filtered through censorship—and the soldiers gradually came to know that their writings were being checked—the material provides glimpses into their experiences of the war and how religion permeated their lives. Motifs from Hindu mythology and religious life were commonly used in the letters as metaphors for the war and the killings that occurred under appalling conditions. For instance, the aeroplanes that dropped bombs were described by the soldiers as Garuḍa, the large bird accompanying Viṣṇu, hovering over earth (Letter from a Garhwali to His Elder Brother, 12 February 1915; Letter from a Garhwali to His Parents, 17 February 1915). The human slaughter and bloodshed at the front were portrayed through images of rain and floods of red gulāl, the powders used during the spring festival of Holī when people smear each other with colours (Letter from Hir Singh to Lambardar Phul Singh, 24 June 1915; Letter from Naik Buta Singh to Bhuja Jal, 28 June 1915). A recurring theme in the letters was describing the battlefields using analogies to the Mahābhārata, the Sanskrit epic about the combat between the Kauravas and the Pāṇḍavas at the end of the third age of dvāpara yuga. The long epic not only depicts the actions of warriors within a heroic and moral framework, but also portrays how warriors are violently slain in a battle of cosmic dimensions between good and evil. In the soldiers’ letters, the Mahābhārata was invoked as an allegory for a “great war” that was more violent than other conflicts. When plunged into the inhuman conditions of trench warfare, the soldiers compared their own experiences to the epic as if scenarios and events in the epic were embodied and relived during the end of another age, the fourth and final kali yuga, which was 3  See also Das 2014; VanKoski 1995.

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considered dark and degenerate. A Rajput from Punjab wrote to an Indian relative in early 1915: “Do not think that this is war. This is not war. It is the ending of the world. This is just such a war as was related in the Mahabharat about our forefathers” (Letter from a Rajput to a Relative in India, 20 January 1915). While some soldiers interpreted their experiences as evidence of what had been recorded in the historical epic,4 others presented themselves as being part of a cosmic drama that resembled the wars in the Vedic literature but was far more destructive and was carried out in a way that had not been seen before. A few letters from Dogras, originally written in Hindi, provide examples of this: My brothers, the war is severe, Bhagwan (God) knows that it is a hundred thousand times harder than the Mahabharat, but up to now God has spared our regiment. Letter from Jamedar Labh Singh to Kiral Chand, 24 March 1915

This war is not finishing quickly, this is a Mahabarat, but the Mahabharat finished in eighteen days, whereas there is no certainty when this will end. I expect this will not finish until some inferiority is shown which is difficult. Letter from Deb Sadi to Garku Rajput, May 1915

I have no hope of surviving as the war is very severe. The whole world is being sacrificed, and there is no cession. 18,000 English have been killed. The Germans are powerful. It is not a war but a Mahabharat, the world is being destroyed. Letter from Sursan Singh to Atra Chand, June 1915

The English have made such things that I cannot explain them to you. The attack lasts for some days so that words fail men. When they fly in the air they look like stars. On the ground one always used to be, but now in the air they fly with great speed. I tell you there is no place (empty of corpses) on which to put one’s feet as in the Mahabharat. They have made a machine gun which scatters bullets like water. Letter from Sarath Ram to Phulmu Duftri, n.d.

In line with the heroic ideals for the warrior caste in the Mahābhārata, several Hindu soldiers emphasised that it was the noble destiny and duty of Kṣatriyas to fight the enemy and that dying on the battlefield would provide heavenly 4  See Letter from Mohan Lal to Jat, April 1915.

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rewards and a release from rebirth.5 Some soldiers reminded their relatives and friends that the human sacrifice in battles would not only affect the destiny of the soldiers but should also be considered a blissful thing that would create a good reputation, honour, and rewards for their offspring for generations. A Garhwali Hindu wrote to a relative in June 1915: “The fight is still raging, and the number of killed is beyond counting. Mothers’ good sons do not turn their back to the enemy in battle. Reverence is paid to seven generations of those whose fathers were engaged in war. Such a war has never been before, and never will be again. […] The Hindustani soldiers who will come here will have a second birth [i.e., will die]” (Letter from Ratna Singh Bisht to Jet Singh Bisht, 21 June 1915).6 According to these caste-based ideals, the worst condition was to end up in a situation between life and death, to be wounded. A Dogra soldier wrote in August 1915: “For us of the Rajput (warrior) caste, it [the war] is an open door to Paradise, and those are fortunate who pass through it, but for those who stick in the middle it is like Hell. Some of them suffer the pain of wounds, and some go on living the remainder of the lives and accumulating sins” (Letter from Havildar Nand Lal to Ram Singh, 14 August 1915). The soldiers also likened the warfare situation with events in the Rāmāyaṇa, the epic that narrates the adventures of Rāma and Sītā during their exile from mythical Ayodhya and the struggle of Rāma to rescue Sītā from the demon king Rāvaṇ at Lanka. In their letters, the soldiers’ location in Europe was compared to the exile of Rāma and their killing of Germans to Rāma’s final victory over Rāvaṇ.7 The Rāmāyaṇa was also used as inspiration for the creation of trench poetry that aimed to describe the war in verse and alluded to themes and passages from the epic.8 An example of this is the compositions written in Hindi by a Brahman, Bahadur Singh, to friends in Garhwal. This is one of the poems, translated and withheld by the censor: When the Lord of Raghu’s race heard, he said “Who can blot out the writing of fate?” When Hanuman places his foot on a mountain, it falls to pieces. The army of the Rakhshasas melts away, before the arrow of the Lord Rama, just as the darkness of night disappears on the rising of the sun. 5  See Letter from a Garhwali Subedar to a Friend in India, 21 February 1915; Letter from Havildar Ramji Lal to Chandra Singh, August 1915; Letter from Naik Sonu Geakwar to Yeshwant Dada Gaekwar, n.d.; Letter from Sepoy Hazari to Masudi Sepoy, August 1915. 6  See also, Letter from Sonu Gaikwar to Nariba Gaikwar, 15 May 1915. 7  See Letter from Keshow Ghorpors to Kashinath Vakil, 29 June 1915. 8  See Letter from Naik Gangaram Bhivajie to L.N. Babu Apajirao, 16 June 1915.

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Ten thousand Rajas may try and lift Rama’s bow, but the task is impossible. How shall I tell you about the things that happened here? No tongue can describe them. When the aeroplane mounts into the sky, the bullets fall around like rain in July. When the shells burst, the heroes cry “Glory to the Lord Raghunath.” By one shell many fall and are wounded, and many are missing. Everyone cheers the German heroes and calls out “bravo,” they show an extraordinary spectacle. The German heroes are very strong and those who fight with them are overthrown! Bravo, Mothers’ sons! For every one that falls, may a thousand spring up.9 Far from being heroic, however, many soldiers’ letters expressed feelings of despair and desperation that were projected through beliefs in karmic laws, manifestations of deities, and divine will. Some soldiers came to view their participation in the war as a punishment for previous sins and for forsaking religious matters, while others lamented that the gods had saved the lives of only a few soldiers or that they abandoned them completely in the battlefield.10 Survival in combat and the end of the war were recurrently described in religious terms and as depending on the will and mercy of god.11 Some soldiers requested their relations in India to not be anxious but to perform specific rituals for protection and to consult paṇḍits, religious books, and astrologers in order to learn when the war could be expected to end.12 A Maratha soldier, for instance, instructed his relative to read the Śiv Līlā Amṛt, a work about Śiva that was written by the poet-saint Śrīdhāra and is based on the Skandapurāṇa, and to feed the Brahmans (Letter from Gunpat Jadhav to Jai Korntianpirt, Jadhav, 28 June 1915). The rituals of reading this work, performing a pūjā, and inviting Brahmans to eat were believed to aid and alleviate those suffering from problems. To brighten up their lives at war, the soldiers also arranged 9  Letter from Bahadur Singh to Pandit Shankar Lal, 31 November 1915; see also, Letter from Bahadur Singh to P. Shankar Dass, 10 December 1915. 10  See Letter from Murli Dhat Chandola to Pandit Gopal Datt Chandola, April 1915; Letter from Murli Datt Chandola to Pandit Urbi Datt Chandola, 27 April 1915; Letter from Ram Singh Dani to Dhan Singh Sano, May 1915; Letter from Sepoy Sanakhi to Sepoy Jodha Ram, 24 June 1915. 11  See Letter from Bachetar Singh to a Friend, 15 March 1915; Letter from Miyan Lam Singh to Dafadar Khasan Singh, 6 April 1915. 12  See Letter from Bishambar Jath to Pandit Bhola Nath, 21 January 1916; Letter from Naik Hari Kisan to Pandit Gopal Dat, May 1915.

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festivals according to the Hindu calendar at the front and in the hospitals. A Punjabi Hindu stationed at Rouen described to his mother in Meerut how he and his companions managed to get camphor, sandal wood, and other paraphernalia to set up a havan, a Vedic sacrificial fire, during the month of Sāwan (July–August) and performed it “with Vedic mantras in France” (Letter from Ram Seran Das to His Mother, August 1915). In autumn 1915, the soldiers at the Kitchener Indian Hospital in Brighton were reported to have celebrated Daśāhrā, the Hindu festival in the month of Āśvin (September–October), which commemorates the victory of good over evil (Letter from Radha Mishan to a Friend, 20 October 1915). Since travel to Europe involved crossing oceans, and the war presented a multi-ethnic context with various nationalities and religions, high-caste Hindus were perceived to be anxious about caste taboos. In the soldiers’ preserved letters, the Rajputs in particular express concerns about the preservation of caste, because the war situation could force them to eat and drink polluted things, take food from the hands of Europeans, and share food with individuals from outside their caste. Not maintaining the caste rules could lead to social exclusion from their community. As several noted, however, the conditions improved, especially at the hospitals, and eating and drinking was arranged by caste and Brahmans from India prepared the food.13 The following section illustrates how the soldiers’ concerns made military authorities and charities provide religious artefacts and adjust spaces and practices to caste and religious traditions. 3

Religious Comforts for the Sick and Wounded Soldiers

In autumn 1914, the Order of St. John of Jerusalem in Britain founded the Indian Soldiers’ Fund with the purpose of providing clothing and other comforts for the sick and wounded Indian soldiers at the front and in hospitals. With King George V as a royal patron, the fund became an important charity that collected donations from Britain and India and functioned as an agent to distribute an enormous amount of gifts, including religious artefacts, to the soldiers (Omissi 2012: 40). In 1914, the fund committee consisted of thirty-five notable members, including Sir John P. Hewett, the former lieutenant governor of the United Provinces of Agra and Oudh in India, as the chairperson. Among the Indian members were Maharani of Bharatpur, His Highness Aga 13  Letter from Jainal Singh to Jaswant Singh, 7 August 1915; Letter from Sukhdes Singh to Ishwar Singh, 27 May 1915; Letter from Sukhtal Singh to Bhure Singh, 2 June 1915.

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Khan, and Mr. Ratan Tata. In order to ascertain the needs of the troops, the fund cooperated with James Willcocks, Lieutenant General for the Indian Corps in France, and together they arranged a system of distribution in which a staff officer took responsibility for the goods sent from London to France. The fund also established its own agency at Boulogne for receiving and distributing goods to the different units along the front (Report of the First Six Months’ Work 1914–1915: 1, 4, 5). Another objective of the Indian Soldiers’ Fund was to assist hospitals with the Indian sick and wounded. For this purpose the fund collaborated with Walter Lawrence, who had been appointed by Lord Kitchener, the war secretary, to function as a commissioner with responsibility to advise and report about arrangements for the sick and wounded Indian soldiers in France and Britain (ibid.: 5). In 1915, there were a total of thirty-two institutions for Indian soldiers: nine hospital ships; seven hospitals in Britain; fourteen hospitals, convalescent depots, and clearing hospitals in France; and two hospitals in Egypt. In addition to this, there were also fourteen field ambulances that each had places for about one hundred patients. While most were funded and run by the government with assistance from the Indian Medical Service, the Lady Hardinge Hospital for wounded Indian soldiers at Brockenhurst was supported by the Indian Soldiers’ Fund (Second Report of the Indian Soldiers’ Fund 1915: 12–13). Unlike British units, which had Christian chaplains to minister religious services, the Indian troops in Europe had no religious specialists accompanying them. In the various regiments of the Indian Army the chaplains, paṇḍits, granthīs, and maulvīs were civilians on a paid salary who were not enlisted in the army, and they remained in India during the war (Corrigan 2006: 199). Religious practices were taken care of by the soldiers and officers themselves, and charities like the Indian Soldiers’ Fund came play an important role in assisting them with religious supplies. 3.1 Religious Gifts The Indian Soldiers’ Fund served the important function of equipping the Indian soldiers with warm clothes and comforts, which were adapted to the cold and wet weather on the European mainland, through the collection, purchase, and dispatch of an impressive number of gifts to the front. British authorities became aware of the soldiers’ concerns about losing their religion on European soil and feared that this could affect military discipline and the political opinion in India. In early 1915, even the Viceroy Lord Hardinge expressed concerns regarding the Indian soldiers returning to India without turbans and religious symbols and asked whether the Indian Soldiers’ Fund could supply these “essentials” when the men left Britain. The fund supplied a large

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array of religious and cultural symbols, literature, and other objects (Letter from Walter Lawrence to Indian Soldiers’ Fund, 2 February 1915; Myrvold and Johansson 2018; Omissi 2007: 386). Lotas, small brass vessels that could be used both for drinking water and for Hindu worship, were specially made by a firm in Lyndhurst (Hampshire, Britain) upon the request of the fund. To begin with, 1,532 vessels were purchased; 1,212 of them were sent to hospitals and 320 were dispatched to the front (Report of the First Six Months’ Work 1914–1915: 10, 12; Second Report of the Indian Soldiers’ Fund 1915: 25, 34). Even the underwear supplied to the troops was categorised by religion. Lieutenant General James Willcocks, for instance, requested specific kaccherās for the Sikhs and separate cotton drawers for Hindus and Muslims that could be produced and ordered from firms in London (Proceeding of the General Committee, 26 May 1915). Field trips conducted to the front confirmed that there was an enormous demand for religious items, but in the beginning, not everyone was convinced about the consequences of this kind of distribution. As the president John P. Hewett reported after travelling in France, “I am not sure whether we should go too far in supplying them, as the native of India, if he gets too religiously inclined, is apt to become a bit sulky” (Letter from John Hewett to Walter Lawrence, 22 April 1915). Requests from officers in charge at the front and generous gifts sent from India, however, made the fund overlook these hesitations and distribute a large amount of religious items. As news about large causalities and the soldiers’ harsh conditions in Europe spread in India, the nobility and rulers of the native states in India contributed large donations in cash, animals, and other forms that were collected and conveyed to Europe through the war funds and charities.14 The government of Punjab alone reported that during the war the British districts in the province contributed 5,171,328 rupees and the Indian native states 16,943,173 rupees in cash, in addition to war loans and substantial material gifts (Leigh 1922: 79, 81– 82). The Indian Soldiers’ Fund was an important mediator for many of these gifts and received aid from the St. John Ambulance Association in Simla in order to find clothes and comforts that were not procurable in Europe. Starting in January 1915, the charity in India sent fortnightly shipments of comforts to the fund in London (Report of the First Six Months’ Work 1914–1915: 7; Telegram from the Viceroy to London Office, 30 January 1915). Among the literature published in India in support of the British Army’s victory was Vijay Pañchakam, a Sanskrit prayer book composed in 1914 by a Marwari Brahman, Kaviraj Pandit Gyarasram Shastree, in Kamptee, Nagpur district (see appendix). The author sent 200 copies of the prayer book, which 14  For more information see Pati 1996; Authority of the Government of India 1923.

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were printed at his own press, in Sanskrit and English to the government in India and offered to supply additional copies for free. Although the work was intended for “Indians residing in England” and their “daily prayer for the success of British Army in the present strife,” the home department considered it especially useful for the sick and wounded Hindu soldiers (Letter from Kaviraj Pandit Gyarasram Shastree to the Under Secretary of State for India, 31 October 1914). Walter Lawrence was consulted, and he communicated that Muslims and Sikhs had received copies of the Qurʾān and Gurū Granth Sāhib, but “hitherto no special books for wounded Hindus have been procured” (Letter from M.C. Seton to the Under Secretary of the State, 22 December 1914). Accordingly, 500 copies of the prayer book were ordered and 200 of these were distributed at the hospitals and convalescent homes for Indian soldiers in Bournemouth, Brighton, Brockenhurst, and New Milton.15 Some of the larger gifts of religious items intended for Hindu soldiers came from the Maharani Nundkanvarba of Bhavnagar (in the present-day state of Gujarat). In the summer of 1915 she donated 345 copies of the Bhagavadgītā, 300 copies of the Rāmāyaṇa, and 3,350 beaded rosaries to the Indian Soldiers’ Fund through M.M. Bhownagree, the Indian Parsi who was a former member of parliament in Britain and was the head of Parsi organisations in Europe (Meeting of the General Committee, 16 June 1915; ibid., 18 August 1915). As a general rule, the fund followed the instructions of James Willcocks and, on his advice, religious books were to be distributed only to hospitals and depots “where they could be suitably housed, so as to avoid the possibility of injury through their being left about uncared for by the men at the front” (Second Report of the Indian Soldiers’ Fund 1915: 22). Willcocks was unwilling to present any bound volume of a religious nature to men on the front line since the books “could not be readily scrapped” and create embarrassments (Meeting of the General Committee, 18 August 1915). Consequently, the copies of the Bhagavadgītā and Rāmāyaṇa, as well as the rosaries, were sent to hospital institutions and depots in Britain and France (Second Report of the Indian Soldiers’ Fund 1915: 35). The Ladies Committee at the India Gift House in Brighton, a charity started by reputable ladies in 1914 to handle the numerous gifts for war hospitals, helped the Indian Soldiers’ Fund to distribute 600 rosaries to Hindu soldiers at the Pavilion Hospital, the York Place Hospital, and the Kitchener Indian Hospital in Brighton (Report of the Ladies Committee 1916).

15  Letter from Embarkation Office to the Under Secretary of State for India, 30 June 1915; Letter from Home Department to M.C. Seton, 11 May 1915; Letter from Walter Lawrence to M.C. Seton, 28 June 1915.

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Another donation from the Maharani of Bhavnagar, which was requested by the Indian Soldiers’ Fund, was 1,500 janeos or sacred threads for high-caste Hindu soldiers who had gone through the Upanayana rite to become “twiceborn.” The soldiers’ demand for “brahmanical threads” in hospitals and depots reached the fund, but James Willcocks had doubts over the suitability of providing threads made in Britain. During a meeting in August 1915, the fund’s general committee discussed whether it was proper for a charity managed primarily by Europeans to supply “purely caste articles” without being liable to criticism. The fund was eventually assured that the distribution would not pose any problem, and they asked for threads from India (Corrigan 2006: 200; Meeting of the General Committee, 18 August 1915; ibid., 2 October 1915). Most of the janeos they received were sent to the front, while 300 were distributed through the India Gift House to soldiers at hospitals in Brighton. When the dispatches were made, the officers-in-command were specifically instructed to give the threads only to members of the twice-born castes (Proceeding of the General Committee, 20 October 1915; Report of the Ladies Committee 1916; Second Report of the Indian Soldiers’ Fund 1915: 35; Third Report of the Indian Soldiers’ Fund 1915–1916: 17). Letters from officers and reports from visits to the front conveyed that the Bhagavadgītās and rosaries were highly appreciated by the soldiers in France and boosted their “morale” in the harsh conditions (see Fifth Report of the Indian Soldiers’ Fund 1918–1919: 17–19; Report from John P. Hewett, 27 July 1915). In addition to the religious books and symbols sent by family and friends in India to the soldier.16 Indians in Britain also contributed to the soldiers’ religious comfort. One of them was Alfred Ezra, from the renowned Jewish Sassoon family in Calcutta, who moved to Britain in 1912 and worked for the London Zoological Society (Delacour 1956: 135–36). He and his family members visited the Indian soldiers at hospitals and were involved in various charities during the war. After reading about miniature scriptures produced by the publisher David Bryce and Son in Glasgow, Ezra decided to purchase small editions of the Bhagavadgītā in Devanagari and the Qurʾān in Arabic for soldiers at hospitals (Publishers’ Circular and Booksellers’ Record 1915: 584). David Bryce had published miniature books of all kinds since the 1880s and specialised in printing tiny copies of sacred scriptures by using photolithography and electroplates that allowed the printer to reduce larger books to the smallest size and still retain a legible text. In the 1890s the firm began publishing miniature Qurʾāns for the market in India and, beginning in the early twentieth century, produced the Khordeh Avesta and versions of the Bhagavadgītā that were a 16  See Letter from Jadu Godbole to Ritaram Hari Godbole, 18 December 1915.

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little over an inch long in size (Myrvold 2018: 182). In the autumn of 1915, Alfred Ezra procured between 3,000 and 4,000 copies each of the Bhagavadgītā and the Qurʾān in this diminutive size, contained in metal lockets, and distributed them to Hindu and Muslim soldiers at hospitals with help from the Indian Soldiers’ Fund (Report from Walter Lawrence to the Secretary of State for War, 8 March 1916). British newspapers enthusiastically reported the soldiers’ gratitude upon receiving the “sacred writings in the form enabling them to be carried on the person without risk of loss” and explained that the Bhagavadgītā “is known by heart to the unlettered masses of India as well as to the men of culture, but his copy is not the less welcome to the recipients on that account” (The Sphere, October 30, 1915). 3.2 Caste Regulations In order to nurture the soldiers’ religious contentment and avoid rumours that might create public unease in India, the British military authorities, together with the Indian Medical Service and charities like the Indian Soldiers’ Fund, set up practical facilities at the various hospital ships, convalescent centres, and hospitals that were arranged by religion and caste. On the premises of the institutions and centres in both Britain and France, the authorities arranged for separate recreation rooms furnished in the Oriental style that were divided by religion and had specific areas for Muslim, Sikh, and Hindu religious worship (Myrvold and Johansson 2018; Omissi 2007: 378–79; Meeting of the General Committee, 6 January 1915). At the Royal Pavilion Hospital in Brighton, for instance, special portions of the grounds were set apart for Hindu and Muslim worship while the Sikhs were given a marquee to function as a gurdvārā. The patients were given devotional books that had been approved by the India Office (Report about the Pavilion Hospital 1915–1916). The hospitals organised a system with separate kitchens, slaughterhouses, water taps, washrooms, lavatories, and other facilities that were adjusted to the different religions and castes. The staff consisted of retired officers in the Indian Medical Service and nurses who knew the soldiers’ languages and religions, as well as workers such as chefs, waiters, and servants from divergent castes who were employed from India (Report by Walter Lawrence to the Secretary of State for War, 8 March 1916). At the Kitchener Indian Hospital in Brighton, for instance, there were kitchens for six different “classes” and eight types of diets were prepared for the Indian soldiers. The Hindu chefs had to be from the same, or a higher, caste than the patients for whom they prepared food. Beef and pork meat were not allowed within the premises of any Indian hospital (The Scotsman, September 4, 1915; Wells Journal, September 10, 1915; The Lady Hardinge Hospital 1916: 5). Similarly, the Pavilion Hospital had nine separate kitchens of three types: vegetarian or

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nonvegetarian for Hindus and another for Muslims. The whole chain of workers at the hospital—from those who distributed food in the kitchen to the chefs and those who served and washed utensils—were from the same caste as the soldiers. At the end of the wards there were taps with notices in three languages (Hindi, Gurmukhi, and Urdu) stating that the drinking water was only for the use of Hindus and Muslims. The low-caste servants who conducted polluting work in the hospital lived separately on the lawns (Report about the Pavilion Hospital 1915–1916; Robinson 1996: 43; Western Daily Press, December 29, 1914). To ensure that these caste scruples were respected and observed at the hospitals, special caste committees were set up among the convalescent patients in order to give advice to the officers who were in charge on matters related to religion and caste (Corrigan 2006: 175; Report by Walter Lawrence to the Secretary of State for War, 8 March 1916). The letters by the Indian soldiers were inspected to see how the arrangements at the hospitals were perceived and described to relations in India, and many soldiers communicated their satisfaction with the religious and caste practices (Hyson and Lester 2012: 29). Walter Lawrence, who was responsible for the hospitals, was warned by Indians serving in the Indian Volunteer Ambulance Corps that some soldiers still feared being outcast on their return to India, irrespective of the careful caste rules at the hospitals, since the long absence from India and the general perception that it was difficult to maintain caste taboos in Britain would be enough for their relations to infer that caste rules had been broken. As a suggestion, it was proposed that propaganda films could be shown in India to inform people about the arrangements. John P. Hewett, however, was sceptical and chose to interpret the soldiers’ reception of caste regulations as positive. In a report to the war secretary he quoted from a letter by a Rajput hospitalised in Brighton to support this view: “Till the 21st I was in hospital at Boulogne and on the 22nd I went to England, and, my brother, I had great trouble about my food, for from the 9th to the 16th I ate nothing, and preserved my caste, or else I could have got bread, but I would not eat it, and Rama sent a Thakur of Cawnpur who cooked me some puri (cakes fried in butter or oil). Now I shall see what God will do for me in England” (Letter from Sukhdes Singh to Ishwar Singh, 27 May 1915; Report Walter Lawrence to Lord Kitchener, 24 December 1915). Precautions related to caste and religion were not restricted to British authorities but were equally used by the Germans for propaganda. Many Indian prisoners of war were interned at camps in Wünsdorf (Zossen), Germany where they were separated based on “race,” caste, and religion.17 According to 17  See Das 2014; Roy, Liebau, and Ahuja 2011.

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reports received by the Indian Soldiers’ Fund, there was one barrack specifically for the Thakurs and two for the Gurkhas, as well as four separate kitchens for Muslims, Gurkhas, Sikhs, and Thakurs for the “preparation of the food in accordance with their respective rituals.” Special rooms were provided for their different forms of religious worship (Third Report of the Indian Soldiers’ Fund 1915–1916: 21, 23). In autumn 1915, the commandant of the Halbmondlager (Half Moon Camp) in Zossen hinted that German authorities had no objection to the Indian Soldiers’ Fund dispatching religious books for the Hindus interned and, as a consequence, a consignment with copies of the Bhagavadgītā and Rāmāyaṇa were sent to Indian officers at Osnabruck and soldiers at Zossen (Meeting of the General Committee, 6 October 1915; Second Report of the Indian Soldiers’ Fund 1915: 23). The fund raised a systematic supply of comforts and clothing for the Indian prisoners of war in Germany through different agencies. In addition to clothing, cigarettes, milk, sweets, religious books, and other comforts, arrangements were made through the Bureau de Secours aux Prisonniers de Guerre (War Prisoners Relief Bureau) at Berne for a weekly supply of bread. Since Brahman and Rajput prisoners could not eat bread prepared by European hands due to caste restrictions, the fund arranged for the dispatch of flour, butter, and other ingredients from which they could make their own bread in separate kitchens (Meeting of the General Committee, 25 October 1916; Second Report of the Indian Soldiers’ Fund 1915: 16; Third Report of the Indian Soldiers’ Fund 1915–1916: 13, 15). 3.3 Cremation Rituals Source material from the war reveals that the soldiers took initiative when it came to celebrating various religious rituals at the front and in hospitals, but what became an immediate political concern for the military authorities was the handling and performance of proper religious death rituals for fallen soldiers. During the first months of the war, there were no facilities or arrangements made for the cremation of the dead bodies of Hindu and Sikh soldiers, and their corpses were buried. Walter Lawrence visited the front every fortnight and reported to the war secretary, Lord Kitchener, about his unsuccessful attempts to induce the French authorities to cremate Hindus and Sikhs at the clearing hospitals and at the front. Hindu corpses were consequently brought from Hardelot and Montreuil to Boulogne for burial, and this practice continued up to the end of 1914. Lawrence was informed that an officer in charge of the Jesuit College Hospital in Boulogne had consulted a Hindu medical officer and a Brahman subassistant surgeon who communicated that if the bodies of the fallen Hindu soldiers could not be burned or cast into a sea or river then burial was the only alternative (Letter from Walter Lawrence to Lord

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Kitchener, 31 December 1914; Report from Walter Lawrence to Lord Kitchener, 24 Dec 1915). In reports Lawrence wrote: In the clearing Hospitals at the front I do not think it is fair to ask that the Hindus should be cremated. The local French authorities are against cremation, and firewood is very expensive; but at the Base Hospitals I think we should cremate Hindus and Sikhs, and I was greatly disappointed to find that they had not yet devised an efficient method of cremation. They are still in the experimental stage. Report from Walter Lawrence to Lord Kitchener, n.d.

The burial of Hindus is not only distasteful to Hindus, but Muham­madans too object to having Hindus buried with them. I have seen letter from an Afridi [Pashtun tribe] written in France to an Afridi in India, which runs, “I am sorry to say that this is an evil country, because they bury Hindus and Mussulmans in one place.” Talking to some Dogras on the subject, I learned from them that although they would prefer cremation, they accepted burial as a necessary evil, and only stipulated that their boots should be left outside the grave. Report from Walter Lawrence to Lord Kitchener, 24 December 1915

After some time, however, a cremation site was established, at Lawrence’s request, near the sea at Hardelot, and Hindu corpses from Boulogne and Montreuil were taken there (Letter from Walter Lawrence to Lord Kitchener, 31 December 1914). A senior Brahman surgeon, Rai Sahib Hao Pershad, from the Secunderabad General Hospital, looked after the ceremonies to make sure that they followed Hindu rites and French regulations for sanitation (MacPherson 1923: 131; Morton-Jack 2014: 292). Later in 1915, arrangements were made for cremation at the Base Hospitals in France. At the Meerut Stationary Hospital in Boulogne, Colonel Wall established a cemetery with crematoria for Hindus in the vicinity of the hospital and arranged for the ashes to be placed in caskets that were transported by ambulance to the sea for immersion (Report from John P. Hewett, 27 July 1915; Report from Walter Lawrence to Lord Kitchener, 14 December 1915). The Maharaja of Rutlam, from the Central Provinces, attended a ceremony at Boulogne when his relative, Captain Raghunath Singh, was cremated. The Maharaja, who was himself a colonel serving on the Western Front, deemed the cremation arrangements “in every way satisfactory” (Report from Walter Lawrence to Lord Kitchener, 5 August 1915). Ceremonies for Hindus and Sikhs were conducted at other places in France, such as at the cemetery of St. Pierre in Marseilles where eighty-three unnamed Indians were

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cremated (Report from Walter Lawrence to Lord Kitchener, 14 December 1915). The Indian Soldiers’ Fund purchased and contributed funeral urns that were specially made for collecting the ashes of the soldiers who had died and been cremated at the hospitals (Report of the First Six Months’ Work 1914–1915: 10, 12; Manchester Courier, May 19, 1915). Since tombstones with the names and regiments of those who had been buried were highly appreciated by all soldiers, similar arrangements were made to put up lists with the names of those who had been cremated (Report of John P. Hewett, 27 July 1915). In Britain, morticians were allowed to establish crematoria according to the Cremation Act of 1902, but open-air cremations with funeral pyres were illegal. During the war, however, the Home Office turned a blind eye to this prohibition and let the military develop cremations which were in accordance with the religious practices of Hindus and Sikhs. In February 1915, a cremation ceremony was performed at Netley near Southampton for a Hindu, Jamadar Harak Bahadur Thapar, from the 2nd Battalion of the Garhwal Rifles. British media labelled it the first Hindu cremation ceremony to take place outside the borders of India and reported about the ritual procedure performed by Indian volunteer students of “high caste.” Since the military centre at Netley was “many thousands of miles from the holy water” of the Ganges, a symbolic river was created at the cremation place: “Water by the score of gallons was carted up from Southampton; a shallow trench was dug, and when the ceremony was about to commence the water was allowed to flow down in a continuous stream.” The body of Thapar was bathed, anointed, and clothed in new garments and carried on a stretcher to a pyre. When the body had been placed on the pyre, the participants read prayers, and one of them walked with a lighted torch round the pyre seven times before it was lit. Instead of the customary ritual bath after a death ceremony, the participants “clapped their hands in the now dying stream and sprinkled the water over themselves” and “sipped water in which gold had been washed.” The ashes of the deceased were then taken to his family in India to be immersed in the Ganges (The Nottingham Evening Post, February 26, 1915).18 Cremation sites for Hindus were also established at several other locations in England. At the Lady Hardinge Hospital, supported by the Indian Soldiers’ Fund, a cremation ground was arranged for soldiers (Report of the First Six Months’ Work 1914–1915: 17). A more permanent open-air crematorium was erected for Hindus and Sikhs on the South Downs in Patcham, near Brighton, which had three cement platforms for funeral pyres and was protected by a tin roof. The ceremony at this place was carried out by a Brahman priest or 18  See also The Graphic, August 21, 1915; The Sphere, March 6, 1915.

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by members of the same caste as the deceased, and the ashes of the cremated were taken to the sea near Brighton or sent to the deceased’s native home in India (Gloucestershire Echo September 6, 1915; Basu 2015: 159; Robinson 1996: 45). In total, fifty-three Hindus and Sikhs from the Kitchener Indian Hospital, the Royal Pavilion Hospital, and the York Place Hospital were cremated at Patcham between December 1914 and December 1915. A description of a ceremony performed for a deceased Hindu Brahman in October 1915 was widely distributed within the British Empire, and it detailed the ritual acts performed in the English countryside (Barringer 2017: 234–35; The Chattri Memorial Group, n.d.). Although military authorities noted that the soldiers generally appreciated the British attention to their death customs, the cremation sites and rituals became protected by caste observances and thus functioned as establishments for upper-caste Hindus. This is evident from the case of Sukh Kallo, an untouchable Hindu, who worked as a sweeper in the military camps in France and later at the Lady Hardinge Hospital. When he died from pneumonia in January 1915, other Hindus refused to cremate his body at Patcham due to caste restrictions. Eventually, a vicar from the St. Nicholas Church in Brockenhurst heard about the circumstances and buried Sukha in the graveyard of the parish church; his grave was placed beside those of soldiers from New Zealand (Basu 2015: 164).19 Statistics from the War Office after the war recorded that 43,206 officers and soldiers from the Indian troops were killed in the different theatres (6,671 of whom died in France), while an additional 5,874 were missing and 65,175 were wounded (The War Office 1922: 239). Various memorials were erected at different locations in Britain, India, and in mainland Europe to commemorate the Indians who gave their lives or went missing in combat. These memorials include the Chattri, a domed pavilion in white marble at Patcham, which was inaugurated in 1921 to mark and honour the place where the Hindu and Sikh soldiers were cremated. The Imperial War Graves Commission, founded in 1917, also acknowledged that the burial of many fallen Hindu soldiers had not been correctly performed during the war, and they developed instructions for the handling of their remains. If it could be confirmed that a Hindu soldier had been buried at a certain place, his body was exhumed and burned and the ashes were either taken to the sea for immersion or, if possible, returned to India with a Hindu regiment (Barrett 2011: 309).

19  His grave can be found by searching for “Sukha Kalloo” on the Find a Grave website, available at: https://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GSsp=46939758&GR id=39632586& (accessed July 2, 2017).

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Concluding Remarks

The British concern for traditions of religion and caste, along with the different measures taken to care for the Indian soldiers’ religious provisions during the First World War, were anchored in prewar, colonial ideas about different marital races, and they served to maintain the morale and reduce the anxieties expressed by soldiers in their letters and by their commanding officers. Ensuring the Indian soldiers in Europe were content was also a part of the politics of maintaining their colonial power and easing fears that the soldiers’ dissatisfaction could induce criticism of the British government and create political unrest in India during a vulnerable period. In a letter to Walter Lawrence in the spring of 1915, the viceroy evaluated the situation in India as “on the whole satisfactory” but acknowledged that there was “a great deal of anxiety” about nationalist revolutionaries and attacks on the frontier borders at a time when a large part of the military troops had left the country for service overseas. In his opinion, the “kindness” presented to Indian soldiers in Europe was therefore of “priceless value” since it could increase British prestige and Indian attachment to the colonial power and thereby “help a great deal to bring British and Indian soldiers closer together” (Letter from Viceroy Hardinge to Walter Lawrence, 14 April 1915). Lawrence similarly considered the arrangement for spaces and practices in accordance with the soldiers’ respective traditions to be of particular political importance and helped the military and the colonial administration to eschew critique (Report from Walter Lawrence to the Secretary of State for War, 8 March 1916). The provision of religious artefacts and practices to Hindu soldiers illustrates imperial transnational networks that involve various interests and agents—military authorities, charities, dignitaries, and others— and how the connections between government authorities and subaltern subjects can work in many different directions. George Morton-Jack has suggested that the use of the Indian Army in the war “implied a recognition of overlapping interest, an element of mutual support or exploitation” between the soldiers and the colonial rulers, who were dependent on each other (2006: 332). Samuel Hyson and Alan Lester have further argued that the soldiers’ treatment in Britain made them “powerfully situated” and provided an example of how colonial subjects could exert considerable political influence on imperial decisions, discourses, and practices (2012: 19). From the perspective of religious studies, the religious objects, within the contexts of material cultures and migration, in themselves provide yet another interesting field for studying the circulation, exchange, and use of material things, which bear significant value, create human experiences, structure relationships, and even mobilise political support. Hindu scriptures, prayer books, and symbols travelled across seas,

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national borders, and through various human hands in order to end up with the soldiers at hospitals in Britain and France or in prisoner-of-war camps in Germany. The material objects did not merely manifest complex relationships between the colonial rulers and their subjects but also came to represent and index relationships, religions, and collective identities in a situation where British security and honour were threatened.

Acknowledgements

The work has been prepared with generous support from the Swedish Research Council (www.vr.se), under Grant 2014–956, and the Crafoord Foundation (www .crafoord.se), under Grant 20140550, and within the Centre for Concurrences in Colonial and Postcolonial Studies at Linnaeus University.

Appendix

Vijay Pañchakam (In Sanskrit and English translation) by Kaviraj Pandit Gyarasram Shastree, 1914. O God Gajanan, Master of Wit and Treasures and adorable of warriors, we pray Thee to confer Thy blessings on our noble King and Emperor George V and make him victorious. (1) O Goddess Durga, the Mother of the world, endowed with eight arms and worshipped by deities; O Rider of lion Thou hath helped deities to victory by destroying the furious demons, we pray Thee to give decisive victories to our brave and glorious King and Emperor George V. (2) O Vrishabhadhwaja, the God of Gods, full of mercy and Protector of human beings against all odds and perils we pray Thee to be kind enough to protect Thy children, the British Troops now engaged in war and confer Thy boons of victory on our King and Emperor George V. (3) O God Hari, the destroyer of the great demon (Madhu), the Protector and Supporter of all human beings; O Victorious Krishna, we pray Thee to bestow unprecedented victory on our magnanimous King and Emperor George V against his foes as you did for Arjun by destroying the huge army of Kauravas in the world renowned war of Mahabharat fought between Pandavas and Kauravas. (4) O God Bhasker, (Sun), the King of all Planets, the self reflector who witness all human deeds we pray Thee to shower Thy blessings on our merciful King and Emperor George V and endow our lord with victory. (5)

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These Sanskrit poems are composed by Kaviraj Pandit Gyarasram Shastree of Kamptee on 20 Sept, 1914, as prayers for all Hindu British subjects with an earnest desire that they will repeat them daily at their morning prayers for the success of British Arms and for victory to our beloved King. (6 and 7)

References

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Letter from Gunpat Jadhav (Indian Military Depot, Milford) to Jai Korntianpirt, Jadhav (Ahmednagar), 28 June 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Jun 1915–Aug 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/4. Letter from Havildar Nand Lal (K.I.H., Brighton) to Ram Singh (Kangra), 14 August 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Aug 1915–Sep 1915, IOR/L/ MIL/5/825/5. Letter from Havildar Ramji Lal (Indian Hospital, Barton-in-sea) to Chandra Singh (Jaipur, Rajputana), August 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Aug 1915–Sep 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/5. Letter from Hir Singh (Barton Hospital) to Lambardar Phul Singh (Punjab), 24 June 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Jun 1915–Aug 1915, IOR/L/ MIL/5/825/4. Letter from Home Department (Simla) to M.C. Seton, 11 May 1915. Judicial and Public Department Files, IOR/L/PJ/6/1346. Letter from Jadu Godbole (S.A.S., Brighton) to Ritaram Hari Godbole (Rutnageri), 18 December 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/826/1. Letter from Jainal Singh (Bournemouth Hospital) to Jaswant Singh (Hissar), 7 August 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Jun 1915–Aug 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/4. Letter from Jamedar Labh Singh (Kitchener Indian Hospital, Brighton) to Kiral Chand (Kangra), 24 March 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Mar 1915–Apr 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/2. Letter from Kaviraj Pandit Gyarasram Shastree to the Under Secretary of State for India, 31 October 1914. Judicial and Public Department Files, IOR/L/PJ/6/1346. Letter from Keshow Ghorpors (Indian General Hospital, Brighton) to Kashinath Vakil (Ahmednagar), 29 June 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Jun 1915–Aug 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/4. Letter from M.C. Seton to the Under Secretary of the State, 22 December 1914. IOR/L/ PJ/6/1346, File 110. Letter from Miyan Lam Singh (Kitchener Indian Hospital, Brighton) to Dafadar Khasan Singh (Loralai), 6 April 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Mar 1915–Apr 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/2. Letter from Mohan Lal (Kitchener Indian Hospital, Brighton) to Jat (Village Mungane), April 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Apr 1915–May 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/3. Letter from Murli Datt Chandola (General Hospital for Indian Troops, Brighton) to Pandit Gopal Datt Chandola (Garhwal), April 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Apr 1915–May 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/3. Letter from Murli Datt Chandola (General Hospital for Indian Troops, Brighton) to Pandit Urbi Datt Chandola (Nainatal), 27 April 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Apr 1915–May 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/3.

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Letter from Naik Buta Singh (Barton Hospital) to Bhuja Jal (Jhind), 28 June 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Jun 1915–Aug 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/4. Letter from Naik Gangaram Bhivajie (Meerut Stationary Hospital, Boulogne) to L.N. Babu Apajirao (Jhelum), 16 June 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Jun 1915–Aug 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/4. Letter from Naik Hari Kisan (Kitchener Indian Hospital, Brighton) to Pandit Gopal Dat (Kangra), May 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Jun 1915– Aug 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/4. Letter from Naik Sonu Geakwar (K.I.G. Hospital, Brighton) to Yeshwant Dada Gaekwar (Poona District), n.d. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Jun 1915– Aug 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/4. Letter from Radha Mishan (K.I.H., Brighton) to a Friend (Peshawar), 20 October 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Oct 1915–Nov 1915, IOR/L/ MIL/5/825/7. Letter from Ram Seran Das (Rouen) to His Mother (Meerut), August 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Aug 1915–Sep 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/5. Letter from Ram Singh Dani (Kitchener Indian Hospital, Brighton) to Dhan Singh Sano (Almora), May 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Apr 1915– May 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/3. Letter from Ratna Singh Bisht (Brighton Hospital) to Jet Singh Bisht (Garhwal), 21 June 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Jun 1915–Aug 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/4. Letter from Sarath Ram (Kitchener Indian Hospital, Brighton) to Phulmu Duftri (Simla), n.d. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Jun 1915–Aug 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/4. Letter from Secretary to the Government of India to T.W. Holderness, 15 January 1915. Judicial and Public Department Files, IOR/L/PJ/6/1342. Letter from Secretary to the Government of India to T.W. Holderness, 1 February 1915. Judicial and Public Department Files, IOR/L/PJ/6/1342. Letter from Secretary to the Government of India to T.W. Holderness, 16 February 1915. Judicial and Public Department Files, IOR/L/PJ/6/1342. Letter from Sepoy Hazari (K.I.H., Brighton) to Masudi Sepoy (Nowshera Cantonment), August 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Aug 1915–Sep 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/5. Letter from Sepoy Sanakhi (Brighton Hospital) to Sepoy Jodha Ram (Peshawar), 24 June 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Jun 1915–Aug 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/4. Letter from Sukhdes Singh (Indian General Hospital, Brighton) to Ishwar Singh (at the Front), 27 May 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Jun 1915– Aug 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/4.

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Letter from Sukhtal Singh (Pavilion & Dome Hospital, Brighton) to Bhure Singh (at the Front), 2 June 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Jun 1915– Aug 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/4. Letter from Sursan Singh (General Hospital for Indian Troops, Brighton) to Atra Chand (Dharamsala), June 1915. Reports of the Censor of Indian Mails in France, vol. 1, Jun 1915–Aug 1915, IOR/L/MIL/5/825/4. Letter from Viceroy Hardinge to Walter Lawrence, 14 April 1915. Mss Eur F143/73. Letter from Walter Lawrence to Indian Soldiers’ Fund, 2 February 1915. Mss Eur F143/67. Letter from Walter Lawrence to Lord Kitchener, 31 December 1914, Mss Eur F143/65. Letter from Walter Lawrence to M.C. Seton, 28 June 1915. Judicial and Public Department Files, IOR/L/PJ/6/1346. Meeting of the General Committee, 6 January 1915. Proceedings of the General Committee, Indian Soldiers’ Fund, Book No. 1, Mss Eur F120/1. Meeting of the General Committee, 26 May 1915. Proceedings of the General Committee, Indian Soldiers’ Fund, Book No. 1, Mss Eur F120/1. Meeting of the General Committee, 16 June 1915. Proceedings of the General Committee, Indian Soldiers’ Fund, Book No. 2, Mss Eur F120/2. Meeting of the General Committee, 18 August 1915. Proceedings of the General Committee, Indian Soldiers’ Fund, Book No. 2, Mss Eur F120/2. Meeting of the General Committee, 6 October 1915. Proceedings of the General Committee, Indian Soldiers’ Fund, Book no. 2, Mss Eur F120/2. Meeting of the General Committee, 20 October 1915. Proceedings of the General Committee, Indian Soldiers’ Fund, Book no. 2, Mss Eur F120/2. Meeting of the General Committee, 25 October 1916. Proceedings of the General Committee, Indian Soldiers’ Fund, Book No. 2, Mss Eur F120/3. Papers Relating to the Support Offered by the Princes and Peoples of India to His Majesty in Connection with the War (1914) “Message from the King Emperor to the Princes and People of India.” London: Darling and Son. IOR/L/PJ/6/1327. Report about the Pavilion Hospital by Major C.L. Williams, 1915–1916. Mss Eur F143/81. Report from John P. Hewett, Indian Soldiers’ Fund, 27 July 1915, Mss Eur F143/67; Mss Eur F120/13. Report from Walter Lawrence to Lord Kitchener, n.d., Mss Eur F143/65. Report from Walter Lawrence to Lord Kitchener, 5 August 1915, Mss Eur F143/65. Report from Walter Lawrence to Lord Kitchener, 14 December 1915, Mss Eur F143/65. Report from Walter Lawrence to Lord Kitchener, 24 December 1915, Mss Eur F143/65. Report from Walter Lawrence to the Secretary of State for War, Arrangements Made for Indian Sick and Wounded in England and France, 8 March 1916. Eur Mss F143/65. Report of the First Six Months’ Work [ISF], for the Period 1st October, 1914, to 31st March, 1915. Mss Eur F120/6. Report of the Ladies Committee, India Gift House. 1916. Mss Eur F143/81.

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Second Report of the Indian Soldiers’ Fund for the Period 1st April, 1915, to 20th November, 1915. Mss Eur F120/7. Telegram from the Viceroy to London Office, 30 January 1915. IOR/L/MIL/7/17264. Third Report of the Indian Soldiers’ Fund for the Period 21st November, 1915, to 30th November, 1916. Mss Eur F120/8.



The British Newspaper Archive, United Kingdom

Gloucestershire Echo, “Funeral Pyres in Sussex: Indian Cremations on the Downs,” September 6, 1915. The Graphic, “His Majesty’s Hindu Subjects in England,” August 21, 1915. Manchester Courier, “Wants of Indian Troops,” May 19, 1915. The Nottingham Evening Post, “The Funeral Pyre. Indian Warrior Goes to His Fathers. Oriental Rights in the New Forest.” February 26, 1915. The People’s Journal, “King’s Words to His Subjects,” August 28, 1915. The Scotsman, “How Wounded Indian Soldiers are Tended,” September 4, 1915. The Sphere, “Funeral Rites of the Hindus Performed in England,” March 6, 1915. The Sphere, “Sacred Books of the East for Indian Soldiers,” October 30, 1915. Wells Journal, “Indians Caste Prejudices,” September 10, 1915. Western Daily Press, “The Wounded Indians at Brighton,” December 29, 1914.

Other

The Illustrated War News, “According to Ancient Custom: The Funeral Pyre and Cremation of a Hindu Sepoy Who Died in an English War-Hospital,” March 3, 1915. Publishers’ Circular and Booksellers’ Record (1915) “‘The Koran’ at the Front: A Glasgow Edition Welcome by Our Moslem Troops,” Volume CIII (July to December). London: Office of the Publishers’ Circular Limited.



Secondary Sources

Authority of the Government of India (1923) India’s Contribution to the Great War. Calcutta: Superintendent Government Printing. Barrett, Michèle (2011) “Afterword Death and the Afterlife: Britain’s Colonies and Dominions,” in Santanu Das (ed.), Race, Empire and First World War Writing, 301–20. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Barringer, Tim (2017) “An Architecture of Imperial Ambivalence: The Patcham Chattri,” in Michael J.K. Walsh and Andrekos Varnava (eds.), The Great War and the British Empire: Culture and Society, 215–48. London: Routledge. Basu, Shrabani (2015) For King and Another Country: Indian Soldiers on the Western Front 1914–18. London: Bloomsbury. Corrigan, Gordon (2006) Sepoys in the Trenches: The Indian Corps on the Western Front 1914–15. Gloucestershire: Spellmount.

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Das, Santanu (2011) “Indians at Home, Mesopotamia and France, 1914–1918: Towards an Intimate History,” in Santanu Das (ed.), Race, Empire and First World War Writing, 70–89. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Das, Santanu (2014) “Indian Sepoy Experience in Europe, 1914–18: Archive, Language, and Feeling.” Twentieth Century British History, 25 (3): 391–417. Das, Santanu (2017) “Reponses to the War,” in 1914–1918 Online, International Encyclopedia of the First World War. Available at: https://encyclopedia.19141918-online.net/pdf/1914-1918-Online-responses_to_the_war_india-2014-10-08.pdf (accessed July 4, 2017). Delacour, J. (1956) “Obituaries: Alfred Ezra.” Ibis, 98: 135–36. Dowling, Timothy C. (2006) Personal Perspectives: World War I. Santa Barbara: ABC-CLIO. Find a Grave (2009) “Sukha Kalloo.” Available at: https://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/ fg.cgi?page=gr&GSsp=46939758&GRid=39632586& (accessed July 2, 2017). Government of India (1923) India’s Contribution to the Great War. Calcutta: Superintendent Government Printing. Hyson, Samuel and Alan Lester (2012) “‘British India on Trial’: Brighton Military Hospitals and Politics of Empire in World War I.” Journal of Historical Geography, 38: 18–34. Jarboe, Andrew Tait (2016) War News in India: The Punjabi Press during World War 1. London: I.B. Tauris. Jatavallabhula, Danielle Feller (1999) “Ranayajna: The Mahabharata War as a Sacrifice,” in Jan E.M. Houben and Karel R. van Kooij (eds.), Violence Denied: Violence, Non-Violence and the Rationalization of Violence in South Asian Cultural History, 69–104. Leiden: Brill. Leigh, M.S. (1922) The Punjab and the War. Lahore: Superintendent Government Printing. MacPherson, W.G. (1923) Medical Services. General History, vol. 2. London: H.M. Stationary Office. Markovits, Claude (2010) “Indian Soldiers’ Experiences in France During World War I: Seeing Europe from the Rear of the Front,” in Heike Liebau, et al. (eds.), The World in World Wars: Experiences, Perceptions and Perspectives from Africa and Asia, 29–54. Leiden: Brill. Mason, Philip (2004) A Matter of Honour: An Account of the Indian Army, Its Officers and Men. Dehra Dun: Natraj Publishers. Morton-Jack, George (2006) “The Indian Army on the Western Front, 1914–1915: A Portrait of Collaboration.” War in History, 13 (3): 329–62. Morton-Jack, George (2014) The Indian Army on the Western Front: India’s Expeditionary Force to France and Belgium in the First World War. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Myrvold, Kristina (2018) “Mite Qurans for Indian Markets: David Bryce in the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Century.” Postscripts: The Journal of Sacred Texts and Contemporary Worlds, 9 (2–3): 169–93. Myrvold, Kristina and Andreas Johansson (2018) “Miniature Qurans in the First World War: Religious Comforts for Indian Muslim Soldiers.” Postscripts: The Journal of Sacred Texts and Contemporary Worlds, 9 (2–3): 194–221. Ojwang, Dan (2013) Reading Migration and Culture: The World of East African Indian Literature. Houndsmills, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Omissi, David (1998) “‘Martial Races’: Ethnicity and Security in Colonial India 1858– 1939,” in Peter Karsten (ed.), Recruiting, Drafting and Enlisting: Two Sides of the Raising of Military Forces, 101–28. London and New York: Routledge. Omissi, David (1999) Indian Voices of the Great War: Soldiers’ Letters, 1914–18. Hampshire and London: Macmillan Press. Omissi, David (2007) “Europe through Indian Eyes: Indian Soldiers Encounter England and France, 1914–1918.” The English Historical Review, 122 (496): 371–96. Omissi, David (2012) “Sikh Soldiers in Europe during the First World War, 1914–18,” in Knut A. Jacobsen and Kristina Myrvold (eds.), Sikhs Across Borders: Transnational Practices of European Sikhs, 36–50. London: Bloomsbury. Pati, Budheswar (1996) India and the First World War. New Delhi: Atlantic Publishers and Distributors. Robinson, Catherine (1996) “Neither East nor West: Some Aspects of Religion and Ritual in the Indian Army of the Raj.” Religion, 26: 37–47. Robinson, Catherine (2015) “Indian Soldiers on the Western Front: The Role of Religion in the Indian Army in the Great War.” Religions of South Asia, 9 (1): 43–63. Roy, Franziska, Heike Liebau, and Ravi Ahuja (2011) ‘When the War Began We Heard of Several Kings’: South Asian Prisoners in World War I Germany. New Delhi: Social Science Press. Roy, Kaushik (2007) “Just and Unjust War in Hindu Philosophy.” Journal of Military Ethics, 6 (3): 232–45. Roy, Kaushik (2012) Hinduism and the Ethics of Warfare in South Asia: From Antiquity to the Present. New York: Cambridge University Press. Roy, Kaushik (2013) “Race and Recruitment in the Indian Army: 1880–1918.” Modern Asian Studies, 47 (4): 1310–47. Singh, Gajendra (2014) The Testimonies of Indian Soldiers and the Two World Wars: Between Self and Sepoy. London and New York: Bloomsbury. Streets, Heather (2004) Martial Races: The Military, Race and Masculinity in British Imperial Culture, 1857–1914. Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press.

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Lord Sydenham of Combe (1915) India and the War. London: Hodder and Stoughton. Tai-Yong, Tan (2005) The Garrison State: Military Government and Society in Colonial Punjab, 1849–1947. New Delhi: Sage Publications. VanKoski, S. (1995) “Letters Home, 1915–16: Punjabi Soldiers Reflect on War and Life in Europe and Their Meanings for Home and Self.” International Journal of Punjab Studies, 2 (1): 43–63. The War Office (1922) Statistics of the Military Effort of the British Empire During the Great War. London: His Majesty’s Stationary Office.

CHAPTER 10

Hindu Gurus in Europe Måns Broo 1

Introduction

Excluding Britain, the Netherlands, Italy, France, and Germany, European countries do not have large Hindu populations. Further, in comparison to the United States, where a large number of Hindu organisations have been active, particularly after the softening of immigration laws in 1965, and where most of the international Hindu religious movements of the 1960s and 1970s were based, Europe has had a smaller share of Hindu gurus. Nevertheless, the history of Hindu gurus in Europe is fascinating, not the least because it vividly illustrates some of the trajectories Hinduism has been following in the West. From a wily form of paganism, Hinduism grew into a rich source for new religious and spiritual doctrines toward the end of the nineteenth century, and at the beginning of the twentieth century it grew into a philosophy that Westerners could adopt, and then, particularly through the religious movements of the 1960s and 1970s, into a complete lifestyle to which Westerners could convert. Finally, Hinduism in Europe has, since the postwar period and through increased immigration from South Asia, increasingly become a minority religion. The kind of Hindu gurus active in Europe since the end of the nineteenth century have reflected all these trends. In this entry, a Hindu guru is defined as a person with a Hindu background or who self-identifies as a Hindu, who systematically acts as a religious or spiritual teacher, and who formalises a relationship with students through some type of initiation. Such a broad definition of a “Hindu guru” means that I have included several gurus who did not see themselves as teaching “Hinduism” (such as Rammohun Roy or B.K.S. Iyengar), and the idea of a formal relationship means that I generally have not mentioned assistant teachers or preachers in organisations with a formal head. This is particularly the case in more recent years, when the sheer number of Hindus active in Europe has grown exponentially. By “in Europe” I mean persons active in Europe. This means both Europeans becoming Hindu gurus elsewhere, such as Krishnaprem (Ronald Nixon, 1898–1965), and Indian gurus Europeans travelled to see, such as Ramana Maharshi (1879–1950), are both excluded. Instead of focusing on particular countries, the presentation below is ­roughly chronological, while also trying to group different gurus thematically. © Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004432284_011

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The First Hindu Gurus in Europe

The first recorded contact between India and Europe took place in antiquity (Karttunen 1989, 2017), but few concrete details are known to us. That is not to say that fanciful stories do not exist. The Sikh amateur historian Harpal Singh claims that Gurū Nānak visited many places in Europe as a part of his worldwide travels, going all the way to Bergen, Norway, where he discussed theological questions with local traders in Persian in the summer of 1520.1 Gurū Nānak is not the only Indian saint who is claimed to have been well travelled. The Bengali yogi Bābā Lokanāth (1730?–1890) is said to not only have visited Mecca and Medina, but also many European countries (Loknathbaba 2018). An ascetic called Shivapuri Baba (1826?–1963) reportedly stayed in Britain for several years during the late 1890s, meeting Queen Victoria no less than eighteen times—meetings that regrettably were carefully expunged from the queen’s published diary (Bennett 1965: 28–29). Nevertheless, even when we turn to facts, it is in Britain that we need to begin. The Hindu reformer Rammohun Roy (1772–1833) visited Britain and (briefly) France between 1831 and 1833, and he passed away in Stapleton near Bristol. Although Rammohun Roy is today best remembered as a religious reformer and as the founder of the Brāhmo Samāj, he visited Britain primarily as an ambassador for the Mughal court, and while in Britain he took a lively interest in the political and juridical issues of the day. Often viewed by his English contemporaries as a Unitarian Christian, Rammohun Roy was wary of any such designations and continued publishing works on Hindu theology while in Britain (Carpenter 1866: 248–49), while also adhering to “non-idolatrous” brāhmaṇa customs, and famously retaining his sacred thread until his death (ibid.: 155). Rammohun Roy’s friend and fellow Brāhmo, the industrialist Dwarakanath Tagore, founder of the famous Jorasanko branch of the Tagore family (1794– 1846), was a staunch British loyalist who visited Britain several times and also passed away there. While Dwarakanath Tagore did arrange for a grand epitaph for the grave of Rammohun Roy, it is doubtful that he or his contemporaries saw Roy as a guru in Europe. This was not the case with the later Brāhmo leader Keshub Chandra Sen (1838–84), who spent six months in Britain in 1870, lecturing widely and meeting Queen Victoria. Sen showed a great interest in Christianity while in India, so much so that many leading Christians in Britain hoped to see him become a high-ranking convert to their faith. Sen was greeted with much enthusiasm in Britain (Collett 1871: 4–50), but he did not convert to 1  Harpal Singh, “Two Singing Preachers from India In Norway ‘Preacheur Parler’—1545, Says Indian Chief, Donnacona,” available at: https://satguru.weebly.com/satguru-nanak-sahib-in -bergan-norway-donnacona-1545.html (accessed February 23, 2018).

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Christianity; rather, the sectarian infighting among various churches in Britain and the aggressively masculine attitudes of Church leaders were a great disappointment to him. 3

Vivekananda and the Ramakrishna Movement

The neo-Vedāntist Swami Vivekananda (1863–1902), a key figure in the introduction of ideas about vedānta and yoga in the West, visited London in 1895 and 1896, and during that time he also travelled to Switzerland, the Netherlands, and Germany, after which he return to London and then to India by way of Italy. Vivekananda returned to Europe in 1899; first landing in Marseilles and then spending two weeks in London on his way to the United States. During his final tour of the West, the Swami spent a few months in France in the fall of 1900, after which he toured Austria, Turkey, Greece, and Egypt before returning to India in December. Unlike previous Hindu visitors to Europe, Swami Vivekananda managed to attract several important disciples who followed him to India. The most important were perhaps Margaret Noble (eventually Sister Nivedita, 1867–1911), his stenographer J.J. Goodwin (1870–98), as well as Captain James Henry Sevier (1845–1900) and his wife Charlotte Sevier (1847–1930), the founders of the Advaita āśram in Mayavati in the Himalayas. He is therefore justifiably called “the first Hindu missionary” (for a discussion on whether or not Hinduism can be called a missionary religion, see Sharma 2011). He also left behind an institution; his work in London and Paris was carried on by Swamis Saradananda (1865–1927) and Abhedananda (1866–1939) until 1909. After a long hiatus, Swami Avyaktananda was sent from India in 1934 to continue the work in Britain. After some years, however, the Swami started to teach what he called “spiritual communism” and disassociated himself from the politically unaffiliated Ramakrishna Mission, founding an organisation called the Vedanta Movement instead. In his stead, Swami Ghanananda (who passed away in 1969) was sent from India; he reestablished a Vedanta Centre in London in 1948. It remains to this day and is now overseen by Swami Dayatmananda. The Paris Centre was established in 1936 by Swami Siddheswarananda (1897–1957) and is now headed by Swami Veetamohananda (1941–), who is an enthusiastic champion of interreligious dialogue. There are other Vedanta Centres in Europe: Swami Yatiswarananda (1889– 1966), who travelled and spoke widely all over Europe in the 1930s, ran a centre in Wiesbaden, Germany between 1933 and 1938. This work was revived in 1959 and there are now three āśrams in Germany, each with a resident Swami. The

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Geneva Centre was founded in 1962. The centre in the Netherlands was founded in 1986 and has had a resident Swami (with some interruptions) since 1990. The two centres in Russia (in St. Petersburg and Moscow) have had a resident Swami since 1991. In contrast to the Ramakrishna Movement in India, where only the president is a guru (in the sense of initiating disciples), all of the heads of the Vedanta Centres are allowed to initiate disciples. 4

Between the World Wars

The Theosophical Society, founded by H.P. Blavatsky, W.Q. Judge, and H.S. Olcott in New York in 1875, was not a Hindu movement, but it did inspire an interest in Hindu scriptures and teachers. Jiddu Krishnamurti (1895–1986) was a South Indian Brahman who, as a boy, was adopted by Theosophical leaders who were convinced he was “the Coming Maitreya” and was brought over to Britain in 1911. After a few years of schooling, Krishnamurti travelled and lectured in several European countries as the head of the Theosophical Order of the Star of the East until publicly disavowing his position and dissolving the order at a retreat in the Netherlands in 1929. Nevertheless, based in Ojai, California, Krishnamurti continued travelling and teaching students and friends all over the world until his death. Another purported world saviour who visited Europe several times in the 1930s was Meher Baba (1894–1969), the silent saint. Paramahamsa Yogananda (1893–1953) also briefly visited Europe in 1936. The Ramakrishna Movement was not the only one to teach Advaita Vedānta in Europe after the First World War. The scholarly Hari Prasad Shastri (1882– 1956) also started teaching Advaita Vedānta in London in 1929, and he founded the still active Shanti Sadan in 1933 to carry on the dissemination of Vedānta. The Bengali ascetic Swami Ananda Acharya (1881–1945) came to Britain to teach in 1912 and relocated to a small village in Norway in 1917, where he remained until his death. Mixing Buddhist and Hindu thought, Swami Ananda had been profoundly affected by the terrors of the First World War and wanted to create “Universities of Peace” all over the world, a dream that is shared by his followers to this day (Jacobsen 2013). The colonial era also saw a slow but steady increase in the presence of Vaiṣṇava gurus in Europe. The first one was Baba Premananda Bharati (1857– 1914), a Bengali ascetic connected with the neo-Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇava movement founded by Prabhu Jagadbandhu (1871–1921). Best known for his book Sree Krishna, the Lord of Love, and for founding a (short-lived) Krishna temple in Los Angeles, Premananda Bharati made a short stop-over in London in 1902 while on the way to the United States. Again, although he did become a guru in

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later years, his stay in London seems to have been more motivated by pecuniary needs than by missionary zeal. Premananda Bharati worked as a journalist in London, collecting money for a further journey, one made in the footsteps of the great Vivekananda (Carney 1998). Another of Prabhu Jagadbandhu’s followers that also stopped in Europe on the way to the United States was Mahanambrata Brahmachari (1904–99). In the United States, he earned a doctorate at the University of Chicago and became close friends of and inspirations to Thomas Merton, Robert Lax, and many others. Sent by the head of his order as a representative to a “World Fellowship of Faiths” congress in Chicago in 1933, Mahanambrata Brahmachari travelled as a deck-passenger to Venice, and from there he travelled by train to Genua, Paris, and Le Havre, subsisting on the grace of God and the goodwill of strangers along the way (Brahmachari 1987: 1–17). That same year, the first Vaiṣṇava missionaries to remain in Europe for a longer period arrived: Swami Bhakti Hridaya Bon (1901–82) and Swami Bhakti Pradipa Tirtha (1877–1954), followers of the Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇava reformer Bhaktisiddhanta Sarasvati (1874–1937), the founder of the Gaudiya Matha. The Swamis arrived in London toward the end of April 1933. With the help of influential people such as Lawrence Dundas, the second marquess of Zetland (1876–1961) and the secretary of state for India, they formed the Gaudiya Mission Society in 1934, with Lord Zetland as the president. Based in London, Swami Bon lectured widely in Britain and also Germany, where he was first invited in December 1933. Swami Bon returned to Germany in October 1934 and remained there until May 1935, during which time he met many of the leading Indologists and religious thinkers of the day and made some converts as well. Swami Bon collected funds for building a Hindu temple in London, but with the passing of Bhaktisiddhanta Sarasvati early in 1937, the eventual splintering of the Gaudiya Matha, and the outbreak of the Second World War, the plans were dropped (Sardella 2013: 146–73). Nevertheless, the small Vāsudeva Gaudiya Math temple in Cricklewood, London, is a tangible heritage of this missionary work; it was founded by a British convert of these Swamis. After the war, Swami Bon engaged in the field of education, founding a “Vaiṣṇava Theological University” in Vrindavan. He returned to Europe in September 1960 to attend the tenth International Congress for the History of Religions in Marburg. After the conference, the Swami lectured in universities in Austria, Belgium, the Netherlands, Denmark, and Sweden. His final European visit was in 1973, when he lectured at the fifteenth World Congress of Philosophy in Varna, Bulgaria.

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Yoga Gurus

The first Europeans to be personally interested in yoga were mainly Theosophists. New Thought author William Walker Atkinson, also known as Yogi Ramacharaka (1862–1932), may have lectured in Hull and perhaps elsewhere in Britain as early as 1902, but the first Indian guru to focus on yoga in the modern sense of a structured, posture-based practice, may have been Selvarajan Yesudian (1916–98). He arrived in Hungary in 1936 and started teaching yoga. He soon teamed up with Elisabeth Haich (1897–1994), and they moved their yoga school to Zürich in 1944. Switzerland was also one of the first destinations of B.K.S. Iyengar (1918–2014), who was brought to Europe by his friend, the violinist Yehudi Menuhin (1916–99), for the first time in 1954. Iyengar was to return regularly, teaching, among many others, the queen mother, Elisabeth of Belgium (1876–1965), in the 1950s and 1960s. Even before Iyengar, the Bengali Shyam Sundar Goswami (1891–1978), a descendant of Advaita Ācārya, the companion of Kṛṣṇa Caitanya (1486–1533), and the founder of Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇavism, arrived in Sweden in 1949. He spent the rest of his life there, teaching yoga and also travelling to many other European countries. In recent years, countless Indian yoga gurus have visited Europe. It is noteworthy that, in contrast to the renunciant gurus mentioned above and below, many of the most famous yoga gurus have been householders and have trained their descendants to take over their teaching tradition. The Astanga tradition of Mysore has been represented in Europe by K. Pattabhi Jois (1915–2009), his son Manju Pattabhi Jois (1944–), and his grandson Sharath Jois (1971–). Since the passing of B.K.S. Iyengar, his children Geeta (1944–) and Prashant (1949–) are the caretakers of his heritage, together with many European and American teachers. From North India, O.P. Tiwari (1933–) and his son Sudhir Tiwari have been teaching prāṇāyāma according to the Kaivalyadhama lineage. 6

International Hindu Guru Movements

Most of the Hindu gurus of movements with international success in Europe taught “yoga” in some form, but in contrast to the “yoga gurus” mentioned above, postural practice was generally not primary here, some type of meditation or devotion was focused on instead. Nevertheless, in some cases, the division is rather arbitrary. The first guru from these new movements was Maharishi

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Mahesh Yogi (1918–2008), the founder of the Transcendental Meditation (TM) movement. The Maharishi visited London for the first time in 1959 and found immediate success. He returned on a yearly basis and extended his European tours to France, Switzerland, Norway, Sweden, Germany, the Netherlands, and Italy. He famously met the Beatles in 1967, but while being their spiritual mentor (for a short time) propelled him to great fame, he was already well-known, which was the reason the Beatles contacted him. In 1968, he settled down in Seelisberg, Switzerland, which was to remain the world headquarters of the TM movement until it and the Maharishi moved to Vlodrop in the Netherlands in 1990. It was there that he passed away in 2008. In contrast to the Maharishi, most of the famous international gurus in this era had their strongest support in the United States and only visited Europe sporadically. Osho (1931–90), perhaps the most controversial of these international gurus, only visited Europe in 1986, and unsuccessfully tried to gain entrance into several countries until eventually returning to India. Prem Rawat (previously known as Guru Maharaj Ji, 1955–) was only thirteen when he came to the United States for the first time, but the movement his father had founded and spearheaded in the West, the Divine Light Movement, soon grew international and had āśrams in several European countries. Prem Rawat renamed his movement Elan Vital in 1983 and discarded its overtly Hindu forms, which included closing the remaining āśrams; however, he still visits Europe regularly. Swami Muktananda (1908–82), the controversial founder of Siddha Yoga, visited Italy, France, Switzerland, and Britain during his three world tours between 1970 and 1981, and he founded several āśrams and meditation centres, many of which remain and are now overseen by his successor, Gurumayi Chidvilasananda (1955–). Swami Satchidananda (1914–2002) of Woodstock fame visited Britain in 1969. In September of that same year, Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada (1896– 1977) arrived in Britain, after having sent some American disciples over a year earlier to prepare the field. Prabhupada founded the International Society for Krishna Consciousness (ISKCON), popularly known as the Hare Krishna movement, in New York in 1966 and, fuelled by his extraordinary charisma and the counterculture milieu, it quickly grew into a worldwide movement. The European expansion of the movement was materially assisted by early disciples, finding an important ally in the Beatle George Harrison (1943–2001), whose fame helped find many converts among the young. Prabhupada travelled to Europe on a yearly basis after 1969. Apart from Britain, he visited France several times, as well as Italy, Switzerland, and Germany. He also went to Moscow once, in 1971, planting seeds for the very strong ISKCON presence in Russia that would emerge decades later. His final

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Western journey was to the English headquarters—Bhaktivedanta Manor, a mock-Tudor mansion donated by George Harrison in 1973—just a few months before his passing in 1977 (Goswami 1993). After the passing of Prabhupada, eleven of his leading disciples were appointed as successor gurus. Three of them were based in Europe. Later, many more were added and the total now amounts to eighty-eight (GBC 2018),2 at least several of whom visit Europe regularly. While the growth of ISKCON, particularly in Western Europe, has stagnated, the movement still maintains temples and centres in almost all European countries, with a particularly strong presence in Britain, Ukraine, and Russia. Since the 1980s, gurus from competing Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇava lineages have also started to regularly visit, recruit, and encourage followers of both European and Indian ethnicity, but with much less institutional backing than the ISKCON gurus. Swami Omkarananda (1930–2000) visited Switzerland for the first time in 1965, founding the first permanent Swiss Hindu āśram the next year in Winterthur, near Zürich. After spending seven years in prison, convicted of being complicit in a bomb plot in 1975, the Swami was banished from Switzerland and settled down in neighbouring Austria, where he passed away. The Advaita tradition was prominently represented in Europe by Sant Keshavadas (1934–97), who travelled to Germany and Britain regularly from 1966 onward, using both his music and his teachings to influence many people. U.G. Krishnamurti (1918–2007; not to be confused with Jiddu Krishnamurti, mentioned above), would regularly teach in Switzerland. The very influential Advaita teacher “Papaji,” H.W.L. Poonja (1910–97), also visited Europe regularly from 1966 until the end of his life. Hariharananda Giri (1907–2002), a codisciple of Yogananda Paramahamsa, spent several years in Europe in the 1970s before moving to the United States. While most of the teachers from this time period focused on Britain and continental Europe, the Nordic countries did get some visitors as well. Swami Narayananda (1902–88) came to Denmark for the first time in 1971 and returned every year until just prior to his passing, often spending more than half of the year there. The āśram and press that he established in the village of Gylling are still active. It is also in Denmark that Swami Janakananda (1939–), a Danish disciple of Swami Satyananda Saraswati (1923–2009) of the Bihar School of Yoga fame, began his work teaching yoga and tantra in Scandinavia, though he is currently based in Sweden (Jacobsen 2015: 365–66).

2  The “List of Initiating Gurus in ISKCON” is available at: https://gbc.iskcon.org/list-of -initiating-gurus-in-iskcon/ (accessed February 10, 2018).

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Sri Chinmoy (1931–2007) made his first European tour in 1970, eventually establishing centres in many European countries. He had perhaps the most success in Iceland, where seventy percent of the Icelandic parliament once (unsuccessfully) nominated him for the Nobel Peace Prize, and where he once lifted the prime minister as part of a weightlifting demonstration. 7

Female Gurus

Mataji Nirmala Devi (1923–2011), the founder of Sahaja Yoga, began teaching yoga in London in 1974 after moving there with her husband. After declaring herself a complete incarnation of Adi Shakti, the Maitreya, and the Mahdi in 1979 (Furnish and Rubin 2005: 165), she started travelling and teaching all over Europe. Although she did visit India and the United States from time to time, Europe remained her base and she passed away in Genoa in 2011. Another female guru who claimed to be an avatāra of the supreme Śakti is Mother Meera (1960–) who lives in a small German town where she receives visitors, generally remaining silent. The best known of the female gurus who regularly visit Europe is Mata Amritanandamayi, better known as Amma or the Hugging saint (1953–). The daughter of a Keralan fisherman, Amma underwent many mystic experiences as a child and started to attract followers while in her twenties. Although she is based in Amritapuri in Kerala, Amma visits Europe every fall. In 2017, she visited Germany, France, Switzerland, Italy, Britain, the Netherlands, Finland, and Spain, drawing thousands of people from all over the world to her darśanas. Dadi Janki (1916–), the head of the Brahma Kumari movement, spent several decades in Europe before being elevated to leadership of the movement, and he has visited several times since then. 8

Hindu Gurus Catering to the Spiritual Needs of South Asians in Europe

Some of the “megagurus” of contemporary, urban Hinduism, such as Sri Sri Ravi Shankar (1956–) and Sadhguru (Jaggi Vasudev, 1957–), also visit Europe regularly, attracting students from various ethnic backgrounds. However, since the 1980s in particular, a new trend is for Hindu gurus to visit Hindus of South Asian origin who are living in Europe, rather than trying to convert Western followers. Below, I will mention some of the Vaiṣṇava and Śaiva gurus who visited Europe.

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Apart from ISKCON, the other Vaiṣṇava movement with a visible presence in Europe is the Swaminarayana Movement. The Swaminarayana gurus visiting Europe have not primarily been interested in converting Europeans but rather in catering to the spiritual needs of the Gujarati diaspora. The two most recent ācāryas of the Northern or Naranārāyaṇa Deva Gaḍḍī, Tejendraprasadaji Maharaj (1944–) and his son and successor Koshalendraprasadaji Maharaj (1971–), have both visited Britain regularly since the late 1980s to oversee the thirteen temples affiliated with this branch of the movement. The current ācārya of the Southern or Lakṣmīnārāyaṇa Deva Gaḍḍī, Rakeshaprasadaji Maharaj (1966–), also visits regularly, although this branch has a smaller presence in Europe. The one branch of the Swaminarayana Movement with by far the strongest presence in Europe is the Bochasanwasi Akshar Purushottam Swaminarayan Sanstha (Bocāsanvāsī Akṣara Puruṣottama Saṃsthā) (BAPS). Yogiji Maharaj (1892–1971) was the first guru from the movement to visit Europe (in 1970), and his successor, Pramukh Swami Maharaj (1921–2016), was a regular visitor to the growing community in Britain and elsewhere in Europe. The current guru, Mahant Swami Maharaj (1933–), continues this tradition. Several of the Goswamis or hereditary gurus from the other great Gujarati Vaiṣṇava movement, Puṣṭimārg, begun by Vallabha (1479–1531), have also visited Europe in recent years, something unthinkable even a couple of generations earlier. There are likewise many Śaiva gurus catering to the diaspora in Europe. The Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus of Norway, for instance, have been visited by Yogi Ram Sunthar from Sri Lanka. Yogi Ram Sunthar is the founder of the Universal Kriya Babaji Yoga Sangam, an organisation connected to the Tamil Śaiva Siddhānta tradition but also influenced by the Kriyā Yoga tradition of Lāhiḍī Mahāśaya (1828–95). Another Tamil Śaiva guru who visits Norway, but of a rather different sort, is Sadguru Murali Krishna Swamikal, who claims to be an avatāra of Murukaṉ. Some claim that the latter, through his emphasis on miracles and the Sai Baba of Shirdi (1838–1918), is trying to win over the followers of the deceased megaguru Sathya Sai Baba (1926–2011) (Jacobsen 2015: 366–69). References Bennett, John G. and Thakur Lal Manandhar (1965) Long Pilgrimage: The Life and Teaching of Sri Govindananda Bharati Known as the Shivapuri Baba. London: Hodder and Stoughton. Brahmachari, Mahanambrata (1987) Lord’s Grace in My Race. Premtala: Mahanam Mela.

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Carney, G. (1998) “Baba Premananda Bharati (1857–1914), an Early Twentieth-Century Encounter of Vaishnava Devotion with American Culture: A Comparative Study.” Journal of Vaishnava Studies, 6 (2): 161–88. Carpenter, Mary (1866) The Last Days in England of the Rajah Rammohun Roy. London: Trübner and Co. Goswami, Satsvarupa dasa (1993) Śrīla Prabhupāda-Līlāmṛta. A Biography of His Divine Grace A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupāda. Bombay: The Bhaktivedanta Book Trust. Hammer, Olav and Mikael Rothstein (2012) “Introduction to New Religious Movements,” in Olav Hammer and Mikael Rothstein (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to New Religious Movements, 1–9. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jacobsen, Knut A. (2013) “Hinduism and Migration: Contemporary Communities Outside South Asia: Norway,” in Knut A. Jacobsen, et al. (eds.), Brill’s Encyclopedia of Hinduism. Vol. 5, Symbolism, Diaspora, Modern Groups and Teachers, 279–84. Leiden: Brill. Jacobsen, Knut A. (2015) “Hinduism and Globalization: Gurus, Yoga and Migration in Northern Europe,” in Bryan Turner and Oscar S. Salemink (eds.), Routledge Handbook of Religions in Asia, 359–72. London: Routledge. Jones, Constance A. and James D. Ryan (eds.) (2007) Encyclopedia of Hinduism. New York: Facts on File. Karttunen, Klaus (1989) India in Early Greek Literature. Helsinki: Finnish Oriental Society. Karttunen, Klaus (2017) India and the Hellenistic World. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Loknathbaba (2018) About Baba Loknath. Available at: http://www.loknathbaba.com/ english/aboutus2.htm (accessed February 24, 2018). Newcombe, Suzanne (2011) Timeline—Modern Yoga in Britain. Available at: http://modernyogaresearch.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/uk_yoga_timeline_june2011.pdf (accessed February 25, 2018). Sardella, Ferdinando (2013) Modern Hindu Personalism: The History, Life, and Thought of Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī. New York: Oxford University Press. Sen, Keshub Chunder (1871) Keshub Chunder Sen’s English Visit. London: Strahan and Co. Sharma, Arvind (2011) Hinduism as a Missionary Religion. Albany: State University of New York Press.

CHAPTER 11

Temple Hinduism in Europe Annette Wilke Temples are a very important social and material feature of Hinduism in Europe. Their establishment has been judged, with good reason, as an important milestone in the development of diaspora communities, because they are the major symbol of official Hinduism for both Hindu migrants and European society as a whole (see among others Knott 1987: 161; Vertovec 2000: 124; Baumann 2003: 250–55; Jacobsen 2003: 371; Fibiger 2003). Despite this significance, “temple Hinduism” is a fairly recent phenomenon in Europe. As far as “ethnic temples” are concerned, it started in Britain in the late 1960s and in continental Europe (Germany, Switzerland, Austria, France, Portugal, and Scandinavian countries) in the mid-1980s, whereas ISKCON (International Society for Krishna Consciousness) created its first temples in both regions in the mid-1970s. Exceptions to this were the small number of public places of worship established by the Ramakrishna Mission or the Vedanta Society (founded by Swami Vivekananda) which constituted the first Hindu temples in several European countries; for instance, in Switzerland in the 1930s (Eulberg 2014: 116n16) and in Britain’s north London in 1949 (Burghart 1987: 7). Temples were, however, never at the centre of the Ramakrishna movement,1 nor did they exercise much influence among Hindu migrants, but rather they attracted a well-educated European audience that was interested in Indian philosophy. The Ramakrishna Mission represents what Kim Knott (1987: 158) called “intellectual Hinduism” (with an emphasis on teaching and universal ideas) in contrast to the “popular” or devotional Hinduism which lies at the heart of Indian temple culture and the regional Hinduism implanted in Europe by Hindu migrants. Initially, for many decades, it was not temple culture but (Advaita) Vedānta—starting with the German Romantics’ infatuation with India and Vivekananda’s famous speech(es) at the 1893 World Parliament of Religions 1  In classical as well as reformed (Advaita) Vedānta there is potentially little concern with temple Hinduism, although temples and services exist in monasteries and āśrams, but typically knowledge comes first (i.e., the knowledge of being the self of everything and that the soul and absolute spirit are ultimately one). From this tradition’s perspective, ritual and devotion are for the purification of the mind, so that it can grasp this ultimate truth.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2020 | doi:10.1163/9789004432284_012

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in Chicago—which shaped the public image of Hinduism in the West. It was this orientalist, Vedānta-based image of mystical oneness, the harmony of the universe, tolerance, and nonviolence, which was still very prominent among the hippie India-lovers of the 1960s and 1970s. It was during this time that a number of Hindu-affiliated new religious movements, such as ISKCON (popularly known as “Hare Krishna”), TM (“Transcendental Meditation”), and the Sai Baba and Osho movements, began proselytising and became prominent in the United States and Western Europe. Knott (1987: 158) understands these new, guru-based, religious groups as a third strand of Hinduism in the West. In fact, until the mid-1990s, only modern Indian-based movements such as these represented the public face of Hinduism in many European countries, such as Germany and Switzerland. Among the larger public and media they were often coded very negatively and pejoratively but, along with Vedānta,2 they were very influential in the formation of modern alternative spirituality. Except for ISKCON (and also, to a much lesser extent, the Sai Baba movement), these new Hindu-based groups have not been interested in temple building. But, at the same time as they were attracting young people from mainstream society (i.e., in the late 1960s and 1970s), a wave of new ethnic temple projects was also emerging in Britain. The first formal, ethnic Hindu temple in Britain was a Kṛṣṇa temple in Coventry (Vertovec 2000: 129), which was founded in 1967 by Hindu migrants from Kenya.3 It was 2  Vedānta was mainly spread through translations, rather than face-to-face contact. But there have been notable exceptions, such as Swami Vivekananda and the Ramakrishna Mission’s monks. Since the late 1960s and early 1970s, Swami Chinmayananda and his Chinmaya Mission was another highly influential, Vedānta-based, Indian reform movement. Founded in Chennai in 1953, this movement is very strong in India, and also in Britain; smaller centres exist in the Netherlands, France, and Switzerland. Still later—beginning in the 1990s— Swami Dayananda (formerly belonging to the Chinmaya Mission) and his Arsha Vidya institution became very influential and famous in India, and among a minority in the West, for representing a very traditional Vedānta teaching (of course including the nontraditional features of teaching women, lower castes, and non-Hindus). All these movements also trained Western teachers. 3  While it is uncontested that almost all the early temples in Britain were built by so-called “East African Hindus” (Hindus who migrated from South Asia to East Africa and then from East Africa to Britain), institutionalisation probably started prior to Coventry in Liverpool and proceeded at a rapid pace. According to Knott (2013: 336), the first temples were registered in Liverpool in 1962, Coventry in 1967, London in 1968, and Leicester in 1969; by 1969, the first ISKCON temple in London’s Soho opened (ibid.; Knott 2009: 91)—and a little later, in the mid-1970s, the first Swaminarayan temple in a former church in Islington (Knott 2013: 336; Reifenrath 2009: 118). These early temple projects were the start of active temple building activities in the 1970s in many British cities, a vital time for the public face of Hinduism—often supported by government grants, and with inaugurations that local dignitaries attended and

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the start of a rich variety of temple Hinduism in Europe; however, it would only unfold on the Continent some twenty years later. In regard to Britain, which by far harbours the largest South Asian diaspora communities, the subject matter is well researched. In the last decade, studies on Nordic and German speaking countries have also steadily grown. Less knowledge exists on France and Southern and Eastern Europe, which may be due to temple culture being less prominent there than in other places. Assembling more information about Hinduism in these countries is an innovative achievement of this handbook.4 Among other things, it reveals the amazing reach of ISKCON in Eastern European countries, including the growth of ISKCON temples in places where no ethnic temples exist due to the small number of South Asian migrants. This contribution will focus primarily on temple Hinduism in Britain and continental Europe, which mirrors the regional and “sectarian” plurality of Hinduism even in the diaspora (despite attempts at unification). At the outset, it is necessary to address some important methodological issues regarding the subject of inquiry and the terminology used—Hinduism (ethnic and global), diaspora, ethnic Hinduism, and temple Hinduism in Europe (section 11.1). The main part of the article (section 11.2), develops the thesis that, in Europe, two major groups have been the most active in temple building. First, various communities of “ethnic Hindus” who suffered forced migration, a majority of them “twice migrants” from former colonies or refugees from countries of “Greater India”; and second, and also the most vigorous temple builders, the powerful transnational Hindu movements or recent saṃpradāyas in whose missionary programmes temple life played a pivotal role: the BAPS Swaminarayan Saṃpradāya, the Arya Samaj, and ISKCON or Hare Krishna.5 These internally highly-variegated groups account for an immensely rich and complex Hindu temple-scape in Europe, as shown by the paradigmatic examples included in this contribution. The complexity and variety is, on the one hand, due to different regions of origin, different religious groups, saṃpradāyas, and charismatic leadership and, on the other, due to different histories of colonialism, postcolonialism, migration, and the nationally different legal situations and immigration laws of the “host societies.” It will be that received media coverage (Knott 2009: 91; 2013: 336). After only one decade, eighty-two temples existed, and by 2000 more than 300 had been built (Vertovec 2000: 129). 4  Work on this started with Brill’s Encyclopedia of Hinduism, vol. 5, edited by K. Jacobsen, H. Basu, A. Malinar, and V. Narayanan, which offers brief but valuable information about different countries around the world. 5  I follow the most common spellings of religious groups, organisations, and temples when choosing to include or omit diacritical marks.

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seen that Britain and continental Europe must be distinguished between for a number of reasons. Moreover, the (North) Indian temples and the Sri Lankan Tamil temples are so distinct that we can speak of two diasporas with different temple models (all-Indian and ethnic; Vaiṣṇava and Śaiva). Nevertheless, they share a number of features, starting with the new importance and extended social functions of temple Hinduism in the diaspora. The broad perspective undertaken in this article provides further comparison and offers new insights on challenging questions: regarding patterns of difference, interaction, and continuity between the so-called great and little traditions or ethnic and universal Hinduism in European temple culture; and the different patterns of exchange with other South Asian diaspora religions and the larger, non-Hindu society the of the country they are located in. Conflicts, as well as success stories, are investigated, and another important subject is how charismatic figures, women, and the younger generation are vehicles of change. The final part of the paper (section 11.3) will draw some conclusions from the previous discussions, focusing on temple Hinduism as a diaspora phenomenon (with the argument that the public face of Hinduism in the diaspora is primarily temple Hinduism), and the significance of “real temples,” (i.e., traditional stone-carved structures) whose exteriors and visible aesthetics communicate that they are Hindu temples. 1

Hinduism—Diaspora—Temple Hinduism in the European Diaspora

It is well-known that Hinduism is a relatively recent term that emerged from complex interactions in British India. Strictly speaking, it is an umbrella term for a large number of religious traditions and cultural patterns of behaviour, and it brings in an immense regional and “sectarian” variety under a common heading. From a contemporary and widely accepted brāhmaṇical perspective, Hinduism is more than a religion, it is sanātana dharma (eternal law), a “way of life” which covers religion and culture as a whole. More specifically related to religion, the Acharya Mahasabha, an association of more than one hundred heads of different Hindu traditions and saṃpradāyas (religious groups or sects), founded in the late 1990s by the South Indian Advaita-Vedānta master Swami Dayananda Sarasvati, agreed that the basic confession inherent to all Hindu traditions was not only that there is only one god, but also that only god exists. This was a new peak in the unification and essentialisation of the plurality of Hindu traditions that had taken place since the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries—the new term “Hinduism” that appeared out of this connoted the

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construct of a distinct world religion on a par with Christianity and Islam. The important political function and the popular propagation of unity in diversity may explain why the term Hinduism became a self-description for most Hindus (at least those belonging to the educated and urban classes), although their religious identity is actually Śaivite (Śivaite), Vaiṣṇavite (Viṣṇuite, including veneration for Rāma and Kṛṣṇa), Śākta (Goddess-centred), or Smārta (inclusive of all major deities, with one specific deity at the centre), to mention only the broadest, “sectarian” streams of Sanskritic (brāhmaṇical) Hinduism and other pan-Hindu movements. These traditions have strong regional differences and we find certain patterns of regional spread, for example: the old Śaiva Siddhānta or Āgama Hinduism is found primarily in South India and Sri Lanka; the veneration of Rāma as the supreme deity is dominant in North India; while a strong veneration of Kṛṣṇa flourished in Bengal and Gujarat. Kālī and Durgā worship is also prominent in Bengal, and Gujarat also has strong relations to the god Gaṇeśa. All of these deities are known and worshipped across India and Greater India. In addition to these deities, we also find a vast pantheon of local village deities who tend to be identified with one of the great pan-Hindu deities, especially Śiva or Durgā, but who enjoy their own cultic forms and narratives beyond the brāhmaṇical and Sanskritic traditions. References to “ethnic Hinduism” in this contribution refer, first of all, to such local and “sectarian” variety and regional identity. It is important to be aware thereby that the unifying trends and the global spread of Hinduism beyond India are not only recent phenomena. As Sheldon Pollock (2006) has argued, we already find an early globalisation, or Sanskrit cosmopolis, in the first millennium CE in India and far beyond its shores. It appeared from Afghanistan to Java—spurred by a combination of poetry and polity, in which the ancient epic Rāmāyaṇa (the Sanskrit original as well as vernacular versions) played an essential role by providing a vision of statehood and standards for literacy and moral life.6 Moreover, since the turn of the first millennium, devotional Hinduism (bhakti), more so than the normative, brāhmaṇical, dharma ideology, became the mainstream religious practice. It was probably the most 6  Rāmāyaṇa reading (musical or semi-musical recital of the original Sanskrit or vernacular versions), storytelling, and preaching are still very popular today—within or outside of temple spaces—in India and the diaspora, from Uttarkashi to Bakersfield, Rome, Leicester, and the Caribbean islands (Vertovec 2000: 53; Pande 2017; Wilke 2017b). In addition to personal and collective piety, the hero king and universal god Rāma and his epic are also very prominent in the civil-patriotic and politically militant Hindutva (“Hinduness”). Extensive press coverage was given to the destruction of a mosque in Ayodhya (which is thought to be Rāma’s birthplace) to rebuild an, allegedly, more ancient Rāma temple, the new bricks for which were, to a large extent, sponsored by NRIs from America and Britain.

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important pan-Hindu feature, cutting across practically all traditions and uniting vernacular and Sanskritic forms of Hinduism.7 Bhakti, “participation” or “loving devotion” refers to personal religiosity, surrender, and the mutual love between god and the devotee8 and, most of all, expresses itself through pūjā, the respectful and intimate “worship” of the gods in the temples and domestic shrines, and in devotional singing.9 The basic acts of pūjā (that peak in āratī, the waving of light in front of the deity) are known throughout the Indian continent and Greater India. Again, however, we find shifting local and sectarian patterns. For instance, ritual action, ablution, and processions typically tend to be more prominent in South India, while in the north devotional song (bhajan) and storytelling (about god Rām(a)’s and god Kṛṣṇa’s feats and glories) are prominent features of temple service. Thus, Hindu traditions are far from homogenous, although they share many family resemblances and a number of unifying features. The complexity of this cultural matrix is also found in the diaspora (i.e., in countries in which Hinduism did not originally exist and among religious 7  Some scholars have made too sharp of a distinction between the so-called brāhmaṇical collective religion or “group Hinduism,” which is based on brāhmaṇical dominion, hierarchy of caste and purity, values of submission, and relativist morality within an ever present universal moral order (dharma), and between the sectarian and devotional religions of choice, which are based on personal, spiritual, and soteriological searching, self-commitment, emotional religiosity, individual-centred paths of salvation, values of equality, and universalist morality (van der Burg 2004: 99, 101ff.). The distinction has heuristic value, but is highly artificial, as lived religion is much more mixed, complex, and messy. For instance, orthodox, brāhmaṇical Sanskrit Hinduism is far from being only a “group religion” based on hierarchy and caste; it also has strong individualistic and soteriological dimensions, and its ultimate aim is mokṣa (“liberation” from earthly bondage). On the other hand, devotional traditions generally follow the rigid dharma codes of morality and, despite religious ideals of equality, never posed a serious challenge to caste or social inequality. Both brāhmaṇical Sanskrit Hinduism and a vernacular or Sanskritic devotional religion of choice are basically “religions of transcendence” that conceive of a divine sphere in and beyond daily concerns, however differently it may be conceptualized in the separate traditions. 8  Theologically, the Vaiṣṇavas have primarily developed and reflected these essential bhakti features, but by no means is bhakti restricted to the Vaiṣṇava creed—even from its locally confined beginnings in Tamil Nadu among both poet saints of Vaiṣṇavism and Śaivism around the sixth century. 9  Many bhakti texts are songs or hymns set to music. Bhakti developed as a blend of popular, vernacular, and Sanskritic cultures. It primarily expresses itself in vernaculars and not in Sanskrit, the language of the Vedas, most post-Vedic sacred literature (such as the epics, Purāṇas, Āgamas, and Tantras), as well as dharma literature. However, bhakti texts have also used the Sanskrit idiom, and much of Purāṇa literature can be counted among the bhakti texts. Moreover, the language of liturgy, from Vedic sacrifice to pūjā, has always been primarily in Sanskrit.

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groups living outside their original geographical area). Although today more than 95% of Hindus still live on the Indian subcontinent, the South Asian diaspora is among the world’s largest and most widespread—it is estimated that 25 million people of Indian descent live abroad (Chatterji and Washbrook 2013: i). However, their presence in Europe and Britain is small compared to the diasporas in the United States, Canada, and Australia, and the large percentage of Hindus in the Caribbean islands and even in Africa before the 1970s should not be forgotten. Initially, the largest number of South Asian migrants in Britain were Muslims and Sikhs—two religious groups who started to build public houses of worship prior to the Hindus. This changed with the arrival of Hindu refugees from East Africa in the late 1960s and 1970s and was further supported by other massive waves of migration, such as from Suriname to the Netherlands and from Sri Lanka to a number of other European countries. As Albertina Nugteren (2009: 116n2) rightly remarked, there are presently “feverish activities of temple construction” in the Hindu diaspora, although Hindu religions, as far as they are religions of transcendence, are not bound to a specific territory or a consecrated temple space. However, for religious ideas to gain public efficacy and bring about emotional bonds there is a need for physical embodiment and sensory-aesthetic appeal—in architecture, visible images, ritual action, holy formulas, enchanting songs and stories, colourful festivals, processions, and sacralised landscapes. Temples are visible spaces of transcendence and the consecrated images are not lifeless stone figures, they are perceived as living icons of the holy, true embodiments of the gods they represent. They must be cared for at least three times daily, fed, clad, ornamented, invoked, and praised, and approached with surrender and absolute purity. Temple visitors seek darśana, the mutual, very personal, intimate, and loving exchange of glances with the god or goddess. Hindu temple worship activates emotion and the panoramic engagement of all the senses. Moreover, in the diaspora, the temples are visible markers that the deities have taken roots in the new territory and that the migrants intend to stay. Typically, even a tiny, publicly invisible, Tamil Hindu shrine of god Śiva in a church building in the German suburb of Wettringen/Rheine, has been named “Rheinesvara,” indicating Śiva as the lord (īśvara) of Rheine (Wilke 2013: 375ff.). In this contribution, temple Hinduism refers to places of worship established by migrants and religious activists from India or Greater India, or from natives of India and their descendants who have experienced migration twice (e.g., South Asians migrating from East Africa or the Caribbean islands to Britain and the Netherlands or from Afghanistan to Germany). The term “ethnic Hinduism” in the sense of “regional Hinduism” thus has a wide radius. It denotes native Hindus coming from different regions and bringing

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along their locally specific beliefs and practices. Their original homeland includes not only India but also other countries on the subcontinent, such as Nepal, Pakistan, and Sri Lanka, and the wide range of the “Sanskrit cosmopolis” (Pollock 2007), from Indonesia to Afghanistan. In all of these geographic areas, different regional forms of Hinduism developed, and the migrants took these regional variants with them. Temple Hinduism, however, does not only refer to ethnic Hinduism (including pan-Indian features and the unifying and universalising trends found in the diaspora), but it also refers to global missionary movements that have Indian origins, such as the Swaminarayan saṃpradāya (existing since the early nineteenth century), the Arya Samaj (founded in the late nineteenth century), and ISKCON (founded in the twentieth century, but based on the sixteenth century devotional tradition of saint Caitanya). These three movements were some of the most industrious actors in establishing temple Hinduism in Europe, in addition to the “ethnic Hindus” who experienced forced migration (see section 11.2). This situation challenges the term “diaspora” as problematic and reconsiders two definitions of the concept—as an open, generic term referring to all people who experience displacement from their original homelands (either their own, their parents, or their ancestors) and settle in new surroundings (Jacobsen 2004: 141), and as a narrower analytical term and concept (Vertovec 1997, 2000). Both are related to migration processes and transnational connections. In the first sense, “diaspora” was used simply to refer to those countries that did not have a Hindu presence until early modern times. Along these lines, “diaspora Hinduism” is largely used as a synonym for migrant religion, referring to: deterritorialised ethnic Hinduism, voluntary and forced migration, NRIs (nonresident Indians), “twice migrants,” and also migrated, relocated temple culture. In other words, it primarily denotes Hindus of Indian/South Asian ethnic origin from this current generation, or an earlier one, who live in the diaspora (i.e., outside their place of origin) and who accordingly may be referred to as “diaspora communities.” As is well-known, the term diaspora has its origins in the history of Judaism, which invokes traumatic exile from a historical homeland and dispersal into other geographical regions. However, social scientists have increasingly used the term in a much wider sense, and since the 1990s it has also been used by intellectuals and activists coming from within the populations living abroad (Vertovec 2000: 141). The term has been severed from its original context and religious connotations. This wide and open use has been criticised. Steven Vertovec (1997; 2000: 141–59), deploring the under-theorised notion of diaspora, discerns three major aspects of “diaspora” in a more specific and analytical sense: as a social form, as a type of consciousness, and as a mode of cultural reproduction. These three meanings

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presuppose that migrants keep relatively strong ties to their original homeland and its cultural background (Baumann 2000: 327). According to Martin Baumann (2009: 153), the “diasporic situation” is formed by a group of people (mostly, but not necessarily, a migrant community) “that perpetuates a recollecting identification with a fictitious or faraway geographic territory and its cultural-religious traditions.” What is important is the difference to the country of residence, which constitutes a “fundamental tripolar interrelatedness of diaspora group, country of origin, and country of residence” (ibid.). Vertovec’s and Baumann’s definitions aptly describe ethnic temple Hinduism but only apply to the temple Hinduism of the three mentioned movements to a lesser degree—in particular ISKCON with its mainly Western converts. 2

The Two Major Agents of Temple Hinduism in Europe

The Hindu diaspora, and consequently also temple Hinduism, is not a homogenous phenomenon either in or beyond Europe. The European situation differs from the United States in some important ways. In the United States, the diaspora consists of mainly Hindus from India who come from an urban, middle-class background and who already have or are pursuing higher education (Jacobsen 2004: 138). Often, it was the second generation, wanting to go back to their “roots,” that started temple Hinduism. Much input also came from the Vishva Hindu Parishad (VHP) who created a number of “ecumenical temples” inclusive of all pan-Indian deities (similar to or going beyond the traditional Smārta creed). In addition to emphasising a common Hindu heritage, not the regional-ethnic traditions or sectarian affiliations, the VHP also planted a relatively strong Indian nationalist identity in the NRIs. In many ways, European temple Hinduism largely differs from its American counterpart, although some of the socioreligious data, particularly from Britain, is similar. A major difference is that Hindus who come directly from India are not as dominate in several European countries; the majority of Gujarati Hindus come from East Africa and Tamil Hindus come from Sri Lanka (Jacobsen 2004: 139). The situation is more complex if minorities from other regions are also taken into account. But, in comparison to the United States, a second major difference applies to practically all European countries. Two groups, with different motivations and interests, have been the major agents in bringing temple life to Europe: ethnic Hindus who suffered forced migration and transnational, modern “sectarian movements” or saṃpradāyas that have a particular focus on temple life. The general tendency to only identify Hinduism with India is called into question by both groups.

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The first group is comprised of diverse communities of “ethnic Hindus” from different regions and countries. They can all be described by a relatively strong traditionalism, deterritorialised ethnicity, regional variety, and, most of all, forced displacement. In addition to Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus, who have a long history in Ceylon, or Afghani Hindus, most of the other communities belonging to the first group did not migrate directly from India (except those from rural Punjab) and are twice migrants—a majority of them are Gujaratis, but also Punjabis from Africa and the Caribbean and North Indian Hindus from Suriname. In many European countries, Tamil Hindus from Sri Lanka—mostly from rural Jaffna—make up the majority of the Hindu population, whereas Indian Hindus—mostly students and professionals—constitute a minority and have been less active in installing places of worship. Due to the overwhelming size of the Hindu population in Britain (by the twenty-first century it was 500,000, mainly of Gujarati origin), most Hindu diaspora studies have concentrated on this population, whereas the clear dominance of Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus in many European countries has been given very little treatment to date. The Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus not only make up the vast majority of the Hindu population in France, Germany, Switzerland, Denmark, and Norway, but also represent a high percentage of the Hindus in Sweden and Britain and constitute the majority of temple builders in most places in Europe where we find an active temple life. Typically, for instance in Germany and Switzerland, no Indian Hindu temple existed prior to the arrival of Sri Lankan Tamils and even thereafter only a few non-Tamil Hindu temples were established, whereas Tamil Hindu temples tended to abound. Thus, the first group—ethnic Hindus from highly diversified regional backgrounds who suffered forced migration—is basically made up of direct migrants from Sri Lanka, rural Punjab, Afghanistan, and twice migrants from former British, Dutch, and French colonies in East Africa, Suriname, and the Caribbean islands. The second group, in contrast, is comprised of powerful, newer saṃpradāyas whose interest in temple life and communal, even congregational, worship distinguishes them from other new Indian-based religious movements. Moreover, they are characterised by sectarian affiliations, reform agendas (such as rejection of caste), universalised messages, and deliberate transnational and missionary outreach. Although the Swaminarayan and Arya Samaj movements only have a prominent presence in Britain and the Netherlands, ISKCON (or the Hare Krishna movement) is present all over Europe. All three have been variously called “neo-Hinduism” or “new religious movements” due to their relatively recent origin and their ideology of global Hinduism, yet an equally fitting, or perhaps better fitting, label for them is saṃpradāya. The term refers to specific religious lineages or orders of transmission, initiatory traditions,

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sectarian systems of religious teaching transmitted from one teacher to another, guru-based religious movements, doctrinal lineages, denominations, and confessional groups or “sects” in Ernst Troeltsch’s sense of the term. Indeed, all three movements fall under more than one of these headings and may be characterised—even in case of the ISKCON—as globalised forms of ethnic, sectarian Hinduism. Although they differ from the first group of ethnic Hindus by their predominately sectarian rather than regional identity, which precisely qualifies them as saṃpradāyas, they nevertheless incorporate strong regional identities depending on origin, spread, membership, linguistic backgrounds, etc. The Swaminarayan movement is largely Gujarati, the Arya Samaj strongly Hindustani (North Indian) and Punjabi, and ISKCON’s roots are Bengali (“Gauḍīya”). With the exception of ISKCON, to which a majority of Western converts belong, both the European presence and the distribution of the dominant groups of ethnic and saṃpradāya-following Hindus, which are large and internally highly-variegated, are closely entangled with distinct histories of migration, as well as politics of colonialisation and decolonialisation in the motherlands, and the presence or lack of a colonial past in the “host societies.” These factors explain, for instance, why a majority of Hindus in Britain came from Gujarat, the Punjab, and East Africa (former British colonies), why twice migrants from Suriname (originally indentured labourers from rural Bihar, Uttar Pradesh, and North East India in Dutch Guyana, and a number of them Arya Samajis) settled in the Netherlands, or why Hindus from Mozambique (originally from Gujarat and the Gujarati island Diu, which had been a Portuguese colony like Mozambique) migrated to Portugal, whereas in other European countries Tamil Hindus from Sri Lanka form the largest group of Hindus. Most of the countries with a predominately Sri Lankan Tamil Hindu presence—Germany, Switzerland, Norway, Denmark, and also Sweden—lack a colonial past in South Asia or in countries where Hindu indentured labourers, traders, and entrepreneurs had settled (like East Africa and the Caribbean islands). In contrast, those countries which have the largest numbers of Indian migrants— Britain, the Netherlands, France, and Portugal—were colonial powers in the past. It is noteworthy that the Gujarati predominance in Britain and Portugal, and their former colonies in Africa, is due to Gujarati trade networks overseas (particularly the coastal regions of East Africa and Zanzibar), which were already present in precolonial times and expanded in the colonial period (Zavos 2013: 308). The colonial past continues to influence the present in many ways; for instance, regarding citizenship and multiple nationalities. Hindus from Suriname (formerly Dutch Guyana) came to the Netherlands already having Dutch citizenship. Similarly, twice migrants from Mozambique to Portugal

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were allowed to keep their Portuguese nationality or obtain it if they had been born in Portuguese India or were second- or third-generation descendants of those who had been born there. The island of Diu had been a Portuguese colony, whereas mainland Gujarat was part of British India—which did not offer automatic citizenship. For Portuguese Hindus, diaspora consciousness and a sense of cultural identity and belonging extend beyond Baumann’s triangular relation; there is a constant transnational flow of migration between Portugal, India, Mozambique, and Britain (Lourenço 2015: 115; Sant’ana 2013: 290). An even more extensive transnational network exists among the Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus, the largest South Asian diaspora community worldwide, which makes up at least a fourth of Sri Lanka’s Tamil population and is spread across South India, Europe, North America, Canada, and Australia (Van Hear 2013).10 10  According to Ron Geaves (2007: 88) during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, before the 1980s and 1990s, many Tamils emigrated to Sri Lanka, Malaya, Fiji, Mauritius, South Africa, Europe, and North America—most of them were economic migrations. But it was only the politically forced migration from Sri Lanka in the second half of the twentieth century that brought about huge waves of migration and the present situation: from 1983 around 300,000 Tamils left for Canada and 200,000 for Europe according to Martin Baumann (2009). Similarly, Geaves writes: “Between 1983–1991, around 100,000 Tamils migrated from Sri Lanka to North America, 160,000 went to India; 7,000–10,000 to Australia, 2,000–3,000 to Singapore and Malaysia and 200,000 to Europe, including 17,000 to Britain” (2007: 88). The number of Sri Lankan Tamil migrants has been increasing ever since. Geaves mentions that by 1987 “a community of around 35,000 to 40,000 had been established in London, settling mainly in the south-west of the city” (ibid.: 89). He speaks of the 41,985 Sri Lankan Tamil asylum seekers that came to Britain between 1980 and 2000, many of whom, however, were refused asylum or repatriated (ibid.). From the outset, large numbers also came to Germany, France, and Switzerland. By the end of 1997, the number of Sri Lankan citizens in Germany peaked at 64,912, most of them Tamil Hindus (Baumann 2003: 51). In the succeeding years there were only a few new arrivals, the number remained steadily around 60,000 people and potentially decreasing. Estimations in the early twenty-first century range from 40,000 to 46,000 Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus (Baumann 2003c: 146; Baumann 2009: 157; Luchesi 2004: 118), and a high proportion of German citizenship was conferred (Wilke 2013: 131ff.). In France, Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus make up the largest number in continental Europe; since the end of the 1970s, more than 100,000 settled there (Trouillet 2013: 236)—a number similar to the one in Britain by the turn of the twenty-first century. An amazingly large number of Sri Lankans (approximately 45,000), mostly Tamil Hindus, have also migrated to Switzerland since the 1980s (Eulberg 2014: 111)—which is noteworthy, considering the size of the country. According to statistics, in 2005 around 42,000 were counted, and Martin Baumann estimated that at least 30,000–34,000 were Tamil Hindus (2009: 159, 160). Frank Neubert (2013: 328) estimates that there were around 41,000 Sri Lankan Tamils by 2006, among them 80–85% were Hindu and 10–15% Christian (mostly Roman Catholic and some Pentecostal). In Nordic countries, the number is less: 10,000 Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus live in Norway (Jacobsen 2009: 180); around 8,000 have settled in Denmark, according to Fibiger (2003: 345), according Baumann (2003: 147) there were only 4,500; and 3,000

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Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus often have family relations in several of these places. Currently, Sri Lankan Tamils also make up the largest number of Hindus in France, far exceeding the Tamil Indian “Pondicherrians,” who are from the former “French India” capital of Pondicherry and who are mainly Christian, with a Hindu minority, and also exceeding the number of Indo-Mauritians from the former French colony Réunion (Trouillet 2013: 236). It is noteworthy that the Indian Tamil Hindus (i.e., the Hindu Pondicherrians who were granted the right to adopt French nationality) had little interest in temple building and religion, unlike the Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus. However, France also makes it clear that the legislation and government policies concerning the new residential societies have a great impact on the scale of temple Hinduism. In France, Hinduism is not officially recognised as a religion, since it lacks a centralised institution (ibid.: 237–38). Moreover, due to the French policy of “laicité” and the relegation of religion to private conviction, temple Hinduism is rather “muted” despite the very large Sri Lankan Tamil Hindu community— with more than 100,000 people, the largest in continental Europe and almost equal in number to the Tamil Hindu presence in Britain. Unlike in other places across Europe, were Tamil Hindu temples were constructed using their traditional architecture (Germany, Britain, Switzerland, and Denmark), public display and visibility in France only occurs in the yearly (single-day) chariot procession (tēr, rathotsava) of the Gaṇeśa Tamil temple in Paris. It is the major Hindu event in France and attracts Hindus from all over the country, irrespective of their “sect,” language, or origin. The great significance of religious processions for the South Asian population cannot be overestimated (Jacobsen 2008), and this is also a major reason why ISKCON enjoys such popularity among native Hindus. ISKCON’s chariot procession (rathayātrā) is performed in many major European cities, including Paris, where it is typically attended by both South Asians and the French. Immigration politics also explain why there are practically no Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus in Austria11—the only place in Europe (perhaps also with the exception of Italy) that does not conform to the common pattern of the two dominant groups, the prime agents of temple building in Europe. migrated to Sweden (Jacobsen 2003: 365n3). Remarkably, the Netherlands not only has the largest Indian Hindu diaspora in continental Europe (150,000–200,000 Hindustanis according to Nugteren 2013, among whom 100,000–130,000 are Hindu), but it also has more than 13,000 Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus—according to the UN refugee statistics (Choenni 2013: 123). 11  Austria’s restrictive migrant politics in the 1980s favoured Sikh refugees from the Punjab over immigrants from Iran and (South) Vietnam, and Sri Lankan asylum seekers were largely excluded (Hutter 2010: 2, 3).

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While Sri Lankan Tamils are a paradigmatic case of ethnic Hinduism, it is more complicated in other cases. For instance, Hindus of Gujarati origin make up the largest South Asian migrant community in Britain, as well as in Portugal, and also constitute a substantial percentage in Sweden. However, only a minority migrated directly from Gujarat, and the majority are twice migrants from East Africa (with the largest numbers from Kenya, Uganda, and Mozambique). Both the direct and twice migrants of Gujarati and Punjabi descent in Britain and elsewhere are found in the ethnic and the saṃpradāyic groups—a substantial number of the Gujaratis belonging to the Swaminarayan movement and many of the (British) Punjabis and (Dutch) Hindustanis are members of the Arya Samaj. Just as essential, however, is the fact that it was not those who directly migrated from the Indian subcontinent, but rather the twice migrants, who had colonial connections to Britain, that initiated temple Hinduism in Europe; starting in Britain with Gujaratis and Punjabis from the newly independent states of East Africa. After Britain, the largest Indian Hindu diaspora community in Europe is found in the Netherlands, followed by France and Portugal, which again illustrates the entanglement between former colonial powers and migration histories and how it determines the settlement choices, as well as the kinds of regional and sectarian Hinduism displayed. In the Netherlands, for instance, Hinduism is predominately represented by North Indian (“Hindustani”) Sanatanis (“orthodox” Hindus who follow sanātana dharma) and Arya Samajis. Countries like Germany and Switzerland with no colonial past in India are reluctant to see themselves as migration countries, even after having become multicultural societies. South Asian migrants’ arrival in these countries happened some twenty years later than it did in Britain and the Netherlands. It is largely dominated by Tamil Hinduism imported from Sri Lanka (or by “twice-migrant” Sri Lankans from South India) and to a very small extent also from South Tamil Nadu (i.e., Indian Tamil Hindus). In contrast, Tamil Hinduism in Britain also includes “twice-migrant” Tamil Hindus from Fiji, Malaysia, Mauritius, South Africa, and Singapore, and in France from their former colonies, Pondicherry and Réunion. The complex nature of European temple Hinduism not only stems from the history of colonisation—not only by the British Empire and the Commonwealth, but also by the Dutch, Portuguese, and French—but also from the histories of twice migrants who transposed their own localised versions of Hinduism and a temple life, which had already developed in other diaspora countries, into European spaces. On top of a substantial variety of regional forms, spiritual notions, and ideological claims that coexist side by side, including orthodox versions as well as local “folk” traditions, a unification, standardisation, and often a Brahmanisation can also be found, which

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tends to grow in the diaspora context since the demands of European national and local governments forced the plural traditions to represent themselves as a “Hindu religion.” The powerful, modern saṃpradāyas that were very active in Europe’s temple Hinduism had some advantage when it came to this pressure to unify and standardise; they regarded their doctrines as universal messages and participated in reform Hinduism and global Hinduism, having themselves participated in actively constructing it. In fact, both modern Hindu-based movements and internationally successful Hindu gurus, as well as ethnic diaspora Hinduism, were “crucial to the formation of global Hinduism and Hinduism as a world religion” (Jacobsen and Kumar 2004: 135). Therefore, we can certainly claim that international gurus were primarily responsible for the “universal outlook,” while Hindus in the diaspora gave shape to “Hinduism in ethnic religious form worldwide” (ibid.). However, the situation is not always that clear-cut, as will be seen below. As a matter of fact, in the diaspora context, the processes of “ethnification” and “universalisation” have both tended to accelerate among ethnic Hindus. Forced Migration and the Variety of Temple Profiles in Ethnic Hinduism The largest and most active groups in temple building in Europe have been “ethnic Hindu” communities and individuals for whom the term “diaspora” is particularly applicable, even in the original context of the Jewish experience of displacement and dispersal. These groups have been victims of political unrest, civil war, political repression, persecution, and expulsion (see also Jacobsen 2004: xi). The groups that experienced forced migration have become the most active in temple building: Hindus from East Africa (mainly Gurajatis and Punjabis from Kenya and Uganda) who had to leave in the late 1960s and 1970s due to the politics of Africanisation and migrated to Britain;12 twice migrants, first from Gujarat and Diu and then from the former Portuguese colony of Mozambique, that came to Portugal in the late 1970s and early 1980s to escape problems after Mozambique’s independence (such as impossibility of travelling, food shortages, and violent attacks); (North Indian) Hindus from Suriname and other places in the Caribbean islands who, in the 1970s, escaped from an instable political and economic situation due to a military dictatorship and settled in the Netherlands and Britain, with a small number also settling in France; Hindus and Sikhs from Jalandhar Doab and Pakistani Punjab 2.1

12  A smaller number of East African twice-migrant Hindus (mostly from Uganda) also settled in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark. Mozambique, due to its Portuguese colonial past, is treated separately above.

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who, in the 1980s, left their country that was torn apart by a mounting civil war with the government of India to find a new home in Britain;13 Tamil Hindu refugees from Sri Lanka who, since the mid-1980s, fled Sinhalese discrimination and the atrocities of civil war and settled in Germany, Switzerland, Denmark, Norway, France, Britain, Sweden, and also a small number in the Netherlands; and finally Hindus from Afghanistan who sought relief from the threats of the Taliban regime in the 1980s and 1990s by migrating to Germany, a few also migrating to Switzerland and other places in Europe. Although more or less forced displacement can be seen as a common denominator, we can otherwise speak of different diasporas, given the great diversity of regional-ethnic, national, linguistic, cultural, theological, social, and economic backgrounds, as well as differences in rituals. There are likely many reasons why these widely diverse migrant communities were particularly motivated to enshrine temple Hinduism in Europe, but there are two major reasons that stand out. First, in contrast to single individuals (generally males) who left their home country for a better education, enhanced labour conditions, or similar reasons, those who suffered politically forced displacement arrived in larger numbers and often through mass migration. Even if family units did not migrate together, family reunion was relatively quickly achieved. The large numbers provided the sheer “man power” necessary to establish temple life and, importantly, mothers and children were present (in contrast to the one-man households of early labour migrants) and their presence was, in general, a major reason the temples were needed (i.e., they provide larger, more professional, and “purer” places of worship than domestic shrines). Secondly, all of the groups in question were escaping from precarious situations, and they all suffered a more or less abrupt displacement. In contrast to labour migrants seeking better job opportunities, their primary reason for migrating was survival. Becoming more or less abruptly severed from their native living conditions, which included being severed from the religious and temple culture that was a natural part of their daily lives, they were particularly eager to reconstruct and institutionalise their religious life as quickly and authentically as possible. Although escaping from economic instability was also one of the reasons for migration, it is less relevant in relation to the institutionalisation of temple culture in a foreign society. This activity can be better explained in connection to the involuntary and sudden break from familiar surroundings. Temple building in Europe was literally making a “home away from home” (Ballard 1994) and creating a stable and familiar place while in an unstable 13  A very small number of immigrants from Jalandhar are also found in Austria.

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situation (often precarious asylum status) and an unfamiliar, new location. For these Hindus, a temple was a space of their own, where they spoke the same language, in the widest sense of the term. It is not by chance that, in the diaspora, temple culture became more congregational than in India and often also gained a social function that extended far beyond the religious. Temples are places to meet and to exchange and participate in common meals cooked by different families; they offer cultural programmes, language and dance courses, and provide spaces for marriages and other social rituals that were formerly performed at home. Big festivals and processions are not only visited for religious reasons, for example, they also serve as marriage markets, etc. Temples enhance the ethnic “group’s sense of belonging, both socially and spiritually” (Nugteren 2009: 145). Not only do they produce ritual communities, but they also produce “communities of practice” (ibid.: 116) in a wider sense; for example, in the common endeavour to donate, establish temple boards, raise funds, and organise festivals. Engagement in temple building, sponsoring, and temple boards is highly prestigious among most Hindu immigrants and may compensate for the social prestige that is missing in their daily lives and labour. This is the case among Sri Lankan Tamil refugees in Germany, Switzerland, and Denmark. The vast majority of them came to Europe in the mid- to late 1980s from rural areas in Jaffna, and they had no higher education. They were almost all employed in low-wage sectors or were unemployed. The extended social function of temples in the diaspora has often been noted in diaspora studies. However, it should not be forgotten that temples fulfil the longing to belong in a specifically existential, deeply emotional, and satisfying way (i.e., in a conspicuously spiritual and religious way) by being places of sacredness and transcendence, which are directly connected to transcendence, purity, and divine protection, and they reestablish an immediate, intimate encounter and association with the gods. As Albertina Nugteren (2009: 128–31) put it, “home is where the murtis are” (i.e., where the temple icons are), the statues that have been ritually transformed into living deities by complex installation rites, after which they are fed and worshipped daily, and visited for the granting of darśana—the mutual exchange of glances between the deity and devotee. This spiritual sense of belonging (which is usually neglected in research), turns the temple into an emotional home for the devotees. It gives a very personal meaning to the temple that, for some, may make it, subjectively speaking, more important than community buildings, social gatherings, or networking. But, for the majority, it seems safe to conclude that both functions, the provision of religious and of social belonging, feed into each other

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and make the temples powerful anchors after a period of forced movement and instability and make them cultural homes in foreign surroundings. Temples are diasporic public spaces and therefore are not merely places where the specific migrant group can meet and interact—among themselves and with the living deities inhabiting the temples—their establishment is also inspired by real and virtual encounters with the larger public sphere. A central reason for temple activity that has been mentioned often is that religious identity becomes “an important cultural marker” in foreign lands, where “the minority situation leads to a new interest in religion as a preserver of culture” and “to increased awareness of religious identity” and religious difference (Jacobsen 2004: 134). Indeed, the diaspora situation, and forced migration in particular, directly involves identity politics and the necessity of strategies for negotiating how to keep a particular identity. Temples, rituals, festivals, and processions are some of the most important spaces where these politics occur and where ethnic, cultural, and religious identity is embodied, sustained, displayed, and reinvented. The reproduction, maintenance, mediation, and representation of cultural identity are particularly vital for those who have experienced forced migration. However, the re-creation of the familiar in a new location also involves adaptations, negotiations, and transformations. In the following, some paradigmatic examples of identity maintenance trends are provided from different ethnic communities. Within the diasporic framework, accelerated processes of both “ethnification” and “universalisation” occur. In fact, each of the ethnic Hindu diaspora groups, as well as each country hosting the diaspora groups, provides us with a lesson to learn from; not only do they reveal a great diversity of ethnic and inner-ethnic cultural patterns, but also multiple modes of unification, some traditional and some specific to a particular diaspora. On the one hand, there is Ines Lourenço’s observation, regarding Portuguese Hindu temples: diversity does not exclude “solid unity of identity,” that is, the formation of a unitary community despite variety (Lourenço 2015: 109, 113–15). This is applicable to many other places in Europe to various degrees and in different contexts. On the other hand, the view that holding onto regional and ethnic roots is the most important identity factor is equally widespread. It remains a major force and explains why temple Hinduism in Europe is by no means homogenous. The countries of origin, the receiving countries, and differences among direct and twice migrants account for the variety of structures. The different patterns of “glocalisation” that emerge mirror continuity and changes in the diasporic conditions.

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Gujarati and Punjabi Diaspora in Britain—Ethnic and Inner-Ethnic Diversity and Unifying Trends Studies on Hinduism in Britain, the largest Hindu diaspora in Europe, spent a lot of time on twice migrants, because Gujarati and Punjabi immigrants from East Africa (mainly Kenya and Uganda) initiated temple life in Britain—and, we may add, in the whole of Europe. Moreover, Gujaratis not only make up the largest Hindu group in Britain (70%) but among them Gujaratis from East Africa (63%) outnumber Gujarati migrants from India (37%) (Vertovec 2000: 88). Emphasis has been placed on that fact that the East African refugees have an advantage when setting up temples; their previous experiences have given them skills for institutionalising their religion in a foreign culture (Knott 2009: 91). Indeed, they arrived in Britain with cultural and human capital, and some also with financial capital, despite forced migration. These East African Hindus were traders and entrepreneurs (many Gujarati), ex-indentured labourers (some Punjabis), and artisans (from both regions) and predominantly urban, well-educated, and strongly influenced by British colonial rule. They left their African homes either voluntary or were expelled after the East African countries gained independence and placed commercial and professional sectors solely in the hands of black Africans (Nye 1995: 6; Vertovec 2000: 88). In East Africa they had already founded—inspired by British models—voluntary associations to serve their own cultural needs, such as temples run by committees and boards of trustees (Nye 1995: 53). Moreover, they came to Britain “as complete multi-generational family units,” unlike the original Indian migrants (Vertovec 2000: 90). Some of the primary motives for temple instalment among all the groups include: the religious needs of the family; seeking to preserve and maintain their cultural heritage; and aspiring to transmit this heritage to the second generation (Jacobsen 2004: xiii–xiv). In the case of the “Africans,” these motives were enhanced by the presence of elders and the ready acceptance of traditional values and authority structures (Vertovec 2000: 90). Malory Nye’s (1993) study of the Hindu temple community in Edinburgh reveals two important facts (summarised by Geaves 2007: 118). First, East African Punjabis and Gujaratis dominate the temple membership and leadership in Edinburgh. “They arrived at a compromise form of worship that shares common characteristic features of north-western religious traditions” (ibid.). The mandir (temple) has a strong emphasis on the notion of a central Sanskrit tradition, avoiding so-called “folk”—village or regional—manifestations of Hinduism and local deities in favour of India-wide deities. Local deities should only be worshipped at home. Ron Geaves makes the point that this

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joint Punjabi and Gujarati venture would unlikely be found in other regions, such as the West Midlands, where the Indian population is larger and more diverse, including direct migrants from rural Punjab who proudly practise their village Hinduism and folk rituals that are totally foreign to the Sanskrit tradition. Thus, Edinburgh by no means reveals the “far greater variety of traditions […] [and] the full diversity of practice” (Geaves 2007: 118). Second, at the same time, other temples in Britain reflect an organisation, practice, and ethnic mixture that is similar to the kind found in Edinburgh. They are generally “Gujarati-dominated temples where the forms of religion were developed in the East African diaspora and no longer reflect Hinduism as manifested in India” (ibid.). However, despite having India as a shared homeland, having common organisational and family structures and the shared experiences of East African diaspora and expulsion, and even despite common temple projects, a sharp cleavage already separated Punjabis and Gujaratis in East Africa, and later in Britain, in terms of ethnic-regional differences—language, customs, religion, as well as ethnic-cultural identity. The Punjabis grudgingly acknowledged Gujarati dominance (and arrogance), and the Gujaratis considered only themselves, not the Punjabis, as Hindus,14 and also held tightly to purity and caste issues (Nye 1995: 54; Vertovec 2000: 89). The Hindu Punjabis, on the other hand, felt close to the Sikhs (most of whom were Punjabis as well)15 and to the Sikhs’ ritual milieu, rather than to the elaborate Hindu ceremonies of the Gujaratis (Nye 1995: 55). For instance, in Birmingham “strong associations” between Punjabi Hindus and Sikhs have been observed, in contrast to the “high levels of spatial separation between Gujarati Hindus and Punjabi Hindus” (Sims 1981: 128–30). In fact, at least four groups with their own temple projects existed: Gujarati Sanatanis (“orthodox” Hindus following sanātana dharma), Gujarati Swaminarayans, Punjabi Arya Samajis, and Punjabi Sanatanis (Nye 1995: 56, 60). Since the 1980s, direct migrants from rural Punjab have added to the ethnic and inner-ethnic diversity by introducing practices that have greatly 14  This included stereotypes. Punjabis were accused of being more prone to drinking, smoking, eating meat, etc., whereas the Gujaratis associated themselves with the opposite (see Vertovec 2000: 89, quoting from a number of sources). 15  In comparison to the British Gujaratis, distinguished by many categories of difference (starting with Gujarat’s great geographic and regional variety and the more than twenty dialects of the Gujarati language), Punjabis have often been seen as less diversified because of much more closely shared geographic, economic, sociocultural, and political heritage (Vertovec 2000: 89–90). This common regional-ethnic background that is shared by Hindu and Sikh Punjabis also explains religious entanglements, particularly in the rural Punjabi religion (see below).

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differed from both the Sanatanis and the Arya Samajis (see below). Among the different communities, and also among members of the same group (e.g., rural Punjabis), there was less cooperation, instead, there was intense competition among them (Geaves 2007: 119). However, the past and present diaspora situations have also carried the potential to bring the African Hindu migrants closer together—even if only through the pragmatic need to share the expenses for renting a location. The “Leeds Hindu Mandir” was such an early temple project, and Gujaratis and (Arya Samaj) Punjabis joined forces to perform their different forms of worship (pūjā/ārtī and havan) within the same temple space and even combine worship within the same Sunday ceremonies (Knott 1987). Despite personal, ethnic, and caste rivalries, this temple—similar to the one in Edinburgh— made an effort to focus on pan-Indian, rather than regional, features and on a common religious path based on sanātana dharma, bhakti, and other shared aspects of belief and practice. This merging of traditions—instead of their demarcation—was neither entirely new nor merely artificial given the fact that, according to Malory Nye, the Punjabi and Gujarati religions were both characterised by a large internal diversity and eclecticism that was held together by bhakti devotion: “They followed various religious traditions, most of which were based on bhakti models of devotion” (Nye 1995: 57). In India and Greater India, bhakti has always been a very important traditional “glue” and this carried over into the diaspora. In the mid-1990s, Nye (ibid.: 123) notes that in all British Hinduism, the bhakti practice of communal, devotional singing (bhajan) was the most common form of temple worship (albeit usually not the only one, i.e., it is complemented by ritual action) and developed into a major feature of congregational worship. According to Kim Knott (2009), Leeds’ integral, ecumenical approach was a model of Hindu community building that became the rule in Britain. This did not often occur in the same temple space, but rather it was a mental map and strategy for representing one’s temple, practices, and beliefs to the rest of society and to the local and national governments. In Leeds, the first formal references to the “Hindu faith” and “Hindu religion” were made, by insiders and outsiders, in the 1970s (Knott 2009: 97). Knott’s analytical framework discerns the stages—institutionalisation (establishing temples and boards), standardisation, homogenisation, and to some extent also retraditionalisation—that culminated in the production of a Hindu faith community. This has been strongly developed in Britain but is less so in other European countries. But, even in Britain, new “ethnic temples” kept popping up. The trend was spatial separation from the start, or to separate as soon as enough resources were available. Regional and sectarian varieties of ethnic Hinduism generally remained

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at the heart of personal and collective religious practice and conviction. As has already been mentioned, maybe the most important glue (in India and the diaspora) binding these diverse (if not opposing) tendencies together was bhakti (devotion, loving surrender, and the mutual participation of the human and divine). It not only united the collective practices of bhajan singing, temple ritual, emotional religiosity, and the personal choice of one’s favourite deity, but also Vaiṣṇava, Śaiva, and Śākta (goddess) traditions, orthodox and vernacular Hindu cultures and rites in Sanskrit, and transcendental and this-worldly pragmatic goals (see also Geaves 2007: 120). For a long time, studies of British temple Hinduism have concentrated on twice migrants from East Africa and Gujarati communities. According to Ron Geaves (2007: 82ff.), this produced a distorted picture of British Hinduism as mainly consisting of Gujarati Vaiṣṇavism and Hindu saṃpradāyas that relocated in the West. Too little attention was paid to Śaivism and the ethnic groups who brought it to Britain: The larger number of (Hindu and Sikh) Punjabis who directly immigrated from rural Punjab in the 1980s, particularly from Jalandhar Doab, and the Tamil Hindus who, due to the mass migration from war-torn Sri Lanka in the 1980s, made up a substantial number and a powerful new dimension in British temple Hinduism. The two groups not only shared strong Śaiva and “folk” elements (although their practices and theologies differed in many important ways) but also a similar situation of forced migration. “As with the Tamil community from Sri Lanka, the Punjab was torn apart in the 1980s by a virtual state of civil war […]” (Geaves 2007: 83). Other authors have deplored how the Punjabi and Tamil religions have been under researched (Chohan 2004; Jacobsen 2004), which is all the more regrettable since Sri Lankan Tamil Hinduism (which is predominantly Śaiva) formed the Hindu majority religion in many, or even most, European countries—a fact that manifests itself in the number of temples that have been constructed. The direct migrants from rural Punjab provide a particularly good example of the re-creation of the familiar in the diaspora. Hindu and Sikh refugees from this area brought the popular cult of Baba Balaknath along with them, as well as “folk” practices which had not previously been seen in the temples of the British diaspora—charismatic healing, possession, and exorcism. Both Hindus and Sikhs attend the British Baba Balaknath temples (in Coventry, Walsall, and two in Wolverhampton) and form a community based on a common ethnic origin and the way religion was performed in rural Punjab (Geaves 2007: 102). The migrants’ home, Jalandhar Doab, is a region that possesses “considerable eclecticism” (ibid.: 103) through the overlapping of Śaivite Hinduism, vernacular “folk” religion, belief in occult forces, bhakti traditions, non-khālsā forms of Sikhism, and Sufi Islam (ibid.; Chohan 2004: 408). Integral parts of this

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form of religion are rituals of healing, exorcism, and counselling performed by charismatic leaders (variously called bābā, bhagat, guru, or sādhu) who enjoy high veneration as holy men to whom miraculous powers and closeness to the supernatural are ascribed (Chohan 2004: 393, 395). This presents a challenge to both Western secularism and our neat categorisation of religions: Hindus and Sikhs from this area cannot be distinguished according to the divisions we find in our handbooks. As Geaves points out: “Many self-defined Sikhs practice Hindu rituals and acknowledge Hindu deities, attending both gurudwara and mandir,” while “Saivite practitioners from within the Punjabi community are just as likely to define themselves as Sikhs” (2007: 83). The Punjabis’ practices reveal that the fixed religious boundaries imagined by Westerners, along the Christian model of “one person, one religion,” do often not work when it comes to Asian religions, and the Christian model is by no means a universal truth that applies everywhere and in all cases. The Indian Punjabi Hindus and Sikhs are a particularly good example of how common locale, ethnicity, and geographical proximity, as well as shared language, customs, food, and popular religion, play a significant role in shaping identities, up to the point that terms like Hinduism and Sikhism become highly problematic, artificial categories (see also Hutter 2010 on the Ravidas community in Austria). Of course, in other contexts, they are viewed as two distinct religions (particularly by orthodox and Khalsa Sikhs).16 What qualifies (rural) Punjabi religion the most, according to Sandeep Chohan (2004: 393, 397, 408–12), is the belief in bābās (holy men) who, due to their supernatural abilities, practice exorcism and healing while in a trance. The emphasis lies on the pragmatic and “kismetic” dimension (beliefs, practices, and behavioural strategies used to explain and cope with the otherwise inexplicable). The kismetic is at the very centre of Punjabi religion, not the dharmic and soteriological/transcendental dimension, which is prevalent among Sanatanis and Arya Samajis (see also Geaves 2007: 119). What qualifies Punjabi religion moreover is the fluidity of religious borders between the Hindu, Sikh, and Islamic traditions and the pantheon of religious figures from all three traditions that are revered (Chohan 2004: 397). Therefore, the bābās generally “do not pledge allegiance to a specific religion, instead they provide places of worship where all can gather under one roof regardless of religious identity” (ibid.: 401)—this is particularly evident and programmatic 16  This happened even in the Punjab. When Hindus and Sikhs were drawn into the political conflict, they faced pressures to maintain their distinct identities—leading, on the Sikhs’ side, to accelerated “khalsification”—but such a separation did not previously exist in rural Punjab.

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in the Ek Niwas (“One Home”) bābā temple in Wolverhampton (Midlands), whose universalist claim seeks to embrace all major world faiths (Geaves 2007: 112). Here, the natural eclecticism of rural Punjab transforms into a global discourse on religious unity (much criticised by other local faith communities in Wolverhampton). It is a glocalised discourse, and the folk elements of the rural Punjabi religion—the role of the bābā as healer, exorcist, counsellor, and guide who connects the lay devotees with the supernatural—remains at the heart of temple worship. 2.1.2

Tamil Diaspora in Europe—Identity Maintenance through Tamil Folk and Orthodox Rituals Folk practices are also an important part of the re-creation of the familiar in the diaspora among the Tamil Hindus from Sri Lanka. Sri Lankan Hinduism is predominantly Śaiva (Caivam) and Śākta (Cāktam), the latter being an integral part of the Śaiva creed. Tamil Śivaism encompasses orthodox Śaiva Siddhānta, Tamil bhakti, and “folk practices” (historically associated with the rural, lowcaste populace),17 including extreme forms of painful self-sacrifice and body mortification that induce possession-trance during the public processions at temple festivals. In contrast to the eclectic Punjabi rituals, these Sri Lankan vernacular practices are more exclusively Tamil. Moreover, although they are an integral part of temple culture, they are generally associated with the performance of private vows (vrata in Sanskrit, viratam and nērrti in Tamil). These personal rituals include violent and liminal practices18 like: body piercing (with needles, hooks, and spears in the cheeks, tongue, and back); ecstatic kāvaṭi dancing;19 god possession; rolling on the ground during the entire processional route; occasionally wearing sandals dotted with nails;20 or having 17  See Geaves 2007: 191. 18  For the following, see also Baumann 2003: 169–88; Geaves 2007: 189–95; Luchesi 2008: 178–90; Wilke 2013. 19  This dancing is very well and lively described by Ann David (cited in Geaves 2007: 190). Body piercing is a very common feature and mostly performed by the kāvaṭi dancers— having a relatively small spear pierced through the tongue or cheeks and hooks pierced through the skin on their back. Ropes are attached to these hooks and pulled by each dancer’s ritual assistant. During the kāvaṭi dance (to the rhythm of drums and flutes), on the performers’ shoulders are carried kāvaṭi, heavy wooden arches that are decorated with flowers and peacock feathers and that have pouches of milk attached to the ends. Some get into trance while dancing or ritually rolling. Women have their own self-castigations (see below and Luchesi 2008: 184). 20  Unlike body piercing, kāvaṭi dance, or ritual rolling, the practice of wearing nail sandals is more the exception than the rule. It was seen in Norway at the occasion of the first chariot festival in 2006 (Jacobsen 2009: 188).

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lemons hanging on hooks that pierce the individual’s back.21 In some places, for instance at the yearly processions of the Murugan Temple of Adliswil (Switzerland), hook-swinging (alaku, thukku kāvaṭi), also called “bird kavadi” or “great kavadi” (mahākāvaṭi), occurs. This particularly violent practice of suspending (the person is hanging from big hooks in his back and swinging from a scaffold-like structure during the entire procession) was forbidden in British India and remains illegal in contemporary India, but there was no ban in Ceylon/Sri Lanka, and the practice is also encountered today in Britain.22 The kavadi and piercing rites are traditionally performed in devotion to the old Dravidian god Murukaṉ—the Tamil god par excellence—but are also common at festivals and processions for local goddesses and Vināyakar (the Tamil name of god Gaṇeśa). Today they are performed in many of the Tamil Hindu diaspora’s temples around the globe, and they also flourish in all larger European diaspora temples. In addition, fire walking may also take place—so far, to my knowledge, only performed in Britain by twice-migrant Tamil Hindus from Mauritius (Zavos 2013: 314). Special rewards—in terms of nearness to the god/ dess and worldly success—are attributed to self-mortifications like body piercing and other “folk” practices. Such vows are undertaken to seek divine help, in thanks for divine help, and to incorporate the divine presence in one’s physical body; in order to counter all ailments, from illness to visa problems, or to have their deepest wishes fulfilled, such as the birth of a child after a long period of barrenness, a good marriage partner, or the successful completion of exams. Such pragmatic and apotropaic, or “kismetic,” functions and practices are also powerful cultural markers of Tamilness. Processions are always a public affair and, in the diaspora, gain additional roles. They bring people from the same cultural background together, give each a sense of community, and define the group as a group by confirming, performing, and celebrating culturalethnic identity (see also Jacobsen 2008: 201). But processions also want to, and do, attract public attention to their aesthetics, ritual performances, and authenticity.23 They display ethnic identity in front of the other and exhibit 21  I witnessed this ritual only once, in Hamm-Uentrop in 2003, but it belongs to the repertoire of Tamil practices at processions. It has been reported, for instance, among South African Tamil indentured labourers (1860–1911) who originated from Tamil Nadu (Geaves 2007: 95). 22   Hook-swinging has taken place in a Gaṇeśa temple in London (Geaves 2007: 190–91). This particularly violent ritual was also seen in Hamm-Uentrop, Germany between 2003 and 2004 (even two hook-swingers), but stopped thereafter because one of the swinging beams broke (Wilke 2013: 380). 23  Some of the Tamil Hindu processions are certainly noticed by the larger public; for instance, when they parade through residential quarters, main streets, and the middle of a city. But this is often not the case, since many temples (such as the ones in Adliswil and

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the Tamil Hindus’ own religious culture and uniqueness—and possibly their spiritual superiority—in a multicultural and largely secular context (Jacobsen 2008: 201–02). They claim and sanctify space and create new sacred spaces. Thus, in multiple ways, processions and spectacular practices extend the traditional role to demonstrate intense devotion and miraculous feats. Calling the performances “self-mortifications,” “rites of affliction,” or “selfmutilation” is somewhat misleading, and terms like “penance” or “penitence,” which are also occasionally used, are even more incorrect (although they may apply in some cases). The violent rites are ascetic practices of self-sacrifice, but the practitioners are not penitents. In emic discourse the practices are perceived as “miracle performances” (David 2009: 349) and the kāvaṭi dance performers (often entering into trance-like states) are called “god dancers.” They carry the god—represented by the heavy wooden kāvaṭi arch which the dancers carry while dancing. This arch, decorated with peacock feathers, symbolises the vehicle in which the god Murukaṉ resides. Carrying it connotes union of god/dess and human soul through the transformative act of bhakti (Geaves 2007: 194). Self-castigations and dancing can lead to trance states, which are understood as a form of divine possession and tangible grace. Within popular religion, particularly in native village contexts that also extend into diasporic spaces, possession and self-mutilation inspire awe and respect, because not everyone is able to perform such practices. They not only involve being able to endure extreme pain, but also fasting, prayer, and meditation. They aim at a state of trance and utmost god obsession wherein no more pain is felt. Therefore, they are coded with intense devotion, special sanctity, and prestige, and also with the miraculous and supernatural that escapes intellectual rationality. Ann David (2009: 349) makes a point about the importance of the miraculous, miracle stories, and “miracle performances” in vernacular practices like trance dancing, body piercing, and fire walking, or in devotional bābā and guru veneration. She remarks that violent practices, such as body piercing, are viewed as embodying the power of the divine and as miraculous events, since no bleeding occurs and actors pretend to feel no pain; moreover, many find their wishes are indeed fulfilled. All these conspicuously non-Brahman practices of self-castigation and trance through kāvaṭi dance are therefore highly esteemed among most Tamil people and are rarely Hamm-Uentrop) are located in industrial wasteland areas. The Murukaṉ temple procession in Oslo, like many others, does not pass through highly populated, residential areas. Nevertheless, Jacobsen (2008: 199, 202) emphasises the public display and reports the explicit wish to be seen, since “much energy is invested in trying to get journalists to cover the events” (ibid.: 199).

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discouraged, even by Brahman priests. However, some Brahmans prefer to stay away (Fibiger 2003: 351, 354), and some priests may discourage trance and painful performances or only reluctantly allow them (Wilke 2003: 150–51; 2013: 380). Some temples stopped or refrain from allowing them because they often upset and traumatise little children (Geaves 2007: 190, 191; Marla-Küsters 2015: 349–51) and occasionally also incite horror and disgust in other members of society (Eulberg 2014: 122) (see below for more on such conflicts). As previously mentioned, in contrast to the bābā temples’ exorcisms and possessions, the Tamil Hindu mortification rites and trance dances are the embodiment of private vows displayed during the public temple festivals and processions, whereas temple ritual itself (including the chariot processions) relies on Āgama Śaivism, the rich ritual tradition of orthodox Śaiva Siddhānta that is based on Sanskrit and Tamil Āgama works. However, there are a few notable exceptions, like the ecstatic priestess of the Śākta temple in Danish Brande who, while in possession-trance, acts as the medium and living embodiment of the goddess at the festivals and attracts pilgrims from other European countries. But, the majority of the spectacular and physically highly demanding vernacular rites are vows performed by laypeople—kāvaṭi dance and related mortifications generally only performed by men. Women rarely pierce themselves. They enact their own strenuous vows, such as constantly prostrating or carrying fire-pots with burning coals or camphor on their heads (which are constantly fed with camphor by relatives or friends) throughout the entire procession. Or, they carry pots of milk on their heads, which is explicitly defined as the kāvaṭi of women (pālkāvaṭi) (Geaves 2007: 192). Although these vow-based practices are acts of personal piety—faith that divine help will fulfil a wish, or gratitude that the wish was granted—it is essential that they are not performed in private but staged during public processions just like “back home.” Tamil Hindus openly demonstrate their piety in the streets so that anyone can see not only their religious fervour and extreme devotion but also the greatness of the god/ dess who bestows grace, fulfils wishes, and descends into the dancers. Diaspora communities often exhibit an increase in performed religiosity. Ann David (2008) discerns this development in Britain regarding Tamil Hindu religious practice. She points out “a confident growth of new temples” (David 2008: 89) and an “increasing display of trance-dancing and bodily mortification” (ibid.: 96)—an observation that is also applicable to other European countries. David (2008: 97, 98) explains the importance and rapid increase of Tamil temple culture by a “resurgence of Tamil Hindu consciousness” expressed through dramatic, aesthetic-sensory, and emotional rituals, bodily practices, and dance. She rightly observes that it is “not only a general Hindu identity but a specific Tamil religious identity” (ibid.: 89) that is being

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performed and displayed. Indeed, Tamilness is a major issue for Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus that grew during the civil war in 1983 and is accompanied by the dream of having their own state, Tamil Eelam (Tamiḻīḻam). Thus, there is also a strong national dimension to the emphasis of Tamilness or Tamil identity, which extends into the acts of self-mortification. These acts exemplify the unique struggle of the Tamil people, the suffering in exile, and the burden of being absent from the gods’ homeland (Geaves 2007: 194). In this multilayered construction of meaning—from carrying the god and union with the divine, to an act of national identity and a struggle for self-determination in order to achieve prosperity and healing (ibid.)—the rites create an imagined community, strong group feelings, group solidarity, and collective well-being (ibid.: 193). In fact, since the upsurge of violence and civil war in Sri Lanka from 1983 to 2009, the vernacular rites of affliction, notably hook-swinging, also increased in Sri Lanka—most visibly in the pilgrimage site of Kataragama and not only among Tamil Hindus, but also among Sri Lankan Buddhists and Tamil Muslims. Tamilness is primarily an ethnic category that is not bound solely to religion, or to only one religion. It encompasses patriotism and collective suffering, and it extends to multireligious settings. For instance, Catholic Marian pilgrimage sites and Tamil Christian processions in Sri Lanka, as well as in the diaspora countries, are also often attended by Tamil Hindus (Jacobsen 2009; Lüthi 2003: 302; Luchesi 2008b; Marla 2015: 371–403; Neubert 2013: 320; Wilke 1996: 279–82). Tamilness manifests itself in a specifically political diaspora consciousness, as well as in Tamil language and literature, in dance (folk kāvaṭi and classical Bharatnayam), in Tamil bhakti (the first great bhakti movements and literature occurred in South Indian Tamil Nadu), and in the rich Tamil ritual culture— not only in the religious processions and distinctive “folk” practices,24 but also in the abundantly lush orthodox (Āgamic) temple rituals and consecration ceremonies. It has been observed throughout the countries in which the Tamil Hindu diaspora resides that religious practices are major avenues for the expression of Tamil ethnic identity. These religious expressions also gain additional, new functions. Since most of the diaspora temples—even in Britain—are still practically “invisible” to outsiders (those who do not belong to the diasporic sphere of Sri Lankan migrants), because they are located in basements, rebuilt

24  The inclusion of such practices into the traditional chariot processions is what, among other things, distinguishes Sri Lankan Tamil Hindu religiosity from Indian Tamil Hindu religiosity in Tamil Nadu (Wilke 2003: 133–41, 148–49), although they otherwise share much in common.

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workshops, former factories, etc., visible “real” temples25 that are built in the traditional, sacred architectural style, as well as processions (which are also organised by “invisible temples”), are important, publicly visible, identity markers. In the diasporic context, processions gain a number of extra functions by using public space. They have a high representational function in the larger public sphere of society. The processions and bodily performances, since they leave the temple grounds, become embodied enactments of home culture in a public space. They are major mediums through which the appropriation and sacralisation of public place and secular space take place (David 2008: 94; Luchesi 2004: 121); a very important aspect of diaspora temple culture. The processions, as well as the temples, establish sacred spaces. The processions circumambulate the local temple in a relatively wide radius and are believed to bless not only the participants, but also the wider public and the surrounding area, be it uninhabited land or urban centres: “The entire space they pass through is sanctified by their [the travelling gods’] divine presence” (Luchesi 2008: 184). The diaspora temples and processions also create new sacral topographies that extend beyond the original homelands (Sri Lanka and Tamil Nadu). In the European diaspora, a number of new Tamil Hindu pilgrimage sites developed—in Hamm-Uentrop, Brande, London, and Wales. In Oslo, a new European tīrtha (sacred bathing place) emerged (Jacobsen 2004: 143–46; 2009: 189). Identity maintenance is particularly vital in the case of the Sri Lankan Tamils, the largest diaspora community worldwide, and also the largest in many, or even most, European countries. In Germany, Switzerland, Denmark, Norway, and France, Tamil Hindus from Sri Lanka make up the largest and most dominant Hindu diaspora group. There is also a high percentage of Sri Lankan Tamils in Sweden (Sardella 2013: 312–14), a substantial number in the Netherlands (Choenni 2013; Bakker 2018), and a very strong, large, and continually increasing Tamil Hindu diaspora in Britain (David 2008: 90, 91). Tamil Hindus from Sri Lanka are perhaps the most paradigmatic case of forced migration and ethnic Hinduism. The misfortune and discrimination that Sri Lankan Tamils have experienced in the modern nation state of Sri Lanka since the 1950s (after independence from the British Commonwealth), on top of the traumatic experiences of war, violence, persecution, and methodical extinction (amounting to ethnic genocide) since 1983, have produced a transnational diaspora that accounts for a fourth of Sri Lanka’s Tamil population living abroad (van Hear 2013: 238). The preservation and maintenance of 25  I use the term “real temple” as an emic self-description that is often used by diaspora Hindus.

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Tamilness was necessary in order to survive as a distinct community, to give a sense of unity, and to continue cultural memory and traditions from home. Indeed, temples, rituals, and festivals have been decisive factors for identity confirmation and preservation (Jacobsen 2009: 180–98; Geaves 2007: 99) and, consequently, are given much support and care in order to be as similar as possible as to those in Sri Lanka (Wilke 2013b: 34). Such strategies of authenticity reproduce Tamilness in the present by connecting it to the past (through age-old temple rituals) and ensuring it for the future (through institutionalised transmission, fixed buildings, etc.). The temple festivals and big processions include everything that is experienced as most Tamil and that is a source of pride: Tamil language, Tamil arts (including dance, music, and song), Tamil food, and Tamil garments (usually not worn during ordinary days of “normal life”). These special events give the participants the feeling of being 100 percent Tamil (Jacobsen 2009: 187), and they attract not only the religious and regular temple visitors, but also the nonreligious and others who hardly ever visit the temples (ibid.: 186–87). At the same time, the festivals with their processions publicly display specifically Tamil religiosity in the secular societies of their new cultural residences. The public displays celebrate the migrants’ own Tamil identity, but they also affect the majority culture. Occasionally, processions have roused conflicts (see below), but in most cases, as Rafaela Eulberg (2014: 123) states, temples and processions are important symbolic resources concerning both their own community and the larger public sphere: They are tangible expressions of the well-established Tamil Hindu community, which lead to the acceptance and prestige of Tamil Hinduism, and make the Tamil diaspora become part of the larger public sphere in that society. It is important to be aware that the reconstruction of home culture as authentically as possible is by no way restricted to the popular, vernacular, and “archaic” practices discussed above. To reduce home culture and the importance of processions to spectacular practices like body piercing would be a serious distortion. Inside the temples more copious rituals are performed during the festival time, and chariot processions with movable icons are part and parcel of Āgama Śaivism. It is not by chance that the procession, in which the vernacular practices occur, is called a “chariot festival” (Skt. rathotsava). The major objective of the processions is to take the presiding god or goddess (represented by processional images, utsava mūrtis) out of their normal abode, the pure and sacred interior of the temple, on a chariot and into the profane everyday world in order to bless everyone and everything (people, animals, land, buildings, etc.), the immediate surroundings, and the whole world (Luchesi 2008: 182); to make the deity directly available to everyone without the usual purity restrictions (a minimum, such as fasting, vegetarian diet, and wearing traditional garments

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remains observed by all laypeople actively involved). The deity grants darśan (“vision, sight”) to anybody, not just the temple visitors. In fact, processions do not just occur on the major festival day (often simply called tēr, “chariot”), although this is the most highly attended and the one in which the spectacular vow-based rites occur. On each day (generally in the evening) of the ten- to fourteen-day-long temple festivals, smaller processions take place, each with different, colourful processional carts or palanquins carried on the shoulders. The tēr day stands out due to the much larger crowds and spectacular rites, and also because of a much larger chariot, which is pulled with a rope by male and female devotees. The procession stops at regular intervals for the priest to hold pūjā or āratī (showing light to the deity on the chariot). For instance, temple communities like the ones in German Hamm-Uentrop and Norwegian Oslo, spared no expenses and had a huge, costly, beautifully-carved wooden chariot made in Sri Lanka (transported in pieces to the diaspora country); this insured the chariot would look precisely like the most beautiful temple chariots back home (Jacobsen 2008; Luchesi 2008; Wilke 2013). These chariots are constructed like temple towers and have various layers to emphasise their function as mobile temples (Luchesi 2008: 182). The chariot, as well as the many colourful rituals during the festival days—and in Hamm-Uentrop the addition of a large festival market on the major tēr-day—are all quite spectacular and stunning, and often combine spirituality with a joyful holiday mood, entertainment, and consumerism. The tēr-day in particular is a “must”; attended by young and old, wearing their most beautiful jewellery and sāṛīs, and meeting friends and relatives from near and far. Big processions, like the one at the Kamadchi temple in Hamm-Uentrop (Germany), the first and largest temple in Europe that was built in the sacred architectural style, attracts up to 20,000 participants. The tēr-day attracts Tamil people from across Germany and neighbouring countries, and even places further away, like Britain. A number of Westerners (i.e., native Germans), have always be present since the temple’s inauguration in 2002—out of spiritual interest, curiosity, or fascination with the colourful and spectacular event. Indeed, on the day of the great tēr procession, migrants and the host society exchange their roles, and everyone feels as if they are in Sri Lanka or South India (Wilke 2013; 2013b: 42–47). The same has been observed regarding processions at temple festivals in Switzerland (Eulberg 2014: 111). It is very important to Sri Lankan Tamils that they uphold their home culture and Tamil ethnic spaces; at the same time, they have made a name for themselves for integrating extremely well into the “host” society (i.e., their new home) (Fibiger 2013: 217; Wilke 2013b). In Switzerland, not only did their image change from “strange black men” to “industrious and inconspicuous Tamil family,” but compared to other migrant groups, they are also seen as

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“model immigrants” (Eulberg 2014: 118). Within a short period of time many have become naturalised Swiss, German, and Danish citizens; however, intermarriages remain rare. The temple festivals and chariot processions (attracting much larger crowds than weekend services) function as marriage markets (Marla 2015; Wilke 2013). The temples as well as the processions are particularly important for Sri Lankan and Indian Tamils (both much more so than for North Indian Hindus). Temple life and magnificent temple buildings were an important part of life in their home countries. Tamil temple culture is particularly rich due to its copious aesthetic rituals, symbolic hermeneutics, mystical and ardent devotion, and imposing architecture in South Indian Tamil Nadu and its great temple cities, and also in Sri Lankan Jaffna (which has richer temple culture and rituals than North Indian states that had been under Muslim rule, because in South India orthodox Śaiva Siddhānta was preserved). This special significance temples have for Tamils—along with the continuing precarious political situation in Sri Lanka which produced mass migration and the preestablished model of temple boards in Tamil Nadu and Sri Lanka—may be another major reason why Tamil Hindus have been particularly prone to establish their temple culture in the diaspora. This happened zealously and rapidly in the late 1980s and 1990s in Germany, Switzerland, and some Scandinavian countries (Baumann, Luchesi, and Wilke 2013), despite the meagre income of most Sri Lankan Tamil migrants,26 part of which was sent home to assist extended family members. The temples are erected and maintained solely by private donations in many places in continental Europe—in contrast to Britain, the Netherlands, and Norway, where some additional (or partial) funding was provided by the state or local city councils (Knott 2009: 91, 93; van der Burg 2004: 105ff.; Jacobsen 2013: 282). One may add that the rapid and extensive reconstruction of Tamil temple life was also remarkable, because—unlike in Britain—in countries like Germany and Switzerland no other Hindu temples existed, except for Hare Krishna places of worship. In Germany—in stark contrast to the United States—it was typically not well-off Indian-born Hindus who were the first and most important ethnic agents of temple building, but Sri Lankan Tamil migrants (around 45,000 Hindus among the 60,000 Sri Lankans) remained by far the most vigorous and dominant temple builders in other European countries. The exceptions are countries with a clear majority of Indian Hindus where there is a dominance of Indian Hindu temples; this is the case with Sweden (witnessing 26  See Baumann, Luchesi, and Wilke 2003, and more recently Eulberg 2014: 117ff. for Switzerland, Fibiger 2013: 219 for Denmark, and Wilke 2013b: 24, 34 for Germany.

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numerous Indian Hindu and all-India temples in addition to Swaminarayan and ISKCON temples) and the Netherlands (which has both Sanatani and Arya temples). This correlates with the higher number of migrants of Indian origin, particularly twice-migrant Gujaratis from East Africa and Surinamese Hindustanis. But in both countries Tamil Hindu temples also exist, in contrast to Austria where no Sri Lankan migrants are found, but an amazingly colourful landscape of Indian Hindu temples exists despite the small number of native Hindus in the country (see Hutter 2001, 2010, 2015). The opposite is the case in Switzerland where by 2005 there were still no ethnic-regional Indian Hindu temples, whereas seventeen Sri Lankan Hindu Tamil temples had already been built (Baumann 2005: 240). This is somewhat similar to Denmark, where only one Indian Hindu temple existed by 2013, but there were five Sri Lankan Tamil ones (Fibiger 2013: 237). This is partly explainable by the far greater number of Sri Lankan migrants, particularly in Switzerland. But in Germany, where the numerical difference between Indian and Sri Lankan Hindus is less striking, the temple situation is not much different from Switzerland. When the Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus arrived, no temple existed,27 despite the fairly large number of Indian migrants (43,000, among them around 32,000 Hindus) who were well settled, many of them quite prosperous and working in prestigious professions. Only after a substantial number of Tamil Hindu temples were built did a very few Indian temples slowly emerge. As late as 2008 or 2009, the situation had not yet changed—no ethnic Indian Hindu temple had been established— while Sri Lankan Hindus had already erected at least twenty-five, and Afghani Hindus seven (Baumann 2009: 155–57). Even ten years later, in 2018, there exist only about three Indian Hindu temples (the largest of which was built by South Indian Tamils!), whereas the Sri Lankan Tamil Hindu temples number more than forty (Wilke 2013b: 23; Marla-Küsters 2015b: 263).28 Among them is the Kamadchi temple of Hamm-Uentrop (Westfalia), presently still the largest temple in continental Europe, and at the time of its inauguration (2002) it

27  Prior to this there had only been a short-lived VHP temple project in Frankfurt. 28  As an in-depth survey revealed, by 2011/12 there existed at least thirty-five to thirty-eight temples (known by name and distribution), in addition to a speculated five or ten nonregistered ones. In 2018 one can safely assume there were at least forty temples. The survey was conducted at my institute, the University of Muenster, in 2011 and 2012. It included consulting all German county courts, all officially registered associations, and the commercial register-general (by giving and searching for keywords like kovil, koyil, temple, Tamil, etc.). In addition, all temple boards got a letter asking for further information. In 2015, Marla-Küsters spoke of forty-five temples, based on interviews and conversations with her Sri Lankan Tamil informants.

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was the first to be built using traditional architecture (solely financed through donations, mostly by sponsors from low-income groups). Except for a very small number of early Sri Lankan migrants in the 1970s, who frequently came from the urban middle and upper classes and well-off and well-educated families, like from the wealthy, land-owning Veḷḷāḷar castes, the large wave of first generation Sri Lankan Tamil refugees in the mid- to late 1980s and 1990s mainly came from rural areas and lower classes, and they had no higher education. In Germany, Switzerland, and Denmark, and to some extent in France and Sweden, but less so in Norway,29 they were almost all employed in low-wage sectors and as unskilled workers. This situation is changing with the second and third generation (Marla-Küsters 2015)—not least due to the high value parents attribute to education and the children’s serious and adaptive engagement in learning and professionalisation. Moreover, a new financial situation exists in Germany: The temple community of Hamm-Uentrop was granted the status of a “body of public law” (Körperschaft des öffentlichen Rechts) in early 2017 and consequently received the right of “worship tax” (Kultussteuer) on par with church taxes (Kirchensteuer). Britain differs in three significant respects from continental Europe in regard to Tamil temples and migrants: First, due to a different migration history, the socioeconomic situation is much better. Second, Tamil Hindu temple culture started much earlier in Britain. Britain has been and was even growing in popularity as the European country of choice for Sri Lankan Tamil migrants (Van Hear 2013: 238, 241). Third, in addition to the Tamil Hindu majority from Sri Lanka, a number of Tamil Hindus came directly from Indian Tamil Nadu, or as twice migrants from Fiji, Malaysia, South Africa, Mauritius, and Singapore (Geaves 2007: 175). Nonetheless, by 2007 “only” around twenty temples were counted (with two in traditional style) (i.e., not many more than in tiny Switzerland, where there is one in traditional style, which was consecrated in 2014), and substantially less than in Germany (currently with four temples in traditional style, two of them not yet finished). However, Britain is particular rich in Tamil temple culture due to the Tamil migrants from so many different countries and the earlier migration history due its colonial past in India and Sri Lanka. Individual Tamils from both Sri Lanka and India had been arriving years before the mass migration that was prompted by the escalation of the Sinhalese-Tamil conflict into war in 1983 (Geaves 2007: 88–90, 173; for the 29  Between the 1970s and 1990s, many Sri Lankan Tamil Hindu immigrants worked in fisheries in northern Norway, an opportunity established by Tamil Christians from Sri Lanka (Jacobsen 2003, 2013: 281).

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following, see also Van Hear 2013: 239–42). The first phase of Sri Lankan immigration to Britain began around independence in 1948 and increased from 1956 to 1972 (due to aggressive “Sinhala only” politics). The early migrants came mainly from upper-class and upper-caste backgrounds, many had been educated in the elite schools of Ceylon, and an increasingly substantial number of wealthy Veḷḷāḷars (Sri Lankan Tamil landowners) arrived in Britain. Most of them had come to study and obtain degrees in medicine, law, and engineering. Growing discrimination in Sinhalese-dominated Ceylon (Sri Lanka since 1978) made most Tamils stay in Britain to carry out their high-class professions and purchase properties. The next phases resembles the migration pattern in continental Europe, but apparently more students and wealthier classes settled in Britain. The later mass migration was more mixed, although there was a clear dominance of rural, mostly lower-caste, poorly educated migrants who lacked a knowledge of English.30 Despite class conflicts and tensions between the already established elite and the later lower-caste arrivals, who had poor English and “unsophisticated life styles” (Van Hear 2013: 240), the early migrants formed a bridge for the later (Geaves 2007: 89). At the end of the twentieth and beginning of the twenty-first century, Ann David (2008: 90) observes that the “strength of the transnational connections of these more settled Tamil migrants,” in turn “draws even greater numbers of Tamils to the borough [East Ham, East London] seeking asylum, searching for employment and for places of refuge, and creating the second largest refugee community in the London Borough and Newham.” Since the beginning of the twenty-first century, there has been a strong presence and constant growth of Sri Lankan Tamils in Britain: “Out of nearly 5,000 asylum seekers arriving in 2002 in Britain, the majority was from Sri Lanka.” (David 2008: 90). More recent developments at the end of the first decade of the twenty-first century exhibit a significant change 30  Van Hear (2013: 238, 240ff.) makes the point that lower-class asylum seekers were not the poorest population of Sri Lanka. An important factor that arose in the 1990s (when mass migration peaked) was the escalated costs for asylum seekers who increasingly had to resort to smugglers and “agents”—partly due to the stricter immigration laws and the introduction of visa restrictions for Sri Lankan Tamils in 1985. He holds that international asylum migration “became largely the preserve of well-to-do Tamils,” as it usually involved “substantial household investment” (ibid.: 238). Money needed for immigration came from savings, relatives, from selling property such as land and jewellery, and also from moneylenders who had to be paid back. The cost of getting to Britain rose tenfold over the years. For the poorest arrivals in the late 1980s, “it was a case to get one member of the family out of Sri Lanka, at the cost of deep debt and/or the sale of property and other assents by the household back home” (ibid.: 240). Once settled in Britain, the migrants had heavy financial responsibilities in relation to their families back home because many household resources had been spent in order to send them there.

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in the migration patterns, namely a marked decline in asylum migration and a substantial inflow of secondary migrants from other European countries— Germany, the Netherlands, France, and Switzerland—to Britain (David 2008: 91; Van Hear 2013: 242). Attractive motives may have been education in English and easier access to employment, professional qualifications, and business opportunities (Van Hear 2013). David also speculates that the development was perhaps pushed forward by the younger generation, in order to gain an English education, and also “by the obvious support of a well-established, significant British-based Tamil community” (2008: 91). A general development that has been observed over the past thirty or forty years, that is, after the first ethnic temple in Britain emerged, was that Hindus in Britain have become “significantly more wealthy, self-confident, and well organised” (Knott 2009: 107). This may surprise native Europeans, but active engagement in religion and temple building continued to play an important role. For instance, recent studies on a newly established Tamil Hindu “worshipping centre” in London East Ham revealed that many of the attendees were more recent Tamil migrants from other European countries (David 2008: 91). The British Tamil Hindu diaspora is not only wealthier than those in other places in Europe, but it also has an older history of temple life. In Britain, Tamil temple life, which was based on Śaiva Siddhānta, had already started prior to the arrival of the large wave of refugees (from 1983 onward). It started with two highly motivated individuals. One of them, Shri Sabapathipillai, was a Veḷḷāḷar lawyer from Sri Lanka who came to Britain in 1965. He felt “a special calling to establish Saivism in Britain” and in 1966 founded The Hindu Association of Great Britain, which from 1974 onward was called the Brittania Hindu (Siva) Temple Trust, “with the express intention of building a Tamil Saivite temple complete with traditional architecture” (Geaves 2007: 91; see also 175–76). This did not happen until much later,31 but Shri Sabapathipillai and his association made a significant step toward the institutionalisation of Tamil Hindu identity as distinct from the Gujarati Hindu majority. The 31  Shri Sabapathipillai’s association understood it as a long-term goal, since at that time there was insufficient enthusiasm for the ambitious project (Geaves 2007: 176). Geaves also relates Shri Sabapathipillai’s initial disappointment about the apparent lack of religious interest to the merely materialistic values prevailing among the South Indian migrants. However, the turning point came with a pūjā in Hyde Park, which brought together London’s Tamil community, Tamils from South Africa and even some Sinhalese came together for a joint prayer. One reason the temple project was not further pursued by the association may have had to do with members who were critical of Shri Sabapathipillai’s priestly functions, despite his non-Brahman background, and emerging factions within the association (ibid.: 91–92).

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association’s members had to declare they were Hindu Śaivite, “a deliberate policy established to avoid the custom of creating temples in Britain where several deities were worshiped across the borders of Vaisnavite, Saivite and Sakti traditions. In fact, most of these temples are of Gujarati origin and the principle deity is always an incarnation of Visnu, usually Ram or Krsna” (ibid.: 91). However, although Shri Sabapathipillai’s primary aim was to cement the practices and teachings of Śaiva Siddhānta, he also loosened his exclusivist stance and made contact with the Gujaratis and Punjabis, and in 1970 they jointly established the VHP, the first Federation of Hindu Organisations in Britain. The second pioneering figure was the Sri Lankan Guru Subramaniyam (whose former secular name was P.R. De Silva), who was the son of a Sinhalese Buddhist father and a Tamil Hindu mother (Geaves 2007: 92–93, 208–38). He arrived in Britain in 1948 and also felt a calling to establish his religion in the West (ibid.: 92). Early on (between 1948 and 1953), he established a small place for Murukaṉ worship in Central London—the first public Tamil Hindu shrine in Britain—where he also taught meditation and attracted Ceylonese as well native British devotees (ibid.: 174). From 1973 onward, he built the monastic Community of the Many Names of God—a new Śaiva pilgrimage centre in Skanda Vale, rural South Wales, which became nationally and internationally renowned as a place of peaceful serenity and deep spirituality. The Guru’s religious style and organisation differed greatly from Shri Sabapathipillai’s temple policy and focus on correct ritual. He emphasised intensive bhakti and the devotional-mystical side of Śaiva-Siddhānta, in which ritual action turns into contemplation, loving union with the god, and spiritual sādhana (search for perfection). Already in the early shrine in London, he taught meditation and attracted many English followers. A number of them followed him to Wales and became resident monks, including a few nuns—clad in robes that resembled those of Catholic Franciscan monks (Geaves 2007: 92, 212). Indeed, in addition to genuine Tamil religiosity, elements of St. Francis were included in the community’s spiritual ethics and asceticism. This interreligious inclusivism also appears in the three temples of the Community of the Many Names of God. In addition to the initial temple, dedicated to the ancient Tamil god Murukaṉ (who is understood to be a son of Śiva), there is also a Viṣṇu temple and a goddess temple on top of the hill near the Guru’s dwelling. Ron Geaves (2007: 224) suspects that these three temples from different Hindu traditions were a major factor that made the monastic community attractive to Tamils, Gujaratis, and Westerners alike. Unlike other Tamil temples, those in South Wales attract a religiously diverse array of visitors. The community became an important pilgrimage place precisely because its temple culture was in many

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ways untypical, for instance, not allowing noisy children to disturb the temple worship—a policy that added to the reputation of the great serenity, purity, and silence pervading the place and the rituals. Indeed, located in hilly, rural Wales it is seen as a real pilgrimage site in which spiritual power and miracles inhere—also due to the charismatic presence of the guru and the belief that Murukaṉ and the goddess are manifest in the site, which is their chosen location (Geaves 2007: 93, 226–33). According to Geaves, it would be wrong to view the practises as eclecticism or modern syncretism, or to trace them back to the universalistic interests of Western disciples. Rather, it is a more synthetic and inclusivist religious style that is deeply grounded in Tamil traditions. An ethos of tolerance toward all faiths also exists in Sri Lanka’s most famous Murukaṉ pilgrimage place, Kataragama, where Sinhalese Buddhists and Tamil Hindus worship alongside each other.32 Moreover, for many centuries fervent bhakti, and bhakti’s potential to be a religion of choice, that is, worshipping one’s favourite deity (iṣṭa devatā), has belonged to the Tamil tradition. Likewise, on top of violent vow-fulfilling and a highly ritualistic temple style, Tamil South Indian and Sri Lankan Śiva worship include deeply devotional, mystical forms. As André Padoux justly remarks: “Ritual activity and mystical states are not incompatible. A devotee may well worship his chosen deity and perform prescribed rites while being in a state of absorption (āveśa), feeling united with the deity” (2017: 127). It seems it is precisely this religious style, more so than the “Tamilness,” that is attractive for many visitors, Tamil and non-Tamil alike. In the remote hills of Wales developed “one of the foremost Tamil diaspora pilgrimage locations outside India and visited by thousands every summer” (Geaves 2007: 93). Another, more traditional, Murukaṉ temple in Britain—in this case an Indian Tamil Hindu temple—was also to become a new pilgrimage site, despite its original plans for a traditional temple tower (gopura, Tamil kōpuram) failed (Geaves 2007: 181): the Highgatehill Murukaṉ temple (inaugurated in 1986), which was located on a hill. In the diaspora, such richly decorated and sculptured temple towers—the (rāja)gopura (above the main entrance) and the vimāna (a smaller, fully decorated tower on the temple roof above the main sanctuary)—became the symbol of a “real,” traditional, and authentic Tamil temple. The Kamadchi temple in Hamm-Uentrop, Germany was the very first in Europe (2002) to achieve these towers (rājagopura and vimāna)— and, therefore, it was not by chance that it also developed into an important, new European Tamil Hindu pilgrimage site with an international reputation. The Apirami Temple in Danish Brande (established in the mid-1990s) built a 32  Sinhalese Buddhist monks have also visited the site in Wales.

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gopuram in 2011, after moving to a new location in the outskirts (2000) of the town, and the new temple was constructed and consecrated in 2007. Of course, the Apirāmi temple had acquired fame as a new pilgrimage site before this due to its ecstatic, miracle-working priestess and her healing powers, and the spectacular temple festivals that had already begun to attract Sri Lankan and Western visitors and devotees from Denmark and beyond. Structurally similar, in Oslo a new tīrtha or pilgrimage spot emerged before a traditionally built stone structure existed. This was the beautiful lake in the woods, mentioned above, where every year the sacred bath of Sivasubramaniyar (Murukaṉ) takes place after the great procession. In 2010, however, a new property at Rommen in Oslo was purchased to build a traditional temple for Murukaṉ. Presently, the Sivasubramaniyar temple of Oslo is trying to attract more sponsors on its webpage by advertising “the first temple of the Northern Hemisphere” and courting sponsors for immense sums to cover the second building phase— and to get a bank loan for the third phase in order to complete the prestigious project before June 2020, which is when the present premises must be vacated. It seems Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus have been, and continue to be, the most vigorous temple builders in Europe. Even the Netherlands, with its overwhelming Hindustani majority (and consequently mostly Sanantani and Arya temple projects), has around five Tamil Hindu temples.33 Remarkably, there are a number of more recent traditional temple projects among Tamil Hindus in several European countries—some completed, while others still in the planning or building phase like in Oslo. For instance, in the Netherlands (also a country in the “Northern Hemisphere”), the Sri Varatharaja Selva Vinayagar Temple in Den Helder (established in 2003) was supplemented with a richly decorated gopuram in 2013. Three new, traditional, custom-built temple projects are found in Germany: a Murukaṉ temple was established in Berlin Britz in 2013 and the other two, both dedicated to Gaṇeśa, in Berlin Hasenheide and Bremen, are currently still under construction. Two projects exist in Switzerland: the Arulmiku Sri Manonmani Ampal Alayam in the outskirts of Trimbach, which was inaugurated in 2013 and was the first custom-built temple in Switzerland (Baumann and Tunger-Zanetti 2014); the second traditional temple project in Vernier/Geneva is still in the planning phase and publicly courts donors on its webpage (Eulberg 2014: 122). Currently, the general tendency across Europe 33  I owe this and the following important information on the Netherlands to a personal email communication with Freek Bakker (February 3–4, 2016). Unfortunately, I was not able to get hold of his new book on Hindus in the Netherlands (Berlin 2018) while writing this article.

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is to increasingly build “real temples”—initiated by an enthusiastic priest, layperson, or temple committee—and this entails a lot of stress and strain, enormous costs, the need for clever management, advertising capacities and skilful fundraising programmes, and the help, goodwill, cooperation and voluntary work of many. Not only are the purchase of land and erection of a stone structure heavy financial burdens, but so are the recruitment and maintenance of Indian sthapatis and śilpins, the traditional master-builders, artisans, and sculptures who are needed for the exact temple planning, finer construction work, and the decoration and carvings of the interior and exterior temple space, which may take several months. In addition to this, a large number of priests (Śaiva kurukkaḷs of the highest initiation, generally Brahmans) are necessary, and they are the ones who have the know-how and qualifications to perform the proper, complex consecration rites for the temple and mūrtis, which usually last several days. The priests must generally be recruited from Sri Lanka, India, or other European countries, and not only must their travel costs be taken care of, but also their maintenance—traditionally for over forty days, since additional rites must take place after mahākumbhābhiṣeka, the last day and culmination of the official consecration ceremonies, in order to secure the power and purity of the place. No wonder traditional temple projects may take several years to be completed—from the ground-breaking ceremony and laying of the foundation stone to the final consecration rites. Due to this development in the diaspora, new transnational networks have formed between priests, Indian temple architects, artists, and craftsmen. For the layout and decoration of the Swiss Manonmani temple in Trimbach, for instance, the same South Indian master-builder and his building-firm were responsible as for the temple in Hamm-Uentrop. This company, a truly international śilpa family, had previously constructed Tamil Hindu temples in New York, Sambia, and Italy (Baumann and Tunger-Zanetti 2014: 23). The Kamadchi temple in Hamm-Uentrop seems to be the model and inspiration for a number of temples in continental Europe. The Vināyakar temple in Den Helder with its gopuram, for instance, is described by Freek Bakker as a scaled-down version of the Kamadchi temple in Hamm-Uentrop,34 and like its German model, it organises yearly processions with kāvaṭi dances. The other Dutch temples are more inconspicuous (located in converted school buildings, etc.) but, remarkably, two in the province of Limburg (Roermond and Heerlen) have many connections with German Hindus. Another strand of the transnational Tamil Caiva network connects the Vināyakar temple in Stockholm with 34  Personal e-mail communication, March 3, 2016—also concerning the following observations.

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the Kamadchi temple in Hamm-Uentrop and the Apirāmi temple in Brande, and the network, in addition to Sweden, Denmark, and Germany, also includes Britain and the United States (Schalk 2004: 117–19, 140–46, 242). Not only are pictures of Brande’s charismatic priestess in a state of trance found in Stockholm, but she was also present during the temple’s inauguration in 2000, as well as later visits, and a bhajan song dedicated to her (“song about Mother Apirāmi”) was included in the temple’s prayer book. The priestess received the title “Srī Apirāmi Upācakī” (“devotee of Apirāmi”) from the Hawaiian Satguru Sivaya Subramanya (who was also present at the inauguration of the Swedish temple). She is venerated as an incarnation (avatāra) of the goddess—not only in the Vināyaka temple in Stockholm, but currently also in Tamil Sri Lanka. Hamm-Uentrop’s chief priest, Sri Paskaran Kurukkal, possibly plays an even more important role in the Swedish temple. A long message of spiritual guidance and blessings, which he composed in Tamil for the Swedish worshippers, “is exposed on a board in the shrine room in Stockholm for everybody to read” (Schalk 2004: 140; Tamil text and translation, ibid. 141–44). Sri Paskaran also gained the reputation of an authority on temple building, in addition to that of a holy man and miracle worker. Today, the chief priest of Hamm-Uentrop witnesses international fame and acts as a transnational networker. For instance, he was invited to a temple consecration in Minnesota and renovated an old, decaying Viṣṇu temple in South India (which was said to be under a malevolent spell). He was ritually assisted by the local Pancarātra Vaiṣṇava community. In Germany, his sponsors include devotees from Britain and Canada. 2.1.3

Gujarati and North Indian Diaspora in Portugal and the Netherlands—Continuity and Amendment of Caste In addition to Britain, two other European countries have a colonial past and are therefore not Tamil dominated: Portugal has a Gujarati majority (due to former colonies in Mozambique and the Indian/Gujarati island of Diu) and the Netherlands has a North Indian majority, which is comprised of Sanatanis as well as Arya Samajis. Portugal is an intriguing example of how much a colonial past, in addition to the inner-ethnic variety shaped by caste identities, can affect temple Hinduism in the diaspora. More so than in other places, caste and social status continue to determine temple life, but there is also a departure from this. Portugal’s Hindu community is largely Gujarati—dominated by twice-migrant Gujaratis from Mozambique and a later wave of direct migrants from Gujarat. The East African Hindus are not only descendants of migrants from mainland Gujarat, a large number also originated from the island of Diu which, like Mozambique, is a former Portuguese colony. The strong socioeconomic differences between

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well-off Gujarati Vaiśyas (merchants, a number of whom are Lohana) and lowcaste Diu, mainly Śūdras (servants), that already existed in Mozambique,35 was maintained, reconstructed, and even reinvented in Portugal by making a basic distinction between divesha and non-divesha castes—which is mirrored in Portuguese temple culture (Lourenço 2015: 91–118). Divesha refers to Diu migrants from Mozambique who migrated to Portugal in the 1980s. During their early years in Portugal, they lived together in low-cost slums. Most were devotees of Śiva and the mother goddess, and their goddess temple, Jay Ambe, was initially established in a Lisbon shantytown. In contrast, non-divesha refers to later migrants who came directly from the Gujarat mainland and who settled in Lisbon in the 1990s. Except for a few Brahman families, most were well-off Lohana who settled in Lisbon’s prestigious areas, as well as in more mixed areas. This group was predominantly Vaiṣṇava, whose worship centres on Viṣṇu, particularly Kṛṣṇa and Rāma. Non-diveshi Lohanas erected the magnificently built Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa Temple in an imposing architectural style in Lisbon, and they founded the Hindu Community of Portugal, which is attached to the temple. Portuguese Hindus maintained different religious and geographic distinctions, as well as different caste-based identities and hierarchies, and this illustrates the close interface of these categories. However, this is not the whole story. There is also a third temple project in Lisbon, the Śiva temple, that was built by the Shiva Temple Association, which is mostly comprised of merchants (Vanya). This community moved away from the hegemonic model and caste division. It attracts mixed clientele (i.e., different caste groups), and increasingly grows in importance and wealth (although it is not yet wealthy enough to erect the planned “real temple” in traditional architecture). According to Ines Lourenço (2015: 109, 113–15), Portuguese Hindus demonstrate that diversity does not hinder a cohesive and robust unity of identity, or a unitary community, despite the variety. She maintains that this unity is brought about by religion (i.e., Hinduism) in the form of religious practice and the symbolic construction of a cosmic order. She argues that a strong continuity exists between the private/domestic and public spheres (between the house shrine and the temple). Regarding this framework of unitive identity, cohesion, and private-public continuity, she attributes a central role to women (their traditional and new roles in the diaspora) and to transnational networks 35  See Sant’ana 2013: 287. Gujarati Vaiśyas—among them Lohana, the traders par excellence who, in fact, are Vaiśyas from Punjab and Sindh who settled in Gujarat—had migrated to Mozambique earlier and set up large businesses. Descendants from the Gujarati island of Diu (formerly a Portuguese colony) were from lower castes, mainly Śūdra. They became employees of the Gujarati merchants or worked in construction and small stores.

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(those established through the Hindus’ constant movement between Portugal, India, Mozambique, and Britain). The visible loosening and even attenuation of caste, such as currently in the Portuguese Śiva temple, has been judged as typical within diaspora contexts by a number of scholars. This loosening is due to various altered conditions in the new contexts.36 The relative collapse and/or renegotiation of caste, according to John Zavos,37 was a springboard to a clearer articulation of Hinduism: “Ironically, a key effect of this radical shift in the locus of social life was the gradual emergence of more defined notions of Hinduism as a religion. […] In the relative absence of complex caste dynamics, Hinduism appears more clearly as a religion based around specific rituals and knowledge of specific religious texts. This example, then, already illustrates the role that diaspora can play in the formation of Hinduism as a religion” (2013: 308). In his argument, Zavos draws from earlier studies on the Hindu diaspora in Suriname, where localised “folk practices” were increasingly marginalised “as a Brahmanical form of Hinduism came to dominate, driven by a small number of Brahmans in this plantation society” (2013: 308). These orthodox Brahmans, it was argued, weakened caste by replacing purity with ritual knowledge based on sacred texts. They thus produced a more uniform Hinduism by universalising their own ideology and creating a Sanskritisation/Brahmanisation of “folk” and “lower-caste” cults and practices. Moreover, it was maintained that the Brahmans’ homogenisation, formalisation, and standardisation of Hindu tradition—as well as the growth of Hindu identity along orthodox, brāhmaṇical lines—was a direct reaction to the Arya Samaj, whose anticaste and universalist, Hindu reform programme was very successful in the Caribbean islands and was particularly attractive to the lower castes and Dalits. Provoked by the Arya Samaj, in 1929 the Brahman priests of Suriname founded a formal 36  For instance, Vertovec 2000: 52–57 (summarising earlier studies) observes a general attenuation of the caste system in the diaspora—in this case the Caribbean diaspora. Because the caste system is a highly localised phenomenon across villages in India, it could not be fully maintained in the diaspora context. 37  Zavos (2013: 308) sees this tendency as related to the system of indentured labourers and the constrained conditions of the plantation, which made it difficult to reconstruct the social relations in traditional village life, the caste-based family structures, and the traditional occupations associated with caste (i.e., jāti). The indentured labourers came from a variety of castes, “many of them low castes unaffected by issues of purity and pollution” (ibid.). In contrast, Gujarati traders with established businesses in Africa in the early twentieth century “were more likely to retain strong links including family links to Gujarat, returning intermittently to their home region” and, as a consequence, they were more likely “to retain a strong sense of their existing caste status” (ibid.). For the latter, on early Gujarati organisations in Bradford in particular, see also Bowen 1987: 15–31.

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association for, what they considered, traditional, mainstream Hinduism, calling it Sanāthan Dharm (“Eternal Religion”) and calling themselves “Sanāthan Dharm Hindus,”38 in short “Sanatanis.” The dominance of Brahmans in Suriname has often been noted. Therefore, it is intriguing that the largest Surinamese Hindu temple in the Netherlands was installed and is still currently run by a non-Brahman priest (Nugteren 2009: 115–48). The Shree Ram Mandir in Wijchen—newly installed in 2009— is one of only two (Indian Hindu) custom-built temples in the Netherlands, the other one is in Amsterdam-Osdorb (since 2001), both of which, however, “announce their purpose to the outside world only on a closer look” (ibid.: 133–34) and include other facilities in the buildings. The temple in Wijchen is in fact “a multifunctional building,” a “full-fledged temple-cum-cultural centre” (ibid.: 134, 123). Nonetheless, according to Albertina Nugteren, it was immensely important that the temple received proper installation rites (by Brahman priests from outside the community). These rites made it a sacred place where “the deities are properly rooted,” and they converted the images into living mūrtis, “in which the gods are actually present” (ibid.: 125). According to Nugteren, this conversion is a deeply touching and transformative experience for those attending the temple—“it transforms their lives, and engulfs them in a soothing sense of [spiritual] belonging” (ibid.: 125). She claims that the major transformations happen on a deeply emotional level, which is an aspect that has been far too neglected by Hindu migration studies, since it is “the process of intensified devotion to the gods who had been brought to life by proper installation rituals as contrasted to the preceding period in which during Sunday gatherings small portable statues or even just a few calendar art reproductions were put up on makeshift altars” (ibid.: 128); only purposely built and properly consecrated temples can produce “the intensified sense of belonging with the living deities who are there to stay” (ibid.). More concretely, this temple established a very active temple life with singing, worshipping, storytelling, visiting paṇḍits, interfaith activity, weddings, and tour buses full of “Hindustanis” (Surinamese Hindus originating from Bihar, Uttar Pradesh, and other places in North East India) from other cities. Nugteren (2009: 134) reports that many Surinamese Hindustanis in the Netherlands wonder how such a small, decentralised community such as the one in Wijchen managed to not only build its 38  See also Baumann 2003c: 144. The Brahmans and Pandits from this group created a number of official bodies (i.e., pronounced institutionalisation) in associations such as the “Sanatan Dharma Association” (established in 1881 and revitalized in 1932), the “Sanatan Dharma Board of Control,” and the “Sanatan Dharma Maha Sabha” (founded in 1934) in Trinidad, which also consolidated in reaction to the Arya Samaj and obtained the affiliation of dozens of temple congregations in the 1950s (Vertovec 2000: 54–56).

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own temple but, moreover, build the biggest one in the country.39 She suspects that this is primarily thanks to the personal integrity and competence of the priest (of kṣatriya descent) but also due to his family background. His father erected a small temple in Suriname, and the priest himself (a former schoolteacher and local community leader) is highly esteemed. Although not a Brahman by birth, his reputation “as a well-educated and sincere lay devotee, a dedicated sanatani, and more and more as a ritual expert also, had brought him to a position of being regarded as a natural priest by those around him” (Nugteren 2009: 135). Within all diaspora contexts there is a sincere striving to make temples as authentic as possible and to establish an intensified sense of belonging, but adaptations and transformations are also necessary in these contexts. Enthusiastic and highly motivated individuals, as well as charisma, seem to have better chances away from home and are often vehicles of change. The diaspora situation naturally allows experiments and innovations; however, it also involves negotiation, competition, contestation, and friction. Within the diasporic public sphere different patterns of exclusion and inclusion exist, different sources of authority, and different loyalties, which are not necessarily ethnically and regionally bound anymore. The non-Brahman priest’s high rate of acceptance within the local Hindustani community in Wijchen was probably a product of the fact that Arya Samajis had always accepted non-Brahman priests (in Suriname) and that, in the course of time, the harsh division between Aryas and Sanatanis had faded (Nugteren 2009: 127, and others). However, whereas the priest’s integrity was not contested in his local community in Wijchen, critique came from Brahmans in other parts of the country. The priest has close connections to Brahman families, and he has a Brahmarishi Mission guru. The temple maintains a relationship with the Brahmarishi Mission in India (a “neo-Hindu movement” which also has several branches in the Netherlands) as well as loose ties to a yoga group in nearby Nijmegen. In fact, a Western yoga teacher inspired the ideas of sattva, purity, lightness (which in the Indian tradition is also associated with Brahmanhood and a contemplative mood) that became the mental blueprint for the temple: “a light, airy, pure, and simple building in which no meat, no alcohol, and no smoking would be allowed” (Nugteren 2009: 136). Nugteren sees an amazing development here: This is a departure from the Caribbean ancestors, the “coolies” on sugar plantations 39  There is a concentration of Hindustanis in Randstad, the western part of the Netherlands, where four major cities are found: Amsterdam, Rotterdam, The Hague, and Utrecht. Most of the temples are located in different areas of Amsterdam and other large cities. But clusters of Hindustanis are also living in other regions and smaller towns, such as in Wijchen.

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who had primarily belonged to labour class and were little concerned with Brahmanic purity, which now is adopted in the temple in Wijchen. She prefers, however, to speak of “Sattvicification” rather than the Brahmanisation, Sanskritisation, or Āgamisation that is observed in other diaspora contexts (Nugteren 2009: 127, 131, 134, 136). According to her (ibid.: 137), the temple’s emphasis on purity, stillness, devotion, and inclusiveness may itself be what attracts Western yogīs and adherents of neo-Hindu groups, while possibly also distancing those fellow Hindustanis for whom sattva may be too high an ideal. In fact, at special functions it attracts a “mixed group of temple regulars and Dutch yoga adepts” who sing and chant together, but the first likely attend the temple to please the gods, whereas the latter seek personal harmony, peace, and calm (ibid.: 143). Nonetheless, the borders seem to be fluid. Van der Burg (2004: 101–03, 110ff., 113) observes that among the lay Surinamese Hindus in the Netherlands a devotional “religion of choice” enjoys priority, and they are also attracted to “neo-Hindu” spirituality—presenting Hinduism as a tolerant, spiritually superior, scientific, transcultural, and universal world religion (similarly Swamy 2016: 66). Perhaps more than others, the temple in Dutch Wijchen represents a new, or renewed, globalised form of ethnic-regional Hinduism. It illustrates the multilayered Hindu heritage, which may pervade within the same place of worship. This is a heritage imported straight from India and from the colonies (e.g., Suriname with local traditions from different regions in North East India), but today it also includes so-called neo-Hindu movements, which include yoga and other traces from Western alternative spirituality. Remarkably, the temple’s only (chariot) procession was performed at the request of an ISKCON devotee who wanted to sanctify his new wooden statues of Jagannāth (Kṛṣṇa), Baladeva, and Subhadra (the famous deities of the Jagannāth temple in Puri, India, and who are usually included in ISKCON’s chariot processions) (Nugteren 2009: 138). Nugteren (2009: 134n39) highlights the “low visibility of Hindus in the Netherlands” and “the low key celebrations of their festivals,” which only contain the occasional public display, for instance during fairs or ISKCON’s chariot processions (the Dutch Tamil Hindus are not mentioned). In the same vein, she observes that, as for architecture, “there is nothing spectacular as yet, although some communities come up with lavish plans now and then” (ibid.). In this regard, the Netherlands teaches a further lesson: the importance of a “real temple” in traditional architecture is discernible through the sadly felt lack of it. This is illustrated by the failure of a lavish Devī temple project in Bijlmer Amsterdam (Swamy 2016: 55–75). Moreover, Bijlmer also makes us aware that a strong sense of “Hindu identity” may be fuelled by conflict, deep

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feelings of frustration, and strong demarcation—in this case Hindu identity was a mark of distinction in the predominantly black neighbourhood. The tension intensified after the local government closed down the temporary Devī Dhaam temple in 2010. Resentment increased when the subsequent struggle to build a grand goddess temple did not come to fruition, and Hinduism remained invisible (relegated to small, makeshift places of worship), in contrast to the visible “black minority religion,” the black festivals, and black churches and mosques. The collective dream of an ostentatious “real temple,”40 built in a traditional style of architecture (Swamy 2016: 67–70), remained even after it became clear that it could not be realised due to a lack of funds. As is typical, in Bijlmer this issue generated both intense emotions and ambivalent feelings. On the one hand, there is great pride in belonging to a glorious, old culture that is associated with nonviolence, yoga, spirituality, and vegetarianism, pride for having achieved a high level of education and economic success in the Dutch diaspora, and pride related to belonging to the modern world power of India— all of which the temple and its ostentatious aesthetics would physically represent. On the other hand, there is hurt and disappointment about the absence of a temple that would make Bijlmer more “Hindu.” This is connected to the feeling that they are nothing more than a marginalised minority subsumed within another, black, minority and to the anger that they feel for not being financially supported by the local Dutch government, which is accused of not understanding Hinduism and the importance of temples for its practice. Their right to these grants is rationalised in various ways, starting with the claim that it is a necessary payment of the colonial debt to indentured labour and that it removes the burden of the Dutch colonial legacy that is carried by the Hindus in Bijlmer, a burden that is manifest in the racial and social inequality they experience (Swamy 2016: 59ff.). When compared to Wijchen, the Bijlmer case study adds some important insights. Related to the latter, Albertina Nugteren (2009: 130) is certainly right when she remarks, “Temples are not built merely as markers to the outside,” and when she emphasises the deeply personal and emotional value of consecration rites. But, on the other hand, Bijlmer Hindus testify that even the consecration rites of a custom-built temple do not satisfy the criteria of what they perceive a “real temple” to be. It is fairly common among Hindu migrants— extending far beyond Bijlme—that, for them, the only real temple is a building with the visible aesthetics of traditional architecture.

40  Swamy (2016) repeatedly and extensively uses this term, coupled with interesting observations.

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The Bijlmer community’s expectation of local government grants, along with their references to the colonial past, is interesting and possibly has more to do with collective imagination than reality—like the collective dream of a real temple. Opposition to discrimination and injustice under colonial rule is very understandable. However, historically, the indentured labour referred to (labourers recruited for five-year extendable contracts by the Dutch government from all social and professional classes in British India, but the majority of whom came from lower castes) “only” occurred from 1863 to 1929. Only a minority of these labourers accepted a free return ticket to India. Those who stayed were given land to start small farms. Many witnessed upward mobility, received a better education, moved to cities, and were able to safely accumulate a fortune; many did not even want Suriname’s independence, in contrast to the Creoles or Afro-Caribbeans who did (Nugteren 2009: 118ff.; Swami 2016: 58). It was only around independence in 1975 that a Hindu mass migration occurred; altogether, half of the Hindustani community fled to the Netherland to escape the reign of terror that arose in its wake and to escape an uncertain future (van der Burg 2004: 97–115, particularly 97ff. and 112). Although they suffered losses due to hastily leaving their country, selling their houses and businesses far below their market value, once they settled in the Netherlands they were able to carve out a reasonably comfortable existence (Nugteren 2009: 121). They arrived in a better position than other immigrants; Suriname had been a Dutch colony, and the migrants started out with the capital of knowing the Dutch language and having citizenship (after being given the choice to be Dutch or Surinamese), as well has having knowledge about Dutch institutions. In fact, in order to keep this citizenship (or later on, to get it, as was the case for a second wave of migrants in the 1980s) and to profit from its advantages, like schooling, healthcare, and the job market in the Netherlands, Surinamese Hindus were motived to migrate to Europe. Similar to, albeit socioeconomically very different from, the Tamil population in Germany and Switzerland, Dutch Hindustanis were often regarded as a model minority (Swamy 2016: 66). Nonetheless, in spite of advantages like Dutch language acquisition and Dutch citizenship, according to Corstiaan van der Burg, things were not easier for the twice-migrant Hindustanis in comparison to other minority communities (2004: 104). This is possibly a major reason for the subjective feeling of injustice among Hindustanis in Bijlmer. But there is also self-criticism among this group. Hindus from Bijlmer speak proudly about their socioeconomic success, and some emphasise that they actually could have afforded to build a lavish temple for themselves. They also accuse the temple board for mistakes and flawed fundraising activities. On the other hand, the board complains that the community gave insufficient financial support despite considerable efforts to

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raise funds (see Swamy 2016: 69–70). Compared to Wijchen, it becomes clear that different localities and agents may or may not be successful in establishing a temple culture; much depends on the initiative of individuals and boards, on cooperation, on a readiness to give and volunteer, and finally on the sheer practicality of the plans. Priya Swamy (2016: 68) judges the Bjlimer Hindus’ proud project of a lavish, real temple as an impractical fantasy; the maintenance of such a site would require nonstop weddings, cultural programmes, etc., which she does not see occurring even if the temple was there. Nevertheless, the community’s collective dream of a “real temple,” and the frustration surrounding its absence, signals the importance and great symbolic power of a building’s aesthetics. It has already been discussed in the context of Tamil Hindu temples and the strong tendency to build traditional structures, but it is important to reiterate: the collective dream to have such a site is not restricted to Bijlmer’s Hindustanis. It is one of the most important commonalities shared by the otherwise vastly divergent Hindu diaspora communities throughout Europe; it is shared despite different ritual and theological legacies, customs, languages, countries of origin, and residences in the diaspora. Many communities want a permanent, real temple in traditional architecture (according to the Śilpa Śāstras), but very few have achieved it so far—although at the present the situation is rapidly changing. I will come back to this important subject below (in section 11.3) and the significance of “real temples.” At present, it is enough to simply draw attention to the fact that little attention is given to Tamil Hindus in most studies on the Netherlands. This is due to the country’s unique and large Surinamese diaspora (100,000–200,000), which makes it quite distinct from the rest of Europe where there is a Tamil majority in most countries. Ignoring Tamil Hinduism in the Netherlands may be understandable, but one misses out on important information. Regarding Tamil Hindus, Albertina Nugteren’s characterisation of the “low visibility of Hindus” and “the low key celebrations of their festivals” in the Netherlands is not quite fitting. Spectacular kāvaṭi dance is also found in the Netherlands, and since 2010 (one year after Nugteren’s article on Wijchen appeared) a temple with traditional gopuram has existed in Den Helder. The Tamil Hindu diaspora in particular is engaged in erecting traditional structures and (so far) has supplied most of the “real temples” in European temple Hinduism—an interesting transformation over the last two decades. However, also due to other ethnic groups’ almost feverish building activities, Europe’s temple landscape is rapidly changing and growing, thanks to ambitious projects for larger temples. In a very material sense, an ethnification occurs—particularly when compared with early temple Hinduism in Europe, which was largely ISKCON-based in most countries. The recent development of large building projects also holds for the

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Netherlands, as Nugteren summarises in 2013: “While there are many improvised temples all over the country, some communities managed to set up and successfully maintain a custom-built temple (such as in Amsterdam-Osdorp and Wijchen). Ambitious building projects, such as the construction of an entire Hindu complex in The Hague comprising three mandirs, two residential apartment blocks, and various culture-specific shops and service providers, are well underway” (2013: 277). Two Major Diasporas and Other Intriguing Issues Concerning Methodology and Diaspora Theory There are some theoretical issues and questions of methodology that should be addressed to conclude the observations on ethnic temples. The starting point will be Knut Jacobsen’s fruitful suggestion that there are two (distinctly different) diasporas in Europe—the Indian and the Sri Lankan—and that this distinction reveals many multilayered structures and glocalised patterns. The interplay between traditionalism and innovation, between the so-called little and great traditions, and between the ethnic/regional and global/panHinduism are important features of this distinction. The constant persistence of the ethnic in the universal, but also forms of the universal in the ethnic, even in the so-called “folk” or “little traditions,” confronts us with a challenging and complex situation. Geaves makes a good point: “[I]n each case the universalism takes a form which is unique to regional expressions” (2007: 112). Moreover, on top of the ethnic and inner-ethnic variety, the multitude of patterns dealing with commonalities and differences regarding the different “Hinduisms” and non-Hindu religions must also be addressed. While this theme focuses mainly on the public sphere of the diaspora, specifically the one inhabited by South Asians, the larger, societal-wide, public sphere confronts us with additional questions: What have been areas of conflict and controversy, and how were they solved? What learning processes took place on the part of the migrants? On the part of European society? An even more basic question concerning interactions with the larger public sphere is: Are Kim Knott’s steps and stages toward building a Hindu faith community in Britain also applicable to the rest of Europe (Knott 2009)? Finally, both the transformation of women’s roles and generational changes are important and intriguing issues. This overview reveals the richness of European temple Hinduism and allows us to identify new insights for diaspora studies and the study of Hinduism. 2.2

2.2.1 The Two Different Diasporas—the Indian and the Sri Lankan Corresponding to the diversity of ethnic Hinduism, which became obvious in the previous chapter, there is a multitude of patterns concerning how cultural

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identity is maintained, reconstructed, negotiated, and reformed. At the most basic level we can speak of at least two different diasporas, as Knut Jacobsen (2004: 138; 2013: 281) has suggested: first, the Indian, the mainly Gujarati and North Indian diaspora in Britain and the Netherlands (and also on a much smaller scale in Sweden, Portugal, and Austria); and secondly, the dominantly Sri Lankan Tamil diaspora in other European countries (France, Germany, Switzerland, Denmark, and Norway in particular). This is in reference to majorities in the different places, since the two diasporas can both be present in the same country; for example, in Britain, Sweden, Norway, or the Netherlands. In contrast to the Indian diaspora, the Sri Lankan Tamil diaspora is often more pronounced, with no or very few Indian temples in places where it is the majority, such as in Germany, Switzerland, and Denmark. Nevertheless, Jacobsen’s (2013: 281) demand that the North Indian Hindus and Tamil Hindus in Norway must be seen as two clearly distinct groups is also applicable to other European countries. Although some individuals may visit both temple types, and some temples and new pilgrimage sites may have an explicitly transethnic, universalist programme that, in a few cases, seek to embrace not just all Hindu traditions, but also all of the world’s major faiths (such as Skanda Vale and Ek Niwas); however, this is an exception to Jacobsen’s rule. North Indian Hindus and Tamil Hindus generally do not visit the other’s temples. The first are mainly Vaiṣṇava (especially focused on Rām(a) or Kṛṣṇa worship), while the second are mainly Śaiva (Śaiva Siddhānta theology and temple ritual). And, despite the fact that the goddess Durgā (Tam. Thurkkai Amman) is important to both, the rituals differ. This demarcation, which also includes separation by national identity and language, is indeed also applicable to other European countries. Jacobsen (2004: 139ff.) makes the point that Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus (the dominant group in Norway and many other places) challenge both our common identification of Hinduism with India and our many generalisations about Hinduism in the diaspora. If we look at the two diasporas, we get interesting and indeed enlarged insights into what is commonly called Hinduism. Indian Hindu migrants have a strong tendency to unify their traditions. The temples are mostly Vaiṣṇava, but they also contain Śaiva images; in fact, they contain all of the pan-Indian deities. This feature is very strong in Britain, as mentioned in diaspora studies, but it is also found in many other European countries—the Netherlands, Sweden, Denmark, and Austria. Nugteren characterises the temple in Wijchen as mainly devotional and very inclusive. This Dutch Ram Mandir houses—in addition to the presiding deities, Rāma and Sītā—most of the well-known pan-Indian deities (Kṛṣṇa and Rādhā, Viṣṇu-Nārāyaṇa, and Lakṣmī, Hanumān, Durgā, Kālī, Gaṇeśa, and Śiva). This is probably the most common pattern; it is found with abundance in Britain

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and also seen in Portugal. Despite the fact that the Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa Temple in Lisbon is clearly tradition-specific, it still includes Śaiva images, such as Śiva and the goddess (Lourenço 2015: 101). Another variant, this one more explicit and deliberate, is how the integrative, unified approach is communicated by the generalised temple names. Such is the case with many Hindu temples in Sweden, where the Indian Hindu diaspora and integrative Vaiṣṇava, Śaiva, and Śākta worship are predominant (Sardella 2013: 312). Several temples are simply called Hindu Mandal (Mariestadt and Trollhättan) or Hindu Mandir (Boras and Sollentuna), and one Hindu Union (Jönköping). The Hindu Mandal in Mariestadt, for instance, is explicitly pan-Hindu, housing images from different traditions. In Austria, where we find no Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus, only Hindus from several parts of India, we find something similar: Not only is the Hindu Mandir Community in Vienna Austria’s first Hindu temple (inaugurated in 1980), which is dedicated to the goddess Kālī, but also Austria’s largest temple community calls itself the Hindu Mandir Association. It was inaugurated in 1990 (also in Vienna), dedicated to pan-Indian deities (sarva devatā), and wants to transmit Hinduism as a cultural heritage (Hutter 2010: 6–7). Again, the same pattern can be detected in Denmark, where we find five Tamil temples, and only one Indian temple. The latter is called Bharatiya Mandir, “Indian temple” or “temple of Mother India,” and despite the fact that most of the attendees are Vaiṣṇava, it has an explicit programme to emphasise “the common heritage of all Hindus, irrespective of religious affiliation or connection to India” (Fibiger 2013: 218ff.). It seeks to bind all Hindus together by sheltering nearly all of the major Hindu deities (Rāma and Sītā, Śiva and Pārvatī, Kṛṣṇa and Rādhā, Viṣṇu and Lakṣmī, Durgā, Gaṇeśa, and Hanumān). These examples from different places in Europe highlight Indian Hindus’ general tendency to present Hindu unity instead of regional and sectarian variety, which is reflected in temple furnishing, policies, and names. These implicit and explicit unifying tendencies that are common among Indian Hindus may, on the one hand, be explained by diaspora-specific processes, variously called and described as a natural “thickening of traditions” in non-Hindu surroundings (Wilke 2003), a homogenisation and “standardisation” of Hindu traditions, (Knott 1987; 2009), or as temples becoming more “ecumenical” in the diaspora contexts. However, unifying and inclusivist trends are not only diaspora specific. They also have traditional forerunners41 and may be seen as simply follow41  Banares (Varanasi) is a remarkable, yet not untypical example: it is known as the city of Śiva—called Viśvanātha (“the Lord of the Universe”), to whom the major temple in the centre of the city is dedicated, and Banares is also well known as the city where one wishes to die, because it is said to grant immediate liberation. However, myth and actual

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ing, perhaps enlarging, the traditional Smārta practice of integrative worship of all major deities with one core deity in the centre. Smārta Hinduism is highly orthodox, conspicuously Brahmanic-Sanskritic, and spread throughout India, but less so in Sri Lanka. Typically, most of the great festivals—dedicated to Kṛṣṇa, Rām(a), Śiva, the goddess, or Gaṇeśa, or those that are not primarily religious, like Holī and Divālī—are celebrated by all of India, but there is diverse regional variety as to how they are celebrated. Depending on the chief temple deity, specific festivals are more important and elaborate than others. A few festivals are also specific to certain regions, such as Pongal, the Tamil New Year. Nonetheless, a rich festival culture and the myths surrounding each festival are a common heritage, similar to the basic acts of pūjā. Another very important homogenising factor is bhakti devotion and its rich vernacular and Sanskrit prose, lyrics, and songs. Bhakti plays a particularly powerful role in the diaspora, well as in India, and not only among Indian Hindu migrants, but also among Tamil Sri Lankans. An extension of these traditional modes, which celebrate diversity in unity and unity in diversity, is the more modern and more nationalist agenda that calls the temples “Bharatiya,” “Indian,” in India as well as the diaspora. It is noteworthy that within the past ten years the Danish Bharatiya Mandir witnessed a strong tension between those who wanted to emphasise a common Hindu heritage beyond religious and national affiliation and those whose approach was more exclusivist, national, and political, similar to the Vishva Hindu Parishad (VHP) in Herlev (Fibiger 2013: 219). Former temple committee members accused the current members of encouraging the younger generation to engage in the VHP. The politicisation made some Hindu families stop visiting the temple (ibid.). The emphasis on a common heritage and panIndian deities remains much less controversial. According to Manfred Hutter (2010, 2015), it was due to this emphasis that the Hindu Mandir Association in Vienna developed into the largest temple community in Austria. In contrast to other temples that were dedicated to only one tradition, it was able to attract religious practice rest on a powerful narrative of how liberation is actually achieved: Śiva himself is said to whisper into the dead person’s ear the most powerful “death-crossing and liberating mantra” (tāraka mantra) and this mantra is the name of Rām(a), or more precisely the Hindi mantra formula “Rām nām satya hai” (“The name of Rām is the [highest] truth”). This formula is constantly chanted while bringing the dying to the burning place. In North India Rāma (Skt., Hindi: Rām) is more than just the epic hero (although in temples he is always depicted as hero in the company of his wife Sītā, his brother Lakṣmaṇa, and his devoted servant Hanumān), it is synonym for God, the ultimate (formless) reality, undifferentiated from Śiva (those conversant with the theological and mystical tradition will give the anthropomorphic images metaphoric meanings).

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large numbers of Hindus from all the different creeds. One of the major reasons to favour unitary temple concepts is that they appear to be attractive to a larger, diverse clientele. Another reason is the fact that, in contrast to the original home culture, there are very few temples in the diaspora, and they have to meet diverse religious needs and expectations—best covered by an assembly of pan-Indian deities. As argued above, this unification and “thickening of traditions” (bringing Śaiva deities into Vaiṣṇava temples, etc.) must not be seen as merely a diasporic need and innovation. It was able to use, replicate, and, if necessary, expand and transform the traditional patterns with which people were already familiar. Of course, the selective choices would use the traditional models that were the most appropriate and fitting for the new context, such as the unifying and inclusive models of the Smārta and bhakti traditions. However, the unifying trends among most Indian Hindu temples do not ignore the fact that the temples and their central deities—Kṛṣṇa, Rāma, a goddess, or Śiva—generally retain pronounced regional-ethnic characteristics and connotations, which include specific rituals and theologies, as well as different languages, customs, and caste affiliations that are typical of a specific region. An extreme example is the magnificent Shri Sanatan Mandir in Wembley, which was built in a North Indian architectural style and inaugurated in 2010. It belongs to and was sponsored by the sectarian Vallabha Nidhi, Britain, but has a general name that alludes to sanātana dharma. The beautiful carvings covering the outside, in addition to depicting scenes from the Mahābhārata, Rāmāyaṇa, and Bhāgavatam, also include depictions of non-Hindus, like Mother Theresa and Gurū Nānak. The inclusion of non-Hindu saints, deities, or symbols is rather new and rare but, again, it is not a phenomenon specific to the diaspora. More important for our general argument is the fact that, despite the temple’s general name and globalised message, the selection of narratives and images is very much North Indian and Gujarati. To summarise: The Indian Hindus’ tendency to emphasise the general and global rather than the specific and regional may at best lead to what Lourenço termed “solid unity” despite heterogeneity. But, at the same time, the importance of ethnic-regional and sectarian identities must not be downplayed, because new ethnic Indian temples keep appearing, and even pan-India temples generally maintain a more or less open ethnic profile. This important issue, including the creative and conflicting tensions inherent to it, will be given more scrutiny below when explaining, among other things, the difficulties faced when trying to establish umbrella organisations in most of Europe, Britain being an exception, despite the common pattern of presenting Hindu unity and trying to demonstrate a homogenising attitude of openness and inclusiveness.

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In contrasting to this widespread (or, at least outwardly manifest) globalising pattern, which is typical for Indian Hindus in the European diaspora, is that of the large group of Tamil Hindus from Sri Lanka, whose temples and processions generally display a very different pattern, namely, the preservation of Tamilness and Tamil identity. Tamil Hindu temples may be characterised as more distinctly ethnic than the (North) Indian Hindu temples, and there are reasons to speak of a second diaspora. Most Sri Lankan Hindus came directly from Sri Lanka, mainly rural Jaffna, or via South India to Europe. But Tamil Hindus also include migrants from South Indian Tamil Nadu, and twice-migrant Sri Lankan and Indian Tamils from South Africa, Mauritius, and Singapore (particularly in Britain). Sri Lankan Tamil temple Hinduism is largely Śaiva, but Tamil Nadu temple Hinduism also encompasses a rich Vaiṣṇava tradition (generally focused on Viṣṇu/Viṣṇu-Nārāyaṇa rather than Rāma or Kṛṣṇa). Both Tamil Śaiva and Vaiṣṇava temple Hinduism, however, share many of the same orthodox (tantric) Āgama ritual prescriptions regarding temple building, consecration, and worship, despite their theological differences. Moreover, it is important to be aware that Tamil Śaivism is in fact Śaiva-Śākta; it includes the veneration of the great goddess as the god Śiva’s creative power and spouse. Most Sri Lankan Tamil temples are not dedicated to Śiva (Tam. Civa) himself, but to “Śiva’s family”: to his “sons” Murukaṉ/Murugan (the Tamil god par excellence) and Vināyaka(r) (the elephant-headed god Gaṇeśa or Gaṇapati, the Lord and Remover of Obstacles), and to Śiva’s “spouse,” worshipped in her own right as a divine female power (Skt. Śakti, Tam. Catti) or as the great goddess in various Tamil forms, such as Kamadchi/Kāmākṣī, Nagapooshani, (Ādi-)Parāśakti, Kannagathurkkai, Lalitā-Tripurasundarī/Rājarājeśvari, Apirāmi, Maṉōnmaṇi etc., or simply called “Ammaṉ” or “Ampāḷ,” “Mother.” Furthermore, what is also typically found in Sri Lankan Tamil temple Hinduism is, as has already been seen, the inclusion of vernacular “folk” practices, particularly during the great processions at the temple festivals. In addition to the Sri Lankan migrants, direct migrants from rural Punjab (i.e., a specific group of Indian Hindus) also make us aware of the fact that the globalisation of Hindu ideas and practices is not restricted to new religious movements, gurus, initiatives by Indian migrants, or Smārta extensions, which cover both orthodox and modern Hindu forms of worship. The Punjabis in the British West Midlands and the Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus in many European countries make it clear that a globalisation and transnationalisation of typically ethnic folk Hinduisms has taken place. Until recently, vernacular practices have been given too little attention within diaspora studies (Chohan 2004: 393; Jacobsen 2004: 134, 139), and they were also rarely addressed in introductions

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into Hinduism and research on Hinduism in general. This sparse treatment of vernacular, popular religion does not correspond to its importance or its visible presence in a society. Divine and demonic possession (the two are not always clearly distinguishable), self-mutilation, and exorcism are very widespread in South Asia’s village traditions. By studying them in the diaspora, we get a larger and more holistic picture of Hindu traditions. 2.2.2 Great and Little Tradition and Ethnic and Universal Hinduism These observations lead us to reconsider and scrutinise in more detail the great and little tradition(s) and ethnic and universal Hinduism. Knut Jacobsen (2004: xvi) points out that religious practices among diaspora communities “do not necessarily come from classical texts and sources,” but rather come largely from what anthropologists have identified as “little traditions or folk and village traditions.” Such practices challenge academic and popular images of Hinduism that are based on (a selection) of Hindu India’s great literary tradition—the Vedas, Upaniṣads, Bhagavadgītā, and Purāṇas (Jacobsen and Kumar 2004: 500). This is certainly true for rural Punjabi religion and the charismatic priests and healers in Baba Balaknath temples, as well as for the rites of mortification, body piercing, kāvaṭi “trance dance,” and the occasional divine possession at the Sri Lankan Tamils’ temple festivals in Britain and most of continental Europe. We may also add domestic and public possession rituals among Diu woman in Portugal and Tamil, North Indian, Guyanese, and Mauritian women in Britain to this list. They are seeking authority in the form of “miracle performances,” some going into trances or acting as goddess mediums in various states of possession, and some even perform body piercing and fire walking (Lourenço 2015: 110, 112; Knott 2013: 338; David 2009: 342, 344, 349). So, does the two-fold diaspora correlate with the great and little traditions? Can we place the Indian diaspora (with a few exceptions, like the rural Punjabi religion) under the heading “great tradition”? Can we do this because it follows the academic and popular images of Hinduism, the depictions in prestigious sacred literature, and puts major emphasis on the Sanskritic and Brahmanic “great tradition,” which is displayed, for instance, in inclusivist (ethnic and orthodox!) Smārta worship and its pan-Hindu ideology, as well as in more modern ideals of ecumenical “global Hinduism”? But, must we not also label Tamil Śaiva Siddhānta as a “great tradition” due to its highly traditional and orthodox (Brahman-centred) ethnic focus and performance, in both the Sanskrit and Tamil idioms? Indeed, is all of this in sharp contrast to the popular, vernacular, “folk” practices of Sri Lankans and Punjabis, which may justifiably be summarised under the heading “little traditions,” because they are based on village cults, oral literature, non-Brahmanic priests, performances not found in

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the Vedas or Āgamas, and ethnicity par excellence? If so, rather than speak of two diasporas, should we instead speak of a triple pattern or a triadic typology (orthodox pan-Indian practice that is modernised and transmuted into global Hinduism, ethnic orthodox Hinduism, and ethnic folk Hinduism), which incorporates the distinction between the little and great traditions? Or are the edges fuzzier than such clear-cut categories would suggest? The categories and distinctions are certainly not only fictional. An excellent, almost ideal, example of the threefold pattern and distribution of characteristics (pan-Hindu, orthodox Tamil, and folk Tamil) is found in Denmark. Indian Hindus in Denmark—both direct migrants from India and twice migrants from East Africa (most of them Vaiṣṇavas)—emphasise the common heritage of all Hindus. The only Indian Hindu temple in Denmark (established in the mid-1990s) is the aforementioned Bharatiya Mandir, which is located in a suburb of Copenhagen and is dedicated to pan-Indian deities (Fibiger 2013: 218–19). However, this is more the exception than the rule in Denmark and other places in continental Europe. Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus were far more active in establishing temples. They make up 75% of the Danish Hindu population, most of them from rural Jaffna and employed as unskilled workers, and they have erected five temples since the 1990s (ibid.: 217, 221). The first two, which are arguably still today the most important and popular temples, attract visitors from outside of Denmark, and they exemplify orthodox Tamil and folk Tamil patterns, or the great and little traditions, in an almost perfect way: The (Śaiva) Sri Sithy Vinayakar Thevasthanam in Herning has adopted orthodox Śaiva Siddhānta, right ritual conduct, strict purity, and orthopraxis, and has Brahman priests and high-caste committee members; whereas the (Śākta) Sri Abirami Amman temple in Brande was founded and is run by an autodidact laywoman who acts as priestess, śakti-medium, and healer during her possession trances (Fibiger 2003: 345–63; 2013: 220). In a way, the two distinct temple communities are mutually exclusive. Some criticise the “folk cult” and ritual impurity of worship at the Abirami temple, Brahmans in particular will not visit it, whereas, on the other hand, no piercing rituals have been seen (at least until 2003) at the Sithy Vināyakar temple festival (Fibiger 2003: 354, 360ff.). However, some Hindus visit both temples and their festivals, and the majority of Danish Tamil Hindus readily accept that both are an integral part of Tamil Hinduism and fulfil different needs (ibid.). As a matter of fact, “orthodox” Tamil Hinduism and “folk” practices like piercing are generally not mutually exclusive in European Tamil Hindu temple festivals, but instead are intertwined in most places, like in France (Trouillet 2013: 237). No doubt, the distinction between the great and little traditions may often be a helpful tool, but it is also a theoretical abstraction that tends to

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disregard the complexity of actual practice. The dichotomy has therefore been rejected by academic discourse, not only because of the elitist and pejorative associations of “little” and “folk,” but also because of the documented fact of mutual exchange and interface (well documented by Geaves 2007: 257–62). Ron Geaves (2007: 260) calls divisions like “little” and “great,” high and low, and pan-India and regional “erroneous and artificial” and instead suggests a continuum. In particular, he sees Śiva’s dual roles as both high god and regional deity, and ascetic and householder, as well as Śiva’s family (most importantly the inclusion of Murukaṉ into the Śaivite pantheon), as bridging the gaps. In addition, bhakti is an extraordinary, connective force that pertains to both ritualist Śaiva Siddhānta and the “raw bhakti” of possession states and emotional immediacy (ibid.: 258, 260). This factual continuity is also seen within ethnic Indian Hinduism, for instance among Gujaratis. Their temple practice has usually been presented as belonging to the “great tradition,” but the borders to what has been called the “little tradition” may sometimes be very fuzzy and fluid, or the categories may not be applicable at all. This is illustrated by Bradford Gujaratis’ earliest two devotional associations and semipublic shrines (established and run by the Prajapati and Patel families respectively) (see Bowen 1987: 18–21). The first, founded in 1967, was dedicated to Jalaram Baba, “a nineteenth-century Gujarati saint renowned for the miracles he worked and his devotion to Lord Ram” (ibid.: 19); a saint who is little-known outside of Gujarat. The second devotional circle of Gujaratis, established in 1970, was devoted to worship and honour the contemporary (meanwhile deceased) charismatic guru Sai Baba, to whom miracles and paranormal powers were attributed and who attracted large crowds in India, as well as many Western followers. Neither of these early circles and places of worship in Bradford fall under the premises of great tradition. Do they fit into the “little tradition” category despite the fact that the worship (singing devotional hymns and offering prayers) does not differ from the worship of the great pan-Hindu deities? In the case of Jalaram Baba, maybe? Or, in the end, does the little tradition apply to both cases due to their emphasis on the performance of miracles? Even though Sai Baba has a transnational movement and advocated global Hinduism? The only thing that remains clear is that Gujaratis may be drawn to bābās and miracle performances and that popular lived Hinduism is full of blurry categories. We must also assume a continuum between “ethnic” and “global.” For instance, it is important to note that the chief priest and founder of the grand Kamadchi temple in Hamm-Uentrop, built in the traditional South Indian style of temple architecture, does not understand his marvellous temple project and the chariot festivals (including kāvaṭi and many other vows) as only

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self-expressions of Tamilness. On the contrary, he sees them as genuine expressions of Hindu culture that accentuate the unity of Hinduism in terms of ritual, belief, and a shared canon of sacred literature.42 This is not only due to being in the diaspora, to his priestly authority and personal rootedness in the South Indian Smārta and Śākta schools of the highly orthodox Śaṅkarācāryas of South Indian Kanchipuram, or to his acceptance of modern, global Hinduism (Wilke 2003, 2004, 2006). In fact, simple laypeople also express their conviction and belief in the popular narrative that all Hindu gods are a big family and related by mutual kinship ties (Eulberg 2013: 256–57). Although it is true that, in contrast to Indian Hindu temples, Tamil Hindu temples are more clearly Śaiva, but they at least occasionally, and to a lesser degree, also integrate Vaiṣṇava images. For instance, the temple of Hamm-Uentrop houses, in addition to the chief (South Indian) Tamil goddess Kamadchi (Skt. Kāmākṣī), not only a large number of images from the Tamil Śaiva creed, such as Vināyaka (Gaṇeśa, Gaṇapati), the god Śiva (liṅga), Murukaṉ, Somaskanda, Ayyappaṉ, Bhairava, Caṇḍeśvara, the Navagrahas (nine planets), and an outdoor shrine dedicated to Śani (Saturn), but also an altar for Viṣṇu and Lakṣmī (Lakṣmī-Nārāyaṇa). Similarly, the Swedish Vināyakar temple includes a shrine of Lakṣmī (in addition to the altars for Vināyaka, Śiva, Pārvatī, and Murukaṉ). However, neither of these examples are unusual (there are likely more), nor do they violate classical Tamil Hinduism—past or present. The chief priest of the Kamadchi temple explicitly refers to Smārta integrative ṣadāyaṇa pūjā, which is widely spread in the south of India and promulgated by the Śaṅkarācāryas. It differs from North Indian Smārta paňcāyatana pūjā, the integrative worship of the five (paňca) major pan-Indian deities, Viṣṇu, Śiva, Devī (the goddess in one of her multiple forms), Gaṇeśa, and the sun god, by adding the popular Tamil god Murukaṉ as a sixth (ṣad). However, what both forms of integrative worship have in common is that there will be always one central deity, the deity of one’s choice, who is worshipped and materially and symbolically placed in the centre of the group—in Hamm-Uentrop, Kāmākṣī is venerated as the great goddess. In the 42  The goddess temple of Hamm-Uentrop expressly includes Smārta features and has the Kāmāksī temple of Kanchipuram (Tamil Nadu) as its model. In the German temple, a “thickening of traditions” occurs, which integrates Śaiva Āgama, Smārta, Tantric Śrīvidyā, Vedānta (Śaṅkara), vernacular-folk (mortifications and vows), devotional Bhakti (e.g., bhajan singing on Friday nights), Vedic (in the form of mantras and havans), and reform Hindu orientations (Wilke 2003, 2004). The chief priest is not only a Śaiva Āgama kurukkaḷ; by birth and family tradition he is a Vīra Śaiva and by personal confession a Śrīvidyā Upāsaka. His basically “ecumenical” approach was expressed, for instance, in his rebuilding and reconsecration of a Vaiṣṇava temple in Tamil Nadu, where he interacted closely with the local Vaiṣṇava community during the project.

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Swedish temple, the central deity is Vināyaka, but consistently it incorporates a shrine of Lakṣmī. Peter Schalk (2004) qualifies it as a family temple (in which women play a leading role). It is hence not surprising that Lakṣmī, the goddess of prosperity, is coupled with the elephant-headed Vināyakar (Gaṇeśa), the popular god who removes all hindrances and harm. A major exception to the otherwise clearly Śaiva-dominated, Sri Lankan Tamil Hindu temples, however, is the Ancaneyar temple in Castrop-Rauxel (Germany), which is dedicated to Hanumān, god Rāma’s faithful servant and one of the most popular gods in North India. These observations illustrate that the edges between the “great” and “little” and global and ethnic traditions are indeed fuzzy, and that Geaves’ suggestion to replace the dichotomy with a continuity is fitting. It is noteworthy that it is not just the Sri Lankan Tamil Hindu temples and festivals that mirror such a continuity. The same applies to the Punjabi Balaknath temples, which apparently belong to what has been called the “little tradition” or “folk and village Hinduism” more so than the complex situation of Tamil Hinduism. These temples incorporate orthodox Āgamic, vernacular bhakti, and rural folk elements in many entangled and distinct ways and, in addition to these elements, they sometimes even include Smārta and global Hindu orientations. However, rural Punjabi religion is more complicated and multilayered, particularly in the diaspora, than the major keywords “exorcism” and “charismatic healers” would lead us to expect. In its original, highly eclectic, context, rural Punjabi religion was already qualified by fluid boundaries and multilayered, mixed patterns of “little” and “great,” regional and pan-Indian, and local and global features and traditions, often too simply associated with further dichotomies (i.e., vernacular vs. Sanskritic, non-brāhmaṇical vs. brāhmaṇical, and pragmatic vs. transcendental). Although such demarcations undoubtedly exist and create multiple forms of Hindu identity, their “messing up” must also be acknowledged, particularly in the diaspora context, where the processes of ethnification and universalisation tend to both be accelerated. Indeed, it is noteworthy that, alongside popular folk practices, the charismatic leaders and priests (known as bhagats and bābās) of the three British Baba Balknath temples all use various strategies to universalise the cult in its transmigration from Punjabi villages to urban British conglomerates. The strategies found in the three temples include: the conspicuous absence of pictorial representations of other Hindu gods, while still presenting Baba Balaknath as the sole deity worthy of worship, lacing the pragmatic and this-worldly concerns with bhakti and transcendence, and constructing an aura of sacred specialness through the use of several mediums and devices, such as pronounced aesthetics of lighting (Coventry); by identifying Baba Balaknath with the Sanskrit

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god Skanda (the Tamil Murukaṉ), affirming association with sanātana dharma, and housing not only the icon (mūrti) of Baba Balaknath in an exalted position, but all the main Hindu deities that are commonly found in British temples (Walsall); or, by worshipping Baba Balaknath as the One omnipresent God (“Ek Niwas”) and embracing all the major world religions within the local temple space (Wolverhampton) (see Geaves 2007: 102–34). At the same time, the charismatic leadership of the bhagats, their counselling and traditional healing, the healers’ divine possession exorcising “demonic” spirit possession (i.e., the vernacular religious features of village Punjab and the actual markers of ethnic identity), remain at the centre of religious practice. It is interesting, however, that the diaspora-inspired transformations in the British Baba Balaknath temples (such as the different homogenisation strategies, potential moves from the pragmatic to the transcendental, and purely devotional goals) are novelties, but also, sanctioned by traditional Hindu religious expressions— in this case by Punjab’s “natural” eclecticism. In Sri Lankan Tamil and Punjabi religion, we thus find different scales and multiple layers of the “great” and “little” traditions and of local and pan-Indian elements. There may be varying scales of emphasis on both folk elements and universalising features. Whereas growing confidence in displaying vernacular culture was noted in Britain (Geaves 2007), in other diaspora contexts god possession can be judged as unfitting for the new surrounding (which happened in the German temple in Muenster-Altenberge, see Wilke 2006). Pragmatic and transcendental concerns and dimensions may appear separately or closely entangled. Negotiations with and adaptations to the new surroundings may incite strategies that move from the pragmatic to the transcendental (observed by Geaves 2007), but that also invite vigorous focus on the apotropaic, or “kismetic,” miraculous and inexplicable dimensions of this-worldly problems and pragmatic daily concerns, because divine help, protection, and empowerment may be even more urgently needed in the diaspora than at home—starting with visa problems (David 2009: 347–50). The temples may also provide consolation because they are places of prayer, purity, and transcendence, and also because they are spaces that reach out to an extraordinary, other-worldly array of spiritual powers. They have an important function precisely because of their demarcation from daily activities and worldly life; they are places in which worshippers can encounter the divine in physical form. In many ways, the European diaspora adds important new insights and challenges simple, one-way explanations. It reveals that processes of unification are not solely due to Brahmanisation or “neo-Hindu” global patterns. Nor has the diaspora extinguished vernacular folk practices, which exist side by side with uniform religious identity as well as an increased consciousness of

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ethnic-regional identities and demarcations. One interesting and challenging new finding is that Indian Hindus are not the only ones who reveal unifying and universalist approaches (based on Smārta extensions and bhakti devotion), folk or “little” traditions, like rural Punjabi religion, also demonstrate these approaches, and they even go beyond the Hindu traditions. Chohan emphasises that the bābās “do not pledge allegiance to a specific religion, instead they provide places of worship where all can gather under one roof regardless of religious identity or category” (2004: 401). This is explicit and pronouncedly visible in Wolverhampton’s Ek Niwas (“One Home”) temple which “in unique adaptation of the rural eclecticism […] does not confine [itself] to Hindu expressions as it is the case in Wallsall and Coventry, but attempts to embrace all the major world faiths” (Geaves 2007: 112). However, as Ron Geaves points out, this kind of programmatic, universal eclecticism is not unique to this temple. It is also found in Leicester (which has a temple ceiling that depicts Jesus, Gurū Nānak, and Buddha), in the Skanda Vale community in Mid-Wales, and in the more recently established Sanatan Mandir in Wembley. But, as Geaves rightly points out, “in each case the universalism takes a form which is unique to religious expressions” (ibid.). The same can be said about other countries in Europe. At the same time, however, we rarely find references to Jesus, Gurū Nānak, and Buddha in continental Europe’s temples (at least to my knowledge), although we may find it in domestic shrines. Geaves (2007: 113) noted another interesting development regarding the British Baba Balaknath temples, particularly Ek Niwas: their reputation for healing is slowly spreading, even outside the confines of Britain. Ek Niwas, despite its pronounced universalist programme, has predominantly attracted Punjabi Sikhs and Hindus from the Jalandhar district (as well as twice migrants from continental Europe and Canada), rather than members of other South Asian migrant communities, but Geaves assumes this might change in future. This healing prowess, relocated from the Punjab to Britain, may well be the key to further transformation and to attracting wider Hindu communities from Britain and beyond. 2.2.3

Interactions Among Different Religions Within the Diasporic Public Sphere Temple projects touch both the diasporic public sphere, which is a sphere shared by all South Asian minorities, and the larger, societal-wide, public sphere (Eulberg 2014: 119). Both affect Hindu communities’ self-representations and their reproductions of cultural identity, and vice versa, they also impact European society. Within the diasporic public sphere, which is shaped and inhabited by large local South Asian communities, we must not only distinguish

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between the cultural richness and diversity of the different ethnic-regional and sectarian traditions, and of first and twice migrants, but also take into account the inner-ethnic plurality and multiple ways of identity building that exist within each group. Furthermore, as Knut Jacobsen pointed out, we must pay attention to both the plurality in the South Asian diaspora, which is made up of different religious traditions (Hindu, Christian, Muslim, Sikh), and common features shared by them (Jacobsen 2009: 180–98). I would add that this includes looking at the different patterns of interaction and exchange between, and within, the different religious traditions, which comprises crossing various borders as well as setting up clear lines of demarcation. The Punjabi case once again offers illumination on all of the aspects, starting with their ethnic and cultural differences from the Gujaratis. But, just as important, the Punjabi case illustrates the diversity that is possible within one and the same ethnic community. In Britain we find Sanatani Punjabis and Arya Samaj Punjabis from East Africa, but also traditional, rural Punjabis from India who have highly charismatic and eclectic religious styles that differ greatly from the Sanatanis and Aryas. There is never just one inner-ethnic and intrareligious identity. However, the traditional eclecticism of rural Punjab also shows the opposite, namely, that Western ideas about religious boundaries and demarcations often do not work in the context of Asian religions. While it is possible to find multiple religious identities within one religious diaspora community, it is equally possible to find the same or similar identities within different religious communities; in the Punjabi case these are the Hindus and the Sikhs and, one might add, in rural Punjab also the Sufis. The second bābā temple in Wolverhampton is connected to a Sufi shrine in Hoshiapur, but was established in Britain by a Hindu and is visited by Hindus and Sikhs (Chohan 2004: 405). Another case of extreme boundary crossing and hybridity, and also of Punjabi inner-religious diversity, is the Ravidas movement which established a temple in Vienna (Hutter 2010: 1–3). It originated in the city of Jalandhar and can be traced back to the mystic Sant Ravidas (between the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries). The Sants’ nondualism and mystical spirituality have always consciously blurred Hindu and Muslim boundaries, and they were often low caste. The Ravidas movement also has a largely low-caste and Dalit following, and it escapes any categorisation as solely Hindu or Sikh; it is rather “something inbetween the Hindu and the Sikh,” as Manfred Hutter puts it (2010: 1). Similar to other, historically Hindu, guru traditions, their spiritual practice and worship is centred on a living guru from the succession of Ravidas, but at the same time, the worship largely consists of Sikh practices, such as the veneration of the holy book Gurū Granth Sahīb (ibid.: 2).

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Punjabi religion challenges our European expectations, which are based on the Christian model (one person, one religion) and the modern academic and popular constructions of world religions. One may question whether the terms “hybridity,” “blurring,” and “boundary crossing” that have been used above are good definitions for the Balaknaths’ and Ravidas’ practices. Although the categories are helpful when attempting to distinguish between the blended elements from the Hindu and Sikh traditions, they rely on models with clear religious boundaries, which are not applicable here. Nonetheless, they are not merely academic constructions, but very real, even fatally so. The religious styles of the Balaknath and Ravidas movements were heavily attacked by fiercely orthodox Sikhs, particularly Khalsa Sikhs. Local Khalsa Sikhs were part of a public hate campaign against the British Ek Niwas temple (see below). In Vienna, the current guru of the Ravidas movement (Guru Niranjan Das) and another Ravidas guru from India became victims of an assassination by two militant orthodox Sikhs while they were holding sermons in the Austrian Ravidas temple in 2009. Niranjan Das was severely injured; the other guru did not survive. International media turned their attention on the Austrian temple, and this incited riots in Jalandhar. This is an extreme example of the different reactions to each other that are found among South Asian traditions in the diaspora, ranging from inclusion to exclusion. In the case of diaspora Hindus, we rarely find staunch ideological exclusivism like we do in the case of orthodox Sikhs. Inclusivist attitudes are much more prevalent, for instance, as Sandya Marla-Küsters (2015: 363–403; forthcoming) demonstrates in regard to Tamil Hindus’ relation to (German) Christians. An exception is the sometimes ambivalent and often very negative feelings toward Islam among middle-class Indians.43 But overall, disinterest in the unfamiliar 43  This feeling has to do with the centuries-long Muslim imperial presence in India, the unwanted separation of India and Pakistan, and modern political Islam and Muslim terror acts. During Hindu processions, particularly when they proceed through Muslim quarters, bloody riots may occur. This happened in Varanasi, during an already politically loaded atmosphere (the Ayodhya conflict), on the occasion of a Kālī procession in 1992. But, for the most part, even today the centuries-old practise of peacefully living side by side, often without much interaction, continues—despite militant Hindutva’s ideological exclusivism and aggression toward Muslims and Christians. I know of no such case in the diaspora, although verbal distancing from and criticism of Islam (Islamism and jihadism)—resembling the negative Muslim image in European societies at large—is widespread among diaspora Hindus. Self-representations, as well as those the local authorities and media make, often use the stereotype of peace-loving, tolerant, and nonviolent Hinduism (in contrast to aggressive Islam). For a recent example of this pattern, see Berliner Zeitung, August 28, 2018, which announces the opening of Berlin Neukölln-Hasenheide’s new, magnificent Gaṇeśa temple in 2019. It quotes the local

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and “foreign” other prevails. Members of regional Hindu traditions are often not interested in other regional Hinduisms, but much more interested in what they have in common with non-Hindu traditions that share a similar history, geography, and language. These cultural and ethnic factors create an intense zone of contact, which leads to shared religious ideas and practices among different religions. Typically, Sri Lankan Hindus and North Indian Hindus have separate temples and cultural organisations. They speak different languages, come from different countries of origin and, in part, celebrate very different rituals and festivals. Consequently, Afghani Hindus in Germany would rarely visit Tamil Hindu temples, or vice versa. Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus would rather visit Christian churches, preferably Catholic pilgrimage sites devoted to Mary, and Afghanis (similar to the Punjabis) would rather share a common temple space with Sikhs, which happened in Cologne, in the first Afghani temple in Germany, which was established in 1991 (Hutter 2012: 354–57). This model, however, was not followed in other German cities, and Afghani Hindus and Sikhs have separate places of worship. Even in Cologne, a spatial separation occurred recently because the Sikhs felt uneasy with the presences of the Hindu gods (mūrtis) and moved the Gurū Granth and devotional activities of reading and singing the holy text into an adjoining, separate room.44 Worship of the Hindu gods and devotional bhajan singing in the larger temple room may go on at the same time; this happened on the occasion of a guided temple tour that I attended during my fieldwork. Remarkably, the female Hindu guide explained to the Christian visitors that the icons were not gods, but “saints.” This might have been to accommodate Protestant Christians’ uneasiness and critique of image worship, the overall secular mentality in Germany, or possibly sensitivity and inclusivism of the Sikhs in the neighbouring room. This case is a good illustration of how religious identity in the diaspora remains an ambiguous and constantly negotiated project, partly qualified by ethnic belonging, partly by either religious demarcation and separation or inclusive strategies mayor’s wish and conviction that the “peace-loving Hindus” (friedliebende Hinduisten) and their two (traditional-style, Tamil Hindu) temples in Neukölln are acknowledged for their enrichment of Neukölln’s multicultural population and their contributions to peaceful living in this area, which is not without conflict. 44  There is a strong tendency among Sikhs to emphasise Sikhism as an autonomous religion (personal information from Robert Stephanus, who works on Sikhism in Germany), and Geaves (2007: 103 a.o.) also notes a “Khalsification” of Sikhism in the Punjab and in Britain. Such self-assertions are not only acts of identity maintenance that also seek to prevent misconceptions, such as the experience of early Sikh migrants who were viewed as Hindus, but also run counter the Indian constitution which subsumes all religions of Indian origin (i.e., also Buddhism, Jainism, and Sikhism) under the common heading of Hinduism.

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and comparisons. Scholars have often noted that greater self-awareness and reflection occurs in the diaspora. It always happens in the presence of nonHindu others. In the European diaspora, this means it occurs in societies where—along with and in spite of secularism—Christianity prevails as the dominant religion, i.e. the model of singular confession and the exclusive lens through which religion is understood. When Knut Jacobsen (2009: 180–98) demanded for greater awareness of and attention to the parallel developments, common features, and entangled relationships among South Asian religions, instead of just studying the Hindu diaspora and holding onto (the erroneous) claims about its uniqueness, his case example was the Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus and Sri Lankan Tamil Catholics who had settled in Norway. He argues that the two groups make up a closeknit ethnic community, even though they belong to two different religions. Nonetheless, a parallel development in the institutionalisation of their religions in the diaspora and very similar patterns in the maintenance of their “Tamilness” abroad are noticeable: by establishing Tamil places of worship, by insisting on Tamil priests in Catholic churches who celebrate the mass in the Tamil language, by rituals and by processions that share some striking similarities and common patterns in the creation and ritualisation of Tamil sacred space and Tamil identity. At the same time, Jacobsen notes, the relationship between Tamil Hindus and Catholics remains asymmetrical. Hindus visited Christian churches, particularly before they had established their own places of worship (Jacobsen 2009: 192), and some Hindus also participated in the Catholic procession of Our Lady of Madhu at Mariaholm (introduced in 2005), whereas Catholics rarely attended the Hindus’ festivals, processions, and temple services (ibid.: 195ff.) Hindu inclusiveness and Catholic exclusiveness is one of the most important differences (ibid.).45 The same features can also be seen in other European countries.46 Tamil Hindus visit Christian churches, attend Christian masses, love Marian pilgrimage places and processions, and have Mary, sometimes also Jesus (and Buddha), on their domestic pūjā altar along with their favourite Hindu deities. Churches (with or without a Tamil priest) have not only been important places for congregational worship and praying in solitude before the temples 45  Tamil Sri Lankan Hindus who partake in Christian rituals seem to have grown in the diaspora (Marla-Küsters 2015: 372). 46  The following notes are based on fieldwork studies in Germany and Switzerland by Lüthi (2003), Luchesi (2008), Marla-Küsters (2015: 363–403; forthcoming), and Wilke (1996: 279–82).

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were built, they often remained an important alternative. They continue to be attended, particularly when no temple exists in the vicinity but also to seek silence. Churches and temples may thus fulfil different functions, and temples enchant, not so much as places of peace and silence, but because of their liveliness, sacred sounds, music, the deities’ glances and beautiful clothing, and the abundance of colourful aesthetics. Marian and Tamil Catholic processions enjoy enduring attraction, like the one in Kevelar (Germany, near the Dutch border) and Marian pilgrimage places like French Lourdes and Swiss Einsiedeln, because they remind them of their own temple culture. In 2013, at the yearly Tamil pilgrimage (“Tamilenwallfahrt”) in Kevelar (established in 1987), around 15,000 Tamils from all over Germany and other European countries were present to see the miraculous picture of the Christian Madonna as Consolatrix Afflictorum (Comforter of the afflicted); 40–60% of the visitors were estimated to be Tamil Hindus (Luchesi 2008). Mary is seen as a benign and gracious mother goddess (Ammaṉ), and pilgrimage sites are perceived as laden with auspiciousness, sacred power, miracles, and healing. And, even after attending the Christian mass, taking the eucharist, and feeling Christian (as well as Hindu by birth), many explain that there is no need to convert, because god is the same everywhere (see the fieldwork of Marla-Küsters 2015: 363–403, in particular 371, 375, 378, 394; and forthcoming). An interesting quantitative survey by Martin Baumann and Karl Salentin (2006: 307) revealed that the religious self-positioning of Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus in Germany included multiple religious identities. Among the 874 persons surveyed: 63.2% called themselves “Hindu,” 4.6% “Catholic,” 3.9% “Protestant,” 8.1% “Hindu and Catholic,” 0.7% “Hindu and Protestant,” 6.3% mentioned other combinations with at least one strong affiliation, and 13% called themselves “nonreligious.” Not only in the case of the Punjabis, but also across India, Nepal, and Tamil Sri Lanka, overlapping religious identities are fairly common and unproblematic. It is noteworthy that inclusive adaptations are found in both Tamil Catholic practices and Hindu rituals. Tamil Catholic processions—in Sri Lanka, Indian Tamil Nadu, and the diaspora—in particular absorbed and Christianised elements from Hindu rituals and myths. The same is not true for Tamil Hindu processions; however, in the diaspora, we find that features from Christian church services have been formally adopted in temple rituals and converted to fit the needs of the Hindu diaspora. In a number of temples, be it Hamm-Uentrop or Stockholm, Friday and weekend services include sermon-like speeches by the chief priest, there are books of hymns and bhajans that are chanted together, in some places Tamil, Hindi, or Gujarati replaces the Sanskrit, even in

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the worship proper, and—at least in the Dutch temple in Wijchen—we find benches and chairs similar to those in Christian churches.47 It is also remarkable that the first, public, Tamil Hindu shrine in France was installed at the famous basilica of the Sacré Coeur in Paris, Montmartre. Pierre-Yves Trouillet (2013: 237, referring to Robuchon 1993) explains this astonishing fact: “Although it is a Catholic shrine, its location on a hill and its big white domes overlooking the capital city make Sacré Coeur look like a South Asian shrine, prompting the weekly visits of Sri Lankan Hindus in the early 1980s.” Indeed, prestigious church buildings would likely be more readily accepted as “real temples” than the small basement shrines. Marla-Küsters’s fieldwork records the pilgrimage of a Tamil Hindu family to Lourdes, whose objective was to perform the child’s first haircut at Lourdes’ cathedral, “as there was no Hindu temple in Germany, which the family would have accepted as an authentic place of worship. Thus, the cathedral was favoured over the small Hindu temples, which existed in Germany back then” (forthcoming; 2015: 376, see also 398ff.). Axel Michaels (1998: 22) called such patterns of making, or perceiving, the other as one’s own the “habitus of identification” (identifikatorischer Habitus) which, according to him, is based on the assumption that the other was always already part of one’s own religion: “The other God can stay to be the other God, because actually he already is the own God” (ibid.). In this principle of equality, expressed in the often-heard sentence in India “that is all the same” (ibid.), Michaels saw a basic and pervasive Hindu practice that did not necessitate exclusion. Of course, there are both exclusive and inclusive discourses,48 although the latter are generally dominate. There is a great variety of patterns for dealing with ethnic-regional, intra-ethnic/religious, and interreligious diversity. Within the Tamil temple communities of Germany, for instance, we find a whole range of various forms of inclusive openness (e.g., in Hamm-Uentrop, as discussed above, or in Frankfurt, where Āgama Śaivism is combined with Vedic knowledge and Jaffna-specific elements). In contrast, there is a harsh opposition of “Dravidian” Tamil versus “Āryan” Sanskrit in some other places (e.g., in the small Śiva/Civa temple of Wettringen/Rheine) (Wilke 2006). Some feel that Śiva (Tam. Civa) is a Tamil god, and Sanskrit is a foreign culture. Neither Tamil Hinduism nor the Kamadchi temple priest’s inclusive, “ecumenical,” and globalising conviction is every Hindu’s piece of cake. How 47  See Nugteren 2009: 139ff. The inclusion of benches was, however, already the case in the Caribbean diaspora. 48  See also Marla-Küsters 2015: 393–400, but her fieldwork ultimately showed that exclusivist tendencies were clearly more the exception than the rule (ibid. 393).

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much regional-ethnic identity maintenance is sustained, is demonstrated, for instance, by a small, beautiful Balinese pagoda shrine in Hamburg, which was established because the female founder and priestess felt that Hamm-Uentrop did not serve her own Hindu tradition but rather was too Tamil (Wilke 2017: 336). Remarkably, in Berlin Sri Lankan Hindus erected in Britz, Neukölln, a wonderful Murukaṉ temple in traditional architecture (inaugurated in 2013), which is served by South Indian Brahman priests. In 2010, in the same area, Neukölln, Indian Hindus (from Bangalore and other places) had already started to build their own temple, dedicated to Gaṇeśa, in traditional South Indian architecture; construction work continues slowly due to financial problems, but it is going to be a magnificent site, with a gold-plated temple tower, and larger than Hamm-Uentrop (Berliner Zeitung, August 28, 2018; see also Strauß 2016). Both projects, it seems, were undertaken in reaction to the success of Hamm-Uentrop’s first grand German temple. And, in addition to the desire to provide Berlin’s 6,000 to 7,000 Indian and Sri Lankan Hindus with their own temple, it was also likely motivated by a quest for greater orthodoxy and purity, and better publicity, since it was located in Germany’s capital. Among orthodox Tamils and Brahmans, reservations and critiques concerning the temple in Hamm-Uentrop still exist. It is not accepted as truly Āgamaic due to its nonBrahman (Vīra Śaiva) chief priest. Ethnic-regional, local, and theological varieties are not the only things that persist, socioreligious rivalries and caste issues also linger (although they are reduced in the diaspora) and are some of the reasons, apart from inner-ethnic differences in theology and practice, that a seemingly cohesive Hindu community (e.g., of Sri Lankan Tamils) is actually divided into multiple Sri Lankan Tamil identities that compete with each other (see also Wilke 2003 and 2006). Even the same ethnic community may have different temple buildings within the same city (despite the financial problems common to all). In Hamm, Germany for instance, three Sri Lankan Tamil Hindu temples already existed when the newly built Kamadchi temple was inaugurated in 2002; the eldest was an orthodox Śaiva Siddhānta Vināyakar temple with Brahman priests, the youngest a “folksy” Murukaṉ temple with a pious, low-caste owner. In early 2017, a fourth Sri Lankan Tamil temple was inaugurated in Hamm in an old movie theatre; this is a Vaiṣṇava temple, the Sri Venkateswara Perumal temple. Although Sri Lankan Tamil religiosity is overwhelmingly dominated by Śaivism, Vaiṣṇava minorities exist in Sri Lanka, and this minority religion also found its way to Germany. The choice of Hamm for this temple likely has to do with Hamm’s fame among the Sri Lankan Hindus as a new pilgrimage site—a fame it acquired from the splendid Kamadchi temple and its great processions.

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The diversity within seemingly cohesive traditions, as well as among the different regional Hinduisms, is rarely realised by members of European society, who instead nurture stereotypical images of Hinduism. But a complex plurality exists, and Hindus deal with it in various ways. For instance, in contrast to the Balinese priestess’ (almost aggressive) articulation of the differences between Tamil and Balinese Hinduism, an Indian Hindu priest of Kṛṣṇa was more relaxed. After the inauguration of the new Kṛṣṇa temple in 2014, a journalist asked the priest why a second temple was necessary in Bielefeld, since a (Tamil) Hindu temple already existed in the city. The priest explained that in Hinduism the difference in temples is similar to the differences between Protestant and Catholic Christians’ churches (Neumann 2014). The new temple was built for Hindus who believed in Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa, he went on, and for whom the centre of religion is devotion and peace. Both the question and the answer are interesting. The question shows that members from within the majority in European society are largely unaware of the important differences between North Indian and Tamil worship and temple Hinduism, or the fact that a North Indian would generally not visit a Tamil Hindu temple, and vice versa. Typically, the priest would refer to the churches (i.e., to practices) in his reply and use a Christian comparison (which would be easily understood by his interlocutor) to explain the difference in unity (both are Hinduism, yet different). Remarkably, he also referred to a larger, more global, and abstract concept as the centre of his religion and worship: devotion and peace are the “kernels” of Kṛṣṇa veneration. Furthermore, he hastened to add that no competition or rivalry existed between the two temples in Bielefeld, both were very open-minded and not exclusive, and that they also regularly witnessed many native German devotees (viele Deutsche Hinduismus-Gläubige; ibid.). 2.2.4

Exchanges with the Rest of Society—From Welcoming and Being Welcomed to Conflicts and Solutions The previous paragraph included many observations about how temple Hinduism and the diasporic public sphere interact with the larger public sphere of the majority society. Like in Bielefeld, in Hamm-Uentrop, for instance, many Germans visit the temple regularly: some have never been in a Hindu temple before and are enchanted by the welcoming atmosphere (for instance, greatly enjoying the Tamil food offered to them for free on weekends), some come regularly and have arcana rituals performed for them (private offerings to the deity that are mediated by the temple priest) like native Hindus, and some get spiritual advice and blessings from the chief priest. Since the consecration of the current, gorgeous, temple building, which is visibly Hindu with its richly decorated temple towers (gopura and vimāna), not only have

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Sri Lankan devotees increased, but also German visitors. A “German parish” was even formed that has close relations to the temple, the priest, and with each other (Wilke 2013b: 41; 2017: 333ff.). They also have a very friendly relationship with the Sri Lankan Tamil community, but the two groups do not mingle and are of different kinds. The Tamil Hindus may be called a “ritual and festival community.” Although a number come regularly to the temple for pūjā on Fridays or weekends, many visit the temple irregularly, only to have arcana performed on special occasions (e.g., in case of family problems or a family member’s birthday), and participate in the major festivals when there is normally a larger crowd—and hence also the opportunity to socialise, meet, and exchange, for instance, during the free meals. In contrast, the regular German visitors, who are attracted to Hindu religion and philosophy, may be called a “spiritual community.” Migration studies have often emphasised conflicts (particularly when dealing with Muslim migrants). South Asian diaspora studies have also often only offered a one-sided picture of problems, discrimination, and victim narratives rather than success stories of acceptance, positive encounters, successful integration, and the welcoming of migrant religions as a valuable contribution to a multicultural society (Kumar 2015: 345–47). Both perspectives exist in regard to temple Hinduism. In the following, I want to focus on some controversies and conflicts, not only because this topic is usually the first that comes to mind when considering the impact the diaspora public sphere has on the larger public sphere, but also, and more importantly, is the insight that conflicts and controversies have the potential to be transformed into learning processes and innovation. Conflicts can also contain hidden success stories or turn into them when creative solutions are found. Much of the following is about these aspects. It is a well-known and widely spread situation that the unfamiliar and foreign raise curiosity, wonderment, and fascination, but also irritation, fear, rejection, animosity, and the demonisation of the foreign other. This happens when the foreign is incomprehensible, violates one’s own values, goes against one’s own religious and secular convictions, and when it is therefore perceived as disturbing, inappropriate, unacceptable, and even dangerous. Such was the case in the conflict and debates around the Ek Niwas Universal Divine Temple in Wolverhampton in April 2000 (Chohan 2004: 402ff; Geaves 2007: 113–15). Its “universalist stance that embraces all the major world religions by incorporating their symbols” (Geaves 2007: 103) and its exorcism rituals both came under attack. This temple was heavily opposed by staunch orthodox Sikhs from the local Gurudwara who were distressed at the number of Sikhs attending the temple for worship, the exorcisms, and the possessions taking place. However,

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what was most outrageous and totally unacceptable to them was that their sacred book, Gurū Granth Sahīb, was placed among Hindu deities and symbols from other religions, including images of Jesus and Buddha. Before the conflict escalated, Khalsa Sikhs had already repeatedly attempted to remove their holy book. But, what made the conflict develop into a public affair was the opposition also coming from members of the majority society—journalists and a local interfaith group who had denied membership to the Ek Niwas community. The conflict escalated when an ill-informed and highly orientalist newspaper article on the priest (bābā) and founder referred to him as a “cult leader” who performed “occult” exorcist practices—a veritable public hate campaign that amounted to an accusation that some sort of Satanic Mass was celebrated in the temple (Geaves 2007: 114). This sad cultural misunderstanding was disturbingly fuelled by the local interfaith group, as well as additional media coverage. The priest was even arrested due to both the media campaigns and the Khalsa Sikhs. Fortunately, he was released, which was partly due to the temple devotees’ public demonstrations in which they proclaimed their reverence and love for the bābā and his importance for the community. The newspaper that had spread the disastrous article published a full apology and admitted their misunderstanding. This misunderstanding started with the simple fact of ignorance about the Punjabi religion’s natural eclecticism and the importance of exorcism and healing rituals to cope with inexplicable fate and misfortune and to help solve individual and collective problems. The misunderstanding was also part of the cultural baggage. The universalist and naïve inclusivism of Ek Niwas and the fact that they placed the exorcist rituals alongside the unorthodox merging of “Sikhism” and “Hinduism” was apparently highly irritating, alien, and challenging for the interfaith network. Their Christian monotheistic perspective made them compare the temple activities to black magic and Satanism (Geaves 2007: 115). They perceived the boundary crossing and folk practices as heresy, and they obviously felt much more at home with the exclusive stance of the orthodox Sikhs with whom they joined forces. The Sikhs’ reaction bore a closer resemblance to their Christian conviction and their essentialist understanding of religions as discrete, separate entities. Moreover, the belief in malevolent spirits and charismatic healers’ supernatural powers violated the rationality and secularism of the British, while in their original context, evil spirits and divine powers were part of daily reality and a way to rationalise and cope with life’s inexplicable fate (Chohan 2004: 408). But, at least in part, the initial incomprehension ended successfully, with a better understanding, starting with the apprehension that no Satanic Mass was going on, and with the public apology. The temple priest was exonerated and the British became aware of how

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much the exorcisms and healing rituals, so foreign for the British, formed an integral part of village India’s religious life. However, adaptations and learning processes also took place on the side of the temples. The change in cultural context brought about a change in ritual. Adaptation was necessary, since a majority of British Punjabis nowadays seek the bābā’s counselling to solve family problems, particularly generational conflicts, rather than be possessed by malevolent spirits who must be exorcised (Chohan 2004: 407ff.). Traditionally, counselling and exorcist healing were initially performed in front of the temple audience and not only included a dialogue between the bābā and the demon/the afflicted (who, in a state of possession, was believed to embody the demonic spirit), but also at times included ritual violence, such as whipping the demon (who voiced the socially unspeakable, such as the oppression of a daughter-in-law). The accusatory article reported about “an altar which houses a chain whip” (Geaves 2007: 114). However, this whip supposedly had a merely symbolic function by 2000, because whipping had gone out of use in this temple several years before. Sandeep Chohan (2004: 409) noticed that, by 1995, when Ek Niwas (formerly a house shrine) moved to the current, official, larger location (a disused factory), physical force was no longer undertaken for exorcism. Instead, the mere glance and blessing of the bābā were now believed to expel the evil spirits. The bābā’s change in approach was explained by the devotees as well as by himself: once full spiritual power is gained then physical actions are no longer required for healing. A more concrete and down to earth explanation of the change in practice may be that the younger generation, raised in Britain, was disconcerted about the physical actions and ritual violence. It would be interesting to investigate whether the more recent conflict possibly pushed such developments and changes in ritual even further. However, the move to a less spectacular and more spiritual practice and to devotional kīrtan singing (adding soteriological and dharmic goals to the pragmatic and kismetic) may be seen as typical in the diaspora situation, but it cannot be generalised. Wolverhampton’s second bābā temple reveals just the opposite: Initially, only nonviolent practices like prayer and drinking water with sacred ashes (called amṛt) were performed to heal the afflicted, but they were extended to include physical exorcism, including beating the afflicted, who at the moment of possession was believed to be the malevolent being, not the person (Chohan 2004: 410–41). It is also noteworthy that, according to Geaves (2007: 113), the healing reputation of the bābā temples, not least of all the Ek Niwas, is slowly spreading, even outside the confines of Britain. So far, this temple, despite its pronounced universalist programme, has predominately attracted Punjabi Sikhs and Hindus from the Jalandhar district (and also twice migrants

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from continental Europe and Canada), but not members from other South Asian migrant communities. However, Geaves assumes this may change in future: “The reputation of Baba Balaknath’s healing prowess” (ibid.), dislocated from the Punjab and relocated in Britain, “may well be the key to the transformation of the tradition away from its origins” and to attracting wider Hindu communities from Britain and beyond (ibid.). Conflicts that arise are usually less about ideological issues, but more particularly about buildings and processions; when religion goes public and becomes particularly visible, or when it disturbs the neighbours in residential quarters. Trouillet (2013: 237) relates a typical case of conflict (see also Wilke 2006): The first Hindu temple in France, the Manikka Vinayakar Alayam, was initiated in 1985 in the founder’s apartment. But the neighbours quickly complained about the noise and the flow of devotees. In 1992 the temple moved, and again in 2010, but visibility was low key. Visibility in public space was achieved, however, by public processions. The same temple established the yearly “Gaṇeśa Festival,” which is the major Hindu event in France and which lasts one day, attracting “tens of thousands nowadays” (Trouillet: 238). In this article, Trouillet does not report any conflicts or controversies, on the contrary, he speaks of the spatial making of a “Little Jaffna” and also he mentions a second important Hindu event, ISKCON’s rathayātrā, which is attended by South Asians and the French alike. This integrative function of ISKCON temples and processions is also known in other places. But, probably the largest ISKCON temple, the Bhaktivedanta Manor temple in London, and its procession led to a ten-year legal struggle—a conflict which at the end led to a great success for ISKCON, because it garnered British Hindus’ full loyalty and support (see section 2.3). Traditional architecture, as much as it is desired by Hindus, especially the religious buildings’ towers, which are the most visible elements in a townscape, may be perceived as problematic to non-Hindus and therefore building them may be forbidden, which happened in Britain in some cases (see below). Eulberg (2014: 124) reports that the Swiss legal minaret ban raised fear among the Sri Lankan temple committee that the planned kōpuram (temple tower) in the newly established temple of Trimbach, the first Swiss temple in authentic South Indian style, would also be prohibited. But, in this case, the fears were unfounded. Unlike the animosity toward Muslims, the Swiss (and Germans) are well-disposed toward Sri Lankan Tamil migrants. In 2004 one policeman, overseeing the Kamadchi temple’s procession in Hamm-Uentrop said this was a very pleasant migrant community (in contrast to others) (Wilke 2013b: 47). The actual problems, which both the Trimbach temple and the Hamm-Uentrop

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temple experienced, were difficulties getting visas, work permits, and legal wages for the Indian artisans and craftsmen who decorated, sculpted, and painted the temple interior and the towers. The Manonmani Ampal temple in Trimbach had to postpone its consecration and inauguration by one year and had to cope with much higher costs (Baumann and Tunger-Zanetti 2014: 26ff.). Because of visa problems, the Kamadchi temple was only able to present a newly painted, colourful vimāna, but not a colourful kōpuram in the year of its reconsecration (2014), which is traditionally needed after twelve years. Moreover, it had to bear the burden of immense costs for the reconsecration, among other things, because sixteen priests from Sri Lanka had been invited, as well as an Āgama specialist from Australia, and a Śrīvidyā guru and swāmi from South India to oversee that correct ritual action was performed and to bless the occasion. British temple Hinduism witnessed a number of contested temple buildings. The Mahalaksmi temple in London East Ham (founded in 1985 in a former clothing store) planned, after purchasing a disused public house, to demolish the old structure and built a three-story, traditional temple (David 2008: 89). It would have been the second purposely built South Indian temple in London, and the third overall in Britain. But the plan was boycotted by local residents who feared (as usual) congested streets, particularly during festivals, possibilities of reduced parking, etc. and raised the question of “why another temple was necessary in an area with many already existing religious centres” (David 2008: 91). Planning permission was finally granted after a second, revised, application. Concerns were also raised by residents about the Sri Lankan Tamil Hindu temple in Wimbledon, southwest London (ibid.). Here, the complaint was about the use of space; the temple plans were accused of encroaching into a secular society and suburban city area. The temple was not perceived “as an asset to this mainly white, urban place whose residents remain uneasy but now tolerant of the outdoor festivals processing through the local streets” (ibid.). What the Swiss feared did actually happen in Britain. Geaves (2007: 178–81) reports that the Highgatehill Murugan (Murukaṉ) temple in London (formerly a Baptist Church, then a synagogue, before becoming a temple) could not be rebuilt as originally planned—with the rebuilt roof “in a highly decorated south Indian style complete with gopuram or temple tower and gateway” (ibid.: 178). The Haringey Council stopped the plans, and the temple tower—the visible marker of Tamil Hinduism—could not be realised. Now the temple resembles outwardly its origins as a church, “but the interior is a faithful reproduction of typical Tamil temples in South India,” built by a team of South Indian sthapatis for six months (ibid.: 179). This compromise, coupled with other markers of authenticity, enabled the temple to develop into a pilgrimage centre, a holy

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place (kṣetra), and a British tīrtha. The lush aesthetics of the Śaiva Siddhānta rituals, the priests’ care for every detail, the Śaiva Siddhāna rule that only god can worship god (performed by ritual purification), the festivals, which include more than once a year kāvaṭi and body piercing, and last but not least the specific location on a faraway hill (like Murukaṉ temples in India) in a London area were not many Indian migrants were living, all of this contributed to the temple becoming a pilgrimage centre. It encouraged what Geaves (ibid.: 181) calls “trans-ethnic travelling” and “spiritual journeying.” Remarkably, not only Tamil Hindus would visit the place for pūjā and festivals, but also Bengali and Gujarati families. They are allowed to perform abhiṣekam, the ritual of washing and anointing the deities (with oil, milk, scented powder, honey, yogurt, etc.), and to assist the sacrificial ritual at homa, conducted by the kurrukkaḷs, the traditional Śaivite priests, at the fire altars. Although the complex rites are not familiar to these North Indian Hindus, whose own ritual world is much less sophisticate, they participate with great joy and are attracted to the highly aesthetic forms of the rituals, which belong to the South Indian Śaiva Siddhānta tradition. This is very interesting, but it is not exceptional that a Sri Lankan Tamil Hindu temple also attracts Indian Hindus (in this context British Bengalis and Gujaratis) who are “drawn towards its elaborate and aesthetically perfected performance of puja” (Geaves 2007: 180). In the German Kamadchi temple, among other attendees, a highly cultured and wealthy North Indian couple came regularly to the temple service for many years, because they loved its authenticity, beauty, meticulous care, piety, and the dedication with which it is performed by the chief priest Sri Paskaran Kurukkal. In these cases, it is precisely the ethnic-regional specifics that are particularly attractive, and of course the pūjā is not entirely alien, because it embraces, in a more elaborate and complex form, the basic acts of their own tradition. Processions are particularly public affairs that have an impact on many members of society when they are performed in residential areas and claim a wide radius of local space. Processions were probably the most frequent and major reason for objections and complaints of “outsiders.” They are powerful instances of religion going public, and provoke what non-Hindu citizens often experience as disturbing: noise (extremely loud music), smells, litter, congested streets, etc. Invariably problems may arise if they parade through residential quarters, main streets, and the middle of a city. But this is often not the case and even avoided; the temples move to industrial quarters and other less populated areas in order to avoid problems and not disturb the citizens and neighbourhoods. Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus learned quickly and were ready to be pragmatic and make compromises. For instance, they started to move the dates of processions to weekends, instead of on the auspicious times in their

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astrological calendar that may occur during weekdays. They quickly learned to immediately remove the litter left by processions. They often deliberately moved to industrial areas, not only because the land and buildings were much less costly there, but also to avoid problems with neighbours. A number of temples in different countries have undertaken this step, among them the Danish Apirāmi temple, the Swiss Manonmani temple, and the German Kamadchi temple. The latter was formerly located in Hamm in a rebuilt laundry. At that time the processions raised complaints, and the temple had to be closed in 1996 due to pressure from the local police who claimed that it did not fulfil the fire protection requirements (in fact, the true reason was the large increase in the processions’ attendance, which caused problems like congested streets and neighbourhood complaints about the noise and litter that had been left). The change in location was a successful move for the Kamadchi temple, despite many things that were, at first glance, imperfect. They were given space to build the traditional structure and organise huge splendid festivals in the industrial area of Hamm-Uentrop. The temple is now in the vicinity of a meat factory and other sources of impurity and ugliness, but it is also in the vicinity of a river (i.e., canal), the ideal place to perform the ritual bath of the goddess the day after her procession. From that time forward, the temple was able to celebrate the temple festivals and processions in a more grandiose fashion than ever before due to the larger space indoors and outdoors. It would certainly not disturb the German neighbourhood any more with its noises, smells, and litter. The extended space allowed the temple to install a large market with goods from India and Sri Lanka, which became publicly well-known and very popular. Since the temple’s move, it has been attracting more and more pilgrims and visitors from Germany and abroad, attendance peaking at 25,000 in 2008 (at least according to the local press). Sri Lankan Tamils come to processions from all over Germany, Denmark, France, Switzerland, and even Britain. Some of them became important sponsors. The processions also regularly attract Sri Lankan Tamil youth for whom it is “a place to be,” not only for religious reasons, but often primarily as a sort of love-parade, in which to flirt, exchange e-mail addresses, and meet potential marriage partners (Marla-Küsters 2015: 352ff.). Another point that causes irritation, controversy, and objection are the violent rituals performed in the Sri Lankan Tamil great procession. Fieldwork reveals that they are disliked and often viewed with horror by many Tamil Hindu children. Some of the British temples (like the one in Wimbledon) therefore stopped allowing body piercing, etc. (Geaves 2007: 190, 191). I do not know of any such cases in Germany. However, Marla-Küsters (2015: 344–51) reports children being disgusted, offended, and horrified with the practice, which sometimes led them at a later age to distance themselves from temple Hinduism;

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in one case, a young adult converted to (Pentecostal) Christianity. Jacobsen (2008: 198), in his fieldwork on Oslo, emphasises the element of pain. He reports that a man wearing nail-sandals was so overwhelmed by the unbearable pain that he almost fainted and needed the support of several people to move on. In my own fieldwork in Hamm-Uentrop, where Germany’s largest Tamil Hindu procession takes place, I noticed amazingly rare bleeding, but also occasionally kāvaṭi dancers with hooks in their cheeks and backs who were almost fainting and had to be held and sprinkled with water, apparently not because they were in a divine trance but because of the unbearable pain. With reference to Switzerland, Eulberg (2014: 122) reports one case of complaints to the police: Swiss who observed hook-swinging were shocked by this “displeasing sight.” I am not aware of similar complaints in Germany. Hook-swinging, during the two years it took place in Hamm-Uentrop, was perceived with wonderment and as alien, exotic, and maybe cruel and violent, but it did not lead to complaints to the police. Compared to the Punjabi experience of being misunderstood and misrepresented in the public media, it is noteworthy that the Tamil Hindus’ violent rites—“hook-swinging” or “bird kāvaṭi” were even prohibited in colonial times—did not attract negative media reports in Germany. The descriptions fluctuated between admiration, fascination, and exoticism. Fieldwork and interviews revealed that native Germans attending the festival are usually very enthusiastic (Wilke 2006: 42–47). They are delighted by the spectacular and colourful event and admire the ardent faith and piety of the Sri Lankan Tamils—commenting that this is “Religion in its totality” and the like. Altogether, amazingly little to no (more) conflicts have been noticed in Switzerland (Neubert 2013: 319) or Germany (Wilke 2006, 2013b). Finally, conflicts and controversies can also happen within the migrant groups themselves; often between caste groups, but they can also be politically motivated. To the latter belongs the clash between nationalist and pan-Hindu positions in the Danish Bharatiya temple, which was alluded to above. Among the Sri Lankan Tamil migrants there may be factions who heatedly fight for the Dravidian/Tamil cause against the Āryans/North Indians and want to only use the Tamil language in temple pūjā and exclude the alien Sanskrit, or (as it happened in the German Rheineswara temple discussed previously) to perform the pūjā themselves, along with their wives, and have a Brahman perform it in Sanskrit once a month. Whereas this issue does generally not occupy a major place, Sri Lankan politics are very central. Particularly important and controversial within the community is the self-positioning, personal practice, and conviction either for or against the LTTE (Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam) and the movement’s ideology, its dream of political freedom, and its (partly very aggressive and militant) methods for procuring financial support (or, previously

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in Sri Lanka, to recruit “freedom fighters” by force).49 It is a very touchy issue, since most Sri Lankan Tamil migrants feel solidarity with the LTTE (even if critical of certain aspects of it), because it was the only organisation that fought for the rights of Tamils in Sri Lanka. Needless to say, LTTE activists are not seen as terrorists but as freedom fighters. It is very clear that some temples (like the one in Berne in previous years) obviously supported the LTTE (e.g., by celebrating the yearly Great Heroes’ Day) (Schalk 2003), whereas others held it at a conscious distance. Sri Paskaran, the Kamadchi temple’s chief priest, was very pronounced in his position within the latter and repeatedly declared that he was apolitical, and had to be, because politics and religion were two quite different things which should not be mingled, two distinct spheres relating to the worldly and transcendental respectively. Hence, the priest’s only duty is to spiritual matters and his only business is to worship, pray, contemplate, and perform temple services for the well-being of everyone. Some years back, Sri Paskaran even performed a pūjā at the Singhalese embassy in Berlin, an action for which he was heavily criticised by many compatriots. The younger generation passionately discussed the controversial incident (Marla-Küsters 2015: 356ff.). Both sides clearly hated the Singhalese government, but the one side condemned and despised the priest for performing a “mass for the murder(s) of our people” and declared a boycott of the temple and that no one should visit it. The other side, for instance a young woman assisting in the temple, declared that politics have nothing to do with religion and that the priest’s only duty was to pray to the gods and bless everybody, regardless of who they were. This young woman judged the incident as a good deed and an important step toward peace. Cultural politics and self-representation may be another point of tension. The Danish temple and priestess (acting in trance-possession as the goddess appearing in human form) reveal a contrasting pattern in comparison to the other popular Danish temple, which is very orthodox, Brahman centred, and critical of possession. However, as is typical in the diaspora context, possession may be judged even by insiders, who would usually perform it, as being 49  Although the movement has not formally existed since the death of its leader Prabhakaran in 2009, it is still very present in the minds of the Tamil people. Some associations, and even a diaspora government, exist that continues the Tigers objective to fight discrimination and seeking national freedom for the Tamil land (Tamilelam); some even doubt Prabhakaran is dead and expect him to return. The younger generations in particular are very politically conscious and engaged in addressing the injustice and atrocities their parents have had to publicly suffer back home and in European societies. Many exhibit a pronounced “Tiger spirit” and want to improve the living conditions of the Tamil people who stayed in Sri Lanka (Marla 2015: 39–49, 356).

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impropriate in the new culture. My own field research in Germany revealed that a non-Brahman (low-caste) priest in Muenster-Altenberge consciously stopped going into trance, becoming possessed, and acting as an oracle. This happened no doubt due to pressure from his Veḷḷāḷar sponsor, but revealingly, the priest explained to me that both Germans and his own Tamil compatriots in Germany did not like the goddess forcibly “coming to him.” It is interesting that back in the 1980s the command the goddess gave him during a forcible seizure in a dream compelled him to establish a public shrine in the basement of the house he was living in. This had been (and in fact still is) a legitimisation of the highest authority that is beyond the social and religious control of the higher castes. The priest’s later argument, that his compatriots and sponsors did not feel possession states were appropriate in the new culture, shows the serious changes that can happen within a very short period and how much the new culture’s real or imagined expectations may play a role in them (I have never met any native Germans in the temple, with the exception of my own students). A further point of interest is the creativity, and sometimes the laxness, in the uses of and changes to traditional symbolic capital. After abandoning possession, the priest tried to make his temple more attractive by the addition of a huge goddess icon, larger than any other in Germany. He was sure that this would bring name and fame and attract many visitors from abroad. Now, instead of possession performances, the new temple site in Muenster-Altenberge was sanctified and authorised by Āgamic consecration of the shrines, mūrtis, and the new, huge goddess image in black stone that had been shipped from South India. The consecration was performed by (the nonBrahman Vīra Śaiva) priest Sri Paskaran Kurukkal in 2010. It is highly doubtful whether a Brahman Āgama specialist would have done it because, according to the rules of Śilpa Śāstra, the goddess image was oversized in relation to the temple space. Even priest Sri Paskaran was aware of this and felt uneasy, as he later told me. The charismatic temple priest, however, claimed that the goddess herself told him in a dream that she wanted it that way, and that she shed tears of joy when being installed. Amazingly, he converted his failure into a story of success, still retaining the folk paradigm of divine immediacy as the highest authority while adopting (a somewhat spoiled) Āgamazation. This is not the only example illustrating things taking place in the diaspora that would hardly be possible at home; illustrating that age-old ritual and social practices may be dropped, broken, exchanged, transformed, and recreated in a new, nontraditional, way. Sometimes such changes are only superficial adaptations to the new surroundings, but sometimes they initiate a serious change and new avenues and innovations that are far from the trodden path. Such transformation can also be witnessed—once a year at the auspicious time

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of the Tamil New Year—in the tantric Śrīvidyā practice in Hamm-Uentrop, which made a secret practice public (Wilke 2003b). Additional innovative rituals were invented to fit the new situation, and a new, ritualised, sponsorshipscheme provided badly needed funds for building the current, traditional-style temple (Wilke 2003: 141–47). Presently, the heaviest challenges and problems the temples face are neither the conflicts with outside society, which were discussed above, nor racial or caste-based discrimination, but the financial capital to build and maintain the temples, which is enormous in the case of South Asian-style traditional structures. Thus, inventiveness in ritual and donation schemes is a helpful source to succeed in building a “real temple.” 2.2.5

On the Way to a Hindu Faith Community? Britain and the Rest of Europe It is necessary to distinguish between ideological and pragmatic universalism, which is most distinctly embodied by pan-India temples, from the legal consolidation of a unified Hinduism or a “Hindu faith community,” which materialised most prominently in umbrella organisations and public references to the Hindu faith. Both developments, and the latter in particular, were discussed by Kim Knott (2009) in the context of Britain, but her theses and findings cannot be easily transferred to other European countries. We find some common features, but also some very different developments and patterns in different European countries. Since the 1970s, Britain has witnessed an increase in the development of a number of roof organisations (by 2009 there were seven); so far in other places in Europe these organisations hardly exist, or only exist in the form of one temple. Furthermore, as was seen, although many pan-India temples exist, they are only found in areas where migrants of Indian descent are predominant, not in places with a predominately Sri Lankan Tamil population. However, neither of the “two diasporas” apparently are the major reason why no national umbrella organisations were founded. This has been a problem all over the countries in continental Europe. Today, most have no roof organisation or only a contested one. Strategies of recognition, representation, and participation definitely exist, but there is a strong variation between the different countries. Kim Knott witnessed the development of a Hindu faith community and a number of umbrella organisations in Britain since the 1970s (i.e., social, collective, and legalised forms of what I have called the trend of unification). Comparing her field studies in Leeds and her analytical observations from the 1970s with the current British situation in a 2009 article, she finds her early theses of a gradual development toward the building of a faith community confirmed also elsewhere in Britain in the period from 1980 to 2006; at the

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same time, it has also been solidified and subtly transformed by increasing references to faith and expanded by the recent, influential umbrella body, the Hindu Forum of Britain, which shares Britain’s contemporary political agenda of national cohesion and coexistence. In this section, I want to argue that the continental European situation differs from the British one. Neither references to a faith community nor to political participation are pronounced, and the latter is usually absent altogether. Developments differed. On the one hand, indeed, the diaspora situation encourages processes that are a “thickening of traditions” (Wilke 2003), a homogenisation, and a “standardisation” (Knott 1987, 2009), to the point that one might see it as a structural necessity to emphasise the commonalities and the pan-Hindu, and to present “Hinduism” as a “World Religion” similar to others. On the other hand, the regional and sectarian varieties of “ethnic Hinduism” generally remain at the heart of personal and collective religious practices and convictions, and there is a strong trend to keep the ethnic, regional identity as intact as possible. This explains why there are still very few “ecumenical” temple projects in Europe in which more than one religious group deliberately join together. A very early, and still exceptional, case was the Leeds Hindu Mandir—Knott’s early field of research—where local Gujaratis and Punjabis joined together in the 1970s, originally for the more pragmatic reason of sharing the costs of the location (a former Salvation Army hostel). But, it turned out to be a new, and truly ecumenical, project in which their common Hindu heritage is not only verbally confessed but also practised. The two groups (otherwise often mutually exclusive and rivals) not only each pursued their own way of worship (pūjā/ārtī and havan) in the same temple space, but they also combined congregational ceremonies on Sundays (Knott 1987). This practice was successful and continued into the twenty-first century with daily āratī (offering light to the deities), weekly congregational gatherings, annual festivals, language classes (English, Hindi, and Gujarati), and visits from schools, among other things (Knott 2009: 92ff.). This exceptional joint venture even resulted in a multicultural initiative, which included local Jains and Hindus from Gujarat, Punjab, and South India (Knott 1987: 93–95). Another ecumenical project is the Community of the Many Names of God in Skanda Vale in Wales with three temples (dedicated to Murukaṉ, Viṣṇu, and the goddess) on the premises of the Tamil Hindu community. It seeks to actively live interreligious dialogue by incorporating Franciscan spirituality into the (mainly Western) monks’ and nuns’ religious practices and meditation. It favours a bhakti religion of personal choice. The Gitananda Ashram in Italy is also a creative place of hybrid religious activity. Finally, the Sri Lankan Tamil Hindu reform temple in Berne (Switzerland), which is located in a multifaith building, the “House of Religions” (Haus der

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Religionen), must be mentioned as an exceptional case (Wissmann 2012; Thiele 2015; Widmer 2017: 1–14). This temple in Berne incorporates, in addition to Śiva, “six further major deities of Hindu religions” (Widmer 2017: 8). The multifaith building programmatically includes exchange and interreligious dialogue in a common dialogue area, while the different forms of worship are celebrated in the separate sacral rooms for the different religious communities (Sunni Muslims from Albania, Turkish and Syrian Alevites, Tamil Hindus, Buddhists from various traditions, and Christian migrant churches). Dialogue partners also include Jews, Sikhs, and Baha’is. Neither the multifaith construction of a lived interreligious dialogue, nor the Tamil temple seek to blur the identities, but it is clearly a reform temple which is rigorously anticaste and egalitarian in regard to gender roles; since February 2015, four priestesses have been initiated and work in the temple (Läubli 2015). Such conscious ecumenical approaches and active participation in interreligious dialogue, like in Skanda Vale and Berne, however, remain rare and exceptional in both continental Europe and Britain. But, it is interesting that, even here, the regional persists. In the constellations of Skanda Vale and Berne, Tamil Hinduism becomes pars pro toto for all Hinduism (somewhat similar to Hamm-Uentrop), whereas in the case of Leeds—where the first formal references to the “Hindu faith” and the “Hindu religion” were made by insiders and outsiders in the 1970s (Knott 2009: 97)—Kṛṣṇa and Rāma are seen as the major deities (ibid.: 96). However, in all of these cases there are references to, ultimately, only one (formless) god (appearing in many forms), a universal brotherhood, peace, and tolerance, and to festivals and daily temple rites as the common stock of all Hindus, as well as to shared central texts, such as the Vedas, the Bhagavadgītā, and the Rāmāyaṇa. The overall trend in continental Europe, and possibly also in Britain, is spatial separation. For instance, in Bradford a former cultural centre from the 1950s, which had been established for all Hindus, fell apart into different ethnic, sectarian, and caste groups who each installed their own places of public worship (Bowen 1987: 15–31; Knott 2009: 93). There is a strong tendency toward ethnic temples (Vertovec 2000; Geaves 2007: 101; Wilke 2006, 2013b, a.o.), which includes some competition, rivalries, and contests, but which also simply exist side by side, generally without taking much notice of each other. New ethnic houses of worship keep appearing. The current four temples in Hamm reveal internal friction, as well as different religious identities, even within one individual religious diaspora community. Kim Knott’s observations on how British Hindus developed into a Hindu faith community introduced an important theoretical perspective. Already in the 1970s, Knott discerned a framework and model of diverse stages toward

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the production of a Hindu faith community (institutionalisation, standardisation, homogenisation, and also, in part, retraditionalisation), and her more recent study (Knott 2009) confirmed her initial thesis. Do these developments toward a “Hindu faith community” and umbrella organisations also apply to the rest of Europe? At first glance we might say “yes,” at least in regard to the common trend of pan-Indian deity mandirs among Indian Hindus. But, on second glance, it seems less clear and we must say “no.” Unlike in Britain, almost no other European country has thus far managed to establish a full umbrella organisation, although there have been, and still are, endeavours toward it. An exceptional example is Sweden but, at the same time, Sweden’s case also shows the difficulties connected to such plans (Sardella 2013: 312). An umbrella organisation named Hindu Association in Sweden (Hinduiska Samfundeti i Sverige) was registered in 2001, but it is now inactive. In the early 1990s a previous attempt had been made by the VHP, but the plan was given up. There was too much controversy connected to the distribution of funds and the diversity of the communities involved. I think this is also the major reason why many other European countries, such as Norway, Switzerland, and Denmark, did not manage to establish an umbrella organisation. Only individual temples (in Portugal, Austria, Italy, and Germany) got a certain legal status that would have allowed them to act as an umbrella organisation but, as was typical, in Austria no other Hindu community joined. By 2017 the Kamadchi temple in Hamm-Uentrop gained an even stronger legal status, which made it equal to the great Christian churches and thus it attained the right to raise worship taxes and establish religious education. It is not yet clear whether any of the other temples, starting with the Tamil Hindu ones, will accept the invitation to join. It appears they will not and are not amused about the power one temple association has, which recently changed its name to Hinduistische Gemeinde Deutschlands (Hindu Community of Germany or, more literally, Hindu Parish of Germany) and which claims to represent all German Hindu temples. Ultimately only Sweden’s organisation (maybe due the large majority of Indian temples) and the Netherland’s Dutch Hindu Council were the two exceptions that finally succeeded. The Swedish Indian’s Association (SIA) had more luck than previous endeavours. It developed into “an active watchdog organization,” as Ferdinando Sardella puts it (2013: 312), which “monitors government politics and consumer products” to safeguard the Hindus’ interests. As Albertina Nugteren (2009: 116) remarks, temple communities in a non-Hindu locale are “often acutely aware of the public gaze.” “[I]nternal sub-identities or sub-divisions tend to be downplayed in the context of the larger community’s self-presentation strategies” (ibid.). In the Netherlands, comparable to Britain, a Dutch Hindu Council was established at the government’s request for a representative discussion partner, and the council

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covers all Hindu denominations, including ISKCON, despite the internal variety (van der Burg 2004: 109). A common Hindu identity is often less important for the Hindus themselves than for local city councils and national governments, which has been increasing since the 1980s when religion and multiculturalism came into the focus of political and civic agendas (Knott 2009: 101; van der Burg 2004) and their support of a public policy that seeks to build a secure, cohesive, and integrated society. However, local civic pressure is not the only factor in the heavy push to represent Hinduism as a unity. Hindu communities also have an interest in the image of a collective Hindu identity: to gain access to public resources, charitable status, and exemption from taxation; to draw on public recognition, build a profile to represent themselves to outsiders, and to one another; and to appear on par with Christianity and Islam. Temples, particularly custom-built ones, have the important role of visible representatives of the “Hindu faith community,” which is clearly seen, for instance, in the politicians’ addresses at the inauguration of the Sri Lankan Tamil Hindu Highgatehill Murugan temple in 1985/86 in London (Knott 2009: 101). This visible representation was surpassed by the imposing traditional-style building of the Murukaṉ temple in East Ham London (inaugurated in May 2005); it exceeded the size of the first traditional Tamil Hindu temple in Hamm-Uentrop (inaugurated in 2002) and differed from the Highgate temple, which had been denied this outwardly visible presence twenty years earlier. The two Murukaṉ temples in London “operate as centres for Murukaṉ devotion to diverse regional constituencies; the Highgate temple serves the Sri Lankan and Mauritius Tamils whilst the East Ham temple serves the Tamil Nadu and South African Tamils” (Geaves 2007: 189). Once more, the ongoing regional-ethnic emphasis becomes clear—Sri Lankan and Indian Tamil Hindus each have their own temple projects. The same is true in Berlin (see above). In any case, they are very sensitive about their own identity as Indian Tamils and as Sri Lankan Tamils, whose awful recent history and dream of their own country, Tamil Eelam, sharply separates them from the South Indian Tamils. On the other hand, among Indian Hindus (and even Sri Lankans) there exists a feeling that the Indian Tamil tradition is more original, authentic, and pure in representing Āgama Śaivism. Despite the persistence of such regional and historical emphasis, British Hindus undertook deliberate steps to present themselves as a “Hindu faith community”—from humble beginnings in Leeds in the 1970s, to more global development between 1980 and 2006 (Knott 2009: 85–114). In this period, big temple projects and umbrella organisations were not the only things to increase, insiders’ self-representations in temple souvenirs, books, and articles on Hinduism also increased. Knott (ibid.: 101) detects that in the 1970s souvenir guides had a civic emphasis on “community relations,” but not much

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emphasis on “Hindu communities,” although they referred to temples and societies. This changed by 1985, when civic discourse and politicians referred to a multicultural Britain and the role of “ethnic and religious communities” was stressed. Another twenty years later, when the London Sri Murugan Temple in East Ham (2005) was consecrated, “the temple was seen unquestionably as the focal point of the ‘Hindu community in East London’” (ibid.: 101). Knott also notes an increased reference to faith, starting with the Inter Faith Network for the UK in 1987, which showed the need for an umbrella organisation that could bring together different religious groups for dialogue. Also, government party politicians “increasingly required the formation of ‘faith communities’” (ibid.: 107–08). Two large projects played a major role in actual practice: the Hindu Forum of Britain (HFB), one of several national umbrella organisations for British Hindus, which focused on engagement in building a cohesive and inclusive Britain, as expressed on the website; and “the 2006 report of the enquiry into the identity and public engagement of Hindus in Britain, Connecting British Hindus, undertaken by the Department for Communities and Local Government (DCLG) in association with the HFB” (ibid.: 108). Knott summarises: “What seems clear from the role and activities of the Hindu Forum of Britain and the 2006 report is that, externally at least, British Hindus today are represented as one of a number of ‘faith communities’ with both a stake in public life and a responsibility for working with the government on its agenda of social inclusion and regeneration. Whilst internally they may continue to some extent to replicate their own diverse social and religious groups and practices, outwardly a certain unity of purpose, and common culture and tradition is expressed” (ibid.: 110). A vital roles in the establishment of homogeneity and a united front for British Hinduism were played by: the Swaminarayan Movement (BAPS), with its cultural megafestival in 1985 and its truly magnificent, custom-built temple in London Neasden (inaugurated in 1995); ISKCON, with its widely used booklet, Hinduism (1983), and the national campaign to save the Bhaktivedanta Manor temple (in the 1990s), which was also supported by local Hindus in solidarity with ISKCON; and finally, the VHP, with its publications and temple projects, and its strongly ecumenical-cum-Indian/Hindutva nationalist agenda (ibid.: 103). It is important to note that the VHP’s influence in Britain was similar to its influence in the United States in regard to the founding of temples and Hindu trusts (see ibid.: 102), but this influence did not extend to other European countries.50 50  The Netherlands seems to be the exception, where branches of VHP and RSS exist. Not only American and British Hindus, but also Dutch Hindus sent money and consecrated

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Moreover, Kim Knott’s analytical framework, which explains the transformation processes used by British Hindus—institutionalisation (by establishing temples and temple boards), standardisation, homogenisation, and retraditionalisation (emphasising the Vedic heritage and pan-Hindu features)—to produce a Hindu faith community, is less obvious, and only partly applicable, in connection to continental Europe, with the exception of institutionalisation processes, which are undoubtedly there. It may only be a question of time. Not only is Britain twenty years ahead when it comes to Hindu temple building, but since the 1970s, British Hindus have also had a growing influence on the local and national levels in regard to educational and civic matters, and they have become “significantly more wealthy, self-confident, and well organised” (Knott 2009: 107). It remains important to note that the external representation as one faith community (on par with the Christian, Muslim, and Jewish faiths) is not necessarily mirrored internally, where regional-ethnic and sectarian identities are replicated rather than the unity and common culture that are outwardly expressed (ibid.: 110). Nonetheless, this outwardly united front remains of great importance when it comes to gaining access to local resources and public influence. This is true for Britain, as well as other European countries. Interestingly, the temple priest of Hamm-Uentrop sensed such necessities early on, first implicitly and performatively by allowing a greater “thickening of traditions” than in other places (Wilke 2003), then also by more open strategies of standardisation. The temple first issued a brochure about how to behave in a Hindu temple, and more recently it published a booklet on Hinduism (further publications containing information about the Hindu faith are planned). As mentioned above, in early 2017, the Kamadchi Ampal temple community in Hamm-Uentrop attained the status of a body of public law, which placed it on par with the Christian churches (including the right to collect worship taxes and organise religious education). The present peak in this development of a Hindu faith community was renaming the local Kamadchi temple community to the “Hindu Community of Germany” (Hinduistische Gemeinde Deutschlands). This new development of unification is pursued in quite different ways than it is in Britain; it is coupled with the claim that one temple should play a leading, national, role in the representation of Hinduism. It is still very uncertain whether the chief priest’s endeavour to persuade the other temples to join his “Hindu community” will bear much fruit (except for bricks in India for the rebuilding of the Rām temple in Ayodhya (van der Burg 2004: 112). Corstiaan van der Burg notices “a feeling of deep solidarity with India” and an “overestimation” of Indian music, art, literature, movies, and the old and rich culture of India among the Surinamese Hindus (ibid.).

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the small number of five which have already agreed).51 Thus far, it is a particular interesting case for considering how much space one single temple community can occupy on the global map of “World Hinduisms” (an expression introduced by Nugteren 2009: 116). This is not the only case, however, in which a single temple assumes the role of an umbrella organisation and a representative for all. The same is true for the Portuguese (high-caste) Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa Mandir in Lisbon, which organises and is allied with the Communidade Hindu de Portugal (Hindu Community of Portugal) (Lorenço 2015: 101; Sant’ana 2013: 289), as well as the Austrian Hindu Mandir Association (Hindu Mandir Gesellschaft) in Vienna, a pan-Indian deities temple, which organises and is allied with the umbrella organisation Hinduistische Religionsgesellschaft in Österreich (HRÖ, Hindu Religious Organisation Austria) (Hutter 2010: 6–7, 8–10; 2015: 92). Finally, Italy is a third example. Austria is particularly interesting for several reasons, one being the close parallel to Hamm-Uentrop in connection to the legal situation. Hutter (2010: 9) makes us aware of the striking fact (and here lies the parallel to Hamm-Uentrop) that, by law, the Austrian umbrella organisation is identified with only one temple (the Hindu Mandir Association) and that, in the eyes of constitutional law, this temple community makes up Austrian Hinduism. It is noteworthy that this Austrian temple community (founded by Dr. Bimal Kundu and inaugurated in 1990) already bears “organisation” in its official name, explicitly mentions that its aim is to foster Hinduism as a cultural heritage, and also offers extensive cultural programmes, particularly during Divālī (Hutter 2010: 6). In 1990 there was already a push to give Hinduism the legal status of a state recognised church,52 but it was only in 1998 that the HRÖ became legally registered as a “religious faith community” (Religiöse Bekenntnisgemeinschaft) and was given, to a limited extent, some state recognition. As a corporate entity it is allowed to manage Hindu affairs in the public arena, for instance, fostering temple building (ibid.: 8ff.). The erection of a temple in Indian style is one of its most important goals (Hutter 2015: 92). The constitution of HRÖ contains an astonishingly broad—European diaspora-specific—definition of “Hindu,” according to which any person can be considered a Hindu who is either Hindu by family, initiated into a saṃpradāya, or “who has chosen Hinduism by personal belief” (cited by Hutter 2015: 91). This threefold definition opens, according to 51  The priest and the new board of the “Hinduistische Gemeinde Deutschlands” (including five priests from the smaller temples that had already joined) wrote an official appeal in early 2018. 52  Hutter (2010: 8) only mentions that it was the initiative of “people around the Hindu Mandir Gesellschaft”—the temple itself was founded by Dr. Bimal Kundu (who had already initiated the other, that is the first, temple in Vienna) and other Hindus.

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Hutter (ibid.), “the way for ‘Western Hindus’ (self-defined Hindu Austrians, yoga schools and many kinds of new religious movements like the Brahma Kumaris, western Sai Baba followers, etc.) to join Hinduism in Austria (represented by HRÖ) besides people of South Asian origin who have been born and raised as ‘Hindus.’” So far, however, none of these Hindu-affiliated, modern, guru movements have shown interest in joining the HRÖ (at least by 2015).53 But, it is still startling how the Hindu faith community takes on completely new dimensions within HRÖ’s definition and how it incorporates modern religious individualism. This example makes us aware how far the transformation of Hinduism in the diaspora can go. But again, Austria is not a singular case in which this new definition is present. A very similar stance was forwarded by the Italian, Swami Yogananda Giri (himself a Śaiva Siddhānta convert), one of Italy’s “most important scholars of Indian philosophy” and founder of the Gitananda Ashram at Altare and Italy’s umbrella organisation Unione Induista Italiana Sanatana Dharma Samgha (UII) (Chierichetti 2013: 257)—an umbrella organisation that is closely allied to a single temple and monastery, the Gitananda Ashram. In public debates, Swami Yogananda defended the possibility of being an Italian Hindu or follower of sanātana dharma with the argument: “[E]veryone believing in this eternal law could be defined as a Hindu” (ibid.). This definition even allows for self-ascription and conversion without a formal act. It is also noteworthy that the Italian umbrella organisation UII was founded by the Swami in collaboration with the embassy of India (ibid.), and it enjoys great influence and acceptance in Italy; it was joined, for instance, by many yoga associations. Even more than in Austria, “Hinduism” in Italy is no longer ethnic, but has turned into something new and truly global—at least legally speaking. This formation belongs to the interesting developments that differ from Britain. 2.2.6

Individuals Who Took Initiative, Charismatics, and Women and the Youth as Motors of Change It was often not temple boards (who employed Brahman priests) who were the primary initiators of a vigorous temple life in different diaspora countries, 53  Unfortunately, Hutter does not tell us whether one of the other four Austrian Hindu temples joined. One can assume from his later remarks that this is the case for The Hindu Mandir Community, dedicated to goddess Kālī, the Swaminarayan Bochasanwasi Akshar Purushottam Sanstha organisation, which uses rooms in the Hindu Mandir Association, and the Śrī Śrī Rādhā-Govinda Mandir, a Kṛṣṇa-bhakti temple that attracts more Westerners, including ISKCON devotees, than any other Austrian temple, but it is unclear in the cases of the Ravidas House of Worship and the Śrī Hari Oṃ Sanātan Dharm Mandir, which is located in Salzburg (the only Hindu temple outside of Vienna).

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but rather, it was highly motivated individuals who were the initiators, like: the Sri Lankan lawyer Shri Sabapathipillai; the Sri Lankan Guru Subramaniyam; the Italian Swami Yogananda Giri; the non-Brahman, Dutch, Hindustani priest in Wjjchen; the Austrian Hindu Dr. Kundu; and non-Brahman charismatics like the ecstatic Danish priestess Lalitha Sripalan, the enthusiastic German Tamil priest Sri Paskaran, and the ecstatic priest in Muenster-Altenberge who stopped getting possessed. They were particularly vital motors of change, as they went beyond established patterns. Some of these individuals, especially those termed “charismatics” and “enthusiasts,” illustrate that, in the diaspora (much more than in the original homelands), socioreligious hierarchies and established patterns of centre and periphery are more easily turned upside down or inverted. Shifts in religious specialists take place; it is no longer only the Brahmans who are at the religious centre. Sometimes, shifts in the private and public spheres occur; there is always a political dimension to the private, and in all my cases the private turned into the public. All of these individuals had strong, private, socioreligious and spiritual convictions and the urge to spread them publicly; all of them were accepted due to their authenticity, and seen as models of life-fulfilling spirituality. All of them became important and very influential public figures, except for the priest in Muenster-Altenberge, who remained unknown to the wider public. No doubt, there must be many more unknown “motors of change.” In the next two sections, I want to discuss two groups that generally also remain largely invisible to outsiders, but who are important contributors and even motors of change and innovation. These are South Asian migrant women and the second (and third) generations of migrants, many of whom have been born in a European country. In much older scholarship in diaspora studies, the women remained invisible, but the following observations from newer research make it clear how important it is to explicitly include a gender perspective. Focusing on social and gender issues is particularly revealing in regard to the themes of change and transformation. This not only applies to the new roles of women in the diaspora, but also to the shifts and restructurings of the religious centre and periphery and of the private and public spheres. In the diaspora, transformations occur on each of these levels. The new surroundings offer new chances to enthusiasts and charismatics, and also to women, who may enjoy enhanced social and religious roles. A gendered perspective is essential in order to trace continuities and startling changes in women’s roles and self-identities in diasporic contexts. Such new roles include taking an active lead in community development, participating in temple boards, fundraising, and temple management, and also acting as priestesses, ritual specialists, charismatic oracles,

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devotional experts, bhajan group leaders, organisers of festivals and satsaṅgs (devotional fellowships), and as a highly engaged congregation of laywomen worshippers (David 2009; Knott 2013: 337ff.; Lorenço 2015: 106–13; Läubli 2015; Schalk 2004: 203–5; Vögeli 2003). The explicit inclusion of a gender perspective reveals new religious female empowerment, both socially and spiritually. The field studies also reveal that the search to have personal wishes fulfilled and family problems solved, such as in women’s traditional vows (vrats, vratas), which often continue to be performed in the diaspora, is not in opposition with the search for transcendence and spiritual fulfilment. Most importantly, a number of recent diaspora studies illustrate how women increasingly gain access to public religion and temple service (previously largely denied to them) and make use of their bodies and female identity as alternative sites of power (David 2009: 350). Religion is an important source of empowerment for women, and they in turn empower religious life and community—particularly in the diaspora where women’s power and authority is increasingly moving from private to public spaces. It is also important to be aware that traditional roles have been empowering, starting with the widespread popular and orthodox conviction that women are themselves a form of śakti, “(female) power”—a term primarily used for goddesses. Hindu studies on women have often stressed the opposite: Women are subordinate and play no role in the public sphere, and only men are priests, scholars, leading members of temple boards, etc. This is a pattern that often seems to be repeated in the diaspora, in spite of and alongside women’s changing roles. Women’s traditional place has indeed always been the domestic sphere, and in the diaspora this pattern is often replicated. However, it is essential to realise that home is not just a subordinate place, but the centre of daily religious life and religious transmission. Home is the place where the children learn by doing, observing, participating in, and assisting with domestic worship, and where they become familiar with the gods and divine narratives through storytelling and celebrating festivals. The women have a central role in all these activities. They are responsible for the domestic altar and organise the festivals and life-cycle rituals (Knott 2013: 112). Whereas temple space is almost exclusively dominated by male priests, at home it is the women who are the major pūjārīs (offering worship and food to the gods) at the domestic altars, and who are the religious specialists—a role even accepted by men, who attribute greater piety and moral strength to women (Vögeli 2003).54 In 54  This is often also women’s self-image (Vögeli 2003) and the observation of children (Marla 2015, see also below). Similarly, Swaminarayan women feel “[w]omen are more devoted than men” (Reifenrath 2010: 169). There is greater emotional intensity, despite, or maybe

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fact, this female power is incorporated into women’s traditional rituals, called vrat or vrata referring to religious fasts, or more precisely to vows, including fasts, prayers, religious storytelling, singing, etc. Such vrats belong to popular religion and are a pan-Indian phenomenon. They are performed by women in order “to acquire good husbands or sons or to bring about good health and longevity for family members, [and by doing so,] they exercise their power in service of a goddess in exchange for their desired objective” (Knott 2013: 338). Vrat(a) performance is thus seen as a sign of (almost magical) power, and it is understood as assuring well-being and prosperity. Vrats are performed by an individual woman or by a group of women who may sing and dance together. Congregational vrats and devotions around various goddesses are a typical part of female subculture. In these practices, “no Brahman intermediaries are required, men are rarely present, and women communicate directly with the deity of their choice, by petitioning her, representing her, or by acting as her medium or one possessed by her” (Knott 2000: 99). Domestic female religious practices incorporate and combine elements from the brāhmaṇical tradition (such as the acts of pūjā) and from popular religion and customary folk practices. Both are traditional women’s resources of power and authority (Knott 2013: 338; Lorenço 2015: 111ff.). The identification of women with goddesses (well-known in the Sanskrit tradition as well as in popular practice) elevates women to an auspicious status. This identification is also ritualised, for instance, at the Navarātri festival, when young girls (before menstruation) and married women are both worshipped as embodiments or representations of the goddess. On the same occasion, either in the temple or at home, some women (known as bhuvī) become possessed by a goddess “with the power to give counsel and to mediate answers to prayers and requests for help” (Knott 2013: 338; see also Lorenço 2015: 110, 112). All these practices are also seen in the diaspora. Like in South Asian village traditions, in Europe both men and women may incorporate the goddess and her powers, and thereby become empowered; be it simple laywomen, for instance in Britain and Portugal, or the priestess of Brande (in fact, herself a laywoman who performs temple worship in silence because she does not know Sanskrit).

because of, the strict gender division in their community, and no contact is allowed between the women and the monks and the leader or “living guru” of the movement. However, the women claim to feel the guru’s presence very strongly and to have deep emotional ties and love for their guru—more intense and “purer” than it would have been in face-to-face contact (ibid.: 155, 158).

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So, female power and empowerment are nothing new, and they belong to the cultural repertoire. What is new is a move toward equality and new ritual roles that extend beyond domestic spaces. Ines Lorenço emphasises: “In India and in the diaspora, women assume religious duties previously dominated by men, transforming their own statuses” (2015: 110). However, she rightly adds: “This articulation often combines female autonomy with conservatism” (ibid.). Lorenço makes a point that private/domestic and public/temple spaces are not separate spheres; they are closely related. She sees an immediate continuity between the two and argues that the domestic space, when men are absent during the day, functions as “a privileged place for women’s activities, enabling the maintenance and reproduction of cultural identities which are essential to the cohesion of community” (ibid.: 106). Moreover, “[b]eyond individual worship, domestic space also hosts collective devotions organized by women during the day” (ibid.: 107). Groups of women gather in their homes and organise, for instance, religious occasions, satsaṅgs, and devotional meetings in their homes in order to worship together, sing devotional songs, tell religious stories to each other, and enact religious readings (e.g., from the Rāmāyaṇa) in semimusical recitations. According to Lorenço, “[s]uch congregations are typical among Hindu communities in diasporic contexts” (ibid.: 108, see also 110; Vertove 2000: 133). They are almost exclusively female and “also allow a space for socialization and interaction” (Lorenço 2015: 108). Lorenço’s study is based on ethnographic research in Portugal, which revealed to her, she says, the “centrality of women” (ibid.: 109). She concludes: “The domestic space is the organising core of community” (ibid.: 108). An example of women’s movement into public space and temple worship is given by Ann David (2010), and is based on her fieldwork in East Ham Sakthi Peetham, a worship centre dedicated to the Great Goddess Adhiparasakthti (established in 2001), which is a goddess and style of worship imported from Melmaruvathur, Tamil Nadu, a new South Indian pilgrimage site (established in the late 1960) that became the heart of a larger transnational movement (with 4,000 worship centres around the world). Sharing her fieldwork notes, David gives a good impression of the British centre and the worship, both of which are overwhelmingly female dominated: Inside, before the highly decorated, colourful shrine to goddess Adhiparasakthi, fifty or sixty mainly female Sri Lankan devotees, all dressed in red, are chanting devotional hymns in a quiet, focused manner, led by a woman worshiper in her thirties. The “congregation” consists of Hindu women of all ages, from children to grandmothers, and

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also includes a few men. Some are in the small kitchen, preparing the food with the same attentive devotion. On the walls are posters of their male guru in India who is considered an embodiment of Sakthi (divine female power). On the posters are slogans in Tamil and English that state, “One Mother, One Family” (Tamil: Ore Thai, Ore Kulam). The devotees’ red clothes represent the color of the blood of all human beings. David 2010: 337

The place illustrates, so David claims, that the British, Sri Lankan Tamil diaspora offers new, public sites of practice “where female devotees no longer remain simply participants, but are becoming transformed into religious specialists and leaders of ritual” (ibid.). The women carry out public pūjā and fire sacrifices without any priest acting as an intermediary. Praying, meditating, singing devotional songs, and reciting the thousand names of the goddess are some of the most important practices. Remarkably, the centre of the women’s worship and praise remains a man, the guru of the village temple Melmaruvathur, who becomes the mouthpiece of the goddess, her oracle, and her embodiment in his trance states, walking and speaking like a cultured woman (see ibid.: 338). In the British temple, Tamil women get together to worship Cakti (śakti), the goddess (in the form of the guru’s picture), and witness miracles being performed and prayers answered in their local London temple (David 2010: 348; Knott 2013: 338). Miracle performances are highly esteemed among them. Many report that they have themselves experienced numerous miracles in the temple and have sensed the immediate power of the divine while they were there worshipping. They feel blessed, helped with their problems, and that their wishes are getting fulfilled. David argues: “The notion of Sakthi (Tam. cakti/catti, Skt. śakti) power […] and the corresponding religious empowerment experienced by these displaced Tamil women, reveals an ‘alternative site of power’ that is playing a significant part in their diasporic, fractured lives” (2009: 350). It is a site where both Tamilness and the global community of Melmaruvathur are simultaneously celebrated (ibid.: 346). The East Ham Sakthi Peetham is not the only temple in Britain, nor the first, where women have an active lead. Ann David (2010: 342ff.) and Kim Knott (2013: 338) mention a substantial number of names and places where women are part of temple committees, act as priestesses, gurus, and as embodiments of the goddess while in states of possession. A few examples of female priestesses also exist in other European countries, but they remain an exception. Probably the eldest example in continental Europe is the aforementioned Danish Apirāmi temple and its charismatic founder and priestess. Lately, four priestesses were initiated in the Sri Lankan Tamil Hindu temple in Berne,

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Switzerland (Läubli 2015). The new ritual spaces for women and the presence of female priestesses are, according to David (2010: 343), some of the strongest and most important diaspora developments. It is necessary to not only focus on the spectacular, such as possessed women or priestesses, but also the new ritual spaces for women, which are often much less spectacular and more modest, inconspicuous, and hidden. For instance, in the tiny German Rheinesvara temple (established 2008 in a room in a Catholic Church in Wettringen), the Veḷḷāḷar temple owner’s wife performs pūjā (in the Tamil language) on Tuesdays, Fridays, and weekends, and a (South Indian) Brahman priest is hired to come only once a month to perform pūjā in Sanskrit (supplemented by Tamil translation), sing bhajans with the lay devotees (due to him being a Kṛṣṇa devotee Kṛṣṇa bhajans dominate, despite the fact that the shrine is dedicated to Śiva), and discuss religious matters with the youth (which he enjoys the most). This illustrates that even in very small places of worship (and maybe here more often than not) significant changes and transformations take place, which are often subtle, almost invisible, so to speak, and naturally and simply pragmatic, rather than revolutionary. A major reason for this is the scarcity of Brahman priests. In Sri Lanka, their percentage was already low in comparison to South India and, in the diaspora, especially in continental European countries like Germany and Switzerland, there is a constant shortage of Brahman priests. We must assume that there are more such cases of significant, yet quiet, transformation in small makeshift temples and basement shrines. However, in some larger temples, women also take more active roles. Peter Schalk (2004: 75, 101, 202–5) observed that women are very active in several Swedish temples. For instance, in the Vināyakar temple in Stockholm, Schalk determines that women play a leading role. He qualifies this temple as a family temple (i.e., a temple in which pious devotion, bhajan singing, family values, and women play a substantial role). The god is not martial (as Murukaṉ would be), but the merciful and peaceful remover of obstacles, who helps the Tamil Hindu community to endure their political fate with silent suffering and to cope with it in pious faith and devotion. The women generally lead the bhajan singing. They select the bhajans for the day and are also responsible for the bhajan collection in the temple’s hymn book. The book contains, as mentioned above, a song dedicated to Mother Apirāma (the Danish priestess worshipped as the goddess). 2.2.7

Templeisation in Europe? On Transmission, Transformation, and the Younger Generation The substantial data on women’s new public spaces and roles may come as a surprise in light of Vasudha Narayanan’s observations on what she calls

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“templeisation” in reference to the United States.55 Templeisation does not refer merely to the growing importance of temples for Hindus living in North America. The term also refers to the significant shifts from home to temple regarding life-cycle rituals, festivals, religious education, and learning—all of which were traditionally performed at home and overseen by women. Thus, the shift from home to temple also meant a shift in authority; it was passed from women and mothers to men and priests. Instead of empowerment, Narayanan observed a devaluation of women’s previously powerful roles as religious and ritual specialists in the domestic sphere and at household shrines. Martin Baumann (2009: 154, 165–75) confirmed that these findings could also be observed among Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus in Germany and Switzerland. There is no doubt as to the temples’ large number, which has steadily increased during the previous decades, and the increased importance of the temples in the diaspora. In 2001, a large-scale quantitative survey was conducted in Germany by Martin Baumann and Kurt Salentin, and it revealed that 85% of the Tamil Hindu population have favourable views of Hindu temples (Baumann 2009: 168), around two-thirds (65.4%) even have very favourable views, whereas less favourable views or indifference were found among 15%. Baumann finds overlap with Narayanan’s thesis regarding the shifts in the ritual domain. However, he has some reservations regarding life-cycle rites. In their original context, they were domestic rituals and, in the case of some early childhood rites, they often still are in the German and Swiss diaspora, but some have also shifted to the temple, marriage ceremonies in particular are celebrated there now. Baumann speculates that this shift is primarily for pragmatic reasons and due to the changed living situation; temples provide space for larger gatherings, like weddings, in contrast to the rented flats (Baumann 2009: 171). He considers the possibility that the rituals may shift back to the home once the migrants have become wealthier. Otherwise, he finds confirmation of Narayanan’s theses, including the one on (young) women and children. Although women continue to perform worship at the domestic altar, regular visits to temples (with a preference for goddess temples, as was observed by Baumann, Knott, and Vögeli) have “acquired strong significance in the diaspora” and “are done with great fervour” (ibid.: 172). Baumann observes: In the temple, the young women are taught how to practice special rituals on festival days. More often than not, it is the male priest who gives 55  I am relying here on Martin Baumann’s summary (Baumann 2009: 154) of Vasudha Narayanan’s paper (“Creating Community Spaces in American Hinduism: Authority, Authenticity, and Identity”) that was presented at the AAR conference, Washington 2006.

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the instructions and explanations. In addition to some elderly women, usually it is the priest who explains the arrangement and procedure of the ritual to the younger women. The priest leads the function and it is he who is the main point of reference and authority. It is no longer the elder women at home who serve as models and teacher, but the male priest in the temple. […] Again, it is no longer women and mothers who introduce children to Hindu practices and ideas, but the male priest. (ibid.: 172–73) Regarding the latter, Baumann claims that back home in Sri Lanka it was often the grandmother who introduced children to the religious tradition, but in the diaspora in Germany and Switzerland the usual family model is not the extended family but young couples and small families, and often both parents work. Religious education is limited, according to Baumann, to visits to the nearest temple on Friday evenings and at festivals. Here, the children learn about the deities and how to worship, and sometimes also about the specific festival day (e.g., in the sermon-like speeches of some priests—also a novelty in the diaspora). Moreover, Baumann adds, there are versions of Sunday schools on Saturday afternoons or Sunday mornings, during which, in this more explicit religious education, the priest teaches key ideas and narrates prominent stories. The importance of scripture and authoritative texts is stressed. “This evolution deserves our attention,” claims Baumann, “as a standardisation and conceptualisation of what ‘Hinduism’ is, and [of] what its key teachings are meant to be” (ibid.: 173). Lived and practised religion transforms into systematised religion (ibid.). It is a pity that Baumann does not mention the places where he gathered his information (e.g., where these Sunday schools are taking place). However, he concedes that more in-depth research is needed on templeisation and the ritual and educational shifts from home to temple (Baumann 2009: 173). Such in-depth ethnography was done by Sandhya Marla-Küsters (2015; 2015b; forthcoming), who researched the religiosity of the second generation of Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus in Northrhine-Westfalia, the German federal state with the largest Hindu migrant community. Her age group was teenagers and young adults between the ages of fourteen and thirty-one (Marla-Küsters 2015: 87). The results of her fieldwork and network analysis conflict with those of Baumann and Narayanan. There is no indication that women’s traditional roles as domestic ritual specialists shifted to the temple priests. Marla’s extensive data reveal that direct contact with temple priests, and contact between parents and priests, is rare. There is clear evidence that religious socialisation happens at home. The parents, particularly the mother, plays a central role (ibid.: 138–99, in particular 140, 158, 159, 162). The mother dominates the childhood memories

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related to religion. The mother is perceived by many as deeply pious and having a deeper faith than the father (women in general are perceived to be more religious than men), and female youth in particular see the mother as a religious role model. Later in life, the father gets consulted and some also seek advice from temple priests on religious matters, but only a comparatively few do this. Clearly the mother dominates religious socialisation and ritual learning. A majority of Marla-Küster’s young interview partners remember their mother as caring for, worshipping, and praying at the domestic altar, performing vratas (religious fasts) for the family’s prosperity, telling myths and stories about the gods, and being the first one consulted when religious questions arise. Although many youth have developed a critical attitude toward the religious style of their mother/parents, their childhood memories of religion are dear to them and have only been affected by the ambivalence they developed as teenagers to a very minor extent. Domestic pūjā is hardly ever criticised, and it is remembered that one learned religion by seeing the parents/mothers pray every morning and evening (or even three times a day), hearing the mother singing religious songs, and her sternly fasting each Friday, etc. A twenty-yearold young woman summarises: One learns the natural way, one cannot but learn religion seeing this while growing up. This material calls Baumann’s and Narayanan’s theories into question, but the truth probably does not lie in an “either/or” answer but, like so many times in Hinduism, in an irritating “as well as.” Indeed, many women work and are no longer at home all day. Elderly women and grandmothers, who are the most knowledgeable in religious matters (Knott 2013: 338), often stayed back in Sri Lanka. Despite the fact that the material that has been quoted from Marla-Küster’s thus far gives the impression that traditional religion is still very much intact and alive, this is not entirely the case among the younger generation. A great number of second-generation children experience a heavy religious crisis and start questioning and doubting in their teenage years. Questions are triggered by: the new religious environment; a more exclusivist religious style; the quietness of Christian churches (in contrast to the colourful and noisy temples); and, most of all, religious education (Protestant and Catholic religious education) and philosophy classes at school and their discursive styles of reflection, discussion, and argument. Tamil children appreciate this discursive and reflexive style and miss it at home when they ask questions, for instance: about religious experience; why many gods are worshipped; what meaning rituals have; and why castes exist and matter in marriage. Parents feel the children are demanding too much information and are generally not able to answer the questions. Mothers just say “this is how it is in our tradition, we have always done it that way” (das ist bei uns so). This frequent answer

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is not acceptable to the young and they feel deeply frustrated. Many become very critical of their religion and colonial stereotypes reappear. Hinduism as practised by their parents, especially their mothers, and by other relatives, the wider community, and Tamil people altogether is seen as: “idol worship” (triggered, for instance, by hearing in their religious education to make no image of god, the young start to think, “but this is what we do”); “blind belief”; “empty ritualism” (there is a strong feeling that the parents do not know the meaning of their religious actions and are not able to explain their faith, belief, or convictions); “magic”; and “superstition” (related to miracle performances and to the traditional importance of astrology and horoscopes in particular, and also sometimes to vratas (women’s fasts) which are, however, accepted as part of healthcare and dieting). This is the time when a number of youth start to rebel, for instance, against the piety of their mothers. For example, a mother may comment after a successful exam, “this was the grace of the goddess; you should pray and thank her,” whereas the young girl thinks, “no, it is because of myself, because I learned so much. I deserve it.” This is also the time, when many begin to boycott going to the temple with their parents, or wearing traditional and decent dress. Most do not like going to the temple, because they feel constantly watched, controlled, and talked about by the community—they hate this. Generational conflicts about right behaviour, particularly in sexual matters, and their parents’ strictness are fairly frequent. At the same time, however, there is deep love and respect for their parents, and the urge not to hurt them. And there are definitely some, for whom the temples are important places, in the sense of spiritual homes. The dilemmas many youth go through in their teenage years generally are solved later in life. Some remain alienated from their home religion, a few may even convert, but mostly, they turn back to Tamil Hinduism—not always for religious and spiritual reasons. There are some who say: “After all, it is my culture, I was born Hindu, I am Tamil, and religion confirms my Tamil identity. I like to go to the temple because it makes me feel reconnected to the Tamil community.” For others, the reason may be: “I had a deep crisis and fell into depression and the goddess helped me get out of it.” And others: “although I like going to church, because it is so peaceful and quiet, or going to mass, because the stories are explained by the pastor’s sermons, Hinduism is a central part of me. I love the colorfulness and the liveliness of the temples and the festivals.” Or, “prayer and doing pūjā gives me peace of mind.” One states (what seems like a contradiction): “I am a pagan, but I like Ganesha. I am not religious.” There are also youth for whom religion is not a problem or big issue. Some may even identify with one of the gods or feel particularly attracted to one— not only for spiritual reasons. For instance, one youth states: “Murugan is my

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favourite deity and I have been already a hundred of times in his temple. I love him, because he is a fighter and a hero and can manage everything. He is cool. He is cheeky and bold. He is like me” (Marla-Küsters 2015). According to Sandhya Marla-Küsters, the diaspora context triggered “a culture of questioning” (Fragekultur) in the young that was not there before. There are some youth who are aware of this and say: “Our parents did not question and therefore they are not able to answer.” The younger generation is a vehicle of change in the sense that they developed a more reflexive way of dealing with Hinduism than their parents did. Marla-Küsters determines that a “theologisation” (Theologiesierung) of Hindu religiosity occurs among the young, which must be understood in the context of Christian theological expertise. Going in a similar direction, Baumann (2009: 173) mentions the booklet, Hinduismus für alle (Hinduism for all), which was published by the Kamadchi temple in Hamm-Uentrop, and a booklet on “Hindu rituals,” which was published by the Thurkkai temple near Lucerne, in order to illustrate that lived religion develops into systematised religion. I am a little doubtful of this. The development may go in this direction to a certain degree, but this is still far from professionalisation and systemisation. It is true that the young appreciate theological and philosophical reflection (as learned in school in philosophy and religious education classes), but even the booklet on Hinduism is full of assertions an Indologist would find hard to accept. Regarding the youth, my impression from Marla’s fieldwork and interview quotes is that their relationship to religion is more emotional than intellectual, it is a matter of belonging and feeling secure and protected (i.e., still identifying more with the religion of their parents than Christian theology). But, the exposure to Christian beliefs in their religious education made some of the youth start to think in more exclusivist terms—one can only be either Hindu or Christian. The majority, however, showed amazing acceptance and continuity of the inclusive habitus of their parents—one can be both, because god is everywhere the same. In terms of a lack of professionalisation at this point in their development, it is interesting how little the sophisticated Āgama Śaivism or (Advaita) Vedānta is referenced. Both can give philosophical-theological arguments for the position that “god is everywhere,” and Āgama Śaivism has a lot of interesting things to say about rituals. It is also curious that none of the young, as far as I see, turned to Vivekananda. Some seem to have internalised a modern understanding of Hinduism with the Bhagavadgītā playing the role of a bible, at least they mention this influential text, but again none, as far as I can see, seem to have read and studied it. The modern saṃpradāyas introduced more reflexiveness, but they are not present in Germany, which was where Marla’s fieldwork was done, except ISKCON which has a religious style that is very different from Tamil

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Hinduism. However, young Tamils, male and female, act autonomously and fill in educational blanks through extensive use of social media. The internet, Google searches, etc. are used with abandon and, in their own blogs, the young engage in national and international discussions with each other about many things (starting with Tamil politics), not least of which are religious matters. They also love Tamil cinema and Bollywood, which has its own section of movies on myths of the Indian gods and goddesses. The pioneering study by Robert Jackson and Eleanor Nesbitt (1993) on Hindu children in Britain has pointed out the important role of modern mass media, particularly film. Before they embarked on this research, they assumed that children learned traditional stories from parents and grandparents. However, their empirical research revealed that this cultural transmission had been taken over by the Hindi movies, which were available on video cassettes for home viewing: “In many cases it is from Indian movies, through the songs, dances and colourful festivals, that children gain familiarity both with a deity’s visual representation and with mythological stories” (Jackson and Nesbitt 1993: 135). The authors also point out that the children who have the greatest knowledge about Hindu principles, values, dietary rules, and scriptural teachings were those whose parents were members of a saṃpradāya. For instance, the Swaminarayan Saṃpradāya, from the religious leader and guru Pramukh Swami Maharaj down to the lay families and parents, puts a very strong emphasis on religious and cultural education and the teaching of their own tradition as well as the pan-Hindu “cultural heritage of India,” as amply shown in the more recent work of Gabriele Reifenrath (2010: 120–22, 125–27, 130, 133, 140–44, 149–55). In addition to a permanent exhibit, “Understanding Hinduism,” in the premises of the London Neasden temple, and an independent, daytime school next to the temple, they also offer a range of didactically skilful programmes and Sunday schools for all age groups (i.e., children, youth, and adults). The children’s programmes offered by the temple include examinations, a magazine and website, as well as pilgrimage journeys to temples in India. The major idea behind all these activities is that “they should not forget where they come from,” which is repeatedly expressed by Pramukh Swami: “[…] kids started forgetting their own culture, you know, what you are, where are you from, you know […] the kids they mustn’t forget, even though they live in this country, they should obey by the laws of this country, they should mingle with the people of the country, yet they should not forget their own culture as well, their own identity, you know” (Reifenrath 2010: 127). Within the Swaminarayan Movement there are also the connotations that Hinduism is the best of all possible ways of life and of very rigorous (almost fundamentalist) morals: be British, mingle with the British, but do not adopt morally

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decayed customs like consuming alcohol and drugs; stay pure, seek your pleasure in a morally untainted life, and in the service of the higher and divine blissfulness (see also Brosius 2010, 2012). Pious parents have completely internalised Pramukh Swami’s instructions: “I do not want my children to be completely tight up to Hindu community either, because this is after all England. So I want them to know, where they come from, which will help them and help us also to decide according to our religion or our teachings, what is right for us, what is wrong, what should we follow, and what shouldn’t we follow, but at the same time be able to mix up with the English people very nicely” (quoted in Reifenrath 2010: 140). Religious education, thus, is not merely intellectual and cognitive; its aim is to produce and shape a moral community across generations. Moreover, it attempts to arouse emotions by inspiring love and pride for Hindu culture and by including sensory-aesthetic learning, such as going on pilgrimages, celebrating worship together, and helping to prepare festivals. The magnificent temples and the religious-cultural megafestivals that are typical for the movement, very much belong to this moral-aesthetic educational project and are particularly powerful sensory amplifiers and emotionally binding forces (see Reifenrath 2010: 123–40). The Swaminarayan Movement therefore places much emphasis on temple building and large temple projects—as beautiful and stunning as possible in the Indian diaspora, as well as in India’s megacities. Temples are seen as important ingredients of collective cultural memory and as powerful mediums of transmission that supplement religious education in a narrower sense. Regarding the Swaminarayan Saṃpradāya and the Neasden temple, Vasudha Narayanan’s “templification” thesis is much more applicable here than to the Sri Lankan Tamil temples, children, and communities in Germany. This shows that more research, especially comparative studies on the younger generations in different European countries, is needed. Jackson and Nesbitt, and more recently Marla-Küsters, have been the only large studies and monographs in the field. Marianne Q. Fibiger’s article on young Tamil Hindus in Denmark must also be mentioned (Fibiger 2011). Other than this, there are mainly short notes in different publications. These reveal, for instance, that British Hindu children (such as the Swaminarayan kids56) are different from but also, in many ways, similar to Hindu children in other places in Europe, 56  The Swaminarayan children are no exception in regard to religious training and knowledge. The Chinmaya Mission, for instance, has equally skilful and comprehensive educational programmes for all age groups, and even British state schools give more room to non-Christian religions in their religious education programmes than the confessionally restricted religious education in most German states, particularly Northrhine-Westfalia, the site of Marla-Küster’s research.

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including Germany. Kim Knott (2013: 338), for instance, makes us aware that, among younger British Hindus, vernacular traditions are sometimes criticised as “superstition.” This is a direct parallel with the Tamil youth in Germany. Across the countries (Germany, Denmark, the Netherlands, and also Britain to some extent) and irrespective of the Indian and Sri Lankan divide, parents (sometimes even priests) are frequently criticised for blindly following rules and for a lack of theological and philosophical knowledge about the pantheon, myth, and ritual. With regard to the younger generation of Hindustanis in the Netherlands, Albertina Nugteren (2013: 275) points out another parallel: “The Internet provides easy access to answers their parents and priests cannot provide.” Nugteren suggests that logging in from anywhere around the globe produces a virtual, global community of young Hindus who have a vague sense of Indian-ness rather than a clear-cut Hindu-ness in common. She also underlines the important role that Bollywood movies, romances, songs, and dances play in the lives of adolescents and young adults, for whom these films are not about “real India” (stereotyped through poverty, caste, and restrictions on women), but more about their own lives. In these lives “temples, rituals, and religion are no more than a minor aspect” (ibid.: 276). Does this latter remark about young Suriname Hindus in the Netherlands also hold true for the young Tamil Hindus in Marla-Küsters’ research? She devotes a large section to the question of temples and the young, since the increasing number of temples and their importance for the first generation of migrants has often been noted and systematised in new keywords like “templeisation” and “temple project.” Does this also apply to the younger generation? How much are they involved in temple life? These are all important questions, all the more so considering that the temples were built with the aim of transmitting religious knowledge to the next generation. Marla-Küsters therefore labels them as diasporic “places of memory” (Gedächtnisorte). Do the temples gain or lose importance within diasporic Sri Lankan Tamil youth culture? She shows that no simple answer exists about youth involvement in temple life. She discerns four major ideal types (Marla-Küsters 2015: 303–62; 2015b), and the majority of the youth adhering to types one and two. The first type, being “minimally involved,” are youth who visit temples very rarely or not at all, and who are negative, critical, or indifferent and neutral regarding the temples’ futurity. A typical statement by this type would be: “Temples are not my cup of tea.” To this type belong people who judge temple rituals as empty ritualism, who find violent rites awful, and who question the need for so many temples in Germany. The second type are youth who participate sporadically and diffusely in temple life; sometimes not at all, sometimes intensively. On the one hand, they have an emotional bond to the temples,

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on the other hand they give harsh critiques of them. This type is ambivalent about the question of continuity. A typical statement would be: “Somehow temples are very important, on the other hand they are not good.” One critique, for instance, would be that temples are old-fashioned and conservative, and transmit antiquated and obsolete values. On the other hand, they do not want to give them up, because they are important for their religious and cultural identity. Therefore, it is not an option to stop going to temples. The third type are youth who are intensely involved in temple culture and visit one or more temples regularly, and not just at festival times. Temples belong firmly to their daily life. These individuals will be engaged in making contributions for the continuity and permanence of the temples. A typical statement would be: “The temple belongs to my life like breathing does.” The temple is “really very important” for them, and it is not rare to visit several temples within one week and to do voluntary work at the temple(s), such as cleaning the floor. Finally, the fourth type is qualified by semiprofessional or professional involvement. This refers to individuals who perform, with great liability, tasks in at least one temple, as well as to a new generation of temple priests, assistant priests, or those being trained to become priests. These young people love to come to the temple and seek to learn more about their cultural roots. All of them are regularly engaged in temple life and perform services. Consequently, they feel a responsibility to preserve the temples for future generations. A typical statement by this type of person would be: “I live for the goddess.” Only a minority belong to this type. Despite all of this, Marla-Küsters could not discern a clear connection between caste and type, except for Brahmans, who are always at least intensely or semiprofessionally engaged with the temples. They always know who to contact, for instance, during a religious crisis: their parents and a priest. In contrast, the minimally and sporadically involved type would only mention peers, sometimes also their mother, whose minimalist answer, “it is like that,” is of little help. The parents’ incapability to answer the questions may be a factor that leads to permanent distance from temple life. A closer look at youth participation in temple life, and their adherence to what scholars called “templeisation” or “temple project,” reveals heterogeneous patterns. The question, whether the temple’s importance applies only to the parents of the first generation or also to the next generation, in reference to most British Swaminarayan children, must be answered with an emphatic “yes,” but in reference to most German Tamil Hindu children it must be answered with a careful “no.” No, because for teenagers and young adults temple culture is not as important as it was for their parents. My proposition that youth are an important vehicle or propelling force of change includes negative associations, or at least their possibility: no growth, and no further consolidation,

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but the decline of diasporic temple culture. Nonetheless, this future development is at present hard to foresee in light of the German data. Marla-Küsters (2015b) points out that the first and second type are the most widespread (covering at least two-thirds of her sample). She coins the term familiengebundener Gewohnheitshinduismus (family-based routine Hinduism) for such low-key Hinduism. It is this majority for whom, similar to the Dutch youth, “temples, rituals, and religion are no more than a minor aspect” (Nugteren 2013: 276)—if at all. A minority within this largest group is very negative about temples and do not think they are necessary. A young woman, for instance, judges the fervour of temple building among the parents’ generation as a sign of a lack of willingness to integrate (Marla-Küsters 2015b: 271–72). Remarkably, she finds the German state and local governments too liberal and tolerant, and accepting too much. In their place, she would not allow four temples to be built in the same city (and the same applies to mosques). If this type of voice grows—or even if simple, “family-based, routine Hinduism,” along with little engagement in the maintenance of temples, persists in high percentages—then European temple Hinduism’s future does not look bright (it looks as though Marla-Küster’s analysis is more or less applicable in other places, with notable exceptions like the saṃpradāya-affiliated children in Britain). Must we then assume an invariable decline in temple culture due to the younger generations’ decreasing interest? Not necessarily. Even in Marla-Küster’s sample, there is a small, but influential, group of very enthusiastic and highly engaged young people. From this, we can assume temple life will go on—possibly in reduced form compared to the present vigour and drive to establish South Asian-style, stone-carved structures. We cannot exclude, however, that the youth majority, who have little interest in temple culture, may develop a renewed interest after becoming parents themselves, or want to go back to their cultural roots after reaching adulthood. Upward social movement and education are very important to the Tamil migrants (both older and younger generations), therefore increasing finances and theological and philosophical professionalisation may attract some of them back to temple life and renew the drive to establish traditional-style temple buildings, which are prestigious symbols of cultural self-representation, social status, and religious identity. The Swaminarayan case is instructive for demonstrating how important theological and philosophical knowledge are and how they fill rituals and temple culture with plausibility and deep meaning and significance. We also must be ready for new, unforeseen, developments, which happened in Denmark due to new settlement patterns and new migrants. The Danish case is very interesting. The first two Tamil temples (the vernacular one dedicated to Apirāmi and the strictly orthodox one dedicated to Gaṇeśa) were established in Jutland, where most of the Tamil migrants

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had initially settled, but after 2010 some of the Tamil migrants moved to other regions of Denmark to settle and built Tamil temples there. Moreover, Marianne Q. Fibiger (2013: 217–18) also discerns important changes among the Indian Hindus. She sees a need to differentiate between those who lived in Denmark (mostly around Copenhagen) for more than one generation and a second group of migrants who have only lived in Denmark since 2010. These (predominantly young) Indian newcomers were invited to Denmark, mainly Jutland, as highly skilled workers, doctors, engineers, and IT experts. Fibiger qualifies them as global travellers, many of whom consider their stay as only temporary. Remarkably, they are much more likely to visit the Sri Lankan Tamil Hindu temples, while the second generation of Sri Lankan Hindus would rather travel to India for a pilgrimage than to Sri Lanka, and they criticise their parents’ religious practice as unreflective (very similar to the situation in Germany). Consequently, Fibiger (2013: 218) comments that the two diasporas, which so far have been dominant, are presently somewhat blurred and intermingled, a shifting pattern that might be decisive for the future of Danish temple Hinduism. Must we assume that different scenarios will emerge in different countries? Will distinctly different Hindu identities arise in the future (e.g., Dutch Hindus, Danish Hindus, and German Hindus) that are just as (or even more) interlinked with and shaped by these nations’ developments than with their original home cultures? Will it be a more hybrid form and render the categories of “ethnic” and “universal” obsolete? Perhaps. But terms like “British Hindus,” “Dutch Hindus,” and “German Hindus” bear the danger of essentialist abstraction if they are used as anything more than descriptors for Hindus living in a specific country. Pratap Kumar (based on Prea Persaud) suggests that identity will be redefined in new ways in the diaspora, rejecting both and claiming both, being neither just Indian nor just British, “but rather both and at the same time neither. Such diaspora identities add their Indianness to their Britishness,” and vice versa (Kumar 2015: 347). It would be fascinating to speculate about what kinds of temple aesthetics might emerge from such diasporic hybridity. Another question that also seems relevant is whether the two-fold diaspora, spoken about above, is also applicable here. Possibly. The Sri Lankan Tamil youth still strongly identify with being Tamil and this is largely politically motivated (due to the atrocities their parents’ generation went through). Remarkably, the Swaminarayan members—young and old—also strongly identify with being Gujarati, and this identity is enforced by Pramukh Swami, who emphatically propagates Gujarati language acquisition in the Neasden temple—the loss of language would mean a loss of cultural identity. What we have seen above in regard to Tamil Hindu temples and festivals, namely,

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feeling fully and completely Tamil through the use of the Tamil language, dress, food, ritual, and dance, is very similar to the celebration of Gujaratiness in the Swaminarayan Neasden temple. On the other hand, the Swaminarayan Movement’s religious education, exhibition, and famous megafestivals (mahotsava) convey a pan-Indian, global Hinduism (which in critics’ eyes is heavily essentialist and nationalist). These large events, called a Cultural Festival of India, are bombastic spectacles that last several weeks and present India at its best, with dances and replicas of temples from different regions. These festivals attract hundreds of thousands of participants, including Hindus from all regions and denominations as well as non-Hindus. The festival guide from the Cultural Festival of India that took place in London in 1985, declared its main goal was “to present the glory of Indian Culture in its pristine purity to the new generation of Asians and to the British People,” and a second goal was to create “cultural understanding and harmony” (Reifenrath 2010: 137). Gabriele Reifenrath’s fieldwork among women devotees at the Neasden temple reveals that many of them were attracted back to the Swaminarayan creed, their family religion, after attending the Cultural Festival of India in 1985, which made them recover their “Hindu identity” (ibid.: 136ff.). After the Neasden temple was established in 1995, the magnificent architecture served a similar purpose, invoking a feeling in women that “I’m a Hindu and I’m a Swaminarayan”—a statement that Reifenrath used as the title of her book. It was precisely this magnificent temple that drew many of her interviewees back into religious life or initiated them into Hinduism. A sādhu of the temple, who was raised in Britain, remarks that the temple contributed to his gradual discovery of his Hindu identity and Swaminarayan faith—both the temple and the possibilities for study that it offered to him and other young members (ibid.: 125). The women Reifenrath interviewed repeatedly mentioned the temple’s important role in religious and cultural transmission. A woman in her forties, a mother of two sons who had recently moved to London, remarked: “In London, because the temple is there, we’ve got a lot of influence of Indian culture, which helps our children to know, what it’s like, where they come from, because it is important for them to know where the roots are” (ibid.: 125). So, temple culture— and the sheer aesthetics of architecture and performance—is far from being insignificant in regard to religious transmission, and Reifenrath (ibid.: 123–30) makes sure to point this out. The data presented in this section is disparate and inconsistent, and the parents’ opinions do not necessarily reflect what the children are doing. But, the impact of “real temples” and formalised education, which so far is lacking in countries like Germany, Switzerland, and the Netherlands (van der Burg 2004), seems to be undeniable. At present, it is hard to determine the future

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of European temple Hinduism. Only one thing is clear: The continuities and changes among the younger generations in different countries should be given more attention, empirical research, systematic thought, and comparative analysis—after all, the future of temple Hinduism in Europe lies in their hands. Missionising Hinduism and the Diaspora Temples of Influential Saṃpradāyas John R. Hinnells introduced the term “diaspora religions” in 1996 in order to denote “those groups that have a sense of being a minority, commonly an oppressed minority, living in an alien culture at a distance from the ‘old country’” (2000: 3). This definition has been rightly objected to as being too narrow and not applicable to many religious groups living outside their geographic area of origin, such as European and American Christians or Muslims living outside of the Arabian Peninsula in Persia or South East Asia where they even form majorities. Indeed, the term diaspora is particularly problematic for religions with a missionary programme (i.e., those that seek to deliberately spread their religious message and practices). Although this is a programme alien to ethnic brāhmaṇical Hinduism, in which one can be Hindu only by birth and not by conversion, this rule is not as applicable to ethnic devotional and tantric Hinduism. Within this latter framework we find, starting in antiquity and the early Middle Ages, guru-based saṃpradāyas that developed their own lineages of initiation, which were independent of birth, brāhmaṇical hierarchies, and caste, based on personal conviction and conversion—which of course, in the generations following, would be inherited and routinised (i.e., often unconsciously lived). It is nevertheless decisive that religious choice and freedom always existed to a large extent and were dynamised by new saṃpradāyas and their success through their conscious spread. It should not be forgotten that Śaiva Siddhānta (tantric Āgamic) and devotional or tantric (Pañcarātra) Vaiṣṇava saṃpradāyas were historically decisive in the development of ritual and devotional temple services. Orthodox heirs of these traditions are not the only ones active in establishing temple Hinduism in the diaspora, but there are also transnational movements and global players from some of the newer saṃpradāyas, which have been successful in India and other places across the globe. The Swaminarayan Saṃpradāya (founded by Sahajānand Swami or Swaminarayan 1781–1830, and from 1906/07 onward it was further developed by BAPS) belongs to this latter group. It is one of the most successful reform movements, and it arose in Gujarat in the early nineteenth century as a puritanical reform of saint Vallabha’s Puṣṭimārga, integrating (Viśiṣṭādavaita-)Vedānta philosophy, congregational worship, devotionalism, guru veneration, moral 2.3

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strictness, social reform, and social service.57 Other successful newer saṃpradāyas include the Arya Samaj, founded in 1875 in Mumbai by Swami Dayanand (1824–83), who sought to reintroduce Vedic fire sacrifice in place of image worship and was tremendously successful in Northern India, and in the second half of the twentieth century, Hare Krishna or ISKCON, which is based on the highly affective, ecstatic Kṛṣṇa veneration of the Bengali saint Caitanya, but is mainly devoted to missionary work in the West.58 These three groups or saṃpradāyas—in contrast to traditional ethnic or regional Hinduism—developed extensive global outreach and missionary zeal. However, except for ISKCON, “missionary” must be put in brackets. Much like orthodox, devotional Vaiṣṇavism, the Swaminarayan Saṃpradāya, for instance, is not a missionising religious community in the strict sense of the term. Despite calling itself the “Swaminarayan Mission” in Britain, and the fact that the founder’s missionary aim was to spread true dharma59 and the Swaminarayan presence throughout many countries of Africa, North America, and Europe, its members remain almost exclusively Gujarati (Reifenrath 2010: 72). In Europe, wherever first- and twice-migrant Gujaratis settled (Britain, Portugal, and Sweden), Swaminarayan temples were established. Similarly, the founder of the Arya Samaj and his heirs had a programme to spread the true dharma, which meant a strong unification programme in order to bring together all Hindus who agreed on the need of a social and religious reform through the revival of Vedic religion and on the need to establish the unity of dharma (van der Burg 2004: 110). The Arya Samaj’s missionary activities and massive propaganda—including anticaste rhetoric and the revival of Vedic 57  Barot 1987; Williams 2001; Dwyer 2004; Kim 2010; Reifenrath 2010; Paramtattvadas 2017. The Swaminarayan Movement has often been seen by its followers and researchers as a puritanical and hostile reaction to Puṣṭimārga, which was felt to be deteriorating and morally and sexually corrupted (see, for instance, Barot 1987: 68). Rachel Dwyer (2004: 181) objects to this commonly held view, because the Swaminarayans share much of their religious practices with the Puṣṭimārga, as do most forms of Gujarati Vaiṣṇavism (see also Kim 2010: 209ff.). The alleged hostile reaction is, according to her, an anachronistic reading, and the “alleged malpractices of the Pustimarg became a topic of discussion by social reformers only at a later date” (ibid.). For the BAPS branch (Bochasanwasi Shri Akshar Purushottam Swaminarayan Sanstha), see below. It is the most influential wing of the movement in the diaspora. 58  Prabhupada and ISKCON were not the first, but they have been the most successful Hare Krishna proponent in the West since the mid-1960s, but after Prabhupada’s demise or mahasamadhi, it became evident that several Hare Krishna groupings existed, and some of them were serious competitors with ISKCON. 59  See Schreiner 2001: 158.

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fire ritual—enjoyed significant success among the Hindu communities in the Caribbean, attracting the lower classes in particular (van der Burg 2004: 100). The Arya Samaj, despite its outreach in Suriname, other Caribbean islands, East Africa, North America, the Netherlands, and Britain, and despite its newly invented conversion rite,60 attracted hardly any followers other than Hindus of Indian descent, such as Punjabis who had settled in East Africa and resettled in Britain. Half of East African’s Punjabi population are Arya Samajis (Nye 1995: 57). Very similar to the Swaminarayan Movement—whose place of origin was Gujarat and who attracted mostly Gujaratis, even in the diaspora—the Arya Samaj’s members in the African and British diasporas were mainly Punjabis,61 because Arya Samaj’s place of origin was the Punjab. It is worth noting that the Arya Samaj already belonged to the cultural heritage of those Punjabis who had migrated to East Africa, in contrast to the heavy missionary activities of Arya Samajis in the Caribbean, in places such as Guyana and Suriname. Both the Swaminarayan and the Arya Samaj broke caste hierarchies and opened avenues for low-caste and Dalit classes to participate with equal rights,62 but they also found a following among high-caste Hindus and Brahmans due to the purity and strictness of their moral and spiritual programmes.63 It should be added that both movements also had things to offer Westerners. The Arya Samaj’s conversion rite has been performed in cases of intermarriage, or if Westerners wanted to officially convert to Hinduism. In contrast, the Swaminarayan Movement attracts followers through its stunning, magnificent temples, which are purity and transcendence made tangible in white marble 60  The conversion rite was first designed by the founder Swami Dayanand as a reconversion programme for (mostly Dalit) Hindus who had converted to Islam. It was, and still is, also applied when Indian Hindus married non-Hindu women, and sometimes for Westerners who wanted to officially convert to Hinduism. 61  Certainly, there were also exceptions to this rule. For instance, a small group of East African Gujaratis (mainly Lohanas) also became members of the Arya Samaj. 62  The Arya Samaj (i.e., Swami Dayanand) “developed a new view of the caste system, whereby one’s position in the caste hierarchy was no longer determined by one’s birth but by one’s talents,” that is, determined by “one’s own merits and qualities” (Bakker 2015: 3). This gave non-Brahman men and, after 1948, even women the revolutionary opportunity to work as priests. A very similar view on caste and gender was upheld by the Chinmaya Mission, another important and successful Hindu reform movement. The Swaminarayan Saṃpradāya, especially BAPS, which went the furthest in the abolition of caste, witnessed the largest growth in membership in the diaspora (Reifenrath 2010: 81). 63  See also Vertovec (2000: 52–57), who notes hard fights between conservative orthodoxy (the “Sanatanis”) and the Arya Samaj—even violent clashes between the two camps. Ultimately, the “official” Hindu bodies of the Sanatani camp became the major political and religious forces. Opposition was smoothened in the long run and there was much in common between the two groups.

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and beautiful carvings. This inspired some Western followers and many admirers, but the major function that the imposing temple(s) fulfil is to be a perfect representation of Hinduism and India at its best. In the words of anthropologist Christiane Brosius, “the perfect world of BAPS” heralds “a highly aesthetic notion of brotherhood and cultural heritage” (2012: 440). The Swaminarayan Hindu Mission has had much more public impact than the Arya Samaj. The BAPS’s tremendous outreach is due to its temples and media use: “Much of its global presence is due to the construction of monumental temples and cultural complexes in urban centres in India and overseas since the 1990s, as well as an extensive and sophisticated use of a wide range of media (including the latest media technologies and megafestivals)” (Brosius 2010: 144). According to Rachel Dwyer (2004: 180–81, 193), the Swaminarayan Movement not only became the dominant form of transnational, Gujarati Hinduism, and was already the dominant form of Hinduism in East Africa, but it also became regarded as the dominant form of British Hinduism, despite its membership being almost exclusively Gujarati. This status of dominance was marked by building of one of the largest temples outside of India in northwest London, “which has become the focus of British Hindus, both within the Hindu communities and in the eyes of the wider British society” (ibid.: 180). No other sect, Dwyer (ibid.: 181) continues, has such a substantial base in Britain. The only other large sect is ISKCON, whose Bhaktivedanta temple in Watford is a major centre of Kṛṣṇa devotion (of the Bengali type, not the Gujarati Vallabha type adopted by the Swaminarayans and most of Gujarati Vaiṣṇavism). The Swaminarayan Movement’s dominant position is not merely due to its temples, media use, and teachings. It always attracted a large number of wealthy urban followers in East Africa (where funds went back to Gujarat). Dwyer attributes this to a very Protestant habitus: “Its puritanical ideals offer an excellent foundation for business success, not least because the adoption of a simple lifestyle facilitates the accumulation of wealth” (2004: 190). Lay members are expected to donate either ten or twenty percent of their income to the community (Barot 2002: 206). To contribute large sums is both meritorious and prestigious. It is seen as service (sevā) to the higher, which is manifest in the form of the guru, and becomes a means to salvation (see also ibid.). While puritanism and strict moral codes, as well as internal missionary outreach among Hindus, unites the Aryas and Swaminarayanis, their religious practices otherwise largely differ. The Arya Samaj eschew major elements of Hinduism that they consider degenerate—from caste division to post-Vedic texts, beliefs, and practices. They consciously broke from worshipping the gods, a practice judged as “idolatry,” and instead placed fire ritual (havan) accompanied by Vedic mantras at the centre of their worship. They understand

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this form of worship to be dedicated to an image of the divine that is pure and truly monotheistic. In contrast, the Swaminarayanis’ creed and practice do not differ substantially from orthodox Vaiṣṇavism. The major difference is identifying their spiritual leader with the highest godhead, Kṛṣṇa. The central doctrine is “God manifest before your eyes” (Paramtattvadas 2017: 200). The spiritual leader, or living guru, is the perfect vessel or abode in which god resides and therefore offering devotion, worship, and service to him is worship of the highest God (ibid.: 203). While the importance of the guru and his teachings also belongs to other communities of Vaiṣṇava bhakti in Gujarat (and to Indian guru veneration in general), it is more pronounced and theologically reflected in the devotional tradition of the Swaminarayan,64 whose religious practice includes strict regulations. A distinctive trait is the sharp distinction made between ascetic monks and householders. The monks or sādhus are based in temples and offer devotional teachings through weekly lessons (Kim 2010). Remarkably, the monks also perform the temple pūjā, in contrast to the usual Hindu model of married priests—particularly necessary in Śaivism (because the priest is in need of śakti power, which is embodied by his spouse). The Swaminarayans emphasise congregational temple worship. Despite the strong, primary allegiance to Narāyan or Kṛṣṇa, the founder also permitted Smārta worship of all five main deities, Viṣṇu, Śiva, Gaṇapati (Gaṇeśa), Pārvatī, and Sūrya (Dwyer 2004: 183, 186). Another distinctive mark of the Swaminarayan Movement is the strictness of rules on gender segregation. On the other hand, like other reform movements, it places emphasis on social reform and social action. Charity is important, but even more important is the reinforcement of “traditional Hindu identity” through orthodox practices (including vegetarianism and no smoking) and the widespread use of the Gujarati language (Dwyer 2004: 181, 193). The strong focus on the Gujarati language in discourses, hymns, sermons, record keeping, etc. (whereas Sanskrit is restricted to formal and ritual contexts), and the important role it plays in the development of Gujarati literature became an important element of ethnic identity maintenance and the reinforcement of “Gujaratiness” (ibid.: 187–88, 191, 194, 196–97). Such ethnic and Hindu-specific features at the heart of the two movements explain why Arya and Swaminarayan practices attract only a few non-Hindus. By far, the majority of their adherents are Hindus—and if we may speak of missions at all, it is first of all internal missionary outreach to Hindus. Thus, among the three newer saṃpradāyas, only ISKCON can be attributed the label “mission” in a strict sense, since it focused (at least initially) on Western converts. In the late sixties and seventies, when it started, ISKCON 64  For the complex, philosophically sound, theology see Paramtattvadas 2017.

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was often called a new “youth movement” in Europe, but it always has had old Indian roots through the lineage of Caitanya’s Gaudiya Vaiṣṇava saṃpradāya. So, ISKCON may not be ethnic, due to its outreach in the West, but it is “saṃpradāyic” (i.e., belongs to a traditional Hindu group) and is greatly concerned with bhakti practice, temple pūjā, public chariot festivals, and also, in its early years, singing and dancing in the streets. It should be noted that, for all the three movements mentioned, only in etic discourse they were often (and misleadingly) counted under “new religious movements” or “neo-Hinduism,” while in their emic self-understanding they were Hindu reform movements and invariably based on preexisting, earlier traditions, which were given an aggiornamento. Each of the three movements has been very active in the establishment of temples in the diaspora, and for all of them—even the Arya Samaj65—temple life plays an important role in religious identity, congregational worship, and community building. It is precisely the strong focus on temple worship and public processions that made ISKCON acceptable and attractive to native Hindus—Indian Vaiṣṇavas and Sri Lankan Vaiṣṇavas. Thus, there have been two major groups among the productive activists who established temple life in the European diaspora: the religious groups who suffered forced migration and the modern, internationally active, saṃpradāyas for whom temple Hinduism is a central feature—and who were partly supported and partly opposed by traditional, orthodox paṇḍits (scholars) and Brahmans. Both groups make us aware that temple Hinduism in Europe is a complex and complicated matter that involves global and regional aspects and, more often than not, a mixture of both. At the beginning of this century, Hinnells (2000: 10) notes that it is still uncertain which way will be preferred in the future: global, regional, or a mixture of both. In many ways, no sharp distinction can be made between ethnic Hinduism and the three new movements (Swaminarayan BAPS, Aryas, and ISKCON). What remains distinctly different is that these newer saṃpradāyas each present more homogenous and global forms of Hinduism and community. They embrace clearer membership than orthodox ethnic Hinduism. And, although they are each developing their own congregational forms, they are basically religions of choice, conversion, and confession. Compared to ethnic Hinduism, they were easier to transport and more in line with what has been called 65  As is well known, no temples existed in Vedic society, which was the peak time of Vedic fire sacrifice. Temples only came into existence in post-Vedic times, when the devotional worship of the great classical Hindu deities developed. Swami Dayanand criticised this development of worshipping deities in their iconic images, but gave the Veda itself a monotheistic interpretation.

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“transnational transcendence” (Csordas 2009). All of them had a decisive influence in Britain. Both the Arya Samaj and the Swaminarayan Movement had already been building temple structures in other diaspora contexts and, therefore, had an advantage over other groups when it came to transplanting temple Hinduism into European spaces. The Swaminarayan had already built prestigious and magnificent temples in East Africa, in addition to Gujarat (Barot 2002: 202).66 Much of the East African Gujaratis’ wealth went into the temple project, and the settlement in Africa played an important role in the transnational consolidation of the Swaminarayan Movement (ibid.). In Indo-Caribbean countries, temple Hinduism started to flourish earlier than in Europe. It started in the 1930s and continued to flourish due, in part, to Arya Samaj activists from India67 and the financial support of Arya Samaj’s friends in the Netherlands (Bakker 2015: 1–51, particularly 3, 5–7, 9). For the Hindustani migrants in the Netherlands, the double relation to (a glorified) India and to Suriname remained significant. For instance, an Arya Samaj temple covered with Devanagari script and Vedic mantras emerged in Den Haag in 1982 as (a smaller and less visible) replica of an imposing new temple in Paramaribo, the capital of Suriname (Bakker 2015: 1, 17, 37). In contrast to the unique, newly constructed sacred architecture in Paramaribo (which began in 1979 and was inaugurated in 2001), the Dutch temple was—typical for the usual European standards—established in the large hall of a former store that was converted into a temple room. Internal differentiations and factions are part of the complexities of European temple Hinduism, such as between the Aryas and Sanatanis, and also within the traditionalist, ethnic, brahmanic-orthodox, and devotional mainstream and the powerful, modern saṃpradāyas. For instance, within the Swaminarayan Saṃpradāya there has been much segmentation, which gave rise to a number of different Swaminarayan sects, all of which are now represented in Britain (Barot 1987: 71). By far the most successful, however, was not the original Swaminarayan Saṃpradāya, which had already branched out into two major wings under the charismatic founder Sahajānand (himself venerated

66  The Swaminarayanis also built many inconspicuous temples in Gujarati villages. Not all of its followers were wealthy. On the contrary, the “majority of followers in India are overwhelmingly from the lower classes and, increasingly lower castes” (Kim 2010: 215). But, Gujarati trade with and migration to East Africa and settlement in other British colonies played an important part in the community’ socioeconomic advancement. 67  This refers primarily to the Arya Pratinidhi Sabha and the Arya Dewaker associations established in Suriname in 1929 by the Indian paṇḍit Mehta Jaimini (Bakker 2015).

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as “Bhagavan Swaminarayan,” a living embodiment of Kṛṣṇa-Narayāṇa),68 but its offspring BAPS—the Bochasanwasi Shri Akshar Purushottam Sanstha established in 1906 or 1907 by Shastriji Maharaj (1865–1951). Shastriji Maharaj is venerated as the third spiritual successor of Bhagavan Swaminarayan. BAPS enhanced the charismatic guru cult of the Swaminarayan movement by propagating the worship of God (variously called Kṛṣṇa, Nara-Narāyaṇa, Parabrahma, or Puruṣottama and embodied in Bhagavan Swaminarayan) along with his “ideal devotee” or Akshar (akṣara, god’s “dwelling place”), the living embodiment on earth represented by the current spiritual successor heading the movement.69 The BAPS wing went the furthest in the dissolution of caste. And, it was also the BAPS section of the Swaminarayan Saṃpradāya that managed to attract the largest following in the diaspora and achieved the largest and most magnificent Hindu temple buildings outside of India— first in London Neasden (1995), which, since 2004, has been succeeded by the even larger temples in Chicago, Toronto, and Atlanta (Reifenrath 2010: 75, 81, 100–01). The Akshardham Cultural Complex in India’s capital of Delhi (inaugurated in 2005) became the world’s largest Hindu temple complex. The movement’s megafestivals in India and London (Reifenrath 2010: 131–39) and its use of media reflect and address rich, urban, middle-class adherents (Brosius 2010: 161–257; 2012: 440–62). However, it should not be forgotten that the majority of followers in India come from lower classes and lower castes and the Swaminarayan temples in Gujarati villages are modest (Kim 2010: 215). Both Arya Samaj and Swaminarayan BAPS may ultimately be seen as part of ethnic Hinduism and its internal dynamism and global outreach. In contrast, ISKCON, popularly known as “Hare Krishna,” which is widespread not only in Britain (like most of the Swaminarayan and Arya Samaj), but all over Europe, is a new Hindu movement that consists of mainly Western converts and witnesses a mixed clientele in its temple life. ISKCON is a noteworthy and special case compared to the rest of the data on temple Hinduism in the diaspora. The first temple builders in Europe and the United States were from 68  The celibate ascetic sādhu and yogin Sahajānand institutionalised his charisma into hereditary charisma by adopting and appointing the two sons of his two brothers to lead the two major Indian centres in Amdavad and Vadtal as ācāryas (teachers) and function as both administrative and spiritual authorities. In addition to administration, their particular task was to initiate new sādhus (give saṃnyās dīkṣā) and consecrate the icons in the temples (Reifenrath 2010: 89). 69  According to Reifenrath (2010: 89), BAPS broke with the hereditary succession line by introducing the idea of the most perfect follower of Swaminarayan as spiritual head of the organisation. They created a new succession line of perfected individuals who are thought to be akṣara, the dwelling places of God, i.e., embodiments of the eternal divine principle (puruṣottama) in human form on earth.

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ISKCON and the temples were frequently visited by native Hindus before they built their own places of worship (Carey 1987: 86–87; Eck 2000: 229). As far as the United States is concerned, Diane Eck remarks: “Temple-centred devotional Hinduism was really introduced into the United States by the Krishna Consciousness Movement” (2000: 229). This might also (cautiously) be applicable to a number of countries in Europe, for instance Switzerland. In Switzerland, the ISKCON temple in Zurich was an important contact zone for Tamil Hindus in the early 1980s, particularly those from the Vaiṣṇava creed (Eulberg 2014: 118). They would often visit the temple and even established a special Tamil “Sunday Festival” there. In 1991 the Swiss Tamil Krishna Society (STKS) was founded as a subgroup of ISKCON. In New York, North America’s first Kṛṣṇa temple was established soon after the Bengali ISKCON founder, Prabhupada (i.e., Swami A.C. Bhaktivedanta), arrived in 1965, and within five years Hare Krishna temples existed in thirty cities across the United States (Eck 2000: 229). Likewise, in Germany (Berlin, Stuttgart a.o.) and Switzerland (Zurich), Hare Krishna temples were established in the 1970s—long before ethnic (in this case Tamil Hindu) places of worship were founded, and they were also frequented by native Indian Hindus, particularly on festival days like Kṛṣṇa Jayanti. From my own fieldwork in Switzerland, it became obvious that native Hindus were much more inclined to accept the Hare Krishna than the Swiss, and they admired their deep devotion in temple worship, whereas in the larger Swiss society ISKCON was despised as a new “youth religion” and a dangerous “guru movement.” For a long time, it was not realised that Hare Krishna spirituality is deeply rooted in the Bengali bhakti movement of the sage Caitanya (sixteenth century) and its fervent and highly emotional Kṛṣṇa piety. Today, ISKCON’s famous chariot festivals (rathayātrā) are found in all large European cities, from Paris to Berlin and Amsterdam. ISKCON also played a major role in continental Europe in relation to the public face of Hinduism before the advent of ethnic Hinduism. But, on the whole, ISKCON exercised much less influence in Western continental Europe than in the United States and Britain. According to Eck (2000: 229), in many places, such as Chicago, Dallas, or Denver, Hindu immigrants continued to come to the Hare Krishna temples, making them into “multi-ethnic Hindu communities.” In Europe, Britain came closest to this type of community. The first ISKCON temple was established in London in 1969 (Carey 1987: 85). ISKCON and the new Hindu-Śaiva movement, Community of the Many Names of God (another globalised saṃpradāya), were to become “so attractive to sectors of Hindu migrant populations that their respective rural centres were to become the first British Hindu places of pilgrimage” (Geaves 2007: 81). Although the vast majority of the incoming migrants had little contact with these new movements (ibid.), ISKCON’s impact, notably in London, must not be underestimated.

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How much solidarity Hindus in Britain showed with Hare Krishna temple life was made clear by the court case of the Bhaktivedanta Manor, the largest Hare Krishna temple in north London, which was threatened to be closed and therefore incited much media attention in 1995. This temple had attracted 25,000 Hindus at its yearly chariot festivals in previous years, which led to complaints from the local community about public disturbances (Baumann 2003: 143). When ISKCON finally won the ten-year battle over the threatened closure of Bhaktivedanta Manor in 1995/96, it was not least due to the support of the South Asian population who respected it as part of the Hindu community (Coney 2000: 68; Knott 2000: 89ff., 101). Many British Hindus interpreted the conflict over the public festival “as a racist attack on their religious rights as a minority ethnic group” (Nye 1996: 52, quoted by Baumann 2003c: 143). This campaign to save the temple and the press it got in 1995 demonstrate how much power ISKCON temples may exercise in mobilising diaspora Hindus from all strata and in defining the public image of Hinduism. Malory Nye even (1996) spoke of an “Isconisation” of British Hinduism. The situation on the Continent is somewhat different to Britain (and the United States). ISKCON was strong in Italy, particularly from 1982 to 1987, when Kṛṣṇa devotees organised the Festival of India (Festival dell’India), but thereafter the movement saw a decline in Italy (Chierichetti 2013: 259). Sweden is an interesting case, several ISKCON temples exist with vegetarian restaurants attached. Although North Indian Hindus would rarely be seen there, Gujaratis are more inclined. The development in Gothenburg is most remarkable. On behalf of the Gujarati migrants, the local ISKCON temple carried out regular funeral rites (due to the impurity ascribed to death, temple priests do not perform funerals, for which there is a separate class of priests in India), and also anniversaries, marriages, and other ritual services (Sardella 2013: 315). But, on the whole, ISKCON’s impact on Hindu migrants was much less in continental Europe than in Britain, maybe because—with a few notable exceptions, like a rebuilt ancient villa near Florence—most Hare Krishna places of worship were only installed in modest apartments, which is still mostly the case in Germany in the twenty-first century. Moreover, chariot festivals were established late, for instance at the yearly festival of cultures in Berlin, whereas a number of early ISKCON practices in the public sphere were perceived as strange and embarrassing: Westerners wearing orange clothes, their ecstatic singing and dancing in the streets, and their massive missionary propaganda (e.g., free distribution of ISKCON books, like the Bhagavadgītā and Bhāgavatapurāṇa, with commentaries by Prabhupada). Typically, in Germany the public face of ISKCON, for instance when it appeared in the press, was as a dangerous sect, not a devotional Hindu movement. Until the mid-1990s, only new, Indian-based religious movements like ISKCON determined the public face of Hinduism in Germany,

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Switzerland, and other places, and they were often characterised using negative and pejorative stereotypes and misrepresentations. Of course, in the Anglo-Saxon countries, ISKCON also was a target of anticult movements, but its temples acting as a devotional anchor point for migrants was just as strong of a force. “Temple Hinduism” started with ISKCON, not ethnic Hinduism, in a number of places. Even now, ISKCON remains one of the players in the Hindu temple-scapes of Europe, and an “Indianization” of ISKCON (Carey 1987), as well as a number of other Hare Krishna movements, has been evinced. ISKCON has had enormous success in Eastern Europe, such as in Russia, where an imposing ISKCON temple (similar to the Swaminarayan temple in Neasden) along with a “Vedic centre” was planned for the heart of Moscow—but not realised due to opposition from a powerful Russian Orthodox archbishop (Kotin 2013: 293–94). ISKCON remains a very special case in the context of temple Hinduism in Europe. On the one hand, it is an atypical case, a nonethnic origin for European temple Hinduism (although having authentic roots in the ethnic). Despite a partly mixed clientele, this form of temple Hinduism is largely dominated by converts, who established the temples, received training as priests, and also work as priests. The presence of Western priests belongs to the most spectacular transformations taking place in the diaspora. On the other hand, ISKCON is far from being only a curiosity. This starts with the fact that, in many Western countries, temple life actually started with ISKCON and was accepted by many native Hindus as a genuine expression of Hindu piety. No doubt, ISKCON was an important factor within European temple Hinduism, and it has also undergone many transformations and reforms since its inception (Carey 1987; Coney 2000; Neubert 2010). Moreover, in European temple Hinduism, ISKCON is not the only case that a new religious group or modern movement, grounded in a much older tradition, gained particular strength in the new cultural context, as the Swaminarayan illustrate. Furthermore, it is noteworthy that in some European countries, such as Austria, converts make up the largest number of Hindus, which may also be the case in Italy, Spain, and definitely Eastern Europe where temple Hinduism practically coincides with ISKCON. 3

Temple Hinduism as a Diaspora Phenomenon and the Significance of “Real Temples”

We have discussed a number of rather amazing transformations that happened in the European diaspora: new sacred geographies and European Hindu pilgrimage places; negotiation of priest and caste hierarchies; change of traditional

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roles, because Brahman priests are rare; greater opportunities and chances for enthusiasts and charismatic leaders (e.g., not only in the BAPS Swaminarayan in London, but also regarding Sri Paskaran, the chief priest of the Kamadchi temple in Hamm-Uentrop, the priestess of Brande and Subramanian Swami in Wales); reorganisation of the periphery to the centre due to reform gurus, low-caste enthusiasts, and women; new transnational networks of priests and artisans; new definitions of “Hindu” that are fitting to empathic Europeans; native European priests; enhanced public roles for women, including female priestesses; greater reflexivity in the young and their somewhat chauvinist attitude toward the religious style of their parents (repeating colonial stereotypes like “idol worship,” “superstition,” and “empty ritualism”); and, most of all, the new importance and enhanced roles of temples and processions, and their exceedingly fast growth. A new development in the twenty-first century is the increase of temple projects in traditional South Asian architectural styles and the erection of temples-cum-cultural centres. The two temples that have attained the most public attention to date, due to their imposing sacred architecture, grandeur, and visibility (in contrast to most other places of worship) represent the two groups that have been qualified as the most industrious temple builders: ethnic Hindus who suffered forced migration (with the Sri Lankan Tamils as a paradigmatic example) and transnationally acting newer saṃpradāyas (Swaminarayan are the most effective and strongest). The two temples are also a token of what has been called a two-fold diaspora—the Indian and the Sri Lankan. One is the Gujarati (BAPS) Swaminarayan temple in London, Neasden, which was inaugurated in 1995, and was, at that time, not only the first of Europe’s “real Hindu temples” but also the largest Hindu temple in the world outside of India,70 and today it is still the largest Hindu temple in Europe. The other is the Tamil Hindu Kamadchi temple in Hamm-Uentrop, which is located in Westfalia, Germany and was inaugurated in 2002, and is thus far the largest one in continental Europe (see figure 11.1). Both became new pilgrimage sites for Hindus, and they also attract non-Hindus. They happen to be the first purpose-built, traditional, stone-carved temples in Europe and amply illustrate the powerful role and enormous public value of “real temples,” as well as the importance of the sensory aesthetics of sacred architecture and copious festivals. The enhanced importance of temples in the diaspora and the particular significance of “real temples” will be looked at more closely in this final section. 70  This changed with the huge Swaminarayan temple projects in the United States. Currently, the Swaminarayan temple in Atlanta is the largest Hindu diaspora temple worldwide.

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Yearly temple festival of the Sri Kamadchi Ampal Temple in Hamm-Uentrop. Visitors are waiting for the movable cult image of Goddess Kamadchi to be brought out of the temple. 25 June 2017 © B. Luchesi

Although it has been rightly observed that, as a general rule, many Hindus only infrequently visit temples, rather sporadically use temple services, and come to temples primarily on festivals and other special days,71 scholars have judged 71  Such infrequent visits do not mean, however, that temples have little importance. They have exceptionally high value as places of materialised transcendence. In consecrated temples, the rituals to the gods MUST take place, and it is irrelevant whether lay participants are present or not; the temple services are not communal actions or congregational worship, but the priest’s duty in order to venerate, feed, and serve the divinities—the god (or goddess) in the centre and deities surrounding the central shrine (garbhagṛha). However, as a rule, the priests’ worship is not so much personal piety or done for themselves, but “for others” (para-tantra)—for the society, the country, the world. So, there is a communal aspect in temple worship, even if no one is present. This is a very traditional feature, which is often maintained, but also surpassed in the diaspora where more congregational forms develop. Unlike Christian services, temple worship is not congregational but highly individualistic. One goes to temples for darśan—to see the deity and to be seen and blessed by the deity. In many diaspora temples, however, common meals are offered after the service (pūjā) on weekends, and some include sermons and collective

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the establishment of temples as an important milestone in the development of diaspora communities. At first glance, this might look like an exaggeration, since also cultural, spiritual, caste, and sociopolitical associations and movements played, and still play, an important role in community building in the diaspora. What makes temple Hinduism so particular is due to the fact that it is the most tangible and material institution of community building and visibly establishes “a home away from home” (Ballard 1994) for this and future generations. The public face of ethnic Hinduism in the diaspora is primarily temple Hinduism, including outdoor festivals and processions. In the new context, temples constitute the major symbol of official Hinduism for both the Hindu migrants and society at large. Temples present the religion of the Hindu population to outsiders and are recognised by the Hindus themselves as important focal points for their religious identity (Knott 1987: 161; and many others). They define a cultural space that contains greatest resemblances to their original homeland and give a feeling of being at home in the new surroundings. Serving such crucial functions, temples may be seen as a symbol of the imagined homeland and a home away from home where people have implicit knowledge about how to behave, how to act, and where they are speaking the same language (in the widest sense of the term) and understand each other even without words. Temples are practically the only public places in the foreign culture where native customs can be lived out as purely and authentically as possible. They are places for personal piety and community building. By recreating and confirming religious and cultural identity, they present and enact home culture—important for the second generation. Establishing a temple, especially a traditionally consecrated one, is a sure sign of being settled in a new place where one wants to stay. Although it is often enthusiastic individuals who are the prime movers for establishing a temple, it is never only an individual, but always a collective action involving a lot of volunteer work and sponsorship. Diaspora temples have, therefore, always been a community building project, even if they are only visited infrequently for individual worship. Temples provide spaces where large festival functions can take place—opportunities to meet and interact, not only for religious purposes. In this way, temples attain larger social functions. Many provide language courses and other secular activities, but also congregational meals after every Sunday service, and some offer yoga classes, etc.—a number of activities and functions that would not be present in the temples back home. Temples also have a high bhajan singing. Moreover, it is noteworthy that North Indians may be less in need of temples for their bhajan gatherings, but South Indians, and Sri Lankans, need them for big ritual baths, grand festivals, and processions, which cannot be performed at home.

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symbolic value as places of materialised transcendence. Temple Hinduism gives the feeling of belonging to an ancient tradition and inspires pride that one has something to offer to the “host society.” They also give the physical opportunity to play host to other members of society, especially when Western people come to see the temples and processions, partake in the rituals, eat the spicy meal that is freely offered, etc. What is thus specific to the diaspora are the different and new representational functions—for insiders as well as outsiders (i.e., for Hindu minorities and non-Hindu majorities). However, the public functions of most Hindu places of worship have their limits. Raphaela Eulberg (2014: 119–24) saw the need to distinguish the “diasporic public sphere” (the South Asian community) from the “national public sphere,” the larger public sphere of the country of residence’s society. From the outside, many temples are hidden from the public gaze, whereas on the inside they may be an authentic shrine, but the outside world cannot tell. Indeed, most have been, and a number still are, “invisible” because they are located in basements, rented rooms, rebuilt workshops, factories, and disused churches, and often in the peripheries of towns and cities, or in more industrial quarters. But there was a great push to have a public presence and visibility through the use of decorations, paintings, embellishments, and symbols, and to augment, enlarge, and beautify the places of worship inside and outside. Increasingly, old structures were rebuilt to look more like the temples back home or purpose-built stone structures emerged, which were decorated with Indian elements. The latest development, and peak of this growing visibility, was temple buildings in a South Asian architectural style, which are impressive stone-carved structures. Many temple communities, committees, priests, and pious individuals planned to establish a traditional building in sacred architecture, but very few achieved this. The magnificent Swaminarayan temple in London Neasden (Britain) was the first (1995), and it remained the largest, and most splendid, traditional, stone-carved structure, but shortly thereafter the beautiful and spacious (high-caste) Gujarati Radha-Krishna Mandir was built in a modern, North Indian temple style in Lisbon (1995– 97), and a few years later the imposing Tamil Hindu Kamadchi temple in Hamm-Uentrop (Germany) was inaugurated (2002) in an eleven-day, Āgamic consecration ceremony—the first of its kind in continental Europe, maybe with the exception of Italy. Already by 2000, a Lalita Mahatripurasundari temple was added to the spacious Gitananda Ashram in Pellegrino (Italy), founded by the Italian Swami Gitananda Giri (formerly Paolo Valle) in 1984. The āśram was architecturally “Hindu-ised” by the Indian sculptors and temple builders who constructed and decorated the new temple. It is, however, not traditional Tamil Indian sacred architecture with gopura and vimāṇa, like in

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Hamm-Uentrop, despite theologically drawing from the Śaiva-Śākta tradition of Tamil Nadu. It is mostly frequented by Italian and other Western Hindus and Indian lovers, and during its chariot festivals (not including kāvaṭi) it attracts substantial crowds, but not comparable to Hamm-Uentrop’s consecration ceremony, which attracted about 6,000 guests and large media coverage, and even less comparable to Hamm-Uentrop’s chariot festivals, which peak at 25,000 attendees. Temple inaugurations, as well as processions, are always great media events. Consecrations, inaugurations, and the media attention they garner may radically change the position and status of a temple from one day to the next on the local, national, and international level, which happened in case of the Swaminarayan temple in Neasden (Dwyer 2004: 193) and the Kamadchi temple in Hamm-Uentrop (Wilke 2013, 2013b, 2017). These two temples, despite being otherwise incomparable (starting with their size, their underlying theology, and their way of staging religion), still share a number of things in common. Both see themselves as proper representatives of “the” official Hinduism in their country, despite only representing a specific Hindu group. The governments, local authorities, and the larger public also see them as the most important representatives, often without knowing that they only represent a specific Hindu group. Both attained amazing transnational significance. Both combine strong regional and global-universal features and mirror Brahmanisation. What makes them particularly attractive seems to be this blend of ethnic and universal and global and local Hindu forms, as well as the blend of ritual culture and philosophical theology and the imposing aesthetics in their rituals and architecture. As has already become clear, traditional temple building was augmented in the new millennium and, at present, there is a great fervour to erect impressive, stone-carved structures and establish large temple complexes and cultural centres in various European countries. Cultural centres or templescum-cultural centres, like those in the Netherlands, seem to be a novelty and possibly a new performative way to present a unified global Hinduism or Hindu faith community, in addition to the regional-ethnic or sectarian profile of the temple (a profile lingering on even if it should be a pan-Indian deities’ temple). As is typical, the Neasden Swaminarayan temple included a cultural centre from the very start, and for several years the Tamil Kamadchi temple in Hamm-Uentrop has asked for donations to build a cultural centre next to the temple. Meanwhile, (at least) four, traditional-style temple structures exist in Britain. Apart from the Swaminararayan Mandir in Neasden (1995), all of them were built in the new millennium: the (Tamil Hindu) Shri Murugan Temple was inaugurated in East London in 2005; the (Vaiṣṇava) Shri Venkateswara

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Figure 11.2

The Sri Mayurapathy Temple in Berlin-Britz. 15 September 2018 © B. Luchesi

(Balaji) Temple in the West Midlands in 2006; and the Shri Sanatan Mandir in Wembley in 2010. But, in addition to this, there are many temple sites in Britain whose façades exhibit some strong elements of traditional Hindu architecture. The other new, traditionally-carved, temple projects in other parts of Europe are all Tamil Hindu—with richly decorated temple towers as their most distinctive mark. After the Kamadchi temple, three more Tamil traditional-style temples exist in Germany (two in Berlin [see figure 11.2], one in Bremen), and one each in Switzerland, Denmark, the Netherlands, and Norway (which is still under construction). Early on, Brigitte Luchesi (2003; 2004: 120f.; 2008: 180) already discerned this development of increasing visibility in Germany and called this process “leaving invisibility.” She commented: “Several of the new abodes […] are highly conspicuous. They are meant to be seen and recognised by the surrounding German public” (Luchesi 2008: 180). And: [T]he new abodes are calling for public attention and openly claiming public space. They are meant to be seen and recognised by the German public. Places, which formerly tended to remain hidden and

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inconspicuous, with barely any indication of the people who used them, are increasingly becoming visible. The Hindu Tamil immigrants have begun to make clear that they want to present their religious orientation and practice to the outside world, too. In doing this they are claiming their place in the German religious plurality. This wish is expressed through various concrete efforts […], particularly through the often immense financial contributions […], or through a number of voluntary services. Luchesi 2004: 121

Why so much effort? Much of this question seems to be answered already. Yet, one important dimension, maybe the most decisive, has not yet been mentioned, or mentioned only in passing. It is the aesthetic dimension, the tangible sensory spaces of perception, which play a very important role and trigger the imagination and feelings about good and bad (i.e., appropriate and inappropriate and pleasant and unpleasant sites). Interviews reveal that makeshift shrines and buildings, the exterior of which do not indicate what is inside, are perceived as not much better than domestic shrines, whereas buildings in traditional Indian architecture, like the one in Hamm-Uentrop, are much esteemed. They make the immigrants feel like they are on pilgrimage, and make them think, “I am in India” or “this is just like Sri Lanka.” It is important to note, and interesting to see, that the “larger public sphere,” individuals from the dominant group in society, feel exactly the same. The aesthetic dimension of a “real temple” is a space that triggers shared imagination. But, most of all, it is essential for the migrants themselves. Priya Swamy (2016) glossed over and quoted many revealing statements after the Biljmer plan for a magnificent Indian-style temple failed. One of her interview partners “felt, like many others, that the people running smaller, hidden temple spaces in the neighbourhood were doing good work, but it was absolutely ridiculous to expect the community and future generation to worship in garages, industrial spaces, and farm houses” (Swami 2016: 70). Another interviewee claims, “a real temple should be large and looming,” and not feel like you are “cramped into a small space that did [not] even look like a temple from outside” (ibid.: 68–69). It should not be built in the architecture of the country of residence, not one “that fits into the architectural norms of Dutch cities,” but one that has the magnificent look of an “Indian style, traditional” Hindu temple (ibid.: 68). For a long time, migration studies neglected the religious aspect and thereby overlooked a major factor in integration, identity, and collective belonging. Having one’s own place of worship plays a vital role in the process of integration, particularly if the site is built as a traditional structure. It is extremely

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important for the migrants to have a “real temple,” and such a building also has publicity value and can lead to increased recognition and visibility. In particular, temples built using traditional, sacred architecture, as well as the big festivals and processions hosted by them, are powerful forms of public representation that both reproduce cultural identity within the group and display it to the rest of society. In Berlin, the two new Tamil Hindu temples, both in sacred architecture (one still under construction) and located close to each other, are welcomed by the mayor and perceived as a valuable contribution to a peaceful (sic!), multicultural society. The role of sacred architecture’s sensory aesthetics and festivals cannot be overemphasised due to their enormous public value. The importance of “real” temples is not only pragmatic and communal, but also spiritual (in the sense of manifest transcendence) and closely connected to the sensory, aesthetic, and emotional. Therefore, a temple in traditional architectural style is not merely an exterior thing, not just a “marker to the outside” or “showing off,” although these are also important functions, but for the devotees such a temple is a very real, emotionally loaded, material manifestation of transcendence and of their home culture.72 This type of temple is a powerful source of cultural identity, pride, self-esteem, and self-confidence; it is also material assurance of the desire to stay and form a valuable part of the new culture. This double function is important for both collective and personal meaning construction. For all these reasons, one cannot overemphasise the significance of a “real temple.” It is high symbolic capital and a powerful material means to amplify sacred presence, cultural belonging, status, and prestige. And yet, only the future will reveal whether the strong tendency to build “real temples” will continue in coming generations. References Bakker, Freek L. (2015) “The Arya Dewaker Mandir in Paramaribo: A Hindu Temple with a Message.” Electronic Paper Series in Hindu Studies, 2: 1–51. Bakker, Freek L. (2018) Hindus in the Netherlands. Berlin: Lit. Ballard, Roger (ed.) (1994) Desh Pardesh. The South Asian Presence in Britain. London: Hurst. Barot, Rohit (1987) “Caste and Sect in the Swaminarayan Movement,” in Richard Burghart (ed.), Hinduism in Great Britain, 67–80. London: Tavistock Publications. 72  According to many interviewees in different countries, they feel like they are coming home or are on a pilgrimage to India or Sri Lanka when they visit such a temple in the diaspora.

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Swamy, Priya (2016) “Temple Building and the Myth of the Multicultural City among Hindus in the Bijlmer.” Etnofoor, The City, 28 (2): 55–75. Taylor, Donald (1987) “The Community of Many Names of God: A Saivite Ashram in Rural Wales,” in Richard Burghart (ed.), Hinduism in Great Britain, 100–18. London: Tavistock Publications. Thiele, Charlotte (2015) “Das Wunder von Bern: Im ‘Haus der Religionen’ in der Schweizer Stadt beten Juden, Muslime, Christen und andere Gläubige unter einem Dach.” Süddeutsche Zeitung, January 24/25: 49. Trouillet, Pierre-Yves (2013) “France,” in K.A. Jacobsen et al. (eds.), Brill’s Encyclopedia of Hinduism, 5: 235–39. Leiden: Brill. Van Hear, Nicolas (2013) “Sri Lanka’s Diasporas,” in Joya Chatterji and David Washbrook (eds.), Routledge Handbook of the South Asian Diaspora, 236–47. London: Routledge. Vertovec, Steven (1997) “Three Meanings of ‘Diaspora,’ Exemplified Among South Asian Religions.” Diaspora. A Journal of Transnational Studies, 6 (3): 277–99. Vertovec, Steven (2000) The Hindu Diaspora. Comparative Patterns. London: Routledge. Vögeli, Johanna (2003) “‘Stärker als ihr denkt’: Tamilische Frauen in der Schweiz,” in M. Baumann, B. Luchesi, and A. Wilke (eds.), Tempel und Tamilen in zweiter Heimat, 323–44. Würzburg: Ergon. Widmer, Jonas S. (2017) “Das Haus der Religionen in Bern,” in Klöcker und U. Tworuschka (eds.), Handbuch der Religionen 51, I-25.4: 1–14. Kulmbach: Mediengruppe Oberfranken—Fachverlage GmbH. Wilke, Annette (1996) “Mythos in Bewegung. Die Große Göttin in Symbolsystem, Kultus und Alltag.” Zeitschrift für Missionswissenschaft und Religionswissenschaft, 4: 265–83. Wilke, Annette (2003) “‘Traditionenverdichtung’ in der Diaspora: Hamm als Bühne der Neuaushandlung von Hindu-Traditionen,” in M. Baumann, B. Luchesi, and A. Wilke (eds.), Tempel und Tamilen in zweiter Heimat, 125–68. Würzburg: Ergon. Wilke, Annette (2003b) “Die Göttin Kāmākṣī und ihr jährlicher śricakra-Ritus: Zur neuen Öffentlichkeit einer esoterischen Tradition in Hamm-Uentrop,” in M. Baumann, B. Luchesi, and A. Wilke (eds.), Tempel und Tamilen in zweiter Heimat, 189–222. Würzburg: Ergon. Wilke, Annette (2004) “The Goddess Kamaksi in Hamm-Uentrop (Westphalia, Germany).” New Kolam 9–10. Available at: http://www.fasnus.edu.sg/journal/ kolam/vols/kolam9&10/wilke.htm (accessed September 20, 2018). Wilke, Annette (2006) “Tamil Hindu Temple Life in Germany: Competing and Complementary Modes in Reproducing Cultural Identity, Globalized Ethnicity and Expansion of Religious Markets,” in P. Pratap Kumar (ed.), Religious Pluralism in the Diaspora, 235–68. Leiden: Brill. Wilke, Annette (2013) “Tamil Temple Festival Culture in Germany: A New Hindu Pilgrimage Place,” in Ute Hüsken and Axel Michaels (eds.), South Asian Festivals on the Move, 369–95. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz.

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Wilke, Annette (2013b) “Ein Hindu-Pilgerort in Westfalen: Zur gesellschaftspolitischen und sozio-religiösen Bedeutung des Kamadchi-Tempel von Hamm Uentrop als neue kulturelle Kontaktzone,” in Edith Franke and Katja Triplett (eds.), Religion und Politik im gegenwärtigen Asien. Konvergenzen und Divergenzen, 13–52. Münster: Lit. Wilke, Annette (2013c) “Germany,” in Peter Reeves, Rajesh Rai, and Hema Kirupppalani (eds.), The Encyclopedia of the Sri Lankan Diaspora, 131–36. Singapore: Editions Didier Millet. Wilke, Annette (2017) “Āgamic Temple Consecration Transnationalized,” in Istvan Keul (ed.), Consecration Rituals in South Asia, 309–50. Leiden: Brill. Wilke, Annette (2017b) “Imaginary Spaces, Emotions and Ethics in Hearing the Story of Rām,” in Martina Wagner-Egelhaaf (ed.), Stimmen aus dem Jenseits/Voices from Beyond. Ein interdisziplinäres Projekt, 241–51. Würzburg: Ergon. Williams, Raymond Brady (2001) An Introduction to Swaminarayan Hinduism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wissmann, Reto (2012) “Die Alternative zu den Hinterhöfen.” Schweizer Revue, Oktober, 5: 12. Zavos, John (2013) “Hinduism in the Diaspora,” in Joya Chatterji and David Washbrook (eds.), Routledge Handbook of the South Asian Diaspora, 306–17. London: Routledge.

CHAPTER 12

Hindu Processions in Europe Knut A. Jacobsen 1

South Asian Procession Cultures

Procession is an important dimension of many Hindu traditions’ temple rituals. These processions are often connected to temple festivals, which attract pilgrims, some in large numbers. Several of the popular festivals that focus on the home and the neighbourhood include processions, and wedding processions are also common in South Asia. However, some of the largest Hindu procession rituals in India are temple processions; the processions at the temple festivals of Jagannāth in Puri, Veṅkaṭeśvara in Tirumala, and the Chithirai Festival in Madurai for Sundareśvarar (Śiva) and Mīnākṣī (Viṣṇu’s sister) are among the largest and most famous. Temple processions are not recent inventions but are ancient traditions connected to traditional cosmologies. The festivals may last for several days, with daily processions that are the high point of the festivals, and these festivals can be properly labelled as “procession festivals.” Given the importance of temple festival processions in Hinduism, the establishment of Hindu temples in Europe has also brought about the transfer of Hindu temple festival processions to Europe.1 In South Asia, processions have been a way for communities to claim public space and mobilise participants for the display of identities and power, and processions are also arenas for competition and hierarchy, for conflict, and for celebrations (Jacobsen 2008a). Parts of this South

1  It is the temple festivals in particular that have been transferred so far. Festival processions that take domestic statues or larger neighbourhood statues to a body of water, where at the end of the festival the participants bid a dignified and honourable farewell to the festival’s gods and goddesses, to my knowledge, are found only in a few countries of Europe such as Belgium (see Chapter 30: 853, 854). These types of festival processions, with domestic or public mūrtis, which are temporary, made from clay or plaster, and only meant to last the period of the festival, gained new meaning in the nineteenth century. It is well known how Bal Gangadhar Tilak introduced public processions for Gaṇeśa immersion in the late nineteenth century in order to imitate the Indian Muslim procession culture. The current public processions with the goddess Durgā at the end of the Durgāpūjā festival in Bengal may have a similar late origin; the transformation of a private ritual into a public procession is a response to the presence of political tensions between religious communities and the struggle for recognition and control of public space.

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Asian procession culture have been transferred to Europe and have become an important dimension of European temple Hinduism. 2

Hindu Processions in Europe

Migrants from many regions of India, as well as from many countries with Hindu populations, have settled in Europe, and Europeans have also converted to various Hindu traditions and are followers of the teachings of many different Hindu gurus and yoga teachers. No single form of Hinduism is dominant in Europe, but several of the larger traditions are Vaiṣṇava, such as the Swaminarayan, although their presence is mostly limited to Britain, and ISKCON (International Society for Krishna Consciousness), which has a presence in almost every country in Europe and is the principal form of Hinduism in Eastern Europe. However, some of the strongest Hindu traditions in many Western European countries are the religious traditions of the Īḻam Tamils, that is, the Hindu traditions of Tamils who have a background in the old Tamil culture of Sri Lanka, the Jaffna Kingdom. These are different from the Indian Tamils the British brought to Sri Lanka to work on plantations and who are called Hill Country, or Up-country, Tamils. The Īḻam (Sri Lanka) Tamils share a history similar to the Sikhs; due to British colonial wars and policies they both lost their political independence. The Tamil region was included in a larger administrative unit, together with the rest of the island of Sri Lanka, and at the end of colonial rule in 1948, they were included as a minority in a nation state, which was based on the administrative units of colonial rule and dominated by Sinhalese Buddhists. Both the Sikhs and the Īḻam Tamils organised postcolonial, militant, independence movements. Repression of the Tamil population in Sri Lanka started soon after independence in 1948, and the situation gradually worsened. In 1983, the war between the Tamils and the Sri Lankan state began. The Īḻam Tamils gained some independence under the rule of the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE), but they were crushed in a brutal massacre in May 2009, which ended the hopes of an Īḻam Tamil state. The Īḻam Tamils constitute the largest group of Hindus in several European countries, such as Germany, France, Switzerland, Denmark, and Norway, and they also constitute a large percentage of Hindus in Britain and Sweden. The dominant religious tradition of the Īḻam Tamils is considered to be Śaiva Siddhānta, because the Brahman priests are trained in the Śaiva Āgamas, mainly in the liturgical parts of the Āgamas. The Hindu reformer Arumuga Navalar (1822–79) influenced this development. Īḻam Tamils have eagerly established several hundred temples in Europe, and a significant percentage of the total number of

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Hindu temples in Europe are Īḻam Tamil temples. Īḻam Tamil Hindus challenge the common identification of Hinduism with India as well as many generalisations about Hinduism in the diaspora (Jacobsen 2004: 139). One tendency among Indian Hindus in the diaspora is to present Hindu unity instead of regional or sectarian identities and to promote a homogenisation or even standardisation of Hindu traditions. One feature of the Sri Lankan Tamil temples is the large annual temple processions. Because of the large presence of Īḻam Tamils in some European countries, Hindu processions have become a widespread phenomenon in the last few decades, and they have brought Hinduism out into the public streets and given Hindu religious worship a new visibility, especially in urban environments. Processions are symbolic conquests of public space, directed both to insiders and outsiders, and can be defined as planned, public display events that are intended to attain visibility (Jacobsen 2008a: 8). Hindus and Hinduism have been mostly invisible in public discourse about religion in European countries, which has been dominated by Christianity and the “hypervisibility of Islam” (Knott 2017: 55). Hinduism in Europe has been mainly an invisible religion and has only a small public presence. Many non-Hindus are probably ignorant of its presence in their societies. With the exception of some “display temples,” most Hindu temples are small and not identifiable as temples when seen from the outside. Processions are among the most visible religious activities in public space, and the increase in the number and size of processions in Europe in recent years has to do not only with the reestablishment of the cosmology of the place of origin but also with the display function of processions. It also seems to be part of a strategy for seeking greater visibility: Processions may imply a demand for recognition.2 Hindus have almost no visible markers that identify them as Hindus, in contrast to the Sikh turban and the Muslim hijab.3 Many Hindus wear a red or black thread on their wrist called a maulī, kalāvā, rakṣā sūtra, or charadu, which is given by a priest to some of those who attend a pūjā, to give power and protect against evil. However, the thread also functions as an identity marker, but in Europe, few non-Hindus are able to identify what it means, and it is also not very visible on those dressed for a cold climate. The Hindu processions in Europe undoubtedly relate to the Hindu 2  Seeking visibility points to the visual, what is perceived and present to the senses, but also to the process of drawing attention to itself or “processes of visibilisation” (Zavos 2013: 174). 3  The large majority of Hindus live in South Asia, and most of those living outside of South Asia have a South Asian family background. But South Asia is a religiously pluralistic region and being from South Asia is not a religious identity.

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minority situation and to the religious pluralism of European societies, and Kim Knott has argued for the usefulness of the tactics of visibility as “a key method of obtaining a measure of agency in an alien milieu” (Knott 2017: 52). Ann David, writing about Hindu processions in Britain, has suggested that the Hindu processions show that Hindus are gaining greater confidence, which indicates “stability and a sense of power in their relationship with their local environments,” and that Hindus in Britain “have negotiated a space that is now marked and made their own and through this are gaining a spatial authority where they no longer feel culturally displaced” (2008: 98). Similar arguments have been made about Hindu processions in Germany (Luchesi 2008). The Īḻam Tamil temple processions have been an important factor in Hinduism in Europe “leaving invisibility” (Luchesi 2008). The Īḻam Tamils have transferred the procession culture of Īḻam (Sri Lanka) to Europe. The procession culture of the Hindus in Īḻam has been continuously changing (see Derges 2013) and there seems to be striking parallels in the changes in the Īḻam processions in Sri Lanka and those in their diaspora in Europe, which points to the close relationship between Īḷam and the diaspora. Other Hindu groups in Europe who perform processions are primarily ISKCON communities, who perform processions of two types: rathayātrā processions, which are reduplications of the temple processions of Puri, and harināma processions, which are based on the model of Caitanya, the founding figure of Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇavism. These processions are not so much about the transplanting of a cosmology but a way to missionise their Hindu tradition and gain attention. ISKCON has been present, with temples, in most countries in Western Europe since the 1980s, and in the last decades, it has also attained a presence in many countries in Eastern Europe.4 Most Hindu temples that belong to Hindus from North India do not organise temple processions in connection with their festivals. Indian nationalist organisations in Europe, such as Vishwa Hindu Parishad (Viśva Hindū Pariṣad),5 often promote Holī and Divālī as public festival celebrations; these festivals are not associated with public processions but with public gatherings. Britain is the only country in Europe with a strong Swaminarayan presence, and Swaminarayan has developed a procession culture there that is found in no other country in Europe. Since various Hindu communities often do not have much in common, different Hindu communities establish separate 4  In Eastern Europe, the ISKCON processions are the only Hindu processions, since there are no Īḻam Tamil temples. 5  According to its official website, it has organisations in the following European countries: Britain, Germany, the Netherlands, Norway, Sweden, and Denmark, see http://vhp.org/ hindus-abroad-old/ (accessed May 13, 2019).

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temples and, as a consequence, organise separate processions. Processions are more common in some European countries than in others.6 3

Processions and Hindu Temples in Europe: Processions of Īḻam Tamils

The development of temples and permanent places of worship in Europe has paralleled the growth of processions. Brigitte Luchesi notes in the case of Germany that, “as long as there were no permanent temples with properly established images to house the revered gods and goddesses there were no temple festivals and also no processions to bring the festival images into the public sphere” (2008: 180). The history of the Hindu temple in Europe remains to be written (but see the chapter Temple Hinduism in Europe in this volume), but apparently there were already Hindu temples in Spain in the second half of the nineteenth century, and these might have been the earliest in Europe.7 The Ramakrishna Mission opened the first permanent public place of worship in Britain in 1949 (see chapters by Beckerlegge and Jones in this volume; Burghart 1987). The first Hindu temple in Britain organised by Hindu immigrants did not open until as late as 1967 (Nesbitt 2006: 199) or 1969 (see Chapter 65: 1676). Martin Baumann reports that in 1989, “only four small temples, situated in basement rooms existed” in Germany (2006: 132). The growth was rapid: “In 1994 the number had climbed to ten temples. And again, five years later, in 1999, the number of temples had doubled to twenty. Three years later, in mid-2003, there were twenty-five Hindu temples maintained by Sri Lankan Tamils” (ibid.). The major Tamil Hindu temple in Paris, in the La Chapalle district, was opened in 1985 (Goreau 2014: 224). The increase in the number of Hindu temples in Europe, in the last decade of the 6  Festival processions with domestic or public, temporary, mūrtis, which are made from clay or plaster and are only meant to last for the festival period, are found in Belgium (see the second volume Chapter 30: 853, 854). Jhāṅkī processions (living images) in which “persons— most often young children—are dressed up and made to represent groups of gods or certain mythological scenes while remaining silent and in a motionless posture” (Luchesi 2015: 35) are reported from the Netherlands (see the second volume Chapter 50: 1211). 7  In a recent study on the visibilisation of religious minorities in Spain, there is no mention of processions (Díes de Velasco 2010). The article does not give much information on Hinduism, but it does mention that Hinduism has been present in Spain for more than 100 years, particularly in the Canary Islands, with places of worship dating back to the second half of the nineteenth century (Díes de Velasco 2010: 248). Díes de Velasco suggests that the number of Hindus in Spain is 25,000 or 0.05% of the population.

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twentieth and the first two decades of the twenty-first century, has been staggering. Although no exact numbers are available, there are perhaps around 400 Hindu temples in Europe. The largest number is in Britain (perhaps around 200) and Germany (perhaps between fifty and 100). The number has been steadily growing over the last decades in many European countries, such as France, Switzerland, the Netherlands, Italy, Denmark, and Norway. In Paris alone there were eleven Tamil Hindu temples in 2014 (Goreau 2014: 224). In Switzerland, twenty Hindu temples were founded between the 1990s and the early 2000s (Eulberg 2015: 118; Baumann 2009: 161). In Norway, the number of Hindu temples in 2018 was already fifteen (Jacobsen 2018). The first Hindu diaspora temple was opened in 1996, the second in 1998, and a new temple has been opening more than every second year since then (Jacobsen 2018). In continental Europe, the Īḻam Tamils in particular have established a large number of temples, and countries with significant Īḻam Tamil populations also have the largest number of temples. Sometimes claims are made that the god for whom the temple was built also chose the location of the temple (for such claims about the Highgatehill Murukaṉ temple, see Geaves 2007: 180), implying that the Hindu gods move with the migrants and settle with them in order to take care of their interests. These processions are part of the transference of these gods, the cosmology of which they are part, and its social structure from Īḻam to the new location,8 and the success of the processions perhaps indicates a successful transference of the Hindu cosmology to the new place. The Tamil Hindu procession traditions in Europe started in the 1990s. The first Hindu Tamil procession in Germany was organised in 1993 by the Sri Kamadchi Ampal temple in Hamm (Luchesi 2008: 180; Wilke 2013: 382), which was perhaps the first Tamil Hindu procession in Europe. The Sri Kamadchi Ampal temple procession in Hamm subsequently developed into the largest Hindu procession in Germany, from a few hundred participants in 1993, to between 3,000 and 4,000 in 1996, then up to around 12,000 to 15,000 from 2000 to 2005, and finally 20,000 in 2006 and 2007 (Luchesi 2008). After 1993, many German temples started organising temple processions, but none in Germany have attracted the same number of participants as Hamm. In 2008, Brigitte Luchesi listed seven Īḻam Tamil temples with public processions in Germany (Luchesi 2008: 181–82).9 The number has most probably increased since 2008, and there are likely more temples and more processions. Processions are found in most other countries in which Īḻam Tamils have established temples, such as

8  The transference of the cosmology also makes it possible to ask for protection. 9  Descriptions of the Īḻam Tamil processions in Europe are found in Fibiger 2017; Geaves 2007; Goreau 2014; Jacobsen 2008b; Luchesi 2008; and Wilke 2017.

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Denmark, Britain, France, Norway, and Switzerland (see Fibiger 2017 for Hindu processions in Denmark; Goreau 2014 for France; Jacobsen 2004, 2006, 2008b, 2009 for Norway; and Eulberg 2014 for Switzerland). In these countries, procession rituals are organised as part of annual ten- to twelve-day festivals that celebrate the foundation of the temple. In France the first Hindu Tamil procession was organised in 1996 by the Sri Manicka Vinayakar Alayam (Vināyakar kōvil) (Goreau 2014: 225). In Norway the first procession festival was organised by the Sivasubramaniyar Alayam (Murukaṉ kōvil) in Oslo around the same time, and it has expanded every year since, with the addition of new chariots, additional mūrtis, new ritual practices and elements, more priests, more people, and so on. In Denmark the first chariot procession took place in Herning, and was organised by the Srī Sithi Vināyakar temple, also in the late 1990s (Fibiger 2017: 135). The development of the processions has typically occurred in several stages. In the first stage, the decorated images of the god or goddess were carried on the shoulders of male devotees through the streets surrounding the temple. In the next stage, one or more small procession chariots (tēr) were used to transport the images and were pulled by men and women along the procession streets. The third stage was reached by including one or more large chariots, and often two or three large procession chariots (tēr) are used. Parallel to this development is the growth in the number of participants. In the first stage, there were only a few hundred Tamil devotees, but with the successful organisation of annual processions through stages one to three, the number of devotees has rapidly grown. The largest Hindu processions in Europe are the Īḻam Tamil temple processions in Paris (Goreau 2014), London (Geaves 2007), and Hamm, Germany (Wilke 2013). The procession festivals mostly take place during the summer for reasons connected to weather, temperature, and holidays. However, it should be noted that temple festivals are not necessarily always accompanied by a public procession. There might be hindrances, such as street layout, organisational problems, administrative regulations, lack of resources, and so on, that cause the annual temple festival to be celebrated indoors. In the processions, festival statues (utsava mūrtis) of temple deities are taken out into the public space and displayed to larger audiences. The processions display the temple gods and goddesses to a larger world in an extravagant celebration that also celebrates the community itself. The gods and goddesses can be understood as participants in this community and important for its well-being, as well as being identity markers of the group. The processions are part of temple rituals and can also be understood as extensions of the temple and its rituals. The procession becomes an extension of the temple space, since the temple deities are included in it and, by means of the procession’s larger circumference around the temple, become

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incorporated into its sacred environment. Processions transform public spaces into sacred spaces. The procession chariots used in temple processions have correctly been designated as “mobile temples,” and they are constructed in various layers, like temple towers, to underline their function as mobile temples (Luchesi 2008: 182). Procession chariots (tēr) are temples on the move and transport special statues (utsava mūrtis) of the main gods and goddesses of the temple. New elements are constantly being added to the processions as they develop. In many cases, from the outside, the temples have few Hindu aesthetic elements, since they are mostly in buildings constructed for other purposes. The festivals’ organisers want them to be as similar as possible to the festivals in Sri Lanka, which is a sign of authenticity for the participants, and elements are added to the procession rituals to achieve that goal. In addition, elements are added to accommodate the wishes of the participants. Parallel to the inclusion of chariots and the growing numbers of participants, are the additions of kāvaṭi dancers and alaku—metal hooks, spears, spikes, and needles used to pierce and wound the body “in order to express submission, obedience, repentance and devotion to a deity” (Kapadia 2000: 184)—and other forms of ascetic practices, such as body rolling. The carrying of kāvaṭi, a large decorated wooden arch ornamented with peacock feathers and alaku, is a unique feature of Tamil processions. Not all the kāvaṭi carriers are pierced by spears and hooks. It is notable that, during the first years of the processions in Europe, none of the kāvaṭi dancers used alaku. Alaku were added to the processions, mostly on the request of young males who had given promises to a god, mainly Murukaṉ, that they needed to fulfil, and due to the availability of specialists to organise the alaku. Kāvaṭi and alaku are acts of “sacrifice and ritual offering, donated to the deity to whom the vow has been promised” (Baumann 2006: 135). Derges noted that in Sri Lanka the motivation for carrying kāvaṭi was “the desire to strengthen the self and promote positive social interaction” (2013: 144). Individuals use alaku “to fulfil a vow made in the past or to win divine favour for a boon” they hope will be granted in the future (Kapadia 2000: 184). Derges noted an increase in the use of kāvaṭi and alaku in processions in Sri Lanka during her fieldwork in the Jaffna peninsula in 2003 and 2004. In particular, their use increased during the difficult years for Tamils in Sri Lanka after 1996. She explained this was “a reflection of the experience of the entire civilian population during the war” (Derges 2013: 153). However, individual motivation for carrying kāvaṭi varied; from an act of devotion, a vow, or a personal challenge, to an act of bravery and a good way to attract girls, and it can be assumed that similar variations are found in the Tamil processions in Europe. Commentaries often describe possession by a god as an outcome of the kāvaṭi

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dance performance, but as Derges observed, the kāvaṭi dancer very seldomly actually falls into a trance (ibid.: 148). Derges connected that to the variety of motivations. Observing the dance in Norway, what is notable is that the dance has a very fast rhythm, which exhausts the dancers, who need support by helpers from collapsing on the street, and people throw water on them to cool them down during the procession. Women do not carry kāvaṭi, but they carry heavy pots filled with milk (pāl kāvaṭi), which are also considered vrats, performed either to fulfil a promise or to attain something. Piercing by hooks and spears was first performed in Norway several years after the kāvaṭi dance was introduced. When the kāvaṭi dancing became part of the procession, and especially after they began using metal hooks, spears, spikes, and needles (alaku), the main focus of the procession was on the dancers. It became particularly notable because the musicians now played the music for them rather than signalling the movement of the chariots with the divinities. Baumann notes that in Germany alaku was introduced in 1999. In the kāvaṭi dance, Baumann explains: The music’s demanding tone and rhythm is intended to invoke the deity into the dancer. Some dancers get possessed or fall into a trance as they dance out of control and seem not to feel the pain of the pulling and dragging hooks in their back. Being possessed or falling into a trance for a short time is interpreted as a sign that Murugan or the goddess has accepted the vow fulfillment and takes pleasure in the sacrifice. At the same time the occurrence of possession or trance states is taken as an indication that the deity does actually reside in the temple and takes care of his or her devotees’ mundane problems. (2006: 139) Baumann also notes that “the kavati dancers function as a quality mark of a temple—authenticity and authority in the diaspora is reinforced and acted out physically” (ibid.: 139). Brigitte Luchesi has noted some common features of the Īḻam Tamil temple processions in Germany, but these features seem to be common for the Īḻam Tamil temple processions across all of Europe: parading the image of the presiding god or goddess, represented by special festival images (utsava mūrtis) of the temple; the images are transported either on the shoulders of the devotees or in chariots; those who carry or pull the chariots are specially dressed and walk barefoot—men without a shirt and with a vetti (vesti), a sarong, and women in festive saris; there are often several deities in the procession, with numerous chariots, and often with temple priests who ride with the deities; the route of the procession is always a circle or square in a clockwise direction, through the neighbourhood and then back to the temple; in all cases,

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spokespersons of the temple emphasise that the procession is held for the benefit of both the Tamils and the wider public, since the gods and goddesses can see and thus bless everyone present; and, finally, in a number of processions some participants undergo forms of self-castigation because of a vow (vrata) to a god or goddess. Forms of self-castigation also include, in addition to carrying kāvaṭi and alaku, circumambulation by prostration, body rolling, and hook swinging (Luchesi 2008: 184–85). The temples differ in respect to the gods and goddesses that are included in the tēr (chariot) procession. The main god of the temple is always represented, but other gods and goddesses may also be included. In the Sri Kamadchi Ampal temple in Hamm, there is one chariot with the goddess Kamadchi. In the Sivasubramaniyar temple in Oslo, the tēr procession includes Murukaṉ, Vināyakar (Piḷḷaiyār), and Thurkkai Ammaṉ in three different chariots. In the Srī Sithi Vināyakar temple in Herning, Denmark utsava mūrtis of Vināyakar (Piḷḷaiyār), Murukaṉ, Murukaṉ’s two wives, Vaḷḷī and Deivayanai (Devasenā), and Sandesvarar are included.10 The Tamil temple festivals often include daily processions, and the day after the tēr procession is tīrtha utsava, the festival of bathing in sacred water. This takes place on the last day of the temple festival. In the Murukaṉ temple in Oslo, Sivasubramaniyar Alayam, on this procession day, the utsava mūrtis of Murukaṉ, Ammaṉ, Vināyakar (Piḷḷaiyār), and Sandesvarar are carried to a sacred lake in the forest and the weapon of Murukaṉ is given a sacred bath in the lake. After this immersion, the water of the lake becomes sacred, and some devotees also bathe in it. After this, priests perform śrāddha rituals for individuals in need of the performance, and there are usually long lines of Tamils waiting to have the ritual performed. There are fewer people present at the tīrtha utsava than at the tēr utsava, but the tīrtha utsava is also a major procession ritual, with several thousand participants, and is an auspicious way to end the annual temple festival. Aside from the period of the procession festival, the gods and goddesses stay in the shrines inside the temples, and these Hindu temples in Europe are, for the most part, with the exception of a few “display temples,” invisible from the outside and are mostly not visited by outsiders. The temple processions therefore not only make the minority Hindu community visible but also make 10  Sandesvarar is a devotee of Śiva, and he should always be worshipped in order to get wishes fulfilled. Statues of him are common in the Sri Lankan Tamil Hindu temples in Europe. Devotees clap when praying to him, because he is in dhyāna, meditation; the sound wakes him up, and he opens his eyes and looks at the devotees, and only then will the prayers be answered.

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Kāvaṭi dancer in the tēr procession at the Sivasubramaniyar Alayam in Oslo, Norway PHOTO: KNUT A. JACOBSEN

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Figure 12.2

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Gods and goddesses carried in the tīrtha utsava procession at the Sivasubramaniyar Alayam in Oslo, Norway PHOTO: KNUT A. JACOBSEN

the temple deities visible. A notable feature of the processions is that they are intensely photographed and filmed by the participants and the temple organisations. The filmed material is placed on the websites of the temples, as well as made available on YouTube, which gives increased visibility. The language used in the YouTube videos reveals the intended audience. Most YouTube videos of Tamil processions are in the Tamil language. One exception is a video of the procession in Hamm that is in English and seems to have been made to attract European tourists and pilgrims to the event.11 Many researchers have noted that the religion of the Īḻam Tamil Hindus in Europe was mainly hidden from the public view “until the temples started to carry out processions during their annual temple festivals” (Baumann 2006: 134) and that the function of the processions is dual, to bring Tamils together and to display the Tamil Hindu tradition to non-Hindus (Jacobsen 2008b).

11  The video can be viewed at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=haYY4zjCAoo (accessed May 13, 2019).

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New Sacred Geography and Pilgrimage

The largest temple processions establish a new sacred geography. These processions are associated with pilgrimage, and the temples with the largest processions have also become some of the most important places of Hindu pilgrimage (tīrthas) in Europe, and they attract both pilgrims and tourists. Processions have become important for the way Hinduism is perceived. The procession ritual in the Sri Kamadchi temple in Hamm has become the public image of Hinduism in Germany (Wilke 2013, 2017). Annette Wilke writes: The Kamadchi Temple and its festivals played a major role in public representation and perception. This temple was pivotal in the successful rooting of ethnic Hinduism in German public space. Nowadays, the temple is also internationally known and attracts up to 20,000 visitors from all over Europe at the yearly temple festivals and big-style chariot processions. […] It is so far the largest Hindu temple on the European continent and developed to be a Hindu pilgrimage place not only for Tamil Hindus, but also for local natives who enjoy finding India next door. (2017: 310) Ron Geaves, in his description of the procession of the Highgatehill Murukaṉ temple, also notes that the temple has become a place of pilgrimage (2007: 180). It is the places where the gods and goddesses are thought to have their most powerful presence that become sites of pilgrimage. Pilgrims come when there are particular celebrations at these pilgrimage places and the most pilgrims arrive during the procession festivals. The temple festival processions therefore also become pilgrimage festivals. Geaves thinks that the reason the Highgatehill Murukaṉ temple functions as a pilgrimage place (tīrtha) is that the temple is not located in the midst of a community of Sri Lankan Tamils, and therefore, the devotees have to travel in order to visit the temple. This is not a sufficient condition, since many temples with similar attributes do not become places of pilgrimage. However, the Highgatehill Murukaṉ temple has certain attractive features, such as being the oldest Murukaṉ temple in Britain and thus the first place Murukaṉ chose as a permanent home in Europe; the Śaiva Siddhānta worship in the temple is considered “authentic” and the architecture is traditional, and with the arrival of many people, the magnetism of the place grows. With regard to places of pilgrimage, it is a truism that nothing succeeds like success. Geaves notes the great number of non-Tamil Hindu visitors and believes that in the temple “[t]here is a sense of a common religious heritage developing beyond the strong regional boundaries” (ibid.: 181).

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Processions have both participants and an audience. Drawing public attention and gaining recognition are important features of processions. Processions enable communities to come together to express unity and strength, to signal their identity and what is important to them to themselves and to the other communities who are spectators. Some Tamil temple processions may, at the outset, seem more directed at insiders than outsiders, but this might be because of the limitations of some Tamil processions: they are restricted to the area outside of their temples. In some cases, such as Hamm and Paris, these processions attract many outsiders, and also many tourists and spiritual seekers. Annette Wilke observes that Germans watching the processions in Hamm comment that it is “religion total” and that the procession festival “makes them feel that they were no longer in Germany” (2013: 386). The number of non-Tamil Germans spending the day in Hamm watching the religious spectacles has become a feature of the procession ritual, and the processions also “attract spiritual seekers who deliberately want to cross religious boundaries” (Wilke 2017: 333). Typically, the news media covering the Tamil temple processions are very positive (Wilke 2013: 384). The same is the case in many European countries; the press and television present it mainly as a multicultural festival, with an emphasis on joy, the colours, and the exotic, and as an asset to the country, which has benefited from the new, multicultural situation. 5

ISKCON Processions

The other main form of Hindu processions in Europe are ISKCON’s procession rituals. It has been noted about one of the main centres of ISKCON in Europe, the Radhadesh community in Belgium, that “the most important activities of the Radhadesh community are the temple and street festivals” (see the chapter by Enrico Castro Montes and Idesbald Goddeeris in this volume). Here, street festivals refer to processions. Montes and Goddeeris write: “Since street festivals are immensely popular in India, members of Radhadesh wanted to transfer this tradition to Belgium. Therefore, devotees regularly go to local towns and cities and perform musical street processions or hold small festivals, known as harināms” (see Montes and Goddeeris in this volume: Chapter 30: 860). ISKCON is well established in most countries in Europe and organises two types of processions: chariot processions (rathayātrās) and musical street processions (harināmas). ISKCON processions typically take place in the central business streets and main squares of the cities in order to reach as many people as possible. These processions are directed more to outsiders than the Īḻam Tamil processions and

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seem to be expressions of the proselytising ambitions of ISKCON. The number of processions appears to have increased in recent years, and the number of supporters seems to also be growing, especially in Eastern Europe. Public places were important for the development of ISKCON, especially for recruitment, and up to the mid-1980s, were also important for the distribution of literature and other forms of public solicitation, and requests for donations supported ISKCON’s expansionary efforts (Rochford 2004: 274). Anna King noted in 2012 that, “the distribution of prasadam has become the most important instrument of mission even as street chanting parties (hari-nama) and the distribution of Prabhupada’s books, the two more recognised methods of mission, have rapidly declined” (2012: 445; see Dwyer and Cole 2007; Goswami 2003; Rochford 2007: 197). However, it appears that there has also been a revival of ISKCON processions in Europe over the last few years, especially the chariot procession, the rathayātrās. ISKCON’s rathayātrā is a reduplication of the rathayātrā in Puri, India, one of the most significant temple processions in India, and it celebrates the god Kṛṣṇa as the Lord of the Universe (Jagannāth). Albertina Nugteren, noting the invisibility of the Hindus in the Netherlands, describes one case of seeking visibility, a rathayātrā performed by ISKCON: “In places like The Hague, Amsterdam, Rotterdam, and recently Eindhoven as well, ISKCON processions have become a regular feature in the summertime, drawing Hare Krishna devotees from far and near, but also attracting Hindus from various backgrounds” (2009: 138). She describes one occasion when a temple (in Wijchen) performed a rathayātrā, the only time it had organised a procession: Krishna devotees, in a highly festive mood, install the Jagannath deities on a decorated chariot and pull this chariot through the streets towards a central square where vegetarian food is distributed for free, and where the atmosphere is that of a religious fair (mela), including Indian market stalls, dancing, singing, theatre, storytelling, and proselytising. In smalltown Wijchen, it was a simple affair, lacking the grand scale of ISKCON processions elsewhere, but the fact that the temple board had consented to host this event, and bring the Jagannath trio to their altar to be worshipped by the assembled temple regulars, is indicative of their inclusiveness. (ibid.) According to Nugteren, “The procession functions to mobilize supporters and create feelings of belonging.” The feeling of community that the processions create and express seems to be a fitting way to propagate a message of a happy Hindu community. She also notes that “processions make important meeting

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points with non-Hindu society and for ISKCON this appears to be a major motivation. Visits to temples need to be planned, while encountering a Hindu procession is an unplanned for event” (ibid.). Missionising seems an important element of the other ISKCON procession, the harināma procession. An ISKCON webpage explains that the harināma procession “is organized in order to spread […] awareness among people and inspire them to take up this devotional practice for their ultimate benefit—both material and spiritual. This is the best welfare activity and also the yuga-dharma of this age.”12 It is described in the following way on the ISKCON website: During the festival many teams of devotees take turns in singing the Hare Krishna maha-mantra in different tunes to the accompaniment of musical instruments. This also includes a batch of children who devotedly perform sankirtan proving that devotional service to the Lord is not restricted to any particular age of the person. Hundreds of devotees join this celebration and the whole atmosphere becomes vibrant with the loud chanting of Krishna’s names.13 The processions are extensively documented, and films are placed on YouTube, which makes them available beyond the time of the production of the procession and to an even larger audience. Videos from processions have become another way to propagate Hinduism, and the internet has given these processions a longer life. They no longer have a beginning, middle, and end, but continue their life online and can be accessed anytime on YouTube. 6

Swaminarayan Processions

Swaminarayan is a dominant form of Hinduism in Britain, but it is not found in large numbers in any other countries in Europe. Raymond Williams and Tushar Shah note that there is a small presence in countries such as Austria, Belgium, France, Germany, Spain and Sweden (see the chapter by Williams and Shah in this volume). It is expected, therefore, that Swaminarayan processions are found only in Britain. A unique feature of the Swaminarayan processions is the Scottish bagpipe orchestra, Shree Muktajeevan Swamibapa Pipe Band, which

12  See the ISKCON webpage at: https://www.iskconbangalore.org/harinam-festival/ (accessed August 17, 2018). 13  Ibid.

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provides the music for the procession.14 Most notable is the participation of the Shree Muktajeevan Swamibapa Pipe Band in the London New Year’s Day Parade: “The Band showcased the Mandir and the Sanstha with their musical talent and military-style discipline as they marched along Piccadilly, passed the iconic Piccadilly Circus and Trafalgar Square, and finished along Whitehall by the Houses of Parliament in Westminster.”15 In the 2018 parade: “For the first time, and by Acharya Swamishree Maharaj’s grace and blessings, Shree Ghanshyam Maharaj—presiding on a golden chariot—accompanied the Band during this parade and gave His divine Darshan to the tens of thousands that lined the streets, and millions more who will have seen the Parade over the global television coverage.”16 The Shree Muktajeevan Swamibapa Pipe Band London (UK) was founded in 1972 and, according to the Swaminarayan webpage, the pipe band has become renowned around the world as being a civilian band with military style and discipline. The Band has performed at numerous charitable functions and has raised hundreds of thousands of pounds for the needy. It has also performed at important national events including Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II Golden and Diamond Jubilees. Demonstrating patriotism to the Motherland, the Band performed at Wembley Stadium to welcome Prime Minister Modi for the first time to London. The Band also has a special Cadets Corps where over eighty aspiring Band members learn the disciplines from the age of three.17 In addition, the band plays an important role in the processions that are organised in connection with the opening of new Swaminarayan temples or for the celebration of important people. 7

Conclusion

There are several kinds of Hindu processions in Europe. The Īḻam Tamil procession is a function of the wish to recreate and transfer an inherited Hindu 14  See: https://www.swaminarayangadi.com/pipeband/ourbands/index.php?band=london (accessed August 17, 2018). 15   See: https://www.swaminarayangadi.com/london/news/news.php?id=3542 (accessed August 17, 2018). 16  Ibid. 17  See: https://www.swaminarayangadi.com/pipeband/ourbands/index.php?band=london (accessed August 17, 2018).

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cosmology to Europe. Procession culture is here an element in the preservation of the religious heritage and rebuilds essential parts of the cosmology in the new country of residence. The ISKCON procession is a function of the wish to give public recognition to the celebration of Kṛṣṇa and draw attention to the movement and its message and to gain support. These two types represent two different aspects of Hinduism, the maintenance of an inherited temple tradition in the diaspora and the promotion of a Hindu devotional tradition in a modern Hindu missionary context. ISKCON brings its procession to the city centres, as its purpose is to attract attention to the movement and its message, as well as to acquire support. The Tamil processions circumambulate the temples and move through the temples’ neighbouring streets. An exception seems to be the tīrtha procession, such as the one in Oslo that goes through the forest to a lake, which has been established as a Hindu tīrtha. The last few decades have seen a strengthening of Hindu procession culture in Europe. There are several reasons for this development. First, the continuous migration of South Asian Hindus to Europe has gradually given Hinduism a significant demographic presence. The immigration of Hindus from Īḻam (Sri Lanka), who constitute the largest group of Hindus in several European countries, has influenced the Hindu procession culture of Europe. And second, the number of supporters of Hinduism has been increasing, most notably in Eastern Europe, and one of these traditions, ISKCON, organises several types of processions as part of its celebration of the Hindu god Kṛṣṇa and its publicity efforts. The growth of processions probably also reflects the increased self-confidence of both groups and their strategies for gaining visibility. Processions also relate to the construction and maintenance of religious identities, the generational transfer of traditions, and the promotion of a diasporic consciousness, but procession culture is also undergoing changes because of the European environment. Processions are typically organised during the summer when the weather is warm. The organisers and participants of the Hindu processions emphasise that the blessings of the Hindu processions in Europe are for everyone, the whole of humanity, and not only Hindus.18

18  A typical statement is one from a participant in the rathayātrā in Malmö in 2008 to the newspaper Skånska Dagbaldet: “Alla som ser och lyssnar på musiken blir välsignade och kommer att få ett lyckobringande liv och öde, syftet är att sprida ett kärleksbudskap, säger Maritza Aros.” See “Hare Krishna-anhängare i Malmö,” available at: http://www.skd .se/2008/07/17/hare-krishna-anhangare-i-malmo/ (accessed August 17, 2018).

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References Baumann, Martin (2006) “Performing Vows in Diasporic Contexts: Tamil Hindus, Temples, and Goddesses in Germany,” in Selva J. Raj and William P. Harman (eds.), Dealing with Deities: The Ritual Vow in South Asia, 129–44. Albany: State University of New York Press. Baumann, Martin (2009) “Templeisation: Continuity and Change of Hindu Traditions in Diaspora.” Journal of Religion in Europe, 2 (2): 149–79. Burghart, Richard (1987) “Introduction: The Diffusion of Hinduism to Great Britain,” in Richard Burghart (ed.), Hinduism in Great Britain, 1–14. London: Tavistock. Derges, Jane (2013) Ritual and Recovery in Post-Conflict Sri Lanka. London: Routledge. Dies de Velasco, Francisco (2010) “The Visibilization of Religious Minorities in Spain.” Social Compass, 57 (2): 235–52. Eulberg, Rafaela (2014) “Temple Publics as Interplay of Multiple Public Spheres: Public Faces of Sri Lankan Tamil Hindu Life in Switzerland,” in Ester Gallo (ed.), Migration and Religion in Europe: Comparative Perspectives on South Asian Experiences, 111–29. Farnham: Ashgate. Fibiger, Marianne C. Qvortrup (2017) “Lad guden komme til os: Tempelprocessioner hos srilankansk-tamilske hinduer i Danmark.” Religionsvidenskabeligt Tidsskrift, 66: 133–44. Geaves, Ron (2007) Saivism in the Diaspora: Contemporary Forms of Skanda Worship. London: Equinox. Goreau, Anthony (2014) “Ganesha Caturthi and the Sri Lankan Tamil Diaspora in Paris: Inventing Strategies of Visibility and Legitimacy in a Plural Monoculturalist Society,” in Ester Gallo (ed.), Migration and Religion in Europe: Comparative Perspectives on South Asian Experiences, 211–31. Farnham: Ashgate. Jacobsen, Knut A. (2006) “Hindu Processions, Diaspora and Religious Pluralism,” in P. Pratap Kumar (ed.), Religious Pluralism and the Diaspora, 163–73. Leiden: Brill. Jacobsen, Knut A. (ed.) (2008a) South Asian Religions on Display: Religious Processions in South Asia and the Diaspora. London: Routledge. Jacobsen, Knut A. (2008b) “Processions, Public Space and Sacred Space in the South Asian Diasporas in Norway,” in Knut A. Jacobsen (ed.), South Asian Religions on Display: Religious Processions in South Asia and in the Diaspora, 191–204. London: Routledge. Jacobsen, Knut A. (2009) “Establishing Tamil Ritual Space: A Comparative Analysis of the Ritualisation of the Traditions of the Tamil Hindus and the Tamil Roman Catholics in Norway.” Journal of Religion in Europe, 2 (2): 180–98. Jacobsen, Knut A. (2018) “Hinduismen i Norge,” in Knut A. Jacobsen (ed.), Verdensreligioner i Norge, 4th revised edition, 78–132. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget. Jones, Demelza (2015) “Identifications with an ‘Aesthetic’ and ‘Moral’ Diaspora amongst Tamils of Diverse State Origins in Britain,” in A. Christou and E. Mavroudi (eds.),

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Dismantling Diasporas: Rethinking the Geographies of Diasporic Identity, Connection and Development. Farnham: Ashgate. Jones, Demelza (2016) “Being Tamil, Being Hindu: Tamil Migrants’ Negotiations of the Absence of Tamil Hindu Spaces in the West Midlands and South West of England.” Religion, 46 (1): 53–74. Kapadia, K. (2000) “Pierced by Love: Tamil Possession, Gender and Caste,” in Julia Leslie and L. McGee (eds.), Invented Identities: The Interplay of Gender, Religion and Politics, 181–202. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Knott, K. (2009) “Becoming a ‘Faith Community’: British Hindus, Identity, and the Politics of Representation.” Journal of Religion in Europe, 2 (2): 85–114. Knott, Kim (2017) “The Tactics of (In)Visibility among Religious Communities in Contemporary Europe,” in Christoph Bochinger and Jörg Rüpke (eds.), Dynamics of Religion: Past and Present. Proceedings of the XXI World Congress of the International Association for the History of Religions, Erfurt, August 23–29, 2015, 47–68. Berlin: De Gruyter. Kumar, P. Pratap (2008) “Rathyatras of the Hare Krishnas in Durban: Inventing Strategies to Transmit Religious Ideas in Modern Society,” in Knut A. Jacobsen (ed.), South Asian Traditions on Display: Religious Processions in South Asia and in the Diaspora, 205–16. London: Routledge. Luchesi, Brigitte (2008) “Parading Hindu Gods in Public: New Festival Traditions of Tamil Hindus in Germany,” in Knut A. Jacobsen (ed.), South Asian Religions on Display: Religious Processions in South Asia and in the Diaspora, 178–90. London: Routledge. Luchesi, Brigitte (2015) “Jhānkīs: ‘Living Images’ as Objects of Worship in Himachal Pradesh,” in Knut A. Jacobsen, Mikael Aktor, and Kristina Myrvold (eds.), Objects of Worship in South Asian Religions: Forms, Practices, and Meanings, 35–50. London: Routledge. Nesbitt, Eleanor (2006) “Locating British Hindus’ Sacred Space.” Contemporary South Asia, 15 (2): 195–208. Nugteren, Albertina (2009) “Home Is Where the Murtis Are: A Hindustani Community and Its Temple in Wijchen, the Netherlands.” Journal of Religion in Europe, 2 (2): 115–48. Rochford, E. Burke (2004) “Airports, Conflict, and Change in the Hare Krishna Movement,” in Edwin Bryant and Maria Ekstrand (eds.), The Hare Krishna Movement: The Postcharismatic Fate of a Religious Transplant, 273–90. New York: Columbia University Press. Wilke, Annette (2013) “Tamil Temple Festival Culture in Germany: A New Hindu Pilgrimage Place,” in Ute Hüsken and Axel Michaels (eds.), South Asian Festivals on the Move, 369–95. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag. Wilke, Annette (2017) “Āgamic Temple Consecration Transnationalized,” in István Keul (ed.), Consecration Rituals in South Asia, 309–50. Brill: Leiden.

CHAPTER 13

On Religion, Language, Kinship, and Caste among Īḻattamiḻs in the European Diaspora Peter Schalk By matam or camayam “religion” (Schalk 2013a), I refer mainly to Caivam (Sanskrit: Śavism) in its Caivacittāntam form (Schalk 2004b: 79–105; Vēluppiḷḷai 1995a, 1995b), and by cāti “caste” (Schalk 2004b: 69–78) to a specific Tamiḻ system of social hierarchy that is inclusive of cītaṉam, “dowry” (ibid.: 73–75; Tambiah 1973). The dominant caste in this given context is veḷḷāḷar “cultivator.” Īḻattamiḻs are Tamiḻ speakers from Īḻam (Lanka, Ilaṅkai, Ceylon). Īḻam is documented before laṅkā. Īḻam refers to the whole country; it differs from the present political concept of Tamiḻīḻam (Schalk 2004a). By kuṭumpam “household,” I refer to a special, local system of kinship to a joint family (Schalk 2004b: 72–73; Trawick 1990) that forms a local pakuti “section” of a caste, which is translocal (Schalk 2004b: 73–75). By moḻi, “language,” I refer to Tamiḻ, not only as a linguistic entity, but also—in the minds of Tamiḻ cultural elite—as an apotheosised one, as tāy moḻi “Mother Tamiḻ,” and as the essence of Caivam (see below). All are united in the mind of this cultural elite, who arose in the nineteenth century and who were initiated, foremost by the learned Caiva teacher Ārumuka Nāvalar (1822–79), as a defensive reaction to the massive Christian mission by the British colonial administration (Schalk 2004b: 88; Hudson 1992a, 1992b, 1995a, 1995b). This caste-conscious elite has been severely questioned, marginalised, and fragmented in the twentieth century, but Ārumuka Nāvalar’s ideals are still taught selectively, as guidance for the young and for their future in the European diaspora. What is taught as Caivacittāntam bears his stamp. It is a retro-utopia in our time, i.e., a repristinating of a past social and religious experiment that was once projected as a utopia by Ārumuka Nāvalar, which was never totally accepted or durably, but fragments of it are still part of the social organisation of the Īḻattamiḻs in the homeland and diaspora. This article tries to answer one question: Why have Īḻattamiḻs preserved their criticised social system when coming to a new culture in Europe and when enthusiastically integrating themselves by becoming bilingual in a second and third generation? When accepting cultural pluralism and adopting class identities in capitalist societies, when inspired by human rights, when rejecting in thought and word the Tamiḻ caste system, and in spite of all this, preserve

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in thought, word and deed not only their religion and language, which is expected and needs no explanation, but also internally, hidden from publicity, preserve in deed their criticised social system, which is caste based? In Europe, it is practised as a privatised social system that does not exclude, but rather also participates in, the public class system in European societies. What makes it difficult to pass from criticism of the caste system in thought and word to abandoning the caste system in deed? The answer is that the caste system is closely connected to religion, kinship, and language. Caste is not just a social system; it is also part of a highly emotional cultural identity that is based on its connection to kinship, religion, and language. For many Īḻattamiḻs, pluralism means preserving this privatised cultural identity and having it coexist with a European class system, which is their chance to climb up the social hierarchy of the West. This pluralism is a special form of integration and is therefore different from total assimilation. As for the religions of the Īḻattamiḻs in Europe, I refer to my comparative study on the Stockholm temple (Schalk 2004b, 2003a) that gives an introduction to the sources for a study of Īḻattamiḻs’ religions, an analysis of the historical origin and transformations of the god Vināyakar, “remover,” a description of the Caiva Congregations of the Īḻattamiḻs, specifically of the temple in Stockholm in relation to other temples in Europe, of the international network of temples, of the priesthood in the temples, and of the different careers and titles of the priests, of the “glocalisation” (Robertson 1998, 1995, 1994a, 1994b; Wilke 2003a) and “virtualisation” (Schalk 2004b: 133–39) of the gods, and of the ways of complex worship in European temples. In these works, is a summary, conclusion, and pictorial documentation. In May 2003, in the city of Yāḻppāṇam (Yapanaya, Jaffna) in Īḻam, I found a small kōyil, “temple,” dedicated to the god Vināyakar, “the remover of obstacles,” who is also known by the names Pillaiyār, Gaṇapati, and Gaṇeśa. The worshippers called it by the nickname “Piḷḷaiyār Temple for Foreign Lands.” It got this name because fifteen youth from this temple left as refugees to foreign countries. The emigration of Tamiḻs from Īḻam started in the 1950s and 1960s, when the government introduced a language reform to make Sinhala the only official language. This reform related to a negative attitude toward the Tamiḻ minority, who felt that they were mistrusted by the public administration. Some retired from service and left the country to work in Britain or other Commonwealth countries. They belonged to the well-educated elite and were not refugees. They did not leave many religious traces in the new countries they chose; their interests were to secure their families’ economic existence. Only in July 1983,

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when the most intensive anti-Tamiḻ pogrom took place, did Īḻattamiḻs go as refugees to Canada, Australia, the United States, and Europe. Many Tamiḻs left kin, friends, and property in Lanka in the 1980s. At the beginning, the Tamiḻs living in Europe were dependent on support from European governments. They had to wait a long time—up to two years—to get permission to stay permanently. Some were deported back to Īḻam. They constituted a community of sufferers who had been preyed upon, first by the Sri Lankan Armed Forces (SLAF s), then by human smugglers, Swedish immigration authorities, and finally by exploitative European employers, that is, if they got a job at all. The second and third generations’ youth, however, are bilingual in most cases and well-integrated into European society. It was this first generation of refugees who also brought the Tamiḻ Caiva temple cult to Europe (Schalk 2004b: 139–209; Kōpālakiruṣṇa Aiyar 1995). The term kōyil or kōvil is translated into English as “temple”; “locality of a king” is a literal translation of kōyil. The king is of course the chosen god, who the priests make appear in the demeanour of a king (Schalk 2004b: 146–61). Please note: it is not a king who is a god, but a god who is a king. The Caiva temples in Europe try to keep their independence through special administration and funding. First, there are temples that are registered through a charity commission. The temple administration consists of elected members who rotate periodically. They are responsible to the public. Second, there are family temples owned by a family; the public do not control them. Third, there are temples that are administered by a company, whose trustees do not allow any public control. Without public control by the state, “caste temples” (Schalk 2003b: 77–78), “LTTE temples,” and “business temples” could make money over the years. Financial support from the state is not sought for building a temple, or a temple is constructed in such a way that it does not qualify for financial support from the state, which has detailed demands on the administration. Each temple must find its own sources of funding. There are normally three ways of fundraising. First, there is a till, which can be used by donors who want to remain anonymous. During the war, the Stockholm temple had a till for the Tamil Rehabilitation Organization (TRO) at the entrance to the temple. It was a till belonging to the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE). Second, money is collected by aruccaṉai, “worship,” which is procured by a priest upon request (Schalk 2004b: 139–203). Third, there are monetary collections for charitable services back home, such as the maintenance of orphanages, but also for services for members in the diaspora. The temples keep a part of the collected funds. Most income comes from the “worship” through the intercession of the priests (ibid.). Temples often have a list of ritual acts and their cost. The prescribed performance of a ritual is presented as leading to redemption. This

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ritual is based on speculation about the relationship between god and man as described and prescribed by Caivacittāntam (ibid.: 79–95; Amirtaliṅkam 2003; Baumann 2003b). In European exile, which during some decades was transformed into a diaspora, the word suffering is frequently found in appeals to their gods. It is a concept that describes their past and present, but which, from their point of view, is full of hope and replaced with the concept of redemption with the help of their gods. What is called soteriology in Tamiḻ here refers to Caiva mystical teachings about his redeeming power and to the god’s worshippers verbalised experience of redemption from suffering (Sivathamby 1995a, 1995b, 1989a, 1989b). When I say Caiva mystical teaching, I refer foremost to Caivacittāntam’s (Śaivasiddhāntam’s) soteriology (Ñāṉkumāraṉ 1995). It should be noted here that this teaching also integrates ritual, which is understood as an expressive performance of patti/pakti (Sanskrit bhakti) (Schalk 2004b: 93–95; Nagaswamy 1989; Peterson 1989). In European temples, worshippers’ often have manuals with pajaṉai pāṭalkaḷ, “bhajana songs” (i.e., devotional songs) (pajaṉai pāṭalkaḷ 2002). Caivam is mainly a temple cult in Europe. There is no academic centre for the study of the theology of Caivacittāntam in Europe, but this theology is cultivated by teachers and taught to children in Tamiḻ schools in the diaspora. Specialists of Caivam know that Caivam consist of many theological schools, but very few nonspecialists can enumerate all, or still less describe the differences between them. In the diaspora, many Tamiḻs help each other and express common thinking, in solidarity with those still persecuted in Īḻam for their political activism, in thought, word, and deed. Some of the Tamiḻs in Europe were transformed from prey to hunters by actively supporting, both verbally and financially, the armed struggle of the LTTE (Schalk 2003b). Some, however, put their trust in a god who may help them at home and in the diaspora. They practised supplication (Schalk 2004b: 146–66). A central religious term that is used to describe the Īḻattamiḻs’ kind of patti/pakti is nampikkai, “trust,” in chosen members of the Caiva pantheon. Many did both: shifting between them in different situations. There is a time for taking one’s fate in one’s own hands, and there is a time for praying to god for help. Liberation is used by all Tamiḻs in both a religious and political context. It can be applied both to liberation from viṉai (Sanskrit karman) and to liberation from political suppression (Schalk 2003b). This ambiguity was and still is consciously cultivated in the temples. The same ambiguity is also found in the use of the term homeland. In Tamiḻ, it is tāyakam, which does not mean “homeland” but rather “motherland.” In media English, and in the political lingo of the Tamiḻ resistance movement, it has been interpreted as “homeland” to make non-Tamiḻs understand that Īḻattamiḻs have the right

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of self-determination because they have a homeland: It is a term that is part of the international human rights rhetoric (Schalk 2003b). To study the religion of the Īḻattamiḻs in Europe is like looking in a mirror, which reflects the religions in the homeland. Therefore, it is desirable for students to study the religions of the Īḻattamiḻs in this homeland in order for them to notice similarities with and deviations from the homeland’s norm in the diaspora. As for Caivam, the dominant religion, the dependency on the homeland, including South India, is still remarkable. Therefore, it is not astonishing to find that—in an official protocol (Protocol, May 1, 2002) from the Stockholm temple—in the Caiva religion, the worship of the god Vināyakar from Ilaṅkai (=Lanka) is done in accordance with customs from Tamiḻnāṭu. It is a declaration of adherence to orthodoxy. The development of Caivam in the homeland was mainly dependent on Citamparam in Tamiḻnāṭu. Caste refers to an inherited social position from birth to death within a hierarchical social system. It is different from class, which can be changed by a person or a group of persons. I focus here on Yāḻppāṇam and its caste system. The people setting the norms for the caste system are the priests and veḷḷāḷars. The Tamiḻs of Īḻam have a caste system of their own, which is different in form and origin from the Sanskrit varṇa system, but which has been subordinated to the latter by Tamiḻ and Sanskrit caste ideologues (Schalk 2003b: 69–79; Pfaffenberger 1982). The Tamiḻ caste system in Yāḻppāṇam was also brought to the European diaspora, but in modified form. The castes, some twenty still exist, are usually defined in functional terms. The veḷḷāḷars are the landowners, not the land labourers. Yāḻppāṇam was and is an agricultural society, where control of land is the key to social control. Today, not all veḷḷāḷars are landowners. Some of them are proletarised and others have professions that have nothing to do with landownership. In exile, the function of being a landowner has been marginalised, but is not obsolete, as some in the diaspora maintain property rights to land in the homeland. Caste identity is kept alive, especially at times of marriage (Schalk 2003b: 73–75). If caste-position today does not give political power, it still gives status, and status may include the power to making decisions within a group of Tamiḻs in a specific location. Today, we must see the veḷḷāḷar caste as a megacaste, which includes people from other castes that have disappeared as autonomous institutions. Caste climbing is normally not possible, but by inventing a past origin, which qualifies one for climbing, it becomes possible. In the normative, Sanskrit, classical tradition of statehood, the Tamiḻs in the south are classified as śūdras. Ideologues of and for the group of veḷḷāḷars, like Āṟumuka Nāvalar in the nineteenth century (see below), classified the Tamiḻs

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in accordance with this Āryan evaluation, not only as śūdra but also as “true” śūdra. This implies that he and his followers related themselves to the Sanskrit varṇa system, where they took the place of the fourth caste, a non-Āryan caste—the śūdra caste. We must consider that the South Indian castes are generally classified as śūdra in a pan-Indian perception that is transmitted and upheld in South India and by brāhmaṇas in particular. There is little possibility for the śūdras to eliminate this or to leave it by social climbing. What, however, these castes can do is to establish differentiations within this framework. They try to delimit themselves against those belonging to the fifth caste, which are the outcastes, the Dalits. They are, for example, washermen, barbers, toddy tappers, low-caste workers, and drummers. These and some other castes were classified as servants/slaves. We would classify their position as bonded labour. They were paid in kind. Today, this bondage has not disappeared, but it has decreased remarkably (Schalk 2003b: 70–72). Returning to the “true” śūdras implies that the other castes belonging to the śūdra group are not genuine. This distinction goes back to Ārumuka Nāvalar; however, he did not relate it to specific castes but to moral behaviour. Śūdras who drank liquor and ate meat were not true śūdras in the sense of being genuine. The distinction was then applied by others to non-veḷḷāḷars, especially to those related to killing. Such a caste is, for example, the deep-sea fishermen, who have a strong position in and around Valveṭṭittuṟai. There were and still are caste controversies in Yāḻppāṇam. One aspect of it is temple entrance. Some temples are temples for specific castes (ibid.: 77–78). Such temples have spread to the diaspora, where we can find them, not least, in London. There is a wide-spread perception among Īḻattamiḻs in the diaspora that all temples in the diaspora were financed by immigrant veḷḷāḷars. “All” can be easily disproved by showing that there is at least one temple that was not constructed by them, but the perception itself, even if it is exaggerated, is strong and appears persuasive. Temple committees in Europe are, however, eager to point out that all temples are open to all castes, even if they were constructed by only one caste.1 One special caste is that of the brāhmaṇas, who are priests of the highest class. Tamiḻ has Tamilised this word into pirāmaṇar. In the varṇa system, they take the first position among the three Āryan castes, but in Yāḻppāṇam they are marginalised through social climbing. Their status lies in their function as priests within the temple precincts, but some of them do not function as 1  I thank the following members of temple committees in London for informing me in January 2018 about their perceptions in London: K. Jegateeswaram Pillai, V.R. Ramanathan, Anuraj Sinnathamby, and S. Sriskandarajah.

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priests. They are researchers, teachers, doctors, lawyers, or artists. Their status is dependent on the demand for professional competence. Some try to keep up Sanskrit learning as a duty to their ancestors. They are questioned by another category of priests called caivakkurukkaḷ, “Caiva teachers,” who are often recruited from among the veḷḷāḷars. The conflict between these two kinds of priests is delicate and complex. A Caiva teacher is not a caste, but a religious career. Engaging in it is a necessary competence that qualifies and authorises both a pirāmaṇar and a non-pirāmaṇar to serve in a temple of Civaṉ in Īḻam. Both have to complete an education as priest, which results in four consecrations. These qualify individuals to wear the pūṇūl “worn cord.” It is worn by representatives from both categories. Therefore, it is not easy for an outsider to determine if a priest is a pirāmaṇar or a non-pirāmaṇar. The potential conflict between the two is not in their educational career or the worn cord, but in the difference of caste. The veḷḷāḷars stand against the pirāmaṇars. Even in Yāḻppāṇam, the caste system is on decline due to new ways of attaining social status, other than through birth, such as through: free education, which has been fully exploited by the Tamiḻs, not least with help of missionary schools from the nineteenth century onward; new professions, which make individuals independent of caste; and the new anticaste ideology coming from religious and political groups, especially from the LTTE, that ardently work against caste and dowry. Labour congregations attack the system of bonded labour. The “new rich” in the diaspora can ignore attempts of caste discrimination and act as defendants of human rights. Despite all these anticaste movements, the caste system as an organisational form lingers on, even in the diaspora. A caste consists of several Sections. These are local organisations, and each consist of grandparents, parents, uncles and aunts, and their children, as a minimum. We would call it an extended family. Together, all Sections form a caste, which stands against Sections from another caste. The Tamiḻs use the term kuṭumpam, “household,” for the extended family (Schalk 2003b: 72–73). Its unity is usually demonstrated at the occasion of a marriage and, in the homeland, even at death. It functions as a marriage pool. The Household sanctions the choice of partner, which again is decisive for the future of the couple and for their relations to other members in the same Household. An important point made by Kārttikēcu Civattampi is that the Household and Section overlap (1989: 42). The nuclear base for the caste is the extended family system. As castes are endogamous, the Household is a guarantee for partners to be part of the same Section. As can be expected, arranged, cross-cousin, marriages are idealised. Love marriages are discouraged as being dysfunctional. This household system is not abolished in the diaspora. It lingers on in a different

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way. How do you find a bride or a bridegroom if you are not in the homeland? Territorial distances from the homeland or other countries in the diaspora are overcome by letters, faxes, and e-mails that connect uprooted and dispersed “Households” all over the globe, and they even reach Yāḻppāṇam. The Household also lingers on as idealised fiction in films and narrations. A future dissolution of the Household will of course affect the Section and the whole caste system, but who in the diaspora, surrounded by strange and inimical forces, would want to break the last connection to the “motherland,” where a cousin may be waiting to be taken to the new country? Marriages are regularly arranged between men and women in exile and those in the motherland. There is a marriage pool in exile, even in dispersed Households, and brokers search for partners. Caste is not suspended when decisions are made, as caste is part of the identity of a Household. There are, however, problems. The dowry is often suspended in exile, which makes women still more dependent on their husbands in a Western type of nuclear family. The giving of dowry in Yāḻppāṇam is connected to a woman’s cītaṉavāṭci, “right (of possession) by dowry,” of for example land, house, or cash. If the dowry is abolished and not replaced by modern property laws for the benefit of women, the consequence will be women’s economic dependence on men. This will of course happen in many Western countries. There is therefore no economic disadvantage for women abolishing dowry in the diaspora if these women are made aware of the property laws in Western countries in cases of divorce. In Yāḻppāṇam, the LTTE introduced new laws that abolished the caste system and dowry and did justice to women’s economic situations. The influence of the LTTE is deep, even in exile, but evidently caste thinking about marriage is deeper rooted, and even enforced, in exile due to its connection to the idealised Household as a replacement for the absent homeland. It ascribes ultimate value to the Household. After the defeat of the LTTE in 2009 there was no pressure to abandon the caste system. There is a deep cleft between confessing a concern with human rights in thought and word on the one hand and illustrating it in deed on the other. There is a discrepancy between a Western scholar finding that dowry is often suspended in the diaspora and the self-apprehension among leading Tamiḻs that the dowry is given. One leading member of this community, a Caiva priest in the Stockholm temple, spontaneously said that, in 70% of all marriages, dowry is given. I have also found that dowry is given frequently in the diaspora, but it has changed from immobile property, like a house, to cash. There is also a softer way of handling negotiations: Dowry is not demanded, but it is tacitly expected. One of the tasks of the organisers of a marriage pool is to find partners who agree to give a dowry (Schalk 2003b: 73–75).

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There is also an economic interest in keeping the dowry system going. Dowry is given by the parents of the bride. Often, the dowry is a fortune, depending on factors beyond caste, such as the profession of the man and horoscope. Each bride puts her Household into debt for years to come, so the Household naturally becomes interested in demanding a high dowry for their sons to be married. In this way, the dowry system keeps itself going. A Household which has only marriageable women has bad prospects. Now we come to the question of intermarriages with non-Tamiḻs. For the case of Switzerland, Johanna Vögeli has noticed that relationships that transcend caste are a nightmare (Vögeli 1996; Vögeli et al. 1984; Vögeli 2003: 323–44). I have seen several Tamiḻ men have children with Western women, but I have not yet seen many Tamiḻ women from the first generation in exile who have children with a Western man. The reason for this is that women, not men, are regarded as the guardians and representatives of the Household. A metaphor for a wife is kuṭumpam, “Household.” This is used in spoken language and is preferred to the pedantic maṉaivi, “wife.” Johanna Vögeli has pointed out, based on material from Switzerland, that the ideal of a woman being conscious about tradition and morality is strengthened in exile. As compensation for the loss of culture in exile, women are given roles as the preservers of Tamiḻ culture and as the guardians of the honour of the community and family. Western images of women and gender relations are evaluated negatively. From my perspective, a glance at the rather sloppy Western outfits of men visiting the Stockholm temple, in comparison with the traditionally and pedantically well-dressed women in their best saris, makes evident, even on the surface, who it is that cares about cultivating tradition. In our Western understanding, strengthening tradition also implies the enforcement women’s bondage to the Household/Section and to their husbands. True, the outer symbolism of this bondage is signalled at every temple visit. I refer to the tying of the hair, sari, and the tāli, “(marriage) badge,” which all indicate bondage, but which also, seen from the inside, indicate perumai, the “greatness” and “nobility” of women. The strengthening of tradition also implies that there are traditional ways for women to exercise power, which are covert to outsiders, but which have been well documented by the insider Kenneth David. He documented some of the female strategies of decision making that have been under-communicated (David 1991: 93–136). Some observers have observed hidden powers possessed by Tamiḻ women (Wadley 1991). They shine through in Johanna Vögeli’s paper on Tamiḻ women in exile that bears the significant title “Stärker als ihr denkt” (2003b). This mobilisation of tradition by women implies a rigid thinking in terms of purity of kin and caste and, therefore, intermarriages between Tamiḻ women and non-Tamiḻ men seem to be

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impossible. However, we should be watchful. Impressions of what some Tamiḻ women say and references to ideals may be deceptive. Summing up, the individual is not seen as one autonomous person, but as a part of a Section and Household. In Stockholm, at least in the gatherings in the temple, Yāḻppāṇam is retrieved. Caste unity is coordinated with kinship, but more than that, caste unity is also coordinated with religion, which all together explains why, even in the diaspora, the caste system has not only survived but is practised actively, although with discretion. In Yāḻppāṇam, some of the temples are run by a Section, and on this social basis, an annual religious tiruviḻā, “holy solemnity,” is organised in the villages that lasts ten to fifteen days (Schalk 2003b: 76–77). Big festivals are organised by several Sections of the same caste group. For example, in a veḷḷāḷars’ village, subordinated minority castes like kōviyar, the servants of the veḷḷāḷars, or the karaiyār fishermen, hold their own Solemnity. If there are several Sections of the same caste, they elect a coordinator or elder who, as a symbol of his position, performs the ritual tarppaipōṭutal, “wearing of the [sacrificial] grass” (Schalk 2003b: 196), which is formed into a ring that he wears on his right ring finger. This grass is usually used in purification rituals. In Sanskrit it is known as darbhā. The leader of the Section practising taṟppaipōṭutal may demonstrate the purity of the Sections. The same ritual is practised in another context in the temple. The annual Solemnity is a social event, where a Section’s status is demonstrated by women wearing costly saris and jewellery. Here, village problems are discussed, or the possibilities of marriage are examined. The annual Solemnity is not just a social event; it is also the time when the local god or goddess appears, thereby sacralising the Section. To sum up, in Yāḻppāṇam, the annual Solemnity is still based on caste distinctions, but to avoid caste conflicts, different castes have their own Solemnity. There was a movement in the 1960s and 1970s called “the temple entry movement” (Schalk 2003b: 77–78); its aim was to allow all lower castes to enter the higher castes’ temples. With some exceptions, it was successful. When a Holy Solemnity takes place in the diaspora, it is usually organised by a temple committee, which is based on interest and idealism and does not look at caste interests. The Section organisation becomes irrelevant. The Stockholm temple has a Holy Solemnity every year. Caste aspects have become obsolete in the public performance of the rituals, but as mentioned before, from the perspective of the Īḻattamiḻ, all temples were constructed and owned by veḷḷāḷars. The disappearance of caste from public life in the Holy Solemnity in the diaspora does not imply that it also disappears from the private life of a Household. When coming to Caiva temples of the Īḻattamiḻs in Europe, including the temple in Stockholm, the outside observer will not notice any caste conflicts,

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although we know that the caste of the veḷḷāḷars is dominant in Switzerland. This reflects the proportional sizes of the castes in Yāḻppāṇam, and it is not connected to conflict per se. The organisers in the diaspora strive to create a liminal atmosphere of equality and concord during the ritual. In the diaspora, there is no need for a temple entry movement that aims to bring low castes to temples reserved for high castes. The task of the temple committee is to offer the visitor an additional and distinct feeling of being part of a larger unity, which is as important as the solidarity within the Household/Section. It concerns engagement with the iṉam, “community,” the whole Tamiḻ community from Īḻam, whose unity is expressed in language, history, territory, culture, and religion. Iṉam means “community” in many respects: in a historical, territorial, cultural, linguistic, and religious sense but also in a racial sense; however, together with caste, this racial sense has been consciously deselected. In the diaspora, the organisers cannot afford to let the frequent infightings between Sections/Households from different castes pop up in the temple. The whole diaspora situation cries for concord; all face a common mortal enemy in the homeland (Schalk 2002a). The symbolic expression of this concord is the meal distributed to all individuals squatting on the floor. I am tempted to say that the organisers, looking at their mixed congregation, establish a fiction about a national Section/Household that transcends blood relations (and even includes supportive non-Tamiḻs). They remind individuals that they are part of an Īḻattamiḻ community. Especially in exile, individuals are forced to give priority to things that connect all—language and religion—and, for the time being, to neglect dysfunctional factors. In their experience, the Tamiḻs as a people perceived that their existence was threatened by the genocidal attacks launched by the Sri Lankan Armed Forces (SLAF s). After the war ended in 2009, this threat was transformed into a continued threat of political discrimination in the homeland. An individual in the diaspora feels responsible for both his kinship-based Household/Section and his Īḻattamiḻ community. If the Section is emphasised, a caste conflict may arise, which is dysfunctional also for the concept of the concord of the Īḻattamiḻ community. The solution chosen in Stockholm is special: Loyalty toward the Īḻattamiḻ community is imagined as loyalty toward a Section/Homeland that represents all Īḻattamiḻs in the homeland and in the diaspora. The kinship relation is not dissolved but transferred to all (as a fictional kinship) (Schalk 2003b: 203–6). Yāḻppāṇam is brought to Stockholm in reduced proportion, true, but it evokes strong sentiments. This is due to the small number of worshippers, who all know each other and who all have a similar background, but they also have different backgrounds in different Sections. If we go to London, the situation is different. After the defeat of the LTTE, which

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had a presence in London, caste temples have allegedly been growing again. I cannot confirm this statement, which sounds like a rumour, but there is no doubt that caste and dowry are both practised on the level of the Household/ Section all over the diaspora. The fiction of a united Īḻattamiḻ community in the homeland and diaspora had two weaknesses. First, the LTTE interpretation of the Īḻattamiḻ community gave political consent priority over all other uniting factors. Some temples in the diaspora were pinpointed as being LTTE temples before 2009. A new kind of dissent, political dissent, arose within the temple organisations (Schalk 2003b: 29–31). Second, the interpretation of the Īḻattamiḻ community as a worldwide Household did not satisfy the specific caste interests of a local Section/Household, which was dependent on the main Section/Household in the homeland. An old kind of dissent arose. Disunity has been a weak—if not the weakest—side of the Īḻattamiḻs in the homeland and in the diaspora, and this has been exploited by the enemy (Schalk 2001a). Among the Īḻattamiḻs’ holy places dedicated to Civaṉ, Maṉṉār must be mentioned. Here, we find a famous temple called Tirukētīcuvaram, which was already praised in the mainland by the poet Cuntarar from the eighth/ninth century in the tēvāram 7: 80. The Tirukōṇēcuvaram temple in Tirukkōṇamalai, also known in South India in the seventh century AD, must be mentioned as well. For Yāḻppāṇam, we must consider the Nallūr temple from the thirteenth century AD. Tamiḻ migrants brought their knowledge of these temples into the diaspora. As indicated above, not all Tamiḻs are Caivas. A few of them are Vaiṇavar (Vaiṣṇavas), Catholics, Protestants, Muslims, atheists, agnostics, and some do not reflect on religion at all. Religion is dysfunctional within the totality of Īḻattamiḻs, like politics, but as the majority are Caivas, the dysfunctional effects of basing a group’s identity on religion are not so great. From Norway, we learn about an exceptional situation in Bergen, where Tamiḻ-speaking Catholics evidently dominated the early immigration in the 1970s and were in majority in the 1980s (Jacobsen 2003: 374). In Switzerland, 80% to 85% of all Tamiḻs are guessed to be Caivas; the rest are Christians. Some have become Reformed Christians. I have never met an Īḻattamiḻ in the diaspora who was a practising Buddhist, and in Īḻam, it is difficult to find many of them, but after 2009, the Sri Lankan Armed Forces (SLAF s), made an attempt to introduce Tamiḻ Buddhism (Schalk 2013, 2002b, 2002c, 2002d, 1997). Today, it meets strong resistance from both Tamiḻ politicians and Caivas. This kind of Tamiḻ Buddhism is apprehended as a masked form of political Siṃhala Buddhism (Schalk 2001a), which is pinpointed as taking part in the alleged atrocities against the Īḻattamiḻs. This

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kind of animosity does not exclude retrospection on times when there was cooperation between Hindus and Buddhists (Pathmanathan 1989). Caivam includes different subschools and subcongregations. There is no point in describing all. For the sake of delimiting and comparison, we focus on three: those by the Gāṇapatyas, Vīracaivas, and the Caivacittāntins. A comprehensive description of them can be found in God as Remover of Obstacle (Schalk 2004: 79–93). I call them schools, not sects, albeit they were once sects when they were on Indian soil. They produced alternative theologies, rituals, and congregations; today, individuals can adopt, and later replace, them during different periods of life. Sectarian coercion within Caivam in the homeland and the diaspora is not practised today. Tamiḻ Caivas from Lanka do not organise a sectarian form of Gāṇapatyam. They are not members of Gāṇapatyam, but this sect has left a trace on them. Yāḻppāṇam has the reputation of being a fortress for Caivacittāntam, but after a heated debate in 1970, the representatives of Caivacittāntam had to accept a change of syllabus in schools, and the teachers of Caivam were instructed to include Gāṇapatyam. Furthermore, a famous partisan manual in Hinduism, written in English and published in 1978 in Yāḻppāṇam, contained several chapters not only about Gāṇapatyam, but also in or for it. We should therefore not be astonished to find some stray influences of this sect even in temples in the diaspora. Another push by this sect is that temples dedicated to Vināyakar are the most frequent temples in Īḻam and in the Īḻattamiḻ diaspora. True, they have chosen Vināyakar as their god, but this does not devalue other gods, and it does not change the traditional hierarchy of the pantheon. He is worshipped in Stockholm alongside Civaṉ, Pārvatī, Murukaṉ (Skanda), and Ilakkumi (Lakṣmī) in the temple. True, Vināyakar is the focus, but it is quite clear that he acts as a part of the Caiva family, where Civaṉ is the foremost god (Schalk 2004b: 139–61). Now we come to Vīracaivam (Schalk 2004b: 83–88), which deviates from Gāṇapatyam and Caivacittāntam by rejecting the caste system, but it was not strong enough to resist being assimilated into the caste system. According to a modern, self-representative, empathic image of Vīracaivam, one of its founders, Basava from the twelfth century AD, was strictly anti-iconic, anticaste, and anti-Vedic, basing his views mainly on a text called Vīrāgama in Sanskrit. He was allegedly also against gender differences. He allegedly rejected celibacy, asceticism, and misogyny. Allegedly, women took a strong position as teachers and poets in this congregation—and as rebel housewives. Many of the leaders came from low-caste positions. Vīracaivam is here depicted as a liberal and feminist movement fighting for social justice. In another self-presentation,

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modern spokesmen for Vīracaivam emphasise that this religion tries to abolish the caste system and create a religious society without discrimination based on birth. We must comment on this self-image. The concept of equality in Vīracaivam is religious and congregational, limited to members within the religious group, and it similar to the understanding of equality among the Sikhs. We could therefore speak of a soteriological inclusiveness, which in Basava’s case also had some consequences for inclusiveness in everyday life. Basava was not a revolutionary but a reformer, as we might say today. He was a brāhmaṇa himself and one of the most powerful men in his role as the first minister in the royal court of Kalyāṇa in the middle of the twelfth century. Basava wanted to reform the transmitted rituals by emphasising their emptiness if they were not related to submission under Civaṉ. He was convinced of the equality of sexes, which made him reject child marriage and introduce widow marriage. He also rejected the worship of icons, which was a radical move, and he challenged other congregations by rigorously following ahiṃsā, vegetarianism, and by completely rejecting alcohol; and he also rejected sexual licence. He was also critical of the caste system, but even within their own sectarian frame, Vīracaivas made hierarchical status distinctions between religious groupings. Furthermore, the object of reformation is the members, not Indian society, as Ambedkar and Gandhi, for example, had in mind. In its historical development, exposed to severe criticism and sometimes persecution, Vīracaivas could not retain their radical alternative views and ritual performance, nor their strict moral behaviour. They participated in and adopted temple rituals from other Caiva groups. There is also a historical process led by brāhmaṇas, who maintained their caste identity among Vīracaivas. They had an influence on the whole of Vīracaivam. This influence explains the present actions of Vīracaiva priests in a Caiva temple. Forced migration and trade brought Vīracaivas to Īḻam during times of war and peace in the second millennium. There, they established themselves professionally as a functional group known as the group of paṇṭāram (Schalk 2004b: 87, 125, 127). This is classified as a caste in Yāḻppāṇam. Paṇṭāram is an (irregular) taṟpavam, which comes from the Sanskrit piṇḍāra, “beggar.” We have to realise that the Vīracaivas who appeared in public as members of the paṇṭāram caste did so in a despised form, as peddlers selling merchandise, especially flowers. They were already known as flower sellers in South India. In the case of Īḻam, it has not been possible to find out yet whether all Vīracaivas belong to the paṇṭāram caste or whether all who belong to this caste are Vīracaivas. In any case, we have to distinguish the congregation of Vīracaivam

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from a specifically recruited caste. Vīracaivam is not a caste. It is a religion, but it has formerly recruited members from the paṇṭāram caste. The Vīracaivas in Yāḻppāṇam were regarded as outsiders due to their caste’s low status and due to their idiosyncratic doctrines and rituals. They were gradually integrated, however, on the margins, into the official temple ritual as producers and sellers of flower garlands. The congregation of Vīracaivas is important to our concerns here, because the Tamiḻ journal utayaṉ, which is published in Yāḻppāṇam, has rightly observed that priests going from Yāḻppāṇam to Hamm, Germany, are from this congregation, and the temple in Hamm has influenced the temple in Stockholm. What is going on in exile is carefully observed in the homeland. The article in utayaṉ, which is written in Tamiḻ, referred to a residing chief priest in Hamm, Tiru Pāskaraṉ, a leading Vīracaiva, and that he signed a document in his name that congratulated the establishment in Stockholm and gave guidelines for the correct worship of Vināyakar (utayaṉ 2002). Tiru Pāskaraṉ is a kind of high priest in a European network of temples due to his qualified education. Representatives of the conservative Caiva elite of Caivacittāntam in Yāḻppāṇam wrinkle their foreheads when they observe that Vīra Caivas represents Caivam in exile, especially in Hamm. Normally, a priest from Vīracaivam has to line up behind a Caiva teacher. In 2002, nine Vīracaivas from Yāḻppāṇam left for officiating the inauguration of the temple in Hamm, which was advertised as “The Travelling of Vīracaiva Teachers to Germany!”2 Seven names with titles were given, which made it evident that at least these seven were fully initiated Caiva teachers, albeit they were Vīracaivas. One was the brother of Tiru Pāskaraṉ. All of them came from the Yāḻppāṇam district; one had come from Koḷumputtuṟai, one from Mayilaṅkāṭu, one from Uruttirapuram, two from Yāḻppāṇam (city), and one from Kīrimalai. Thus, we can speak of the influence of Vīracaivas in Germany, which is part of a European network that also includes Stockholm. This influence, however, is not traditional Vīracaivam from Karṇāṭakam. The Īḻattamiḻ version has been assimilated by Caivacittāntam through close contact in South India, more specifically, with the Śaivacittāntamahāsamaja, whose founding members from 1905 also included a Vīracaiva leader. Therefore, the specific sectarian traits of Vīracaivam do not come through in Tiru Pāskaraṉ’s religious concepts (Schalk 2004b: 140–46). Those who look for special Vīracaiva influences in the temple in Hamm have difficulty finding them. The temple in Hamm is influential in Europe, but this influence is due to a coming together of several Hindu traditions (Wilke 2003b). True, in many 2  vīracaivak kurumār jērmaṉi payaṇam!

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temples there is an intensification through several Hindu traditions, but not in the Stockholm Caiva temple, which has not yet accepted a statue of Perumāḷ (Viṣṇu), albeit it teaches that Perumāḷ worships Civaṉ. We come now briefly to Caivacittāntam. Most Tamiḻs from Īḻam belong to this school. Its name can be rendered freely as “the ultimate attainment of Caivam.” The only chair in Caivacittāntam in Īḻam is at Yāḻppāṇam University. There was a conflict between Vīracaivam and Caivacittāntam. The latter is criticised by Vīracaivas for being based on the interests of the dominating caste, the veḷḷāḷars, which, as mentioned above, is the caste of (former) landowners. They represent the majority caste in Yāḻppāṇam, but to launch such a criticism in Europe, where all caste labelling is banned and everyone is concerned with concord, would be embarrassing. To my knowledge, no one has initiated a public caste discussion in Europe, which is not to say that discussion does not take place behind closed doors. It does take place. In Yāḻppāṇam, Caivacittāntam suffered a decline in the nineteenth century due to competition from Christian missionary schools, which played an important role in the formation of a Tamiḻ elite in British colonial Ceylon. As a reaction to this decline, revivers and retrievers of Caivacittāntam appeared, and their influence is still visible today. I refer to especially Āṟumuka Nāvalar, who, having graduated from missionary schools, adopted missionary methods to revive Caivam in its Caivacittāntam form and bring converts to Christianity back to Caivam (Kailasapathy 1979; Sivathamby 1979). Nāvalar is not a name but a title, which can be translated as “the learned.” The nāvalar published a caivaviṉāviṭai “Caiva Catechism” in 1873. His views on Caivam have been decisive for the present formation of temple-centred Caivam. There is of course a Nāvalar road in Yāḻppāṇam. Moreover, his followers have established a sanctuary of commemoration on the left of the Nallūr kōyil in Yāḻppāṇam (Pathmanathan 1990). In the backyard of this sanctuary, he is depicted together with Civaṉ, Pārvatī, and some nāyaṉār. The borders between normal humans, saints, and gods becomes fluid. Here, I highlight six (out of a total of eight) aspects of his version of Caivacittāntam. 1. The Indian perspective. It connects Indian Tamiḻ culture, especially Indian Tamiḻ Caivam with Īḻam Tamiḻ Caivam. This perspective excludes an interest in Siṃhala Buddhist culture, which was not within the intellectual horizon of the nāvalar and which appears as something alien and frightening to Īḻam Tamiḻ Caivas. At the end of his civālayataricanaviti (The proper way to worship at Civaṉ’s temple) he invokes Civaṉ in Citamparam, the centre of Tamiḻ Caiva

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orthodoxy. Citamparam was his Jerusalem or Mecca. Even if Citamparam is not always mentioned, Tamiḻnāṭu is pinpointed as the centre for Caivam. 2. A conscious and uncompromising connection between Caivam and the Tamiḻ language. This connection must be understood as implying: when Caivam, then Tamiḻ. His background was in the comparative linguistics of his time—he knew Hebrew, Greek, and Latin—and he realised the relative value of Tamiḻ, which he did not declare divine. Nevertheless, Caivam had to be transmitted only in Tamiḻ. When the nāvalar in civālayataricanaviti 32 recommended a selection of holy texts, none of them were in Sanskrit or any other language except Tamiḻ. All are Caiva. These are tēvāram, tiruvācakam, tiruvicaippā, tiruppallāṇṭu, and periyapurāṇam. Tamiḻ is given the foremost position in the performance of temple rituals in the diaspora as well, which has led to language problems when visiting temples where Sanskrit and North Indian languages are used. We see the close connection between religion, in this case Caivam, and language, here Tamiḻ, in the consciousness of the Caivas in Yāḻppāṇam and in their exile. Caivam must be communicated in Tamiḻ. When people are asked about their religion in Yāḻppāṇam, they may not answer “Caivam,” but instead reply “Tamiḻ” (Suseendirarajah 1988, 1998, 1979). In this case, they do not intend to elevate their Tamiḻ language to divine status; they believe that the innermost essence of Caivam is “Tamilness.” The language is a token for this imagined Tamilness. Coming to the apotheosis of the Tamiḻ language, this is an additional, but separate matter for the promotion of this language. There are invocations called tamiḻttāy vaṇakkam “Greeting to Mother Tamiḻ,” which are for the promotion of Tamiḻ, and are recited when opening meetings in Yāḻppāṇam. The LTTE produced an annual calendar called tamiḻttāy, “Mother Tamiḻ.” In the twentieth century, a wave of anti-Brāhmaṇical and anti-Sanskrit sentiment— Dravidian ideology that made Tamiḻ a goddess—swept from the Tamiḻ land in South India over to Yāḻppāṇam. With this in mind, we understand that shifting to Sanskrit, Hindī, English, or Swedish is emotionally difficult for Caivas from Īḻam when they express the innermost essence of Caivam, which allegedly is the essence of Tamiḻ. This evaluation does not create a problem of overlapping with those Christians and Muslims who also use Tamiḻ, because a distinction is made between Caiva, Christian, and Muslim Tamiḻ in the minds of Tamiḻ-speaking people. 3. The insistence that Tamiḻ Caiva orthodoxy is represented by Caiva­ cittāntam. This insistence implied breaking communication with non-ākamic, or “non-fixed,” traditions, but also with Vaiṇavam/Vaiṣṇavam, and of course

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with Christianity. This was evident in the nāvalar’s work. At the end of his civālayataricanaviti, he honours Meykaṇṭatēcikaṉ, who was one of the most important commentators of Caivacittāntam in the thirteenth century. In civālayataricanaviti 1, we find what we expect, namely the identification of the primordial god with Civaṉ. There is no place for Piramā (Brahmā) or Perumāḷ (Viṣṇu). The nāvalar accepted no other devas, but he accepted four emanations of Civaṉ, namely Vināyakar, Murukaṉ, P(V)airavar, and Vīrapattirar. They are expressions of his tiru-v-aruḷ, “holy grace.” An emanation is not different from that which causes something to emanate (like how the rays of the sun are not different from the sun). If Vināyakar is worshipped as an emanation of Civaṉ, then there is nothing wrong with it. We need not suspect that Christian monotheism and the Christian theology of the trinity were the only influences for the creation of this exclusiveness. We must also consider historical Caiva sectarianism going back to Meykaṇṭatēcikaṉ, one of the theological pillars of Tamiḻ Caivacittāntam from the thirteenth century. He emphasised the uniqueness and supremacy of Civaṉ, which is classified as monotheism by modern interpreters, like the nāvalar. His view can be characterised as modalistic. As rays are just modi for the sun to appear, Vināyakar is one of the four modi for Civaṉ to appear. They are ontologically the same as the source god. Western historians of religions would characterise Meykantatēcikaṉ’s theology as henotheism, or belief in a Supreme Being or high god. The board of the Stockholm temple explicitly confesses to this uniqueness and supremacy of Civaṉ verbally, but it does not follow the modalistic theology of Meykantatēcikaṉ and the nāvalar in ritual performance. There are gods worshipped in the temple that cannot be classified as emanations and beings of the same nature as Civaṉ. An image of Perumāḷ (Viṣṇu) was planned to be set up in 2018, but it did not happen. 4. The promotion of the interests of the veḷḷāḷars. This is not explicit in his texts, but it is explicit is his promotion of classical varṇāśramadharma in his civālayataricanaviti 1, where dharma of course is śaiva dharma. In his prescription, each caste has its proper way of worshipping, which implies caste segregation in the temple or among temples. The nāvalar was from the veḷḷāḷar caste and his audience was mainly veḷḷāḷars. Due to the specific situation in exile, caste distinctions are dysfunctional in a small assembly. Caste specific acting is avoided in the Stockholm temple, but caste practice expressed in dowry and in the Household/Section symbiosis is still prevalent among European Tamiḻs. 5. The promotion of women’s religious education and participation in worship. This has become a very important point in the diaspora, where women take the lead in participating in the ritual performance. They often take the lead in the performance of the recital of holy texts classified as patti/pakti texts

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from the tirumuṟai, “holy order,” from the twelfth century and many other classical texts.3 Devotional songs to Vināyakar, Ampāl, Murukaṉ, and Civaṉ—all in Tamiḻ—are also recited. In Yāḻppāṇam, I have witnessed the recital of the Kantapurāṇam in temples, which requires a special competence by the reciter and patience and hours of time on the part of the listeners (Vēlupiḷḷai 1998). I have not witnessed this in Europe or even heard about it, but it is possible that it has been arranged in part or in entirety for a few individuals. 6. Focusing on Caivam as the ritual system of the temple. In his civālayataricanaviti, the nāvalar has regulated in detail how to act in a Caiva temple; what is to be done and what must be avoided (āṟumukanāvalaravarkaḷ 1993). In one important point, the Stockholm temple has not yet followed him. Inspired by Protestant preaching, he retrieved the act of preaching from old Caiva traditions. For Friday evenings, he introduced preaching about texts. For this, a special competence is needed, which evidently is not yet available in Sweden and other parts of the European diaspora. So far, Caivacittāntam has been filtered through the understanding of the nāvalar. In exile, religious assemblies cannot afford to launch dysfunctional markers within their own group. Sooner or later, however, when study groups are established, these Tamiḻs, who are mainly from Yāḻppāṇam, will discover and name their own religious background, either in Gāṇapatyam, Vīracaivam, or Caivacittāntam—or in all three. As things are now, the near-unity of the soul with Civaṉ can also be realised through devotional exercise, through pakti/ patti, which is an integral part of all three. Just now, Tamiḻ patti/pakti in the Tamiḻ Caiva ritual tradition, as interpreted by Caivacittāntam, is the dominant religious base in the diaspora. Patti/pakti can be systematised by theologians according to their understanding of Gāṇapatyam and Vīracaivam as well. In Caivacittāntam’s relation to other congregations and religions in Īḻam, no excluding or exclusive sectarian attitude toward Viṣṇuism, which is another Hindu congregation, can be found. Its Tamiḻ name—Vaiṇavam—is the Tamilised form of the Sanskrit Vaiṣṇavam. There are very few Tamiḻ Vaiṇavar in Lanka and none in Stockholm, and the cooperation between both groups is free of sectarian conflicts in Īḻam. There is a perception that Vaiṇavam is nonexistent in Īḻam, but this is a wrong perception. Some Vaiṇava temples in Īḻam lie in the north, in Yāḻppāṇam (Jaffna) district. One is known popularly as the Vallipuram temple. It is dedicated to the god Viṣṇu, in Tamiḻ Perumāḷ, and his ten revelations. Also, there is a Perumāḷ temple in Yāḻppāṇam city. There is another one in Vannārpaṇṇai and one in Poṉṉālai, but all have Caiva 3  tiruvicaippā, tiruppallāṇṭu, periya purāṇam, vināyakar akaval, civapurāṇam, liṅkāśtakam tiruvempā, tirupoṟcuṇṇam, pakai kaṭital, caṇmuka kavacam, tiruppukaḻ, tiruvaruṭpā.

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priests. In Stockholm, the priest, as of 2017 and 2018, is from a Vaiṇava temple in Kiḷinocci, but he is called Caiva teacher and he serves in a Caiva temple. The visitors to these Vaiṇava temples in Īḻam are the same ones who used to visit the Caiva temples. There is the vision that Perumāḷ worships Civaṉ. During special periods of the year, observers can see some “Caivas” wearing vipūti (Sanskrit vibhūti), “[holy] ash,” also called tirunīru, “holy ash,” vertically, from top to bottom, on their foreheads to mark themselves as devotees of Perumāḷ during this limited period. Vipūti should be ash from burnt cow dung, which is regarded as clean. It is holy because of the presence of the god. It should be noticed that there has not been a single image of Perumāḷ/Viṣṇu in the Vināyakar temple in Stockholm since its foundation, but there is a plan to install an image. How can this omission be explained? This omission is not directed against Perumāḷ. The explicit reason for the omission, given by one of the priests, is that the Vaiṇavar might take over and dominate. The numerical proportions are different in Yāḻppāṇam and in the diaspora, and the Vaiṇavar in the diaspora are usually not Tamiḻs but North Indians. The latter would not accept that Viṣṇu worships Śiva, and they would not learn Tamiḻ to worship Civaṉ in Tamiḻ. Moreover, in Stockholm, exclusively Caiva Tamiḻ is used, except for the use of mantras in Sanskrit. Finally, we must consider that among the Īḻattamiḻs there are those who question or just do not care about the existence of the Tamiḻ temple. A few have another faith; there are Christians, Protestants or Catholics, and Muslims, and there are agnostics, atheists, and those who are just indifferent. During the war, and until 2009, some went for martial action and rejected supplication: the permanently active and loud critics who see a class/caste ideology in Caivam; and the politically engaged men and women who have marginalised their religion for the time being as not being helpful in the struggle for liberation from the Government of Sri Lanka and its armed forces. We expected that these groups would condemn their caste system, which they do in thought and word but not in deed. When it comes to marriage and dying, their cultural background is actualised. This background shows that caste is part of kinship, religion, and language, as well as being part of a stipulated self, and it is preserved under hardships in the diaspora. References Amirtaliṅkam, Ce. (2003) murukak kaṭavul valipāṭu. A Study of the Worship of God Murukan in Malaiyakam and Tamilakam in India. Uppsala: Uppsala University. Anonymous (2002) “vīracaivak kurumār jērmaṉi payaṇam!” in utayaṉ. Yāḻppāṇam: (July 8, 2002), 9. āṟumukanāvalaravarkaḷ [1873] (1993) caiva viṉāviṭai. mutaṟ puttakam. Citamparam.

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āṟumukanāvalaravarkaḷ (n.d.) caiva viṉāviṭai. mutalām, iraṇṭām puttakam. koḷumpu: aṣṭalakṣmi patippakam. Baumann, M. et al. (eds.) (2003a) Tempel und Tamilen in zweiter Heimat. Hindus aus Sri Lanka im deutschsprachigen und skandinavischen Raum. Würzburg: Ergon. Baumann, M. (2003b) “Selbstkasteiungen und Gelübde: Traditionswahrung durch religiöse Praktik,” in M. Baumann et al. (eds.), Tempel und Tamilen in zweiter Heimat, 169–88. Würzburg: Ergon. Hudson, D. (1992a) “Āṟumuka Nāvalar and Hindu Renaissance among the Tamiḻs,” in K.W. Jones (ed.), Religious Controversy in British India: Dialogues in South Asia Languages, 27–51. Albany: State University of New York Press. Hudson, D. (1992b) “Winning Souls for Śiva: Āṟumuga Nāvalar’s Transmission of the Śaiva Religion,” in R.B. Williams (ed.), A Sacred Thread. Modern Transmission of Hindu Traditions in India and Abroad, 23–51. Chambersburg: Anima Publications. Hudson, D. (1995a) “Tamil Hindu Responses to Protestants: Among Nineteenth-Century Literati in Jaffna and Tinnevelly,” in S. Kaplan (ed.), Indigenous Responses to Western Christianity, 95–123. Albany: State University of New York Press. Hudson, D. (1995b) “How to Worship at Śiva’s Temple,” in D.S. Lopez (ed.), Religions of India in Practice, 305–20. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Jacobsen, K.A. (2003) “Settling in Cold Climate: The Tamil Hindus in Norway,” in M. Baumann et al. (eds.), Tempel und Tamilen in zweiter Heimat, 363–78. Würzburg: Ergon Verlag. Kailasapathy, K. (1979) “Arumuka Navalar: The Central Years (1834–1848),” in Navalar Number 1979, vi–xi. Jaffna: St. Joseph’s Catholic Press Jaffna. Kōpālakiruṣṇa Aiyar, Po. (1995) “Studies in Śaiva Iconography and Rituals of the Tamilar,” in P. Schalk (ed.), Studies in the Tamil Cultural Heritage of Yāḻppāṇam, Īḻam (Lanka), 57–64. Uppsala Studies in the History of Religions 2. Uppsala: Uppsala University. Nagaswamy, R. (1989) Śiva-bhakti. New Delhi: Navrang. Ñāṉakumāraṉ, Na. (1995) “Studies in Caiva Cittāntam,” in P. Schalk (ed.), Studies in the Tamiḻ Cultural Heritage of Yāḻppāṇam, Īḻam (Lanka), 49–56. Uppsala Studies in the History of Religions 2. Uppsala: Uppsala University. pajaṉaip pāṭalkaḷ (2002) Stockholm: Cuvīṭaṉ cirī cittivināyakar ālayam. Pathmanathan, S. (1979) “The Hindu Society in Śrī Lanka: Revived and Remembered,” in J.R. Carter (ed.), Religiousness in Sri Lanka, 149–60. Colombo: Marga Institute. Pathmanathan, S. (1989) “Buddhism and Hinduism in Sri Lanka: Some Points of Contact Between the two Religious Traditions (Circa A.D. 1300–1600),” in P. Schalk (ed.), Lanka 4, 96–126. Uppsala: Uppsala University. Pathmanthan, S. (1990) “Murukaṉ the Divine Child. The Kantacuvāmi Temple at Nallūr,” in P. Schalk (ed.), Lanka 5, 80–102. Uppsala: Uppsala University. Peterson, I.V. (1989) Poems to Śiva. The Hymns of the Tamil Saints. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

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Pfaffenberger, B. (1982) Caste in Tamil Culture: The Religious Foundations of Sudra Domination in Tamil Sri Lanka. New York: Syracuse University Press. Protocol from the Board Meeting of the Vināyakar Ālayam in Stockholm, January 6, 2003. Robertson, R. (1994) “Globalisation or Glocalisation?” Journal of International Communication, 1: 33–52. Robertson, R. (1994) “Religion and the Global Field.” Social Compass, 41 (1): 121–35. Robertson, R. (1995) “Global or International?” West Virginia Sociological Review, 1: 48–49. Robertson, R. (1998) “Glokalisierung: Homogenität und Heterogenität in Raum und Zeit,” in U. Beck (ed.), Perspektiven der Weltgesellschaft, 192–220. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Schalk, P. (1997) A Buddhist Woman’s Path to Enlightenment. Proceedings of a Workshop on the Tamiḻ Narrative Maṇimēkalai, Uppsala University May 25–29, 1995. Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis. Historia Religionum 13. Uppsala: Uppsala University. Schalk, P. (2001a) “Political Buddhism among Lankans in the Context of Martial Conflict.” Religion, Staat, Gesellschaft. Zeitschrift für Glaubensformen und Weltanschauungen, 2 (2): 223–342. Schalk, P. (2001b) “Present Concepts of Secularism among Ilavar and Lankans,” in P. Schalk (ed.), Zwischen Säkularismus und Hierokratie: Studien zum Verhältnis von Religion und Staat in Süd- und Ostasien, 37–72. Acta Universitatis Uppsaliensis, Historia Religonum 17. Uppsala: Uppsala University. Schalk, P. (2002a) “Ilavar and Lankans. Emerging Identities in a Broken-up Island.” Journal of Asian Ethnicity, 3 (1): 47–62. Schalk, P. (2002b) Buddhism among Tamils in Pre-Colonial Tamilakam and Īḻam. Part 1: Prologue. The Pre-Pallava Period. Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, Historia Religionum 19. Uppsala: Uppsala University. Schalk, P. (2002c) Buddhism among Tamils in Pre-Colonial Tamiḻakam and Īḻam. Part 2: The Period of the Imperial Cōlar. Tamiḻakam and Īḻam. Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, Historia Religionum 20. Uppsala: Uppsala University. Schalk, P. (2002d) “The Oldest References to Buddhism among Tamils in Īḻam in the Early Anurādhapura Period,” Buddhism among Tamils in Pre-Colonial Tamiḻakam and Īḻam. Part 1: Prologue. The Pre-Pallava Period, 347–75. Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, Historia Religionum 20. Uppsala: Uppsala University. Schalk, P. (2003a) “Tamiḻ Caivas in Stockholm, Sweden,” in M. Baumann et al. (eds.), Temple und Tamilen in Zweiter Heimat, 379–90. Würzburg: Ergon Verlag. Schalk, P. (2003b) “Beyond Hindu Festivals: The Celebration of Great Heroes’ Day by the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Ealam (LTTE) in Europe,” in M. Baumann et al. (eds.), Tempel und Tamilen in zweiter Heimat, 391–420. Würzburg: Ergon Verlag. Schalk, P. (2004a) Īḻam