Indigeneity, Landscape and History: Adivasi Self-fashioning in India 9781138036420, 9781315109046

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Indigeneity, Landscape and History

This book engages with notions of self and landscape as manifest in water, forest and land via historical and current perspectives in the context of indigenous communities in India. It also brings processes of identity formation among tribes in Africa and Latin America into relief. Using interconnected historical moments and representations of being, becoming and belonging, it situates the content and complexities of Adivasi self-fashioning in contemporary times, and discusses constructions of selfhood, diaspora, homeland, environment and ecology, political structures, state, marginality, development, alienation and rights. Drawing on a range of historical sources – from recorded oral traditions and village histories to contemporary Adivasi self-narratives – the volume will be of great interest to scholars and researchers of modern Indian history, sociology and social anthropology, tribal and indigenous studies and politics. Asoka Kumar Sen taught history at Tata College, Chaibasa, West Singhbhum, Jharkhand, and retired as a professor (1965–2002). He is presently an independent researcher of tribal history and editor of the Journal of Adivasi and Indigenous Studies. He was awarded a brief fellowship at the Department of Sociology, Delhi School of Economics, New Delhi, India. He also worked as a researcher for Sussex University, UK, on the British Academy project entitled ‘The East India Company and the Natural World: Environment, Innovation and Ideas at the Core of the British Empire’. His published works include The Educated Middle Class and Indian Nationalism (1988); Bengali Intelligentsia and Popular Uprisings 1855–73 (1992); Wilkinson’s Rules, Context, Content and Ramifications (edited, 1999); Representing Tribe: The Ho of Singhbhum during Colonial Rule (2011); and From Village Elder to British Judge: Custom, Customary Law and Tribal Society (2012).

Indigeneity, Landscape and History Adivasi Self-fashioning in India

Asoka Kumar Sen

First published 2018 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2018 Asoka Kumar Sen The right of Asoka Kumar Sen to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Maps not to scale. The international boundaries, coastlines, denominations, and other information shown in any map in this work do not necessarily imply any judgement concerning the legal status of any territory or the endorsement or acceptance of such information. For current boundaries, readers may refer to the Survey of India maps. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-1-138-03642-0 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-10904-6 (ebk) Typeset in Sabon by Apex CoVantage, LLC

For Purba Ishita Rishi Sourabh Soumya Aadya Siddharth

Contents

Preface List of abbreviations Introduction

ix xi 3

PART I

Other representation 1 Sanskritic and colonial representations of tribe

13 15

PART II

Self-representation

41

2 Meanings of self and landscape and dynamics of self-fashioning

43

3 Myth as history: the representation of self-landscape in Adivasi creation myths

57

4 Notion of territory and the formation of pre-state political order and beyond

76

5 From itinerancy to settled village life

96

6 Norms and mode of self-governance

113

7 Transformation of a hunter-forager to a cultivator

136

8 Water in Adivasi perception and the management of water resources

157

viii

Contents

9 Forest as a marker of collective identity

173

10 Landscape and fashioning of self: the post-independence scenario

187

11 Conclusion

204

Glossary Bibliography Index

209 212 231

Preface

It is a matter of great concern that works written by non-Adivasis still continue to be the main source for studies on the Adivasis in India. One major reason for this lack has been the absence of studies that tell the stories from within. Another problem is that the studies of the first genre have relied mostly on archival sources where recordings about Adivasi life had been meagre. As a result, an intimate and representative history of these people has not been reconstructed so far. Furthermore, Adivasis’ links with the landscape, that is, land, forest and water, have rarely been studied historically. Without the knowledge of this linkage, it becomes difficult to reconstruct a more comprehensive story of their identity assertion from the precolonial era down to the present. The desire to address these deficiencies primarily motivated me to write this book. This has no doubt been facilitated by the privilege of living in the midst of Adivasis that informed me about the ongoing issues agitating them, particularly their identity assertion and unassailable linkage with the landscape. No less significant was another advantage that I enjoyed – the opportunity of accessing so far untapped Village Papers where their voices resonate. These, as also other sources like myth, folklore and collective memory and newspaper recordings of Adivasi voices, have been appropriately invoked to understand how the Adivasis’ fashioning of self fructified between the precolonial and contemporary periods. The purpose of this Adivasi self-portrayal will be amply served if somebody from the community takes up the task of presenting their story from within. This may lead to the making of an alternative Adivasi story in line with the alternate Dalit and feminist narratives that have gained wide credence in recent times. This study seeks to juxtapose different temporalities, methodologies and viewpoints. First, by setting up a dialogue between the past and present, this study is able to unfold a comprehensive picture of Adivasi

x

Preface

self-fashioning from the precolonial and colonial periods to the present. Second, this book surfs oral tradition and archival sources for capturing the unheard voice of the marginalised in order to represent how they had portrayed themselves through centuries. Thus, the study deviates from those which had relied solely on extraneous and archival sources. Last, an attempt is made to bring on board indigenous notions of the self in other parts of India as well as Africa and Latin America, in order to form an understanding of the content and complexities of Adivasi self-fashioning in modern Jharkhand and beyond. The study focusses on Adivasi identity assertion around and the loss of rights over the landscape, that is, jal, jungle and jameen (water, forest and land). This may provide an understanding of the contemporary indigenous activism at the global stage. It is hoped that knowledge of Adivasi self-representation and the construction of indigeneity in modern India can help bridge the gap between margins and mainstreams in Indian society. I am thankful first to the editors of the books and journals where earlier versions of some of the chapters of this book have appeared. Purba, Rishi, Ishita and Sourabh gifted me with many valuable books and reading materials, which provoked new ideas and consolidated the ones with which I dabbled before. I am greatly indebted to Vinita Damodaran for her comments on an earlier draft that gave me insights into developing some key areas. I have a deep sense of gratitude to Uday Chandra for generously helping me with valuable study materials. I am grateful to Mahesh Rangarajan, Padmanabha Samarendra, Sangeeta Dasgupta, Ritambhara Hebbar, Joe Hill, Sanjay Nath, Sujit Kumar, Sourav Mahanta, Utkarsh Misra, Nirmal Kumar Mahto and Upasana Ray for their help and support. Somnath Roy has been a constant source of inspiration in my academic pursuits. I would like to gratefully acknowledge the tremendous help that I received from Mrs Meena Kumari and Lakhindar Das (now deceased) at the District Record Room, Chaibasa, who had made a lasting contribution to my entire span of research. Grateful thanks are due to the anonymous reviewer for the stimulating comments that helped develop some core areas and strengthen my arguments. I have no words to thank Aakash Chakrabarty, the commissioning editor of Routledge, for his patience and courtesy. As always, my mother Mrs Bela Sen and Padmaja sustained me. The latter often made useful comments on my earlier drafts and always egged me on to continue my researches even against many odds and constraints. Purba, Ishita, Rishi, Sourabh, Soumya, Aadya and Siddharth have always been a source of profound joy and happiness. This book is written as a token of my love for them.

Abbreviations

CN CNT Act CSVEP CSVN CSVNE CSVNERR DCOS DRRC FL FN FS GD LRAR PF RB RF SC SPT Act ST TSKP TSVN VN

collection number Chota Nagpur Tenancy Act Craven Settlement Village Enquiry Paper Craven Settlement Village Note Craven Settlement Village Note and Enquiry Craven Settlement Village Note & Enquiry of Record of Rights Deputy Commissioner’s Office Singhbhum District Record Room Chaibasa Fly Leaf File Number File Serial General Department Land Revenue Administration Report, Singhbhum Protected Forest Revenue Branch Reserved Forest Scheduled Caste Santal Pargana Tenancy Act Scheduled Tribe Tuckey Settlement Khuntkatti Papers Tuckey Settlement Village Note Vasta (Bag) Number

TAJIKISTAN

N

AFGHANISTAN

INDIA

JAMMU & KASHMIR

Srinagar

States and Union Territories

Jammu HIMACHAL PRADESH Shimla Chandigarh Dehradun PUNJAB UTTARAKHAND HARYANA (UTTRANCHAL)

PAKISTAN

CHINA (TIBET)

NEW DELHI

NE

SIKKIM

PAL

ASOM NAGALAND Dispur (ASSAM) Kohima Shillong MEGHALAYA Imphal BANGLADESH MANIPUR

Lucknow RAJASTHAN

BIHAR Patna JHARKHAND

Gandhinagar

Bhopal

Ranchi

AR H

GUJARAT

WEST BENGAL

Agartala TRIPURA

Aizawl MIZORAM

Kolkata

MYANMAR

ISG

MADHYA PRADESH

BHUTAN

Gangtok

UTTAR PRADESH

Jaipur

L HA AC H U N ES A R RAD P Itanagar

Raipur

HA TT

Diu

Mumbai

ODISHA (ORISSA)

Bhubaneshwar

CH

Daman Silvassa DADRA & NAGAR HAVELI MAHARASHTRA

Hyderabad

Panaji GOA

Yanam (Puducherry)

ANDHRA PRADESH KARNATAKA

International Boundary

TAMIL NADU

KE RA

Karaikal (Puducherry)

State Boundary National Capital State & U.T. Capital Map not to Scale

LA

EEP DW SHA ) LAK (INDIA

Puducherry (Pondicherry)

Mahe (Puducherry) Kavaratti

Chennai

Copyright © 2011 www.mapsofindia.com This map is updated as on September 19, 2011

S

SRI LANKA

AND

Thiruvananthapuram

R ISL ANDAMAN & NICOBA (INDIA)

LEGEND Bengaluru (Bangalore)

Port Blair

Ko

JHARKHAND

N

si

Sahibganj

BIHAR

Godda UTTAR PRADESH

Pakaur Deoghar

Kodarma Ma

yur

Ko

Chatra

aks

hi

Dumka

Bar

el

Giridih

ak a

Garhwa

Aja

y

r

Daltonganj

Jamtara

Hazaribag Latehar

Damoder

Dhanbad

Bokaro

WEST BENGAL

Ramgarh Lohardaga

INDIA

RANCHI Khunti

Gumla CHHATTISGARH

Jamshedpur Saraikela

Simdega Sa

nk h

S

oel hK out

Chaibasa

LEGEND National Highway Major Road Railway District Boundary

ODISHA (ORISSA) Map not to Scale Copyright © 2012 www.mapsofindia.com (Updated on 13th December 2012)

State Boundary River District HQ State Capital

Introduction

The demographic groups, variously designated in social sciences as tribe, aborigine, autochthon, indigene and Adivasi, have been subjected to the ‘politics of representation’ (Cooper 1994: 1526) in India and abroad. Furthermore, in India, this is done mostly by the other (non-Adivasis) and not by the self (Adivasis). Therefore, this representation is fraught with different historiographical problems. First, basically fragmentary, this does not generally contain their voice. Second, being appropriated with an ethnocentric mindset, this is often pejorative. This becomes clear when we surf the entire range of representations spanning between ancient Sanskrit texts belonging to the Vedic period and ethnographic writings during British rule. These, more or less, denote them as primitive, savage and wild, to borrow Skaria’s expression, ‘anachronistic’ group of people. Another problem centres round the exact nomenclature to be used for these groups, which has led to contesting claims by scholars, activists and concerned communities. A recent study on the indigenous communities in India observes, ‘The three related terms “tribals”, “Adivasis” and “indigenous peoples” have come into use at different points of time and for different reasons’ (Karlsson and Subba 2006: 2). It is, therefore, necessary to contextualise the deployment of different terminologies (Karlsson and Subba 2006: 2–9; Rycroft and Dasgupta 2011: 1–13; Bates and Shah 2014: 1–34). As early as the 1770s, tribals were designated as either ‘race’ or ‘people’ in colonial ethnography. But since the 1860s, the use of tribe came in fashion to distinguish them from caste groups. However, other such terms in vogue were autochthon and aboriginal.1 The task for the colonial ethnographers and officials was to collate administratively useful information. This was deployed as a tool for efficient governance in India which, they believed, reflected British benevolence.2 Not only in India, but in Africa also, the Europeans prided in the essentially benevolent

4

Introduction

character of western imperialism and were ‘propelled by the imperatives of the creed of the “white man’s burden”’ (Ekeh 1990: 670). Naturally, therefore, the term tribe was infected with a derogatory and evolutionary connotation. But colonial conceptualisation accompanied within it the inherent tension between the notions of ‘noble savage’ and ‘violent savage’, followed by an oscillation between paternalistic and military solutions (Bates and Shah 2014: 2–3). During the postcolonial period, scholarly and administrative mediations became more complex and contentious at the global level. In Africa, this assumed the character of an intellectual movement led by the Ibadan School of History, based at the University of Ibadan, against ethnocentric representation of tribal communities. This movement strove to reconstruct a new African social history by decolonising the study of the African past (Ekeh 1990: 660–70). In India, till recently, sociologist-anthropologists more or less accepted the colonial designation of the tribe as a ‘universal category’ (Rycroft and Dasgupta 2011:5). Karlsson and Subba remark that ‘tribal is nevertheless the most commonly used term in India and not as such with pejorative connotations’ (2006: 4). Interestingly, the term tribe received a fresh lease of life, when the Indian Constitution which came into effect from 26 January 1950, designated these communities as Scheduled Tribe (ST). Since then, this has come to denote generally those peoples who had earlier been classified as tribe in colonial ethnography. Besides recognition of their distinct status, their importance was underlined through affirmative constitutional actions. They were entitled to reservation in government employment, higher education and representation of seats in the state assemblies and central parliament. The Fifth Schedule of the Constitution demarcated areas with sizeable tribal population as Scheduled Areas (SA) and formed Tribes Advisory Council (TAC) to promote their welfare and oversee the prohibition and restriction of transfer of tribal lands. Moreover, the Indian Parliament passed the Panchayats (Extension to the Scheduled Areas) Act (PESA) in 1996, to set up a mechanism of self-government with the aim of preserving their traditions, customs and cultural identity. Furthermore, the Act extended the power of implementing plans, programmes and projects for social and economic development to the village Panchayats. Though the amendments between 2001 and 2010 diluted much of the gains (elaborated in Chapter 5), the protection of ethnic identity and lifestyle came to be constitutionally affirmed. In postcolonial India, the above academic and state trajectories have faced serious scrutiny and challenge – the communities and a section of scholars have raised objections against the designation of tribe. This

Introduction

5

resulted in the onset of adverse terminologies. In Africa, scholars argue that the term tribe is incoherent; it ‘promotes a myth of primitive African timelessness, obscuring history’; and it ‘hide(s) the modern character of African ethnicity, including ethnic conflict’ (Africa Action 2008: 1–13). The term ethnic got currency in South Africa as an alternate to ‘race’ during the late 1930s–1940s, and ever since gradually entered political and academic discourse (Dubow 1994: 355–70; Ekeh 1990: 661). This set the stage for the advent of the competing nomenclature of ethnic in academic domain. Some scholars, therefore, proposed that the term ‘ethnic’ rather than tribe/indigene/Adivasi should be considered more appropriate and less problematic. They argue that ethnicity (Vail 1991: 1–20) acknowledges the demographic and cultural specificity of this group. Moreover, this is also bereft of the stigma and humiliation associated with the term tribe. Similarly, members of the ethnic communities in India advocated for the acceptance of the term Adivasi, meaning the natives of India (Hardiman 1987: 13). By this, they not only rejected the colonial designation of tribe, but also put forth their claims for certain rights (Kuper 2003: 389–95). Chota Nagpur is generally known as the birthplace of this idea. It was here that Adivasi intellectuals formed Adivasi Mahasabha in 1938 to put forth the claim for special political status. Ever since, the claim for Adivasihood has become more fashionable both among the communities themselves and a section of scholars, with the latter clearly stating that the terms tribe should necessarily be replaced by Adivasi so that tribal studies may become Adivasi studies (Rycroft and Dasgupta 2011: 1–13). Their position was strengthened with the escalation of ‘indigenous politics’ to the global arena since the 1990s.3 This surfaced as a movement to formulate and socialise a ‘universal concept’ for self-identification ‘as the essential solution to the problem of definition’. Proponents of this movement also advocated for special safeguards and policies, besides claiming their right of self-determination generally within the nation state (Karlsson 2003: 403–23; Bowen 2000: 12–16). However, the academic world stands divided on this political and polemical issue. Scholars like B.K. Roy Burman and Andre Beteille (cited in Karlsson and Subba 2006: 7 and Sumit Guha 1999: 4) do not support the appellation of ‘indigenous’ and ‘Adivasi’. They observe that this has largely been impacted by colonial racial classification of Indians into Dravidians as original and Aryans as invaders (Bayly 1997: 189–90). Moreover, Virginius Xaxa argues that notions of racial purity and spatial originality become highly questionable because of large-scale mixture of population and migrations into and across

6

Introduction

the country for several centuries (1999a: 3591–2). Against this grain, Hardiman and Damodaran defend the term indigenous on the ground of self-identification. Hardiman views that since they prefer to ‘describe themselves’ as Adivasi, they should be called so and not tribe which they reject as ‘insulting’ (1987: 16). Damodaran argues that assertion of territorial selfhood by the Munda, Oraon and Ho communities against the encroachment by outsiders was based in fact on the claim of nativity (2005: 118–43). The onset of the terms tribe, Adivasi and indigene simultaneously in response to the historicity and contemporaneity of the terminologies is in academic practice,4 despite the fact that such a conflation of terms is considered contentious (Rycroft and Dasgupta 2011: 3). However, what is crucial is to respond to the sensitivity of the ethnic groups, who assert that they should be addressed as Adivasi and not tribe. Therefore, this study invokes such terms as Adivasi and indigene along with ethnic to represent them. But at places when the term tribe is in use, this refers to, as Nandini Sundar underlines about Bastar, the ‘administrative perceptions’ rather than ‘any particular mode of existence’ (2008: 16). The nomenclatural confusion is confounded by the tendency to deny the ethnic groups an autonomous ontological status. The dominant trend among colonial ethnographers including a section of Indian intelligentsia of the 18th and 19th centuries was to variously construct their otherness from the mainstream social groups. First, ecological distinction was the basis of postulating the difference between the tribals as the dwellers of the forested and hilly regions and those who inhabited the plains, as James Cleveland did in the case of Bhagalpur.5 In the nationalist press, Bengali intelligentsia underlined the difference of the Santals – the ‘hill people’ – and the plains-dwelling Bengali landlords and moneylenders (Sen 1992: 19, 23). Second, their otherness was assessed on an evolutionary scale. As such, they were categorised as uncivilised, as against the civilised mainstream. The argument was that due to this lack, their ‘ways are different’ from those of the ‘respectable people’. On this count, as the Bhils indulged in raid and plunder, they were considered different from ‘respectable’ Marathas. However, there was much distinction between the caste and tribe where the former was considered civilised and the latter as primitive (Skaria 1998: 193). As we entered the postcolonial period, instead of recognising their distinct identity, G. S. Ghurye represents the tribe as either backward Hindu and N.K. Bose moots the idea that they were in a state of progressive absorption into the Hindu fold (1995: 1–22; 1949: 32, 50–1; 2004: 4–28). F.G. Bailey and Surajit Sinha supported

Introduction

7

this view, when they observed that after adopting settled cultivation, tribal communities surrendered their tribalism and entered the fold of casteism (1961: 1–18; 1965: 60–1). Autonomous status of the ethnic groups is denied also by those who identify them as colonial creation (Devalle 1992; Skaria 1997: 727).6 They argue that the notion of ethnicity had more or less been invented by the colonial administrator-ethnographers and Christian missionaries. Consequently, in the case of the tribe, the ‘sense of identity was imposed over him (them) by those who had power over him by virtue of their class, caste and official standing’ (Guha 1983: 18). There is yet another trajectory that defines ethnic groups within the binaries of domination/subordination. Accordingly, they have generally been portrayed as subordinate/vulnerable rather marginal group of people, being subjected to various exploitations by more dominant groups. To elaborate, they were deemed as prehistoric people; so, their past was considered unworthy of recording. But when this was done, they were largely portrayed as a low group of people as done by the ancient Sanskrit texts and colonial writings. The pastoralist tribal groups were socio-economically marginalised by the agrarian communities. Finally, after systematically displacing them from power and material resources, they were brought under military and political subjection by the outsiders (Haimendorf 1989: 323–6; Skaria 1999: 281; Damodaran 2000). As we engage with the assertion of identity by the Adivasis, we cannot forget that the notion of identity on racial, political, cultural and religious grounds is a ‘political and debatable’ issue. But as Parker and Rathbone aver in the context of Africa, we cannot also deny that this assertion is the ‘product of historical processes’ largely ‘constructed by human agency’ (2007: 38–40). In order to focus on the historical process and the role of human agency, this study seeks to investigate the function of two issues. First, self-representation by Adivasi intellectuals in India derives from colonial era studies. Second, on the platforms of the UNO, World Bank and the International Work Group of Indigenous Affairs (IWGIA), they articulated their historic and contemporary marginality due to the exploitative policies practised by the ruling state and dominant people (Karlsson 2003: 403–16). Their national and global movements since the 1990s, therefore, defined themselves as a minority as well as sub-nationalist and subdued category bereft of basic human rights (Bowen 2000: 12). The issues that we need to address are whether ethnic communities should always be viewed as the other of the dominant groups and whether the dominant/other representation should continue

8

Introduction

to hold centrestage. This leads us to the complementary but significant question – whether portrayal by the self is possible and if so, what should be its strategy? The exercise should begin with a critical and creative engagement with oral sources.7 But the task is not easy because of scholarly prejudice at the global level against oral tradition. This prejudice, as Skaria underlines, is rooted in the representation of the tribal communities as the other of the mainstream, besides representing orality as the other of history (1999: 4–12). Ekeh observed, ‘The advocates of the new African social history battled to include oral tradition as legitimate material for historiography’ (1990: 670). Despite this, we should draw inspiration from the nuanced accounts at the global level.8 Skaria affirms, ‘It is to this Other, memory, that we need to turn’ (1999: 7). The author asserts that this might provide the solution to the problem of nomenclature (Kingsbury 1998: 440) and erasure of their history and agency.9 Furthermore, writing intimate Adivasi history only with the help of archival sources is not possible as these are mostly sketchy.10 In many cases, these also ‘distorted history’, as Cooper observes in the context of Africa (1994: 1528). Therefore, we have no other way but to invoke oral tradition as a substantive source. This has aptly been remarked that in order to ‘expand the idea of historical production well beyond the limits of academic history-writing’ we ‘must include all the ways in which a sense of the past is constructed in our society. These do not necessarily take a written or literary form’ (Johnson and Dawson 1982: 207). In the context of the Adivasis, these sources can conveniently be their myth, folklore as well as collective memory,11 as recorded in the Village Papers relating to the Hos of Kolhan.12 Conventional historiography, however, cautions us against their deployment by pointing to their achronologicality, instability, narrow spatial coverage, fragmentariness and cultural bias (Vansina 1985: 94–102, 120; Prins 1991: 114–15; Graham 1987: 14–17).13 Bengt Karlsson adds two more caveats – it is not very easy to ‘locate “authentic” tribal spokesperson’ because indigenous discourse does not reach ‘us straight from the mud-hut’, and having ‘emerged and developed in dialogue with various social movements and non-indigenous actors’ is not available to us in the exact form (2003: 406). The question is how much of these flaws are relevant when we reconstruct Adivasi history in Bihar and Jharkhand? Later, we discuss that creation myths were internally reconstructed when the like of Lt. S.R. Tickell, W.W. Hunter and Rev. L.O. Skrefsurd recorded them. Similarly, Santal folklore (Bompas 2001; Bodding 1994) and Ho folk tales and stories (Majumdar 1950: 325–59) are available to us only

Introduction

9

in their recorded forms. These create two palpable problems: (a) the recording of traditions and institutions as we find in Horkoren Mare Hapramko Reak Katha, for instance, lacks specified details about space and time; and (b) recordings of village memories were officially commissioned and collected through questionnaire. So, these were more or less responses to the questions rather than full and uninhabited flow of data from the native informants. Keeping in mind the inadequacies of both the genres of historical materials, this study seeks to juxtapose both archival and oral sources. Besides official correspondences and reports, this invokes myths, folklores and colonial recording of memories with the idea that only these are capable of illuminating many grey areas not only of precolonial era, but also of the colonial era. The ‘hybrid’ sources and viewpoints facilitated the making of a more composite history. This served another important purpose – the fructification and articulation of ethnic selfhood – more relevant for this study. In the context of the indigenes of Tswana in South Africa, Comaroffs depicted that consciousness of ethnic selfhood had fructified during colonial era, in which Christian missionaries acted as ‘a medium for its construction and representation’ (1991: 287–8). This made it necessary for us to examine whether this is true about the Adivasis of Bihar/Jharkhand also. A critical reading of these sources, however, reveals the precolonial origin and growth of ethnic self-consciousness. Also, different chapters in this volume make an attempt to dissolve the myth of the disappearance of native voice in the construction of their history by drawing on the Village Papers, in which indigenous informants had a major role. On the one hand, this study seeks to cross the barrier of conventional history writing, and on the other reconstruct a substantive Adivasi history. The author argues that this can be done only by allotting much greater space to the nuances of Adivasi life rather than tethering it to pan-Indian and global narratives, which has become the standard scholarly practice at the global level. We should yet focus on another strategy, and this is to set up a dialogue between the present and the past. This informs how Adivasis, more so their intelligentsia, fashion their self today and how in doing so they appropriate history as a powerful tool of identity assertion. Concentrating on Bihar and Jharkhand, Indigeneity, Landscape and History: Adivasi Self-fashioning in India opens a dialogue between the region and nation and beyond by incorporating the pan-Indian and global experiences about them, in order to grapple with the basic and transcendental character of ethnic assertions in India. The study also sets up a dialogue between the past and present, and in doing so, selects

10

Introduction

a long time frame that spans between precolonial and the lived present. This seeks to underline the salience of historical insight into the problem of identity. Parker and Rathbone observe that ‘to think about Africa as a place, we must think historically’ (2007: 4). However, the author adds that in order to grapple with the content and complexities of Adivasi self-fashioning and assertion in India and abroad, the long temporal time frame is extremely necessary. Ekeh makes a strong case for such a continuous and consistent dialogue, which besides acting as ‘an active arm of decolonization’, should help design a new history of the marginalised communities (1990: 670–2). This may also serve to relocate Adivasi studies as a historical discourse in place of its previous anthropological bias, a fact rued by Hardiman (1987: 6). Divided in two parts, the first part of the book explains the representation of tribe/aborigine in Sanskritic texts and colonial ethnography. The purpose is to embody and examine the other construction of tribe and examine how colonial writings, on which postcolonial Adivasi studies depend, represent colonial discourse itself. The second part is about Adivasi imaging of the self-centring around their institutions and imagery of the landscape. In historical and contemporary Adivasi identity assertion, Chapter 2 seeks to understand how self and landscape have been conceptualised in social science and in what sense these terms have been deployed. This also closely examines the ongoing dynamics of Adivasi self-fashioning and the way they make a conscious attempt to resolve the conflict. The emergence of a notion of a ‘bounded, distinctive and solidary’ group of people as distinguished from other demographic elements is a precolonial phenomenon. The third chapter depicts the origin of consciousness of collective identity as distinct from the comity of ethnic and non-ethnic neighbours. It also refers to the ethnic strategy to codify and consign the conjunctures of their past, both primeval and historic, in their creation myths. The sense of self as ‘we’ (Adivasis) as different from ‘they’ (non-Adivasis or Dikus) was gradually configured spatially. Therefore, the fourth chapter moves from myth to both literary and oral reconstruction of the story of the emergence of a distinct politico-cultural space. This is the idea of an idyllic landscape where the disparate Adivasi groups originated and learnt to draw and consolidate the politico-cultural boundaries. Chapter 5 details how around this landscape, they constructed a material and moral culture, which as Adivasi activists and intelligentsia underline today has/had been basically rural. Here, ethnic groups wove a homogenous and egalitarian lifeway that distinguished them from antonymic ethos characterising non-ethnic societies. To reinforce and conduct the management of their villages, they developed a distinct

Introduction

11

mode of social governance. The norms and mode of self-governance have been studied in Chapter 6. In tandem, there was another shift from hunting-foraging and shifting cultivation to settled cultivation. This crucial change in landscape and consequent change in Adivasi socio-economy forms the theme of the next chapter. The governance of lived and acquired space not only involved the management of land, but also natural resources such as water and forest. How governance of these resources was impacted by distinct Adivasi ethos, how this was reshaped after the advent of colonial rule and how this emerged as a site for conflict and collaboration have been examined in the last two chapters. Chapter 10 tells the story of self-fashioning around the landscape during post-independence decades. While summing up the historic process of construction of indigeneity, the concluding chapter revisits the ever-present debate over the ideal norms and changing practices as well as indigenous attempts to reinvent itself. In sum, this work seeks to reconstruct the story of Adivasi assertion built around the famous triad of jal, jungle and jameen, spanning precolonial, colonial and contemporary periods. The above details explore change and continuity in Adivasi consciousness of identity as a political discourse that spells their sense of material and moral distinctiveness as well as gradual marginalisation. This study also unfolds the changing salience of three natural elements – land, forest and water – in configuring their sense of self. But no study on Adivasi construction of identity in India can perhaps ignore that sense of ethnicity, and marginality is not simply a historical and political enquiry; it is also, and no less importantly, an ecological anthropological one. This underlines the symbiosis between environmentalism and indigeneity, a linkage that had gained scholarly attention since the 1960s. It is why Vinita Damodaran insists that ethnicity is irrevocably ‘constructed around images of the land and the changing meanings of the landscape’ (2002: 77–110). This study will, therefore, investigate and examine the meanings of landscape, social and physical, and how this has been progressively defined in the past and the lived present. This will take this work beyond the conventional ecological anthropological approach of engaging with stable relationships rather than historical change.

Notes 1 See Chapter 1 on Colonial representation as tribe/aborigine for details. 2 This benevolence was deemed necessary to promote the colonial ‘civilizing mission’ (Bates 1995b: 8–15; Skaria 1997: 727–39; Skaria 1998: 193–4, 213–14; Cederlof 2013: 394). 3 See Chapter 4 for further details.

12

Introduction

4 For the simultaneous invocation of tribe, indigene and Adivasi, see Padel 2014: 73–91. For the use of both tribe and Adivasi, see Nandini Sundar 2008: 10–11, 16; Tanika Sarkar 2011: 65–81. 5 James Cleveland identified them as hill and forest communities as against the people inhabiting the plains (Skaria 1997: 728–9). 6 However, some scholars plead for a more intimate understanding of the category (Van Schendel 1992: 95–128; Nandini Sundar 2008; Guha 1999; Van Schendel 2011: 19–43). 7 The process, however, is more extensive than mere deployment of oral sources. For the logistics of reconstructing ethnohistorical accounts, see Dirks 1989: 10–16. 8 I would like to particularly refer Beita (gossip) and tadek (stories) (Rosaldo 1980: 15–17); tales and stories narrated specially by old men (Rappaport 1994: 1–23); rich stock of vadilcha goth (stories) (Skaria 1999: 1); and true stories (Gyan Prakash 1990: 34–81). 9 Bates notes the emergence of state among the Gonds, social difference of ‘more and less civilized among them’, and particularly appreciates ‘the previous history of the rise and fall of tribal kingdoms in a period when they were much more largely masters of their own fate’ (1995b: 16, 33). Stray reference to their precolonial state of powerfulness is highlighted in the case of the Bhils (Skaria 1998: 197–201). 10 For a comment on the general absence of recording, see Bates 1995a: 117. 11 Collective memory stands for recognised social traditions, even though the source is either individual or familial (Olick and Robbin 1998: 106–12). 12 For the usefulness of the ‘local record office with land records and new files’, see Dirks 1989: 14. 13 About the lack of chronology, Vansina, however, adds that the genealogies may ‘form a basis for local chronology’ (1985: 24). The list will grow with my input from Ho history. One such was the unavailability of information due to amnesia when memory fumbled and faltered largely beyond two/ three generations. Next was a break in the link in generational transmission due to father’s premature death (TSKP, Jamjoi, 3–5, VN 70). Another was distortion and faking of traditions due to existentialist reasons. Here, I particularly refer to forged genealogies to prove the ancientness of families.

Part I

Other representation

1

Sanskritic and colonial representations of tribe

This chapter unfolds and critically examines the context and content of how others, that is, dominant Sanskritic and colonial elements, represented the tribal communities. It may broadly be summed up as ‘tribalism/tribalist’ after Van Schendel, which falls in line with the more generic notion of ‘Orientalism’ (1992: 103). What is common about both is the ethnocentric way the dominant groups like the Sanskriticcolonial elements and western/European communities looked at servile communities. Guided by a hegemonising mindset, this resulted in the epistemic diminution and misrepresentation of the tribals in the former, and non-western/European peoples in the latter. Cederlof adds, ‘The problem of the silenced, indigenous voices is not merely an issue of Europe vs. (in this case) India. People in forest and hill tracts faced the same lack of representation with regard to any state that claimed lordship over the territory in which they lived’ (2013: 382). We notice certain continuity in representation in early colonial ethnography in India due to the impact of Sanskritic/Brahmanical tradition. But subsequently, western ethnological studies, particularly the racial theory of classification of cultures and peoples (Stocking 1991; Bayly 1997; Bates 1995b), had begun to impact colonial scholars. The idea of race was based on (a) linguistic and ethnological divisions of mankind; and (b) where communities were categorised into superior and inferior groups on the basis of their physical and moral traits. This section will address the above ideas under two parts of unequal length – the Sanskritic followed by colonial representation.

The Sanskritic representation The term Sanskritic representation stands for the depiction of the tribe in the Sanskrit texts. This embodies the views not only of their authors, but also of those who were votaries of the ideology. Often identified as

16

Other representation

Brahmanic, this propagated a high culture value represented by higher castes. Though Brahmins were the maker and carrier of these values, these seeped into the lower caste groups who later played a key role in transmitting and popularising these ideas. At this level, this assumed a broader nomenclature of Hindu. Significantly, colonial ethnographer/ administrators preferred to club Brahmin and Hindu together rather than making a rigid distinction between the two. This section explores the broader Hindu vision of the tribe, the context, mode and motives of representation; and how this portrayal survived to finally shape the tribalist ideology. With regard to the context of this representation, we learn that the ethnic communities (the Kolarian groups) were in control over large tracts of middle India (Grierson 1967: 35). The Aryans invaded this politico-cultural space and started their military and cultural expansion. But, they posed that they were out to spread the light of civilisation among a savage and sanguinary people. They, therefore, reiterated corporal and cerebral inferiority of the conquered. We should not take this representation as fully neutral. Since a considerable part of this representation was appropriated from the reading of these Sanskrit texts by western scholars, the textualisation often displayed their ethnocentric mindset. Trautmann remarked: What I want to show is that the Vedic evidence that has been brought forward has been subjected to a consistent over reading in favor of a racializing interpretation, and that the image of the ‘dark-skinned savage’ is only imposed on the Vedic evidence with a considerable amount of text-torturing, both ‘substantive’ and ‘adjectival’ in character. (1997: 208) In Sanskrit texts, tribal communities in India were variously designated as das (slave), dasyu (robbers), rakshasa, asura, danava, savara and pulinda (demon) (Roy 1970: 14–18, 20–38). They were not only identified as ethnologically different, but also culturally inferior and low people. Distinction of physical feature was one measure. The Aryans were superior due to their fair complexion and sharpness of features (Trautmann 1997: 162). On the contrary, the tribals were considered inferior by the Rig Veda because of their black skin (twacham Krishnam), fierce eyes (ghora chakshas), deformed nose (visipra) or noseless (anasa) (Roy 1970: 14–18, 20–38). The other measure was cultural. Considering their own tongue as more refined, the aboriginal speech was termed mridhravach (imperfect); their culinary habit was

Sanskritic and colonial representations

17

unclean because they were kolabidhvasin or pig eaters; and they were a fallen people as they did not perform ‘sacred rites’ of the Aryans. In addition, they were characterised as a savage and oppressive group of people. To quote the Ramayana: ‘Men-devouring Rakshas of various shapes, and wild beasts, (or serpents) which feed on blood, dwell in this vast forest. They harass the devotees who reside in the settlements and slay them in the forest.’ Further, these ‘shapeless and ill-looking monsters’, ‘anarya wretches’, ‘uttering frightful sounds’ were castigated as a ‘treacherous race’ (ibid.: 17, 38–9). However, Sanskrit texts make both tacit and candid admission of the nativity of the ‘black aborigines’ and their politico-cultural advance. The Taittiriya Upanishad affirmed that the country was first occupied by the asuras. Kulindas, who were identified as the Kolarian aborigines by the Aryans, held sway over the hilly region between the river Beas in Punjab and river Tons (Tamasa) in Oudh. Similarly, the Rig Veda wrote about the supremacy of the Savaras over large tracts of northern India (ibid.: 14, 24–7). These texts also admitted that the pastoralist aboriginal communities had developed their state system of urban ‘commonwealth’; the Dasa chief headed a city or group of cities; the Dasyu chief named Sambara was the lord of 100 cities. These settlements were protected by large forts and castles. They used stone and flint weapons during warfare and stone implements for domestic use (ibid.: 23, 26–8). With this polity, they were able to amass wealth to the envy of their Aryan adversary. These facts testify that the Aryans implicitly considered the non-Aryan groups superior to the Aryans in the scale of civilisation. The Rig Veda averred that when the ‘poor’ Aryan ‘has not even ordinary water to wash himself in, the wives of the enemy in the insolent pride of their wealth bathe in milk’. Similarly, their patriarchal social order sustained by individual marriage was deemed as a sign of superiority (ibid.: 29). The Sanskrit texts narrate the story of confrontation and conflict between the non-Aryans and Aryans. We learn of initial Aryan reverses as also the final defeat, displacement and migration of the aboriginal peoples. The Markandeya Purana depicts the defeat of the Aryan King Suratha at the hands of an ‘unclean’ tribe; the Mahabharata narrates the asura conquest over Aryan gods; the Mahabharata and the Puranas mention about the suffering of Indra, the chief of gods, at the hands of asura chief Bali (ibid.: 17–18). The Rig Veda Samhita mentions about numerous conflicts between the Aryans and the aborigines, ending in the gradual expansion of the Aryans from the Indus Valley to the Gangetic Plains and beyond, and consequent recession of the aboriginal communities to the hill and forested regions in northern and eastern India (ibid.: 13; Chapter II).

18

Other representation

However, militarism was not the only course resorted to by the Aryans. They also conducted the absorption of the enemy in their fold, famously characterised as ‘Hindu mode of absorption’ by later scholars. Initially, it was done through marriage. The Manu Samhita describes that all castes and the tribes originated out of the crosses between the original four castes. About the biological linkage, the Vishnu Purana mentions that the asuras were ‘the first born of Brahman, from whose thigh they sprang’. But greater emphasis was on the systematic relegation of these people. The reasons given were that the aboriginals did not observe the ‘sacred rites’ (ibid.: 14–15) and that they had no respect for the Brahmins (‘seeing no Brahmanas’). As a result, they were cast out from the fold and relegated to the rank of Sudra. And so it was with the Kols and Bhils: the story goes that they were born out of Raja Bena’s left hand, but he was cursed as he was not courteous to the sages (ibid.: 16). Though S.C. Roy dismissed these legends as ‘fanciful theories and legendary inventions’ (ibid.), one may discern, in the different versions of aboriginal origin, the Aryan ploy to absorb the conquered within the conqueror’s fold – a reverse version of the Adivasi origin myth. It is significant that the Sanskritic representation of the ethnic groups considerably impacted colonial ethnographers. Justice Campbell, a strong exponent of knowledge making through observation and the agency of officers, collated information from the Puranas where the aborigines were designated as ‘vile monsters’, ‘allied to monkeys’, ‘as black as crows’, of flattened features and of dwarfish stature’ (1866: 23). Similarly, Dalton relied on the works of orientalist researchers to find out about the epithets of abuse such as ‘worshippers of mad gods’, ‘haters of Brahmins’, ‘ferocious lookers’, ‘inhuman’, ‘flesh-eaters’, ‘devourers of life’, ‘possessed of magical powers’, ‘changing their shapes at will’ (1866: 158). Hunter, too, was initiated to the Vedic literature as an important source of information through the writings of orientalist scholars like Colebrooke and Dr Muir (1975: 90–129). He, therefore, borrowed the Sanskritic representation of the aboriginals as ‘enemy’, ‘evil spirit’, ‘lower animal’ and ‘the slave of the nobler race’ (ibid.: 124–5). Colonial scholars underlined the hegemonising strategy adopted by the Hindus. Characterising this as ‘peaceful colonization by the brahmins’, Max Müller observed that in south india they ‘followed the wiser policy of adopting the language of the aboriginal people, and of conveying through its medium their knowledge and instruction to the minds of uncivilized tribes’ (Trautman 1997: 176). But Dalton remarked that tribals had generally emulated a non-tribal

Sanskritic and colonial representations

19

way of life, which split them into aborigines and Hinduised aborigines (1973: 3). This idea was extended further by Risley, who affirmed ‘the gradual Brahmanising of the aboriginal’, while the latter underlined that the growing Hindu influence might jeopardise tribal identity itself (1998: III). These sources impacted the colonial representation of the Indian ethnic communities up to a certain time. But later, other sources came to shape colonial minds. Therefore, it becomes pertinent to apprehend the context and content of the colonial conceptualisation of tribe.

Colonial representation as tribe/aborigine1 This has surfaced as a widely debatable issue ever since Edward Said’s famous conceptualisation of Orient occupied the academic centre stage (1985: 5, 8).2 Questions were raised whether this was really ethnocentric and imaginative. While scholars broadly agree on the ethnocentric aspect of knowledge making, like ‘orientalism’, ‘tribalism’ was not ideologically a uniform discourse (Bayly 1997: 167). Similarly, scholars are not in agreement about its imaginary character. Damodaran, for instance, argues that the notion of tribe in India emerged out of specific historical situations and was not the product simply of colonial imaginings (2006b: 44–75). It is, therefore, imperative to understand the methodology of colonial knowledge making. Hence, this section will seek to examine the function of such sources as observation and direct field experience of the administrators and ethnographers, official network as well as the role of native sources in crystallising the knowledge bank. But the crucial point for this study should be to grapple with the actual share of the Adivasi informant. This becomes necessary in view of the observation about the gradual displacement of the ‘native informant’ in the making of colonial discourse (Dasgupta 2007a). This will usher us first into the ideological complexities in operation to be followed by how and by whom colonial discourse was produced.

Ideology and appropriation of colonial knowledge Colonial knowledge was the product of two distinct yet complementary processes – exploration of the self by the western scholars and seeking ‘moral justification’ for the imperialistic agenda of the west. Europe’s progress through renaissance, religious reformation and scientific and technological revolutions prompted scholars to argue that western society was modern and civilised as against medieval and backward

20

Other representation

non-western societies (Bates 1995b: 220). This prompted them to invent ‘an ideal-typical model of traditional society’ so that it could be ‘increasingly tied to the dynamics of imperial governance’ (Mantena 2010: 56–7). While non-western peoples were generally considered inferior, they could discover the dichotomies between ‘barbarian’ Chinese and Indian and ‘savage’ and ‘primitive’ Africans and Melanesians (Adas 1989: 194–5). Their primary concern was to understand why western societies had progressed more than their non-western counterparts. Anthropologists, historians and philosophers as also evangelists, free traders, colonial administrator-ethnographers focussed on the communities, variously termed as aborigine, tribe and autochthon, to explore why they occupied the lowest position. Western scientists, medical practitioners, anthropologists and linguists worked in tandem to formulate and systematise essentials of primitivism and tribalism to map the anthropomorphic progress from primitivism to western modernity. In a sense, they wanted ‘to comprehend non-European social formations in relation to the prehistory (and future) of European man and society . . . to chart the unique trajectory of Western modernity’ that would foster ‘a fundamental rethinking of the idea of the primitive’ (Mantena 2010: 57). Accordingly, the primitive or tribe in India was characterised as blood-centric descent groups, savage, sensuous, body-centric, irrational, presentist, stateless and historyless (Kuper 1988: 4–34; Sivaramakrishnan 1996: 243–82; Skaria 1997: 726–45; Guha 2002; Banerjee 2006: 2–25). They reasoned that these attributes rendered them non-contemporary, rather anachronistic or the ‘other’, (Skaria 1999: Chapter I) of the modern society. The intellectuals believed that practical ‘physiological, moral and intellectual’ evidences justified ‘evolutionary racial hierarchies’ (Bayly 1997: 165–87). They, therefore, classified people into superior/inferior, civilised/savage and dominant/subservient races. This project gained momentum since the British census operations and the Ethnographic Conference of 1885 in Lahore. In collaboration with the Asiatic Society of Bengal, the Bengal and Supreme governments directed ‘all local authorities to furnish complete and accurate lists of various races found within their respective jurisdictions’ (Dalton 1973: i). Though the avowed objective was to be ‘of some service to students of comparative ethnology in Europe’, it was actually to appropriate knowledge for the sake of ‘good administration’ and solving ‘possible social problems’ (Risley 1998: iv). We can draw a parallel from the African history: ‘To rule Africa, colonial officials needed knowledge about African languages, cultures, and laws, which in many regions began

Sanskritic and colonial representations

21

to be compiled with the assistance of local intermediaries within a few years of occupation’ (Parker and Rathbone 2007: 107). There was yet another aspect – administrator-ethnographers in India became conscious of the weakness in the policy of ‘homogenization’.3 The census of 1891 revealed ‘how rapidly the old aboriginal faiths are being effaced’ (Risley 1998: iii). But the idea of conservation of the aboriginals was not fully altruistic. It worked under the overriding imperialist compulsion of stalling the growth of Indian nationalism (Cohn 1997: ix, Chapter ii) by highlighting racial, caste, religious and linguistic differences among Indians. We can draw support from Hunter, who asserted: ‘We are too accustomed to speak of India as a single country and of its inhabitants as a single nation; but the truth is, that as regards its history, its extent, and its population, India displays the diversities rather of a continent than of a single state’ (1975: 96). Consequently, an important item of colonialist agenda was to underline, besides religious and linguistic heterogeneity, the tribe-non-tribe and intra-ethnic divide in India. The British in India believed that their task was not simply to conquer and expropriate tribal land and resources, but also to civilise them so that they might be attuned to British rule. This inaugurated the policy of paternalism as the cornerstone of colonial rule in tribal Bihar. The bedrock of this policy was to form a direct and intimate relation with them. The following quote elaborates the policy and purpose behind it: We approve of your selection of Captain Wilkinson to fill that situation . . . We observe from the tenor of his directions to his Assistants, that he very justly regards it as his own and their first duty to come into immediate communication with the people, for the purpose of acquiring a knowledge of their real sentiments, and of promoting their welfare. . . .4 In pursuit of this policy, Thomas Wilkinson, the political agent to the Governor General of the South-Western Frontier Agency, directed Lt. S.R. Tickell, his assistant in charge of the Kolhan Government Estate in Singhbhum, to act as the Ma-bap (father-mother) of the Ho. The purpose of the paternal rule was to civilise the ‘savage’ tribals.5 This could be done by segregating them from the supposed polluting influence of local chiefs and indoctrinating them to English law and administrative institutions which was deemed necessary ‘for the improvement, civilization and happiness of this Pergunnah’.6

22

Other representation

The other strategy was religious and linguistic proselytism in which the administrator acted often as the subterfuge for a missionary. This, in a sense, is comparable to Tswana where, as Comaroffs observed, ‘spatial semantics of the missionary vision . . . went forth to chart the terra incognita of the interior onto the glorious map of Christendom’ (1991: 200). About Jharkhand, this may be corroborated by the following quote: He [administrative officer] ought to possess good sound judgment, great firmness patience, and Tact in Managing the Natives & should be accessible at all hours schools should also be established and the rising generation instructed & probably no finer field could be found in India for missionaries (italics added).7 What was in the 1830s an appendage to political imperialism developed later into a louder and seemingly independent programme. Justice Campbell spelled this in the context of the ‘Kolarian tribes of the Chota-Nagpore division’: To make such a people thoroughly our own – to render the central and healthy plateau occupied by them a completely Christian and Anglicised country (italics mine) would be (higher considerations apart) a very great source of strength and comfort to the English in India. I think that every effort should be made in this direction. (1866: 151–2) Dalton lauded the civilising import of this effort: ‘It is gratifying that the darkness in which this primitive and interesting people have so long dwelt, is now being dispelled by a brighter light: that their paganism is at length yielding to the gentle influence of Christian teaching’ (1866: 159). The next project was partial literary Anglicisation/Europeanisation of the aborigines in India. Though some of the British administrators and missionaries promoted tribal languages by preparing and publishing grammatical texts and lexicons, some of them were not ardent in the full growth of these languages. This was why they showed a clear preference for the Roman script as against the development of independent tribal scripts. To substantiate my argument, I quote Campbell: ‘For although I have not advocated the Romanising of the written vernacular languages, I should prefer to give to the Kolarian tribes, hitherto entirely without a written character, our own Roman letters’ (1866: 152).

Sanskritic and colonial representations

23

Colonial representation of tribe/aborigine Influenced by the above ideologies, colonial scholars, travellers and missionaries formulated their ideas about the aborigines. These ‘reflected the working of a series of colonial lenses – departmental agenda, scientific concerns, and of course, the oft-referred personal biases of an individual’ (Dasgupta 2007a). However, we should not be oblivious of the dialectical character of colonial discourse. Cederlof observes that ‘colonial knowledge’ could never emerge as ‘a single package of coherent ideas about superiority and empire’ due to conflicts within colonial bureaucracy (2013: 418). To illustrate, while William Jones,8 the founder of The Asiatic Society of Bengal, propounded the linguistic and cultural divisions of races, the approach of James Forbes, the author of Oriental Memoirs, was environmentalist, who observed that racial distinctions were determined by ‘climate, terrain and physical environment’ closely in line with the 18th-century Scottish theorists (Bayly 1997: 172–4). The appropriation of information about the ethnic communities in Jharkhand region had different phases, the function of which is more clearly discernible in Singhbhum. The first was making an early acquaintance with the landscape and people.9 This was why in 1819, Roughsedge, the British political agent, deputed his assistant to collect information about ‘the extraordinary race called Larka’ (O’Malley 1910: 31–2). At this stage, besides the native sepoys, local chiefs like Ghanashyam Singh (Raja of Porahat) and chiefs of Seraikela and Kharsawan like Bikram Singh and Chaitan Singh provided necessary information10: they mostly reported about the depredations of the Ho and pleaded with the British to come to their rescue. At the same time, direct observation and field experiences during military expeditions were valid sources for colonial ethnography. In fact, observation of colonial bureaucracy gained the status of authenticity. The Nilgiri experience inspired Cederlof to observe that ‘personal observations were considered superior as sources of knowledge about Indian society’ (2013: 393). In Bihar, we have the instance of Capt. Jacob Carmac, the commander of the southern frontier, who moved across the hilly and forested terrain to quell Chero disturbances in Palamau in the 1770s. The result of his personal contact was diverse. He castigated Kharwars and Cheros as a ‘race of border robbers’ and the Cheros as ‘the most refractory and turbulent natives’, ‘notorious inhabitants’ and ‘vile, rebellious and intriguing’ (Jha 1987: 9–21). But later, he called the tribals of Palamau as a ‘hardy and bolder race’ and admired their ‘utmost courage and perseverance’ (ibid.: 10–11,

24

Other representation

27–9). This diversity, in fact, featured bureaucratic representation of the ethnic communities in India. For instance, the Toda community was represented as ‘a hardy and fearless one, superior in stature, distinct in language, customs and mode of living’ (Cederlof 2013: 393). This ambivalence may be assigned to the source from which the information was derived. In some cases, Hindu and Muslim subordinate officials and local zamindari officials acted as a major source of information (Jha 1987: 48–9), who generally held a very low image of the Adivasis. Consequently, British masters also did pretty nearly the same, and it need not create surprise therefore that the epithets “chuars” and “dakaits” were indiscriminately applied to the Kols of Chota Nagpore whenever there was occasion to allude to them in official correspondence.11 These facts make it clear that the colonial bureaucracy in India derived information from native informants. Under the British, a knowledge network functioned; in the Nilgiri region, the district collector depended on subordinate officials for appropriating data which the latter collated from Indian informants who functioned both as the repository and interpreter of local knowledge (Cederlof 2013: 388). After the British extended their indirect control over the Chota Nagpur plateau, the native sources informed the military and civil officials about the terrain, growth of agriculture in more hospitable regions, Adivasi village system, Hinduisation of these people and their forced migration due to feudal oppression.12 Cuthbert revealed the bureaucratic mechanism of appropriating ground knowledge: On halting at a village it was practice to send for the principal person as well as heads of each possessions that I might question them as to the peculiar customs prevalent in the Villages, the rights of the peasantry, the profits derived from the different trades and the general treatment the people received from the proprietors. The Iztehars which I took on these occasions have been deposited in the Sheristah as Official documents.13 Similarly, in Kolhan, officials elicited information of the land and people mostly through direct contact with the natives. Wilkinson instructed Tickell, ‘At all time (be) accessible to the people under your charge, except at your hours for meals and recreation.’14 For the early history of Ho migration and expansion, Tickell gathered information from the Ho and Oraon ‘narrators’. While the Ho story of creation

Sanskritic and colonial representations

25

of the world was related to him by the Mankis (heads of pirs, i.e. cluster of villages), details of socio-religious life were provided by the other – ‘the natives’. He replenished his knowledge through visits to the archaeological sites during official tours across the Ho land (1840: 706–7). But a few factors generally impinged on the perception and portrayal of colonial officials, as emphasised by D.J. Rycroft about the Santals. These were: whether the ethnic group was a collaborator or antagonistic to British rule; whether the region had capitalistic potential and the people were development-prone; and last, the extent of observation allowed to the ‘colonial observer’ by the concerned community (2006: 1–107). However, since the 1850s, ethnological studies conducted by Victorian scholars began influencing British ethnographer-administrators. Protagonists formed and functioned on such platforms as the British Association for the Advancement of Science, Anthropological Society of Paris, the Great Exhibition organised at the Crystal Palace in London in 1851 and the other at Jabalpur in 1866–67. These conducted anthropometric and phrenological investigations that fed into the contemporary official surveys and reports. The reports of the Ethnological Committee, chaired by Alfred Lyall, Justice Campbell’s paper ‘The Ethnology of India’ published in the Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal (1865), E.T. Dalton’s The Descriptive Ethnology of Bengal (1872), the Imperial Gazetteer by W.W. Hunter (1881), Ethnographic Survey of Bengal under H.H. Risley (1885) followed by the survey of other parts of India and H.H. Risley’s The Tribes and Castes of Bengal (1895) were some of the major colonial attempts to construct an imperialist notion of Indian ethnic groups (Bates 1995b: 219–59). But in the name of providing a scientific basis, these more or less formulated and popularised what has been critiqued as ‘pseudo-science of evolutionist racial ethnology’ (Bayly 1997: 167). At this phase, Sanskrit texts and historical studies were relegated to the background. Instead, anthropometry and physical examination of ‘specimens’ and ‘actual observation and practical inquiry’, being aided by the officials stationed in India, were accepted as more dependable sources of knowledge (Campbell 1866: 1). But even then, colonial officials continued to collate their data from the ethnic informants. The hybrid nature of colonial knowledge will become clear if we study the roles of Dalton, Hunter and Risley. Dalton’s writings showed the obvious impact of ethnology. He identified the Ho of Singhbhum and the Mundas of the southern parganas of Lohardaga as ‘physically a much finer people’ than the Bhumij and Santals; this he assigned to the mixture with the Aryan and Mongoloid

26

Other representation

people (1973: 190). About the physical features of the Santals, he observed that ‘their cast of countenance almost approaches the Negro type’ (ibid.: 212). But since local officials had mostly ‘little knowledge of Ethnology as a science’ and their ‘practical knowledge’ was ‘limited’, they deemed it necessary to elicit information from the published works of the knowledgeable officials as also travel accounts for authenticity and comprehensiveness (ibid.: 1–2). About the Ho, besides the family legends of the Singh Dynasty of Porahat, Dalton relied on Roughsedge’s despatches, papers and correspondences related to the later period – Tickell and V. Ball of the Geological Survey. Similarly, about Munda, he culled information from Davidson, about the Santal from E.G. Mann, Hunter and G. Campbell, about the Oraon from Davidson and linguistic researches of Rev. Frederic Batsch and Rev. William Luther of the Chota Nagpur Mission (1866: 157, 163, 165–8, 170, 173; 1973: 177–207, 245–6). Dalton’s other source was, however, local informants with whom he came into contact during his long stay in Chota Nagpur. While touring Munda-dominated ‘principal settlement’ of Bassea Pargana in southern Chota Nagpur, ‘elders of the tribe’ gathered round him (1866: 155). The local informants related their ‘traditions’, legends and myths to him (1973: 207–9). The history of the Oraon migration from the western coast of India was collated from his ‘most venerable and learned . . . Oraon acquaintances’ (ibid.: 245). He similarly collected the Munda and Bhuiyan folklore on the ‘early history of the race’, their story of migration, strong Hindu influence on them, particularly Rajputisation of their chiefs, as well as their pre-state confederation of villages and parhas. Likewise, Dalton’s ethnographic narration of the Ho traditions was gathered during his conversations with the local informants, besides his own field experiences as the commissioner particularly during 1857–58 (ibid.: 177–207). Ethnological studies on tribal society in India made crucial advance under W.W. Hunter and H.H. Risley. They were identified as the major contributors to the contemporary ethnological debate centring around race (Bayly 1997: 167). But the colonial officials could not totally ignore the empirical and the earlier official data, as we find in the representation of the Nilgiri region (Cederlof 2013: 392–3). Hunter, for instance, authored the 16-volume book A Statistical Account of Bengal (1877) to produce an administratively useful district-wise account of the land and people in Bengal. Impacted by contemporary ethnological writings, this study mooted the idea of division of Indians into Aryan and non-Aryan or aboriginal races (Vol. XVI, 1976: 5–6, 59). He depended on data empirically derived by the health, police, jail,

Sanskritic and colonial representations

27

census, education and postal departments as well as the surveyor general and commissioners. The information was provided by the heads of the districts on the basis of ‘five series of questions’ sent to them (ibid.: 17; Vol. XVII 1976: 17). Moreover, Hunter made copious use of earlier reports and ethnographic writings of Lt. S.R. Tickell (1840b), H. Ricketts (1854) and Capt. J.C. Haughton published in the Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal (1854) and G.C. Depree (1868), Dalton and V. Ball published in the Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal (1867) (ibid.: 18–22, 47–53, 65–75; ibid.: 24–57, 99–114). Naturally, the account was largely empirical, ethnographic, repetitive and ahistorical (ibid. Vol. XVII: 71–4). Risley’s quest evinced perceptible impact of his academic predilections and administrative responsibilities. During his tenure in the Indian Civil Service (1873–1910), he served as the honorary director of the Ethnological Survey of the Indian Empire, the census commissioner and the president of the Asiatic Society of Bengal. He could thus guide ‘the ethnographic projects of the colonial state from the 1880s for the next two decades’ (1915: Introduction). The net result was his The Tribes and Castes of Bengal in two volumes (1891), The People of India, The Annals of Rural Bengal and The Census of India (1901). These works were the product of his ‘fieldwork’ and knowledge with the ‘discipline of anthropology’. Significantly, his personal experiences during field investigations were replenished by the data supplied by native informants.15 In the Preface to his first work, he observed that the ‘volumes contain the results of what is, I believe, the first attempt to apply to Indian ethnography the methods of systematic research sanctioned by the authority of European anthropologists’ (1998: Preface). The results, it was hoped, ‘might be of some service to students of comparative ethnology in Europe’. However, for his more ambitious and voluminous project, the Tribes and Castes of Bengal, Risley mainly used the official network to collect data from the native informants. But, these were responses to officially prepared questionnaire which showed a perceptible impact of contemporary ethnological ideas. The interesting fact was that despite the centrality of race, contemporary scholars debated whether race should be philologically or physiologically defined (Dasgupta 2007a). This landed them in a fix as to whether their task was to prepare ethnography or ethnology. Risley defined ethnography to be a discipline that collected and arranged large masses of social data; while ethnology applied the comparative method of investigation, and framed by this means, hypotheses concerning the origin of the tribes themselves. While the first was seen to embrace descriptive details, the second was a rational exposition

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of the human aggregates and organisations known as hordes, clans, tribes and nations, especially in the earlier, the savage and barbarous stages of their progress (Risley, Vol. I 1998: xxvi). Thus, Risley was able to combine contemporary anthropological theories and categories with his ground knowledge about ‘some of the strongest and most typical Animistic races in India’. This ‘gave him the edge over the academic anthropologist of the West’ (Dasgupta 2007a). But as his ethnographic writings largely reproduced the information provided by Dalton in his ethnology and despite the scope of replenishment, which the dialogue with the district officials made possible, ethnographic knowledge remained virtually stagnant.16 Risley’s The Annals derived information from diverse sources. He rued the absence of ‘indigenous account’, which he attributed to the lack of sense of history among the Indians. Therefore, his account was based largely on official records, contributed by unnamed ‘learned native employed to compile district histories’ and missionaries (1915: 6–11). His initiation to western ethnological notions impacted his mapping of Indian demography. Disproving the centrality of four-fold caste divisions, he emphasised the idea of two distinct ethnical elements, the Aryan and non-Aryan (aboriginal) races (ibid.: 5, 88, 101). Thus, colonial representation of the aborigines carried perceptible impact of ethnographic as well as ethnological ideologies. But often theories were toned down by local and individual preferences. Next, even if a literate trans-local source impacted British understanding, it could not totally relegate local informants as a source of knowledge. The above readings unfold the broad themes under which the study was pursued, points and shifts in emphasis, uniformity and dissonance among officials, and finally, the quantum and quality of the colonial information. In a large measure, these writings lead us to the debate among officials between the essence and accretions (being and becoming) with respect to the category under review.

Problem of nomenclature Colonial officials were confused whether to designate the ethnic groups as tribe, aborigine, race or nation. Campbell admitted: ‘In the matter of nomenclature, it is surprising how much confusion arises, both from calling the same tribe by different names, and also from calling different tribes by the same name’ about tribal communities in India. (1866: 3). He assigned this to various such factors as peculiar empirical situation of ‘the tribes variously known in various localities’; ‘the same term is applied both to a Tribe or Caste’, as also to the

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impact of acculturation (ibid.: 4–5). However, they more commonly used tribe either as an independent category (ibid.: 20–1) or as distinct from the caste groups (ibid.: 13). Here, tribe conformed to its lexical usage, ‘a group of people of the same race, and with the same customs, language, religion, etc., living in a particular area and often led by a chief’ (Hornby 2005: 1638). Used in this sense, the term assumed an inclusive meaning that covered the caste groups also (Campbell 1866: 13–14). But confusion was confounded when killi (clan) and tribe were deemed synonymous; for instance, Dalton noted ‘various tribes or killis’ of Hos (1973: 213, 254). Aborigine was the other expression applied in absolute sense. First, the word was used both as a noun and adjective for a distinct ethnic category (Campbell 1866: 14, 20–56). Campbell substantiated: ‘I take as a great division the black aboriginal tribes of the interior hills and jungles. There can, I suppose, be no doubt that they are the remnants of the race which occupied India before the Hindus’ (ibid.: 13). British ethnographers/officials posted in the Nilgiri region identified the Toda as the ‘original inhabitants of the hills’ and then as ‘lords of the soil’ (Cederlof 2013: 392–3). Similarly, Dalton considered the Oraons as the ‘aborigines of Chota Nagpur’ (1973: 263). Racial representation of the tribe/aborigine was a global phenomenon invoked by European imperialists largely to justify their conquest (Parker and Rathbone 2007: 3). In India, this was evidently due to the impact of contemporary ethnological ideas on the British officials. Though he was aware of the racial mixture of Indian population at large, Campbell represented them in racial terms. He underlined the purest aboriginal tribes as having ‘small and slight, very black, face broad and flat, the thick lips . . . noses broad and nostrils wide’ (1866: 5, 11, 20). As early as 1799, the tribals of Palamau were addressed as a ‘hardy and bolder race’ (Jha 1987: 16); the Santals as a ‘rude race of people’; and the Oraons as a race (Dalton 1973: 245). Besides this singular use, the entire bunch of ‘aboriginal’ tribal peoples was clubbed under Kolarian race. This was done in the context of the power clash between the native aborigines and immigrant Aryans. As its major exponent, Risley observed that Indians represented ‘two tribes of widely different origin, struggling for the mastery’, the ‘tall, fair-complexioned’ Aryan race immigrating from outside, and the aboriginals, ‘the people of the land . . . the children of the soil’, ‘reduced to villeinage, or driven back into the forest’ (1915: 90–1). The term ‘nation’, which was initially invoked along with ‘tribe’ or ‘race’, as an innocent denominator gradually emerged as a politically loaded term. Campbell mentioned the Santals and Rajmahalees as two

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distinct nations because of their cultural and physical differences (1866: 28). Dalton wrote about the formation of tribal ‘nationalities in the secure asylum’ in the Chota Nagpur plateau (1866: 153). Thus, ethnology was deployed as a counter-nationalist rhetoric to identify these natives as distinct nationalities. This is evident in Risley’s remark above. We are too much accustomed to speak of India as a single country, and of its inhabitants as a single nation; but the truth is, that as regards its history, its extent, and its population, India displays the diversities rather of a continent than of a single State. (1915: 96) Despite the confusion over nomenclature, a preference to identify the ethnic groups in India as aboriginal and indigenous is discernible (Campbell 1866: 22–3). But contrary empirical evidences precluded ethnographers from propping up a homogenous tribal category. They were aware of such intra- and interethnic cleavages among Indian tribals as: pervasive Hindu influence splitting tribes into pure tribe and its Hinduised variant; difference in the level of growth as between savage and more civilised Gonds in the Bombay Presidency region; differences of the Ho from the Munda, Bhumij and Santals in traits (Hunter, XVII, 1976: 57; Campbell 1866: 5, 11, 20); and varying response to agricultural development between the Mals and Santals (Rycroft 2006: 108; Campbell 1866: 29). The mapping of the exclusiveness of ethnic communities had another context. British ethnographers were apprehensive that these communities, concentrated in the hilly and forested zones, might totally disappear. In the pan-Indian context, Campbell succinctly observed: The fact is that the Aboriginal tribes now remaining are but like scattered remnants of a substance floating here and there in a mass of water, into which they have been all but melted, and in which they are on the point of disappearing. (1866: 20) However, the quest of tribalism remained a continual agenda of colonial ethnographers and administrators in India. Appropriation of knowledge was harnessed by them to forge a distinction between the aborigines and the Hindus, and then between tribals and general population (ibid.: 11, 17, 31). This followed a prefixed classificatory pattern not only in India, but also in Africa. About Tanganyika, Iliffe observed that the colonial government ‘conceived of tribes as cultural units with a common language, social system and ‘an established

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31

system of customary law’ (quoted in Chanock 1985: 20). This invites a discussion on how their Indian counterparts designed tribes. In this context, a comparison with the standard anthropological definition of its more widely used variant, that is, tribe, is in order (Helm 1968; Beteille 1992: 57–78). Despite the fact that anthropologists do not agree on the precise definition of the word, their approach may be invoked as a useful analytical tool in reading the representation more meaningfully. This will inform how British ethnographers had conceptualised the tribe, and to what extent there was correspondence between anthropological theory and colonial ethnographic formulation. However, what we notice is that the theoretical link of British ethnographers was more implicational than precise. This imprecision may be attributed to the changing tribal scenario over time as well as the imperialistic agenda that forced the officials to serve the master more than the muse. Consequently, colonial ethnographers underlined only a few criteria as more or less primary and constant, whereas they found others as variable and non-essential. One can discern here the creative tension between being and becoming in the colonial discourse due to historical reasons.

Parameters of identity: language Language was used as one of the parameters of ethnicity. First, this was defined as a generic category in terms of racial categorisation of demography into tribal and non-tribal linguistic groups. Campbell observed: It may then generally be said, that both in physique and in the structure of their language, the Aborigines present a type analogous to that of the Negritoes of the South Seas, Papuans, Tasmanians and others, as well as to the nearer Negritoes of Malacca and Andamans. (1866: 24) Similarly, mooting the distinction between Kolarian and Sanskrit group of languages, Dalton remarked: Ethnologically their position is singular and interesting; speaking themselves the Kol language only, they occupy a basin whose barrier of hills restrains the flow and blending together of the three great Sanskrit derivatives Hindi, Bengali, and Uriya, which but for this obstacle of an isolated language would have found a trijunction boundary point in the center of Singhbhum. (1973: 179)

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If we read it in the context of power struggle between the Aryans and Kolarians over the Gangetic provinces (cited in Campbell 1866: 150), political overtone of the above polarisation would become evident. Second, scholars projected the idea of interethnic linguistic cleavages in India. It was remarked that due to dislocation and acculturation, tribal communities fissured into Dravidian and Kolaraian linguistic groups rather than remaining as a single linguistic category (ibid.: 24–34). Last, they underlined the fruition of distinct linguistic ethnicities. Tickell underlined the linguistic basis of Honess by identifying their dialect as separate from the Munda root (1840b: 803). Along with other cultural differences, this implies the transformation of a subethnic linguistic group into an independent linguistic ethnic category. However, we should not miss two other objectives which operated among administrators and missionaries. The administrators were interested, as Comaroffs reason, in gaining a ‘command of the language’ for ‘mastery of the structures and terms of communication’ to bolster up a rule through force, while the missionaries’ motive was to rescue tribals from a ‘primitive disorder’ by means of ‘colonization of consciousness’ that would ultimately entrench their faith among the tribals (1991: 216–24). Ethnographers and linguists undertook researches on the structure of tribal dialects and languages in order to gain a command over their tongue. This was part of their more generic scheme of supplying ‘the rough elements for a comparison of all the dialects of India’ (Campbell 1866: 152). In the tribal region of Bihar, Tickell produced ‘Grammatical Construction of the Ho Language’ and ‘The Vocabulary of the Ho Language’ (1840a: 997–1107, 1063–90). Other instances were Dalton’s tables showing different dialects of the Munda or Kol languages spoken in Chota Nagpur and elsewhere; Rev. A. Notrott’s Grammar of the Kol Language in 1905; and Ho Grammar in 1915 by L.B. Burrows (1973: 235–42; 1915: Preface). In this connection, the observation of Burrows is very significant. While citing the linguistic affinity among the Ho, Munda and Santal, he mentioned that change in time and environment brought linguistic differences among these groups. This finally identified ‘Ho to the dignity of a distinct language’ (Burrows 1915: Preface). This linguistic categorisation by the officials in respect of the Hos was extended by missionaries when they chose other communities of Jharkhand. Rev. Batsch prepared the grammar of the Oraon language while Rev. Phillips wrote Introduction to the Santal Language in 1852 in Bengali script (Campbell 1866: 152; Hunter 1975: 157fn). Rev. Notrott of the German Evangelical Mission in Ranchi wrote Mundari Grammar, besides ‘a few grammatical notes’ by Rev. Whitley of the Anglican Mission. Rev. J. Hoffmann published Mundari Grammar

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followed by an article on Mundari poetry, music and dances in the Journal of the Asiatic Society in 1907. He finally authored his voluminous work Encyclopaedia Mundarica with Rev. A.V. Emelen in 1924 (Vol. 1 1998: X–XI). However, British ethnographers and linguists gradually found that the growing trend of bilingualism among tribals diluted the linguistic basis of ethnicity. Campbell remarked: ‘All these people (Munda, Santal, Ho, Oraon, Bhumij, Kharia, Kharwars etc.) have in their faces unmistakable marks of their aboriginal origin. But they speak Hindee. This then brings us to the difficulty about language’ (1866: 38). Although Risley identified language as a criterion of distinction, he observed that ‘a number of tribes concerning whose non-Aryan origin there can be no manner of doubt, have within recent times adopted Aryan dialects and abandoned their original language’ (Vol. I 1998: xii). Dalton noted that though the older generation was susceptible to their own dialect, the younger Hos showed a clear predilection towards bilingualism (1973: 185). This was obviously the result of the introduction of non-tribal languages like Hindi, Bengali and Uriya in the school curriculum and growing contact with the people speaking these languages. Introduction of non-Ho languages in Kolhan since 1841 is suggestive of the British policy of promoting them at the cost of the tribal dialect,17 though one may argue that the Ho had not till then developed linguistically to be incorporated in the curriculum.

Territoriality Territoriality was the other determining criterion. The argument was that demographic and territorial identities were interrelated; and it was this interrelationship that shaped the colonial perception of land and people which was critical in deciding the issue of the latter’s right. To illustrate, the Toda community was identified in early colonial ethnography as the ‘people who had lived longest in the hills and therefore had hereditary rights in the land on the plateau’. But so far as the issue of their empowerment was concerned, it had to be commensurate with the ultimate purpose of establishing British sovereign rule (Cederlof 2013: 384). Hence, as the colonial rule became deep-rooted, the meaning of territory in relation to its inhabitants shifted from an ecological zone to a resource zone – a movement from nature to culture or anachronism to history. The topographical knowledge became initially relevant to aid British military expeditions. The British administrator generals wanted to know whether the abundance of hills and forests, as also the fear of disease like malaria, might not handicap the free movement of troops. In1828, Lt. Col. Hamilton wrote: ‘The nature of

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the country is such as would render it extremely difficult either to penetrate or subdue on account of the unhealthy jungles, so deleterious to troops not born on the spot’ (Quoted in Jha 1987: 25). Inhospitability of space for conquest was later accompanied by other considerations. These were, as Cederlof informed, whether the landscape ‘would be plenty of place for innovation, no hostile savages to fear, the natives would happily collaborate in establishing a modern society together with British . . .’ (2013: 392). This collaboration was to be sustained by the financial potential of the subjugated territory. Therefore, ethnographic accounts (Tickell 1840b; Dalton 1973; Dunbar1861; Depree 1868) were prepared as a composite but synoptic package that revealed its natural and demographic resources. These were followed by the making of elaborate specific monographs like the Hunter’s Statistical Account and the genre of District Gazetteer (Hunter 1976; O’Malley 1910). These mapped both the plateau regions and open country in terms of agrarian growth18 that would raise the quantum of revenue and stave off drought and famine. Another purpose was to evaluate the commercial prospect that its forest and agrarian products, more so the mineral resources, provided (Depree 1868: 13). All these facilitated the final co-option of the anomalous and border zones of the forested tracts to the mainstream political economy. Together with this, assessing the capacity of the Indians to effectively collaborate with colonial masters and British entrepreneurs became part of the official agenda. The Mundas and Dhangar Kols of Chota Nagpur came in for special mention and praise (Jha 1987: 28–9), mainly because of their role as an effective labour force (Dalton 1866: 169; Depree 1868: 10). Cuthbert stated: ‘The Coles emigrate in great number annually in search of employment, and are entertained by Indigo planters and others. They are generally preferred to the labourers of other parts of the Country on account of their performing more work and at a lower rate.’19 The determination of the original settler was very crucial for this invention of the landscape. Despite the knowledge of the history of the displacement and intermittent migration20 of the tribals, colonial ethnographers reiterated their nativity. Deriving from the Munda tradition, Dalton called the Kols as the ‘first settlers’ (1866: 153–4). Depree observed that the Mundas were ‘believed to be the descendants of the aborigines who cleared the soil from jungle’ (1868: 13). It was thus that they came to be identified as the original settler; Hodesum was the original home of the Hos and the Damin-i-Koh (Skirt of the Hills) that of the Santals. This reinforced the idea of an indissoluble link of the tribals with the land they occupied as well as their nativity.

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Notion of cultural lag Aboriginality or tribalism was also defined in developmental terms, determined as it was by the capability of the tribals to respond to new ideas and techniques. Skaria underlined that the inability to adapt to superior techniques by the Dangis, Bhils and Varlis could be assigned to their inherent laziness, which he characterised as their ‘distinctive aesthetics’ (1999: 63–4). Therefore, taking cue from the double dealings of the superior west and inferior orient/Indian, scholars developed the idea of the division of Indians into civilised mainstream and primitive-savage tribe. To justify the Ho as essentially savage-primitive, Roughsedge used the epithet ‘wild inhabitants’21 and ‘the savages’.22 The same terms were used for the Mundas also (Dalton 1866: 153, 158, 165). Savagery was defined in terms of ferocity and bloodthirstiness, which prompted Roughsedge to equate Larka Kols with tigers (Sen 2011b: 52–66). Similarly, official reports waxed eloquent about the ‘unmitigated series of plundering and burning villages, and murdering men, women, and children, with every aggravation of outrage and cruelty’ perpetrated by the Santals during the Hul (rebellion; 1855–56).23 Therefore, in British perception, barbarity was a mark of tribalism. However, empiricism apprised ethnographers about the existence of such layers among them as perfect and most savage and imperfect or less savage. Samuells found the wild tribe in the jungles of Cuttack as ‘perfect savages, small, slender, nearly naked, and horrid in appearance’ who spoke a ‘strange language’ (Campbell 1866: 36). Dalton believed that ‘the wildest and most savage’ of them had ‘powers as wizards and witches’, ‘to transform themselves into tigers and other beasts of prey’ (1866: 158). On the other hand, ethnographers also found tribal communities making some strides in civilisation in the form of an organised village life, traditional system of governance, adult marriage, peasantisation and much more.24 These facts underlined the play of evolutionism in the representation of tribes. The cultural lag of the Adivasis was also locationally defined. Cederlof points out that the colonial officials considered locale to be essentially responsible for the ‘marginalization of backwardness of the land and people’ (2008: 263). Campbell characterised the tribals as communities living in isolation in the hilly and forested areas (1866: 20). Likewise, Tickell found that the Larka Kol (Fighting Kol) colonies were ‘insulated, semi-barbarous and confined to the wildest parts of that country’ (1840b: 694). This isolation was believed to be both forced and deliberate, forced on them by ‘Brahmanical invaders’ and

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deliberate because they wanted to live a peaceful and solitary existence ‘out of the reach of their enemies’ and maintain ‘their independence and idiosyncrasy’ (Dalton 1866: 153). This inspired an administrator to formulate the notion of close affinity between nature and tribals, rather nature’s selection of them as the inhabitant (Bradley-Birt 1903: 85–6). But I would like to point out that isolation could not be overemphasised, because of the commercial linkage between the tribes of central India and the Banjara trading community (Sivaramakrishnan 1999: 40), and then the Hos carting their way to distant Puri for salt or itinerant merchants visiting their territory (Tickell 1840b: 805). Campbell considered this link to be inescapable because tribal ‘retreats’ were either ‘closely surrounded’ or considerably ‘penetrated’ and ‘saturated with an Arian element’ (1866: 20). Ethnic communities in India were often classified as pre-civilisation hunting and foraging groups. The famous dichotomy between tribe and peasant in anthropology argues that as their economy was based on hunting, fishing, foraging and shifting cultivation, tribal community should be regarded as pre-peasant (Bose 2004: 6–7). Also, in colonial ethnography, the ‘lowest stage of savageness’ was associated with ‘scarcely any agriculture, mere men of the woods’ (Campbell 1866: 31; Dalton 1866: 169). However, ethnographers gradually learnt of their movement towards cultivation. Depree observed: Rice is the staple production of the country, as it is the main food of the people. It is grown on the terraced fields which occupy all the low grounds of Chota Nagpore, as well as on the high lands as an early crop cut in October. (1868: 5) This change in material culture registers the transformation of the pre-peasant Adivasis into a peasant community.

Tribe as the other Besides identifying Adivasis as the other of the civilised mainstream, we find the function of other parameters of distinction. First was their distinction from the Hindus ‘in appearance, religion, language, and manners’ (Dalton 1973: 164). Sometimes, they were deemed as superior to Hindus in dress, appearance and lifestyle as well as in nature (Tickell 1840b: 784, 788). However, their non-Hindu identity could not remain stable because British ethnographers could notice subterranean current of Hinduisation. Tickell revealed about the Ho adopting Hindu

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ceremonies, rites, festivals and prejudices (ibid.: 803); and this did not stop even later (Tuckey 1920: 128; Areeparampil 1993: 394–436). Second was that ethnographer-administrators underlined interethnic distinctions. Tickell found Ho and Munda differing ‘not only in manners, dialect, and dress, but also in appearance’. Dalton considered the Ho of Singhbhum ‘physically much finer people than the Bhumij, Santals or any other of the Kolarians’ (1840b: 803; 1973: 190). The identification of ethnic communities as the other of the civilised mainstream had considerable bearing on knowledge making. But before broaching the impact, we should understand how this otherness was formulated in the west. It began with the ethnocentric classification of the world demography into state/pre-state, literate/oral and historied/historyless societies (Guha 2002: 4–12). Accordingly, the first of these sets was accorded the status of civilised while the latter was classified as uncivilised. Testing the Hos against this scale, ethnographers identified the tribals as belonging to a pre-state ‘constitution of confederate village communities’ or republics without the notion of a centralised government (Dalton 1973: 178; Baden-Powell 1972: 153). They were then classed as a pre-literate people as they spoke a dialect of Munda origin and had no script of their own.25 For these reasons, these groups were considered inferior and historyless. Therefore, colonial ethnographers in India showed a visible inertia in recording the Adivasi past and their voices. Likewise, in Africa, the Europeans considered only the colonial present as important. So, on one hand, they neglected the precolonial past of the Africans, and on the other, African histories that they wrote turned out to be ‘nothing more than the justification of European imperialism’ (Ekeh 1990: 670–2). Therefore, the lingering ethnocentrism and failure to retrieve native voice make an understanding of Adivasi self-fashioning with the help of intrinsic sources necessary.

Notes 1 This section has developed out of my essay ‘Conceptualization of the Hos of Singhbhum as a Tribe’ (Sen 2003: 1–15). 2 The cue was carried forward by Ronald Inden (1990: 36–8). 3 Dalton observed, ‘I think in this craving for homogeneity, the heterogeneous character of the component parts of the population of India should always be borne in mind’ (1973: 3). 4 ‘Disturbances in Chota Nagpore, Jungle Mehals and Midnapore’, IOR/ E/4/745, 361–83, para 9. Bengal Judicial, No. 4 of 16 September 1835. 5 ‘His Excellency in Council confidently trusts that the measures of conciliation and encouragement which should be pursued towards them on their complete submission to our arms, will gradually effect a change in their lawless

38

6

7

8

9 10 11

12 13 14 15

16 17

18

19 20

Other representation habits and that they will advance from their present state of barbarism to that of civilization and order’. Mr. Secretary G. Swinton to Major Roughsedge, 12 May 1821, para 2.Operations against the Larka Kols of Singhbum, Vol 2. Bengal Pol 9 November 1825, draft 40/1825–26, IOR/E/4/715. S.T. Cuthbert, Magistrate of Ramghur, to Mr. Secretary Shakespear, Bengal Jud. Cons. No. 53 of 14 June 1827, letter dt. 21 April 1827, paras 7–123. Reports of Seignilay Thomas Cuthbert on his tours through Chota Nagpur and Palamau in 1826 (with associated correspondence) (Vol 2) Bengal Jud (LP) 2 February 1831, draft 157/1830–31, IOR/E/4/731. Extract Bengal Jud. Cons. No. 12 of 11 October 1836: Captain Wilkinson to R.D. Mangles, Secy. to the GOB in the Jud. Dept, dt. 22 August 1836, 13–43, para 56. IOR/F/4/1666/66546: Operations in Singhbhum Mayurbhanj Bamunghatti & co. for the suppression of the predatory and turbulent habits of the Coles. William Jones, Henry Prinsep and H. H. Wilson, famous as orientalists, acted on the platform of the Asiatic Society of Bengal under the patronage of Warren Hastings, the Governor General. For details, see Kopf 1969; Kejriwal 1988; Stokes 1969. Though the main purpose was to collect information to help conquer a particular territory, other reasons were economic and administrative. See, for instance, the reference of a letter written by Ghanashyam Singh to Roughsedge. Roughsedge to Metcalfe, 9 May 1820, para 2. Letter No. 11, dated 22 May 1880, Ranchi, from Babu Rakhal Das Haldar, special commissioner under the Chota Nagpore Tenures Act, to the deputy commissioner, Lohardugga; Papers Relating to the Chota Nagpur Agrarian Disputes, 2, para19. Letter No. 11, dated 22 May 1880, 28–30, 32–4, 40–1. Cuthbert to Shakespear, para 98. Wilkinson to Tickell, 13 May 1837, paras 23–4. Risley started his service in Midnapur, part of which fringed on Chota Nagpur. Here, he had his initial opportunity for work in anthropology. He prepared the volume on the hill districts of Hazaribagh and Lohardaga for Hunter’s The Imperial Gazetteer of India, published in 1881 (1915: xii). This comment is relevant when we peruse the sections on Ho, Munda, Santal and Oraon (Risley Vol. I, 1998: 319–35; Vol. II, 1998: 101–8, 138–50, 224–35). However, the helplessness of Burrows in procuring official grant for publishing his work on Ho grammar may be cited as an instance of official indifference to Ho language. Kanti Bhusan Sen, PA to the commissioner of Chota Nagpur and to the deputy commissioner of Singhbhum, No 28, 4 April 1910, Preparation of a Ho Grammar by Mr. L.B. Burrows. FL, DCOS, GD, RB, CN I Gr, FN 107 of 1909–10, FS 3. The company government appointed a registrar at Ramgarh for ‘the collection of the revenue of the hill and jungle estates’ (Jha 1987: 15). On 30 March 1832, The Bengal Hurkaru reported: ‘A rich soil, capable of the highest cultivation, well wooded and beautifully undulated with all the variety of hill, dale and rock – watered by many streams rippling from the pure spring’ (ibid.: 30). Cuthbert to Shakespear, para.45. Depree wrote that the Oraons immigrated into Chota Nagpur from the Northwest (1868: 13).

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21 E. Roughsedge, agent to the Governor General, to Lt. Col. James Nicol, adjutant general, 31 March 1820, para 2, No. 109, Extract Bengal Political Consultations, 15 April 1820, para 2. 22 Ibid., paras 4, 30; E. Roughsedge to Mr Secretary Metcalfe, 9 May 1820, No. 38, Extract Bengal Political Consultations, 3 June 1820, para 11. 23 IOR/E/4/834, India Judicial Dept., London, No. 7 of 13 February 1856, 799–852: The Sonthal Insurrection. 24 Roughsedge to Metcalfe, 9 May 1820, paras 15, 17–19, 21, 29. 25 In fact, after the formation of the Ho-dominated parts of Singhbhum into a separate administrative unit called the Kolhan Government Estate, Lt. S. R. Tickell did researches on the structure of the Ho language (1840a).

Part II

Self-representation

2

Meanings of self and landscape and dynamics of self-fashioning

It is now time to turn to Western and Southern India, and to the local traditions of non-Aryan races in India generally. (Baden-Powell 1972: 92)

The second part, forming the core of this study, is about the fructification of Adivasi selfhood around landscape. I argue that landscape – jal, jungle and jameen – plays a constitutive and defining role in the formation and growth of Adivasihood. Set over a long time frame, this study helps form an understanding of the origin of indigenous selfhood and its invention during feudal, colonial and the lived present. In different chapters, this part unfolds the story of how ethnic boundaries were formed and how in the course of time trans-ethnic, pan-Indian and global indigenous mobilisation surfaced, not however failing to avoid the fractures within their own ranks. Assertion of identity or selfhood was coeval with the reinvention of the landscape. The introductory chapter will seek to comprehend the very meaning of self and landscape, function of the dynamics of self-fashioning and the boundary that delineates Adivasi identity in the contemporary period.

Meanings of self and landscape Self and the related term identity have engaged the attention particularly of anthropologists, sociologists, psychologists and political scientists since the second half of the 20th century (Leary and Tangney 2012: 70; Callero 2003: 115; Cerulo 1997: 385; Mead 1934: 136–7). This scholarly intervention has been impacted by the advent of poststructuralism, cultural studies, feminism and globalisation (Callero 2003: 116). A more engaging and relevant fact for this study is the spurt in identity assertion among indigenous communities. It becomes

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topical, therefore, to comprehend what is meant by self and in what way the terms self and identity are intertwined. According to the New Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary, self means ‘the type of person you are, especially the way you normally behave, look or feel’ and a person’s personality or character that distinguishes him/her from other people (Hornby 2005: 1376). On the other hand, identity implies ‘who or what somebody/something is’ and ‘the characteristics, feelings or beliefs that distinguish people from others’. This definition needs to be examined in the context of conceptualisation of these notions by different scholars. The conceptualisation of self is marked by interconnected attempts at, what Callero underlines as ‘discovery’ and ‘deconstruction’ (2003: 118). Discovery involves exploration of self, both at individual and collective/social levels. Basically, self is the notion of individual self, where ‘I’ as subject seeks to know the object, that is, ‘me’ (Leary and Tangney 2012: 72–3). But we are concerned more with the collectivistic ‘us’ self and not ‘individualistic “me” self’, a contrast underlined by social psychologists and sociologists (ibid.: 74; Cerulo 1997: 385). The collective, social self, fructifies when ‘aggregates of people who essentially share a common culture, and interconnected differences’ underline their distinction from all others (Barth 1966: 9). This constitutes ‘the knowledge that one is a member of a group, one’s feelings about group membership, and knowledge of the group’s rank or status compared to other groups’ (Leary and Tangney 2012: 74). The mental construct or the knowledge and belief about self constitutes – self-concept, out of which the notion of identity is formed (ibid.: 69). Therefore, ‘self, self-concept, and identity can be considered as nested elements’, the reason why scholars very often deploy self and identity as synonyms (ibid.: 71, 74). The idea of self as ‘I’, missing at birth, develops progressively through social experiences and activities and interaction with other individuals (Mead 1934: Self 134). Likewise, the collective self and identity are the products of spatio-temporal social context to which a community belongs (Leary and Tangney 2012: 74, 88). As such, the self is a social construction developed through social interactions (Callero 2003: 121). Scholarly understanding of selfhood and identity has registered significant shifts, leading to the emergence of the concepts of enlightenment, sociological and postmodern subjects. The first formulates the notion of ‘human person as a fully centered, unified individual . . ., endowed with the capacities of reason, consciousness, and action’; the centre ‘consisted of an inner core which first emerged when the subject was born, and unfolded with it, while remaining essentially the same – continuous

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or “identical” with itself – throughout the individual’s existence’. The second underlines that ‘identity is formed in the “interaction” between self and society; the subject still has an inner core or essence that is “the real me”, but this is formed and modified in a continuous dialogue with the cultural worlds’ (Hall 1996b: 597). The last sets in the deconstruction process by discarding the idea that ‘individuals are in possession of a core, rational, unitary self, endowed with an essential nature and an independent consciousness’. The self, as defined by Foucault, is the ‘direct consequence of power and can only be apprehended in terms of historically specific systems of discourse’ (Callero 2003: 117). While postmodernists thus advocate for ‘the social construction of identity as a more viable basis of the collective self’ (Cerulo 1997: 387), they challenge ‘the foundation of a universal self’ and ‘the assumption of an agentic and knowledgeable actor’ (Callero 2003: 118). Against this backdrop, other scholars suggest that, instead of ‘an abandonment or abolition’ of ‘the subject’, as postmodernists do, we should attempt at its ‘reconceptualization’ (Hall 1996b: 2). The reconceptualisation is attempted first through ideological and methodological modifications by deploying the Median notion of reflexivity.1 Callero observes that the ‘self conceived in this way allows for agency, creative action, and the possibility of emancipatory political movements’ (2003: 120). The second modification scholars suggest is the deployment of historical methodology instead of setting the study against the limited temporal context, which the sociologists generally do. Callero argues that a full understanding of self-meanings, self-images, and self-concepts requires a broad conceptualization of context, one that extends beyond the immediate definition of the situation to include the historical and cultural settings where unarticulated assumptions about the nature of the person have their origin. (ibid.: 121) Like self, landscape has involved especially the archaeologists, historians, anthropologists, sociologists, geographers and arts specialists (Whyte 2002: 13). Lexically, landscape constitutes ‘everything you can see when you look across a large area of land, especially in the country’ and also ‘a painting of a view of the countryside’ (Hornby 2005: 862). The conclusion that we may draw is that landscape is conceived both as a physical idea and its representation. J.B. Jackson defines landscape as ‘a portion of the earth’s surface that can be comprehended at a glance’. It is constituted of two elements – ‘the world out there’ and ‘the world perceived’ – interacting with the above (cited in Gerike 1979: 14). He emphasises that landscape is largely ‘a

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composition of man-made or man-modified spaces’ (ibid.). Therefore, in modern landscape study, what is salient is the ‘human imprint’ that transforms nature into a cultural element. In fact, since Renaissance, the idea of landscape has emerged as a cultural concept (Cosgrove 1998: 1). The ‘landscape as a cultural process’ renders it a dynamic rather than a ‘static text’ (Taylor 2008: 2). This process involves the gradual transformation of physical landscape first into a cultural ecology and then into political ecology. As a cultural idea, landscape is displayed in literature, painting, myths and more (ibid.). As political ecology, it deals with politically mediated ‘social relations of nature’ or ‘social production of nature’. This reduces socio-nature into a part of ‘political projects that changed power relations at different scales and created new political ecologies’ (Pye 2012: 199–200). Interestingly, the cultural process involves the double making of the nature and human beings. Therefore, while pristine nature is converted by human beings into a cultural zone, the process conducts the reinvention of human self and sensibilities, thereby creating a ‘shared system of beliefs and ideologies’ (Taylor 2008: 3). This is particularly manifest in the way we recollect our landscape. But this memory ‘is not always associated with pleasure. It can be associated sometimes with loss, with pain, with social fracture and sense of belonging gone’ (ibid.: 2). Every landscape has a history of its own, as also a part of the generic history. Cosgrove writes: ‘Landscape is a way of seeing the world that has its own history, a history that can be understood only as a part of wider history of economy and society’ (1998: 1).2 R. White avers that the intersection between natural and cultural is ‘absolutely pivotal to understanding the past’ (cited in Carruthers 2004: 380). As a site of history, landscape often functions as archaeology, as a document, comprising ‘layers of history, with every landscape an accumulation of the past’ (Gerike 1979: 15). This inspires Jackson to call it ‘a beautiful book’, an open documentation waiting to be read (cited in Taylor 2008: 2), and also why Carruthers comments: ‘African environmental history is being reconceptualised as a sophisticated tool for telling better social, political, economic or as other histories’ (2004: 386). The ‘relationship between nature and culture’ is a study in ‘comparative dynamics’ (Cronon 1993: 12–14). This leads us to the question of how a change in landscape vis-à-vis self can be fruitfully studied. In the African context, Kwashirai observes that as Africa’s terrain had undergone transformation over several millennia, the long range of change makes it essential for environmental historians to ‘employ a deeper timeframe in spite of the methodological limitations’.3 Leach

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and Mearns are close when they recommend the use of ‘historical’ and ‘time series data’ (1996: 443). Thus, scholars consider self and landscape as closely related and complementary terms. The notion of self develops in a sociocultural and physical context that includes landscape also. Likewise, landscape is a natural and cultural element, the latter being the creation of human agency. This interrelationship has been evocatively formulated by Tim Ingold, when he observes that the human knowledge or senses of the world ‘grows from the very soil of an existential involvement in the sensible world’. As such, this world is not the mere product of ‘mental representation, but more fundamentally . . . a way of living creatively in a world that is itself crescent, always in formation’ (2000: 1). He further argues that ‘human beings must simultaneously be constituted both as organisms within systems of ecological relations, and as persons within systems of social relations’. They are, therefore, ‘the developing organism-in-its-environment’ as opposed to the self-contained individual confronting a world ‘out there’ (ibid.: 3–4). After developing the idea of ‘environmentally situated agents’, Ingold finally observes ‘the boundaries between person and place, or between the self and the landscape, dissolve altogether’ (ibid.: 5, 56). This study on self and landscape helps us draw some broad conclusions. First, the notions of individual/collective self develop out of contexts. Second, contexts being social and environmental, self and landscape are intertwined. Third, as conscious agents, human beings conduct the reinvention of self and the landscape. This reflexive character of self/identity (Callero 2003: 120) enables the individual/group to make a creative reading of the situation and decide the course of action (Leary and Tangney 2012: 71). Last, because of their distance in time between an event or epoch and the present, ‘landscapes involve interactions between the present and the past, and give a sense of identity at individual, local, regional and national scales’ (Whyte 2002: 7). And this interaction can be meaningfully apprehended historically. We are aware that the group agency has factored gender and ethnic political activism at both national and global levels. This has made a study of collective self/identity assertion relevant and compelling. Since there is a growing trend to historically visit the issue of assertion, the next section of this volume attempts to find how the Adivasis of Bihar and Jharkhand sought to fashion their self in the context of landscape. However, it is appropriate to explain in what precise sense the terms landscape and self have been invoked in this study. Landscape here means the physical or geographical entity which is constituted by three elements – land, water and forest – the famous

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triad of jal, jungle and jameen in Adivasi identity discourse. Significantly, change in the composition of landscape from a natural space to cultural space and its transformation from an autonomous territory to a servile landscape have been historical phenomena. This study seeks to engage both with the idea of its older and changing versions. Second, the study seeks to understand the way landscape is envisioned or imaged by the indigenous groups, which often turns it into a symbol. Last, the term will be used as the idea of space that constitutes the environment or ecology, both social and political. This helps us grapple with the social and political forces involved in the change of physical landscape into a cultural one. However, the term self has been deployed in the study not in the ‘I’ but ‘We’ sense. Therefore, self represents its collective or social variety. This collectivistic approach necessitates the study of the concept of boundary – both cultural and territorial – that the Adivasis created as a mark of distinction and differentiation. This makes the study of the relationship between self and landscape relevant. But since (like landscape) the Adivasis lost their agency and were transformed into a dependent and marginalised group, building an understanding of the inventive variety of this relationship becomes necessary. This sets in the historic process in which a particular ethnic group moves towards interethnic combinations. Therefore, as the Munda/Santal/Ho acquires the state-based identity of Jharkhandi Adivasi, then this statecentric identity assumes pan-Indian identity which finally merges with the global identity movement to assume the nomenclature of world indigene. Simultaneously, the idea of landscape transcends its regional, state and national characters to arrogate a global dimension. This sets the stage for the functioning of the dynamics of self-fashioning vis-àvis landscape.

Dynamics of self-fashioning: being, becoming and belonging Before initiating a discussion on how Adivasis represented themselves, it is pertinent to clarify what the author means by self-fashioning. This combination of two words, self and fashioning, lexically connotes the act of forming or shaping the personality or character of a person or group of people so that he/they may be differentiated from other people. As such, this act leads to a clear distinction from what others conceive of him or them. To elaborate further, self-fashioning is both an idea of self (‘weness’) and as conceived by the group to differentiate them from others, that is, ‘they’. This also involves the process by which this

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is negotiated. This section will first visit the process, followed by analysing the role of Adivasis in structuring the knowledge of self. The author argues that the notion of identity or selfhood (of belonging to the Adivasi community) is the sum of three intertwined but shifting ideas – that of being, becoming and finally belonging. Being is generally understood to be the notion of inner, authentic, personal and essential quality/qualities in either an individual or community. Essentialism attributes to it an unchanging character that makes it incompatible with human existence that involves a process of constant remaking or becoming. This controverts attribution of essential characters, in line with postmodernist rebuttal of essentialism, to either an individual or social collectivity (Cerulo 1997: 386). What we are concerned with is that despite the rebuttal, core or essence plays a formative role in Adivasi self-fashioning. Existentialist philosopher Sartre famously observed: ‘Existence precedes essence’. It premises that essence is the predicate of human existence. Since an individual/community exist(s) ‘there-in-the-world’, he/they is/are amenable to the worldly law of change. Leaving the burden of philosophy here, our historical understanding prompts us to envisage the mutuality of these notions. Accordingly, while essence invents existence, essence or ideal self is also progressively invented by existence. As stated before, Hall also supports this argument. This changed being continues to determine reconfiguring of the self. What I argue about is that this swapping of positions is central when we engage with Adivasi self-portrayal. This makes the notion of self/identity a ‘moveable feast’, when the ‘subject assumes different identities at different times’, identities which are not unified around a coherent ‘self’ (Hall1996a: 598). This way, ‘identity and its cognate terms’ seek to resolve ‘the perennial philosophical problems of permanence amidst manifest change, and of unity amidst manifest diversity’ (Cooper 2005: 60–2). But the salient fact about Adivasi identity assertion is that the notion of being continues to act as a kind of beacon from which the community cannot take its eyes off. This involves them in a never-ending self-created crisis of identity. My argument is that this change in continuity (the interplay of being and becoming) finally creates the sense of affinity or belonging. Another significant fact is that change in self and landscape is a coeval and intermeshed process. We would like to conceptualise this linkage reinvoking Ingold’s formulation of human beings as ‘organisms within systems of ecological relations’ and ‘the developing organismin-its-environment’. This ecology and environment are constituted by social and physical elements, the latter being represented by landscape.

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Since, like self, landscape continues to be transformed through time due to human intervention, the invention of landscape factors the remaking of the notion of self also.

Contemporary self-portrayal To apprehend the role of the community in embodying the knowledge of self, this study draws on their creation myths, legends and traditions, rare but significant colonial-day recordings of Santal oral traditions like Horkoren Mare Hapramko Reak Katha and the recordings of Ho memories in the Village Papers.4 Together, the work engages with the ideas and institutions of social governance and other archival sources for portraying a complete picture of self-representation during precolonial and colonial times. Of these, myths, legends and traditions were kinds of soliloquy or internal narrative produced and reproduced as a means of recording experiences, feelings and self-identification. On the other hand, ideas and institutions of governance and contemporary – self-portrayal may be regarded as a dialogue with the self and other to address both internal and external needs. Against these, the recordings of memories of village histories were testimonies before colonial officials to serve an administrative purpose. The contemporary self-portrayal betrays the diverse impact of the colonial past. First, invoking the past was marked by the tendency of selective and purposeful appropriation/interpretation of data from colonial sources by Adivasi intelligentsia. As mentioned earlier, they tended often to read their past and identity in the light of the colonial ethnologists and ethnographers like Dalton, Hunter, Risley, Grierson and others. However, it is understood that colonial-day scholars often subjectively appropriated tribal pasts and invented the images of these communities (Cederlof 2013: 401–3). Despite this, there is a tendency among Adivasi intelligentsia to treat this tribal discourse as the true representation of the Adivasi. What we generally understand as their self-fashioning does not always remain ‘autonomous constructions of the Adivasi mind’. Second, in asserting recent claims for right as a citizen, we notice a tendency of drawing legitimacy not on the basis of natural right but on the colonial-day personalities like Thomas Wilkinson in Chota Nagpur and John Sullivan in the Nilgiri region (ibid.: 402), as also colonial rules and acts like Wilkinson’s civil rules, SPT Act and CNT Act (Sen 2012b: 184). This hegemonisation in a way bred centrifugal tendency. To illustrate, in recent decades, some Ho intellectuals and activists claimed that Kolhan should be converted into a union territory under the President of India. This was inspired

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by the fact that the Kolhan Government Estate, which the British created in 1837, was under the direct control of the governor general, who, as the protagonists believed, is the equivalent of the President of India.5 This focus on the ethnic specificities of different Adivasi communities marked a clear departure from their pan-ethnic assertion of Adivasihood. Therefore, it becomes clear that the changes colonialism brought among them considerably fragmented their subjecthood. This rendered representation of their self vis-à-vis landscape a ‘more openended, variable and problematic’ issue (Hall 1996a: 597). We should now apprehend the total content of Adivasi self-portrayal. Since this encompassed three temporalities precolonial, colonial and contemporary – it is crucial for a researcher to set up a dialogue between the present and the past. Despite being fragmentary, precolonial history shows the crystallisation of consciousness as a distinct demographic group, as well as affinity to a territory and an autonomous social governance of communal life and natural resources. This was the time when they were the agents of history. Their myth and folklore depict the image of an ‘idyllic’ landscape and selfhood. This was the notion of ‘remembered landscape’ in the Chota Nagpur plateau. Here, the Mundas and Oraons had cleared the forests and driven out the wild animals to set up their villages; the Hos had founded a sacred homeland at Hodesum; and the Santals had achieved their cultural acme in Chae Champa. This was the Arcadian notion, that is, their being, supposedly characterised by their quiet, dignified and happy communal life. However, things started systematically changing during feudal and colonial eras when they were territorially and culturally subjugated. The conversion of the ‘remembered landscape’ into ‘the landscape of servitude’ imposed in them the identity of servitude and marginality. This transformation (the pressure of becoming) reinvented the fashioning of the idea of being itself. But the notion of idyllic selfhood was so defining that the Adivasis continued to harp on the salience of this being. We notice the function of the original and modified being as we engage with the contemporary self-representation. Before we elaborate the way Adivasis asserted identity, we should form a clear idea of the spatio-demographic ‘boundaries’, which define an ethnic group, determine its membership (the process of inclusion) and differentiate the group from others (the process of exclusion) (Barth 1966: 15). In fact, the notion of boundary segments groups into ‘us’ and ‘them’ – in and out groups (Lamont and Molnar 2002: 169–70). But how does setting up of notional and real boundaries create the understanding of unity and difference? According to Frederick

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Cooper, identity or self denotes ‘what they share with and how they differ from others’ and how they persuade people to understand themselves, their interests, and their predicaments in a certain way, to persuade certain people that they are (for certain purposes) “identical” with one another and at the same time different from others, and to organize and justify collective action along certain lines. (2005: 60–2) But there is yet another part to this story. This is the formation of larger self-centric aggregates, when under the changed contexts people ‘include others in their self judgments’ and ‘incorporate others into identity’ (Leary and Tangney 2012: 83–5). This action was enacted at different levels among Adivasis, who created wider ethnic, trans-ethnic and territorial networks, the latter being regional, provincial, national and global in dimensions. The regional-level disparate ethnic identities crystallised with cultural and territorial affinities as defining symbols. Consequently, the Munda and Oraon identified themselves with the Chota Nagpur plateau, the Ho with Kolhan and the Santal with Santal Parganas. The circle was widened when, on the basis of cultural affinity and Adivasi preponderance in the Chota Nagpur and Santal Pargana divisions of Bihar, which later comprised Jharkhand state, interethnic provincial Adivasi identity emerged. The Adivasi intelligentsia of Bihar and Jharkhand explored core elements of their identity, which they believed provided the ideological cushion to their mobilisation. However, it cannot be denied that such ‘essentialist representations’ had ‘a political resonance’ (Baviskar 2006: 43). First, the Adivasi intelligentsia reiterated the purity of their origin from Austro-Asiatic/Austric (Munda) and Dravidian or Proto-Austroloid (Oraon) groups and their essential distinction from the people of Aryan origin (Kujur and Beck 2008: 19–21; Munda 2008: 313). Second, they affirmed that the identity of the Adivasis in south Bihar has/ had a territorial basis. This was why on the forum of the Constituent Assembly, Jaipal Singh opposed the proposal of descheduling of the districts of Hazaribagh and Palamau from the Chota Nagpur division on grounds of ‘the economic, geographical and ethnic unity and entity of the Chota Nagpur Division’ (Amit Prakash 1999: 478). Furthermore, in the 1990s, an Adivasi intellectual pointed out that the territorial specificity of Jharkhand had a historical basis, which stood recognised during the rule of the Mogul Emperor Akbar in

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Ain-i-Akbari by Abul Fazl (ibid.: 488). Third, they affirmed their identification as the original people or the natives of the country, more so in Jharkhand. This was why on 24 August 1949 Jaipal Singh affirmed before the Constituent Assembly that tribal people were the original inhabitants and as such they had a genuine claim over the entire country (ibid.: 481). He further reiterated that ‘The aboriginal is a child of the soil and everything should be done to see that he remains rooted to his foundations. Once the aboriginal loses his land he is completely lost’ (2003: 12). Moreover, the Adivasi intelligentsia underlines their cultural distinction from non-Adivasis on the ground that their society is basically homogenous and egalitarian. Jaipal Singh observed that internal democracy was the core element of tribal life where ‘all are equal, rich or poor. Everyone has equal opportunity’ (Amit Prakash 1999: 482). The sixth element the intelligentsia group harps on is the customary practice of social governance as represented by their Manki-Munda and Parha-Parganait systems (Jaipal Singh 2003: 11; Sundi 2012: 8; Sinku 2008: 114–36). The efficacy of this institution presumably inspired the Chota Nagpur Improvement Society to assert that ‘each village should have its own Corporation for self-government in civil matters and judicial panchayat in certain matters and executive body in dealing with village lands’ (Amit Prakash 1999: 472). We find that this custom-centrism equated them with other trans-Indian indigenous communities.6 Yet another element the Adivasi intelligentsia affirm is their rural and agrarian identity, having a symbiotic link with nature around them.7 This affirmation argues for the close linkage between Adivasi identity and landscape. Furthermore, they focus on a distinct linguistic identity and claim that this status should be duly recognised by the Indian Constitution.8 Last, they consider themselves as followers of a distinct religion more popularly called Sarna Dharam, which R.D. Munda preferred to name as Adi Dharam (2000). As such, they should no longer be classified either as animist or as Hindu. During colonial rule, self-identification and mobilisation took a wider form. This saw the regional and provincial identities assuming a pan-Indian sub-nationhood or a minority status (Bowen 2000: 12), calling for the mobilisation of the indigenous groups in India. Minoritism derives its justification from the long history of their marginalisation and deprivation. One may find here a similarity with African indigenes. About Nkoya, the comment is that their ethnicity was based not only on their primordial attachment to a way of life, culture and language, but also on ‘a collective sense of deprivation in the course of a shared recent history’ (Chanock 1985: 18). Another significant fact was the timing and the occasion. When the nationalist intelligentsia

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was engaged in defining Indian identity, Adivasi intelligentsia was involved in advocating sub-nationalist ethnic identity (for details, see Amit Prakash 1999: 461–96). This assertion came to the forefront during the visit of the Simon Commission and at the Indian Constituent Assembly, respectively, in the 1930s and 1940s. The post-independence phase witnessed further widening of the demographic and territorial basis. As the national corporate and multinational companies threatened their hearth and home as well as their natural resources, there occurred a growing mobilisation and tie-up with other indigenous groups globally for an international identity (Bowen 2000: 13; Kingsbury 1998: 416–19), though not severing their national linkage. Both at the national and global levels, Adivasi intelligentsia reiterated the idea of the historicity of oppression, servility and marginalisation (Karlsson 2003: 407; Bowen 2000: 12–13; Bayly 1997: 170). They, therefore, believe that Indian ethnic groups are entitled to a privileged status and protection of their territory and rights, as has been done under the Indian Constitution and the reiteration of human rights by the UNO. Nonetheless, two significant trends should not escape our attention. First, widening of selfhood from ethnic to interethnic and broadening of the territorial identity from regional to provincial, to national and global could not submerge interethnic differences mostly in terms of territory, language and custom. Therefore, formation of broader aggregates coexisted with the ethnic and regional identities. Second, the reiteration of some core elements or essences could not obfuscate the existence of a creative tension between being, becoming and belonging impacted by critical historical forces. History does not bear any evidence of a distinct racial consciousness in the past, though distance from non-ethnic groups, particularly hatred for the upper-caste Hindus and Muslims, may be discernible.9 But it is doubtful if it was purely on racial grounds. However, the claim of originality may be historically supported, even though recurrent migrations, as depicted by their oral traditions and recorded history, contested this claim. Ebbing away of egalitarianism and homogeneity, which socio-economic fissures evidenced, clearly suggest that protagonists of essentialism did not learn from history. Similarly, though custom-centrism of Adivasi communities is historically tenable, it cannot be denied that their customs were socially reinvented during precolonial times and hybridised by colonial rulers into Anglo-tribal customs. This was equally true about their traditional system of governance, which originated during the pre-British period and was legitimised and reinforced by the British. But invented customs and the institution of social governance were internalised by

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Adivasi communities as their essential identity markers. The onset of ruralisation and agrarianism was similarly mediated by time. Before the invention of Olchicki script of the Santals by Raghunath Murmu in the 1920s and Waran Kshiti of the Hos by Lako Bodra in the 1950s, these groups were pre-literate like the Munda and Oraon. Therefore, the claim of constitutional status (inclusion in the Eighth Schedule) as an independent linguistic group registers a tacit admission of change through time. This makes it clear that contemporary self-fashioning is political and not always historically representative. The question is why contemporary identity assertion tends often to be ahistoric, more so why this tendency to focus on being rather than becoming? Alain Touraine argues that in the modern and postmodern world, particularly after globalisation, distinct identities are steadily obliterated by the ‘eminently seductive idea of the global melting pot that will make us citizens of one world’. Consequently, not only moral culture, but the hearth and home of the distinct communities also are constantly under severe threat of extinction. In this gloomy atmosphere of a threatened identity, throughout the world there are more and more identity-based groupings and associations, sects, cults and nationalisms based on a common sense of belonging, and that they are becoming stronger. Societies are becoming communities once more as they closely unify a culture, politics and power within territories governed by religious, cultural, ethnic or political authorities that might be called charismatic, in that they derive their legitimacy not from the sovereignty of people, economic efficiency or even military conquest, but from the gods, myths or traditions of a community . . . (and) a call for homogeneity, purity and unity. (Touraine 2000: 1–3) The tension between being and becoming, which distinguishes contemporary Adivasi public life, needs to be historically contextualised and examined. Our quest, which focusses on land, water and forestcentric selfhood, should be whether there had been attempts in the past towards self-imaging; whether there was any conscious attempt to embody the core or essential elements in Adivasihood; whether history presents instances of centripetal and centrifugal tendencies among these communities; and whether the pressure of becoming prompted reinvention of ideal selfhood or the notion of being and vice versa. The following chapters will seek to grapple with these issues, beginning with the creation myths.

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Notes 1 This notion was developed by G.H. Mead (1863–1931), the famous American philosopher, sociologist and psychologist, in his book Mind, Self and Society from the Standpoint of a Social Behaviorist. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1934. 2 We can add two more remarks. Cronon observes that ‘transformed countryside (is) bound to human history’ (Cronon 2003: 6). Mcneill writes ‘Human history has always and will always unfold within a larger biological and physical context’ (2003: 6). 3 Kwashirai, ‘Environmental History of Africa’, 2. 4 Nandini Sundar evocatively argues in favour of such non-conventional sources in ‘Village Histories: Coalescing the Past and the Present’ (2006: 144–82; see also Gyan Prakash 1990: 35). 5 Singhbhumi Ekta, Vol. I, No.13, July 1979. 6 In the context of African tribes, Chanock wrote: ‘“Custom” came to be a crucial index of group identity’ (Chanock 1985: 9). 7 Speech of C.B. Deogam, a leading Ho intellectual, social activist and a member of the Chaibasa Bar, delivered at the workshop deliberating on the Central Government’s Draft on Tribal National Policy held at Chaibasa on 8 May 2004; Interview with D.N. Champia and Ghanashyam Gagrai, leading Ho intellectuals, Chaibasa, 8 May 2004 (cited in Sen 2006: 304–5). 8 After the inclusion of the Santal language in the eighth schedule, language movement has intensified among other tribal groups in Jharkhand. 9 Roughsedge to Metcalfe, 9 May 1820, para 13.

3

Myth as history The representation of selflandscape in Adivasi creation myths

This chapter unfolds how the creation myth, as preserved in Adivasi collective memory, depicts their consciousness of self and distinct way of life as it fructified around the space they inhabited.1 I argue that ‘their mytho-religious or cosmological construction’ of the interrelationship between self and environment was shaped by the historical context of the communities under review. Since communities were in different stages of development, mythic imagery of self-landscape was community-specific with a pronounced difference in the nature of representation. However, invocation of myth as history to unfold this imagery is problematic. Because of its theocratic and achronological character, myth is not considered as an ‘irrefutable’ and ‘objective’ source2 by conventional historians (Collingwood 1985: 15). In fact, they are critical about the unstableness of collective memory itself due to its constructive and presentist nature (Halbwachs 1992: 40). Ascribing this apathy to latent ethnocentrism, Rappaport argues that the EuroAmerican vision of history considers their ‘own construction of the past as “history” while alien modes are called “myth”’ (1998: 12). However, Malinowski, Levi Strauss, Roland Barthes and Jan Vansina emphasise the immense epistemological potential of myth. Levi Strauss avers that being ‘culturally selected narratives’ this is understood to reveal the workings of the human mind.3 The author argues that for the Adivasis, myth is not simply a fictive narrative but a site where they record their past.4 Verrier Elwin observed that myths ‘are passed down from shaman to shaman as a kind of traditional wisdom or history’ (1968: XXI–II). However, past thus enshrined is not a categorical and clear citation like other historical sources because ‘these accounts are mostly images of the past and not from the past’ (Rappaport 1998: 10). Rappaport considers this a distinctive feature of non-western historical consciousness

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(ibid.:  10–11). Furthermore, he observes: ‘In the Andean vision of the past, history is in front of the observer and moves backward toward the observer . . . This spatio-temporal sense of history contrasts with our own, in which the past is located behind the observer and historical process moves forward, always remaining behind our backs’ (1994: 51–2). Accordingly, meaning ‘is not found at the level of the surface phenomena’ (Wadley 1986: 218). Therefore, oral tradition, nay myth, has to be decoded to apprehend the latent enduring and ‘cumulative’ element in it (Halbwachs 1992: 30). Gyan Prakash significantly observes that ‘even as the past is constantly reinterpreted by the oral traditions, it is done by referring to certain constant elements’ (1990a: 36). I locate this in the depiction of ethnic identity and landscape of a group at a given point of time and space. This is done in two ways. First by relating the origin of the ethnic and other people, it seeks to justify the bases of existing society. This reflects the ‘social process out of which selves arise and within which further differentiation, further evolution, further organization, take place’ (Mead 1934: 164). This way, myth tends to embody ‘a social charter’, as Malinowski puts it, rather than becoming a fictive and untrue account (cited in Gluckman 1965a: 26). This underlines Adivasi communities as agents who were active in enacting the social process of self-fashioning. But there is also an oblique reference to the surrender of agency in the mythic story of fall, either in the past or at a recent time, perhaps deployed as a revivalist strategy as we notice in the Kherwar and Birsite movements (MacDougall 1985; Singh 2002). We have voluminous studies on the myths of middle India and North-East Frontier by Verrier Elwin (1949; 1968). In Jharkhand, we come across Munda and Santal myths in general sociological and anthropological accounts (Van Exem 1982). But for two recent essays (Hebbar 2003b: 40–9; P. Sen 2006b), Ho mythology has been ignored by scholars. Of these two, the first takes up Ho origin myth, as narrated ritually during Maghe parab by Ho villagers, to construct their relationship with the supernatural and natural worlds. While in the broader context of the Adivasis of Jharkhand, the second seeks to understand Ho notion of cosmology, as formulated in their creation myths. This chapter is divided into three sections. The first section seeks to understand how different Adivasi legends are structured. The second outlines their content and significance. The last portrays the imagery of self-landscape under four subsections: the social environment, fashioning of self, representation of the other and portrayal of landscape.

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Structure of Adivasi myths There are different versions of Adivasi creation legends in India. Elwin attributes this variation to the divergence of ideas and to the fact that there was ‘no fixed deposit of doctrine, no sacred book to carry traditions from one generation to another’ (1968: IX). He collected these legends from local informants who ‘told their stories and interpreted them’ (ibid.: X). However, in Jharkhand, mainly colonial-day officials and Christian missionaries were instrumental in appropriating these oral traditions from the native informants and textualising them in their ethnographies. To illustrate, S.R. Tickell derived the Ho myth (1840b: 797–9) from a few knowledgeable Mankis, shortly after the formation of the Kolhan Government Estate in 1837. This was partially reproduced a few decades later by Dalton (1973: 185). Hebbar and Purti have produced two recent versions, which are the products of their fieldwork and interaction with the community (2003b; Purti 1982). Different versions of the Santal myths were recorded by W.W. Hunter and Rev. L.O. Skrefsurd. Hunter recorded his commentary of the myth under the head of Santal traditions in his Annals of Rural Bengal, followed by a literal translation of the legend of creation in its appendix (1975: 147–56, 450–3). Skrefsrud’s version was reproduced in Horkoren Mare Hapramko Reak Katha, which was originally written in Santali language in 1871 and translated and published in English in 1887. The ‘original work’, recorded by Skrefsurd, ‘was taken down from the mouth of an old guru, named Kolean’. This included minor additions from another source (Bodding 1994: 1). Reference to Santal myth of genesis, as narrated by another native informant, was reproduced in Dalton’s Descriptive Ethnology of Bengal.5 The Munda myth was collated and published by Fr. Hoffmann with financial support from the government in 1924 (1998: IX–XV). During his long stay in Chota Nagpur, Mennas Orea, Rufus Horo, Sahdeo Chutia Purti and some fellow missionaries helped him not only in recording the myth, but also details about the Munda language and culture. On this basis, he could produce his 16-volume magnum opus, the Encyclopaedia Mundarica. About the need and impact of native information, he acknowledged: convinced that the Aryans are mainly answerable for the impending extinction of the Munda race.  .  .  . it (It) is therefore a duty incumbent on our race, that some member of it should try to give as faithful picture of that civilization as possible, and thereby keep alive at least the memory of that, which has been so ruthlessly and

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Therefore, though the creation legends were reproduced by the colonial officials and missionaries, the basic information came from Adivasi informants. These collections have two distinct features. Though more or less rooted in time, to some extent these covered a long stretch of time between the creation of first man and first woman in primordial time and the eve of British rule. Second, the content of recording was often influenced by the social context of the collector and recorder, that is, whether he was a colonial official or a missionary. Since both the Ho myths were collected by administrative officials for writing ethnographies, the occasion was secular. Perhaps, this was why instead of elaborating the creation of the world, flora and fauna by Singbonga, the focus was on social environment. Seemingly, this was the precise term of reference set for the Mankis by Tickell. Same is true about the recordings of Santal myth by Dalton and Hunter. The former merely noted the human origin from two eggs, and then elaborated the story of Santal habitations and their migrations (1973: 209–11). Hunter produced a faithful translated version of Santal traditions that contained a brief narration of the formation of the earth, creation of the first human pair, supply of garments to them, preparation and drinking of the intoxicating liquor that procreated the human race and their dispersion. Though all these were done supposedly at the behest of the Marang Buru (Great Mountain), the focus again was on the human elements (1975: 450–3). However, the sacred and creational stages figured more prominently when missionaries like Rev. L.O. Skrefsrud or Fr. Hoffmann reproduced tribal myths. The former graphically narrated different stages of the creation of the earth and man as instrumented by Thakur. The sacred aspect, therefore, was in greater focus than the profane aspect like dispersion and migration (Bodding 1994: 14–22). The Munda myth by Hoffmann is entirely about the creation of the earth, the origin of man, the making of the first plough, the division of time into day and night and separately about the destruction of man by a rain of fire. The entire legend of creation highlighted the role of Singbonga/Haram as embodiments of the religious beliefs of the Mundas (Hoffmann and Emelen Vol. XIII 1998: 3981–8, 3919–21). Adivasi genesis legends in India vary in size and content (Elwin 1968). To illustrate from Jharkhand, Ho myth is very cryptic and small as

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compared with Munda, Santal and Oraon myths. While two versions of Santal myth contain 20 pages (Bodding 1994: 3–22) and Munda and Oraon myths 8 pages each (Hoffmann and Emelen Vol. XIII 1998: 3981–8; Roy 1984: 265–72),6 but that of the Ho covers a little more than two pages only. With differences in details, the rest show a thematic resemblance, possibly because of their origin from the same Kolarian stock (except Oraon).

Creation legends – content and significance Creation myths depict distinctive beliefs among the Indian Adivasis in the creation of the world (Elwin 1968: 3). Their cosmological notions reveal an early attempt at comprehending and explaining the lived world (P. Sen 2006b: 310–20). In a pre-scientific community, this understanding was obviously saturated with a theocratic rather than rational explanation of creation. But Elwin avers that this had a vital functional role in Adivasi life, also. Contextualising the Baigas of middle India, he observes ‘the mythology of the Baiga is the central power-house of the life and energy of the tribe . . . Myth does far more than explain the Baiga’s institutions; it is their motive power and their authorization’ (2002: 305). Creation myth of Indian Adivasis, on the whole, manifests varying impacts of Hindu and Christian traditions (ibid.: 306–7). Among the Adivasis of North-East India, the impact of Ramayana and Jataka tales, signifying Buddhist influence, is very profound (Elwin 1968: XXI). This study on content of the Adivasi creation legends has been divided into two parts for the convenience of analysis. The first part forms their cosmological understanding, while the second deals with their notion of time, space and demography. These myths narrate the story of how Haram or Singbonga and Thakur, their highest deity, created the earth, plants, human beings and animals in order to forge a symbiotic relation between the spirits, man and nature. Despite the broad unity in the divine creation of cosmology, we notice a difference among them about the precise order of creation. The Munda legend narrates that dry land and animals were created first. After that, a giant stork laid two eggs out of which emerged a boy and a girl. Since they lived like brother and sister, in order to multiply creation, Haram taught them to prepare hanria (rice beer). After they drank rice beer, the procreation of human race started (Hoffmann and Emelem Vol. XIII 1998: 3981–8). According to the Ho myth, Singbonga created the earth first. He then made grass, tree, rock, water, cattle and all the wild animals. The last to have originated was a pair of boy and girl. After

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they came of age, Singbonga taught them the art of making eely (rice beer) so that they could procreate (Tickell 1840b: 797). In the Santal creation myth, Thakur-Jiu first made the beings who lived in water. Next, He created two clay models, and before He could infuse life into them, they were broken into pieces by the Day-horse (a mythic horse). Thakur then made Has and Hasil (a pair of swans) out of the material from His breast and breathed life into them, after which they flew up. But since there was water all around, they were forced to land on Thakur’s hand. After He asked the swans to descend on the froth produced by the Day-horse, He created the alligator, the prawn, the boarfish, tortoise, the stone crab and the earthworm. Next, Thakur employed these creatures to collect soil from the water. But only the earthworm and tortoise could fetch enough to form the earth mass. He then got the heaped soil to be levelled with a harrow. After the creation of the earth, Thakur made mountains, vegetation, plants, trees and finally the human beings. Has and Hasil laid two eggs, from which a boy named Haram or Pilcu Haram and a girl named Ayo or Pilcu Budhi emerged. At Thakur’s behest, the boy and girl were moved by the swans to a place named Hihiri Pipiri. Here, the early pair drank rice beer, which Lita or Marang Buru, the principal god of the Santals, had taught them to prepare. This set the process of the origin of universal mankind, followed by the creation of different septs (Bodding 1994: 3–7). However, the Oraon myth is characterised by an absence of the creation of earth and living beings – their myth relates the story of the division of time into day and night, today and tomorrow (Roy 1984: 267). Adivasi mythology also variably narrates community-specific stories of the dissolution and subsequent creation of mankind by their Supreme Beings. According to the Santal myth, as degeneration had set among human beings and they did not respond to His behest of correcting themselves, the irate Thakur set in a rain of fire (arguably water) for seven days. After the rain of fire caused the dissolution of all human beings and animals, He got the world peopled again through Pilcu Haram and Pilcu Budhi or some other holy pair (Bodding 1994: 8–9). The Ho story of dissolution is somewhat different. As humankind had become incestuous and disrespectful to God or their superiors, He instrumented the destruction of all except 16 human beings with water (some say with fire). With the surviving 16 people, He conducted the multiplication of the human race (Tickell 1840b: 798). The Munda story is, to a great extent, similar to the Ho story. It narrates the destruction of the human race with a rain of fire by Singbonga. Though the reason is not explicitly stated, we can presume that it was similar to the one in Ho myth. But, there are differences. First,

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the Supreme Being is addressed as grandfather here and the children as grandchildren. Second, rain of fire destroyed all except a brother and sister whom Nageora (Nage spirit) hid in the cool water in a hollow made by a crab. The process of procreation is the same, except that a sick child was born to the primeval couple. He asked them to sacrifice a white fowl to Him to cure the child and taught them the rituals. Through this pair, the race of Horoko (Mundas) originated (Hoffmann and Emelem 1998: 3919–21). However, the Oraon myth is slightly different. Here, Parvati, instead of Nage-era, put a man and a woman in a crab hole when a rain of fire had set in the process of annihilation. When Dharmes arrived on the scene, he took care of them, taught them the technique of cultivation and asked them to perform dandakatta and bhelwa ceremonies and to sacrifice an egg in His name. Thereafter, the multiplication of mankind restarted.7 The Adivasi perception of cosmology has some broad features. First, this earth and its flora and fauna is divine creation, and god is the causa sui Supreme Creator. Second, the perpetuation of this order is a moral act and its violation punitive (P. Sen 2006b: 310). Third, the participation of different biotic objects in creation, as also the divine making of the biotic ambience, keeps reminding them that like the human beings, they are equally vital for the survival both of the world and living elements. We can draw a parallel from an indigenous community in Australia known as Bininj. These people defined their relationship with the faunal world, more precisely fish, by not treating them merely as an item of food, but as ‘part of a wider system of interconnected socio-physical relationship and identity’. We can only say that ‘assumptions and beliefs about the world and their relationships to it’ are products of the socialising technique of a community (Head, Trigger and Mulcock 2005: 257). The cosmological reading provides us the decisive clue to the moral basis of Adivasi culture. Now, the question is how is this relevant to this study? The sharing of a common culture is generally given central importance in the formation of ethnic boundaries, though there is a debate whether this should be deemed ‘as a primary and definitional characteristic of ethnic group organization’ (Barth 1966: 11). But, there should perhaps be no disagreement if we treat this as their earliest attempt to create the cultural boundary that sets up their notions of collective self and distinction from others. What is no less significant is that Adivasis consider self as a reproductive and not a ‘once-andfor-all’ idea. And so, through ritual maintenance and annual recreation, they enact the practice of ‘continual expression and validation’ of their identity (ibid.: 15). This process is conducted through the

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ceremonial reproduction of the creation myth found among Indian indigenes (Elwin 2002: 306). Likewise, when the Adivasis of Bihar and Jharkhand annually recount their story of creation during Mage/ Sohrai/Dandakata festivals, they seek to bind their members to their cultural roots (Hebbar 2003b: 46–8).

Imagery of self and landscape I invoke here the second part of the myth depicting the representation of time, space and demography to relate their notions of self and landscape, as also their sense of history. But I argue that this should not be deemed as an attempt to collapse memory into history. Rather, working within the distinction that Spiegel affirms between memory and history,8 the author would like to identify and decode the ‘images of the past’, more so the events and conjunctures from Adivasi history, to formulate Adivasi notions of self and landscape. I refer to Elwin in support of my argument: about the Baigas, he wrote: These myths then are no mere fairy stories, nor just primitive attempts to scientific explanation of things . . . To the Baiga they are the records of veritable happenings which set the social order on its course, instituted tribal law, and established him in his unique position as Bhumia Raja, lord of the earth. (2002: 308) The point I emphasise is that every society has its own sense of history and specific way of reproducing the same. Parker and Rathbone rightly maintain that the ‘African peoples have long had their perception of the past and their own ways of remembering it’ (2007: 3). As I seek to apprehend the Adivasi sense of temporality, the question that comes to mind is whether their mythology reflects a sense of clock and calendrical time or whether their notion of time was different.9 Initially, the Mundas had no knowledge of time or the sense of day and night, and so they worked without any rest. But Singbonga/Haram created night for taking rest and initiated them into the calendrical time of today and tomorrow (P. Sen 2006b: 315).10 The Ho myth suggests that they had an understanding of the separation of day and night as represented by the sunrise, and they did know how the days were constituted into yesterday, today and tomorrow (Tickell 1840b: 797). But, did they have any sense of the longer variety of time? Adivasi mythology in Jharkhand is basically rooted in primordial or unidentified past, with suggestion of undated calendrical time. The Ho myth

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narrates that the earth, wild animals and man had originated in primeval time (Tickell 1840b: 697–8). This implies that they understood that a long stretch of time, beginning with the origin of the world, is beyond human reckoning. But historic time is also metaphored when it refers to the English, sati and charak puja (ibid.: 698). With their root in primordial time, the Santals formulated the notion of dated time and time progression. This is depicted through the narration of their living in different places at different times up to the advent of the British (Bodding 1994: 3–22). The Munda and Oraon myths also imply temporal progression with the onset of agrarianism among the Mundas and Hinduisation among the Oraons.

Self – the social environment The study of the representation of self should begin with the portrayal of the social context, because drawing the socio-physical context through myth is an important strategy deployed by the Adivasis for identification and differentiation. Besides understanding its technology, it is essential for a student of history to apprehend the circumstance or period when this emerged. Even sociologists acknowledged its significance when they observed: ‘Rather than assume that people contrast themselves with others, a more appropriate question is under what circumstances are people likely to contrast themselves with others and under what circumstances are they likely to include others in their self judgments’ (Leary and Tangney 2012: 84). Mythic profiling of demography by the Adivasis in India reinforces the inventive character of social environment. This begins with the emphasis on divinely created universalistic vision of mankind – the story of the creation of the first pair and later proliferation into different communities (Elwin 2002: 312–17) variously identified as tribes and castes. Elwin remarks that ‘the various myths that compose the Baiga epic of creation’ were ‘the biographies of the parents of mankind’. They conceived of ‘thirty six families of mankind’ representing different tribes and caste groups as forming their social world (2002: 305). But in Jharkhand, we find an agreement among Adivasi communities about the universal vision of mankind. However, there is disagreement about the formation of races and communities. The Munda and Oraon myths remain silent about it, while those of the Santal and Ho are very eloquent. Hence, I shall dig deep into the Ho and Santal legends to understand how the notion of social ecology was constituted. In the Ho legend, the process of multiplication of humankind began with the birth of 12 pairs of brothers and sisters from the primeval

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pair. They were the grandchildren of Singbonga, implying that the first man and woman were his children. This familial connection envisioned the primal universalistic vision of world demography (Tickell 1840b: 798). But a change occurred in primeval time through divine mediation. Singbonga arranged a grand feast, after which tribes and castes like the Hos, Bhumij, Brahmins, Rajputs, Chattris, besides unnamed other Hindus like the Ghasis, as also the Bhuiyans, Santals, Kurmis and finally the English originated (ibid.). It may be presumed that the unnamed Hindus also included the Goalas, Kamars, Kumars and Tantis who were allowed later by the Hos to inhabit their villages.11 It seems that entry of these functional castes into the Ho myth dated back to the time when the majority of villages were founded in south Kolhan around the beginning of the 18th century AD.12 However, one may contend (and rightly so) that this link may be predated by a few centuries when the Ho entered and lived in north Kolhan (ibid.: 696–7). The relation with the English began after the former entered the political scene during the early decades of the 19th century. One can discern that the Ho social ecology was constituted by ethnic and non-ethnic people including the English. A similar inclusive notion of social ecology may be discerned among the Baigas: their myth named Gond, ‘all other tribes’, Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Bania, Chamar, Dhamar, a fishing caste, Mahar, Musalmans, as also the English (Elwin 2002: 312–17). Delineation of the demographic ambience clearly suggests that this human geography had developed contrary to general belief before the onset of colonialism (Barth 1966: 17). The Santal creation myth is richer and more particular in details about the constitution of social ecology and the nature of relationship among peoples. Like the Ho, the Santals also conceived of a universal human self out of which particularistic demography developed. Hunter merely noted the birth of seven sons and seven daughters from the original pair, followed by the creation of seven septs (killis) and the multiplication of the humankind. But their specific identities have not been revealed (1975: 452–3). However, Skrefsrud who was more informed narrated that after the first pair gave birth to seven sons and seven daughters, they were divided into seven Santal septs and Haram made their social norms. So, according to the Santal myth, they formed the primeval mankind. But when people ‘became very bad’, Haram destroyed human race. When the world was peopled again (Bodding 1994: 7–8), mankind was divided into ‘tribes’. This is the first suggestion of the division of human race into separate but undefined ethnicities. But who these communities were has not been identified. At this stage, five more Santal septs were added (ibid.: 7–10).

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Till then, the Santals were identified as the Kharwar. We can presume that the legend related to that phase of Santal past when they were living an insulated life devoid of contact with others. Later, they came into contact with the Dekos (‘non-Santals of the better class, especially Hindus’). This signified the entry of non-Adivasis into the Santal social orbit. But significantly, Santal or Kharwar was an inclusive, rather generic, demography, which included the Mundas, Birhors and Kurmbis, as also unnamed others (ibid.: 12). This generic ethnic conglomeration was later divided into distinct ethnic communities and assigned to different factors: Birhors were ousted from the Kharwar fold because they ‘ate Hanuman monkeys’; Mundas deliberately ‘separated themselves’; Kurmbis ‘gradually became somewhat like Dekos’ (ibid.). Besides the Kurmbis, a few Kharwars and Birhors became Singhs through marriage (ibid.: 12). Other Santal Gurus narrated their version of myth: after the creation of septs and to check flouting of endogamic norms, each sept was divided into 12 sub-septs at the behest of Thakur. But when mankind had become numerous, He arranged a feast so that ‘they may live well and not be exterminated from the earth’. He got them to cook ‘all kinds of flesh, viz., ox-meat, buffalo-meat, the flesh of goats and sheep, of fowls and pigs, of fish and camels’ which were then arranged in 12 leaf cups. Next, he asked ‘one principal man among each of the original septs’ to look at the leaf cups, to move to ‘the length of three or four plough-furrows’ and to run to pick up their own leaf cups. The person reaching first took the leaf cup containing ox meat. His progenies became the Santals. But those who took the flesh of goats, sheep and fish became Dekos (ibid.: 19). This suggests that, at that stage, the Santal social environment was composed only of two groups, the Santals and Dekos. However, the Santals represented an inclusive community comprising low-caste Hindus like the Doms, Kamars, Bhuyas, Tilis, Hadis, Bauris, Kunkals and unnamed others. Obviously, they were those ‘known to the Santals’ (ibid.: 20–1), rather neighbourly groups of people with whom they had good relationship. There was yet another reason to which I shall return later. This study seeks to explore and examine how the self and the relationship with others were enumerated.

Fashioning of self Adivasi mythic self-fashioning has some broad features. First, these are considerably variable and not uniform due to their different historical contexts. Second, while drawing ethnic boundaries to underline their

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independent identities, their understanding of selfhood was saturated by ‘the awareness that . . . inner core of the subject was not autonomous and self-sufficient, but was formed in relation to “significant others”’ (Cerulo 1997: 597) and the physical landscape. Self, therefore, is not a changeless and uniform idea. We begin this section with the Ho. The Ho belonged to the Munda stock of the Kolarian group who inhabited the Chota Nagpur plateau. Sometime around the 10th century AD, a few of them migrated to Singhbhum (Tuckey 1920: 41). Over time, they developed the same linguistic derivation of the Ho language and culture, which crystallised into distinct Honess. This was metaphorically expressed in their being born from the first pair, who chose buffalo’s and bullock’s flesh. Moreover, their advent as Ho implied rejection of their link with the parent stock. To incorporate this important experience of the community, the original Munda myth was reconstructed. Hence, the close resemblance between the Munda and first five paragraphs of Ho myth; the sixth recorded that the people lived separately, multiplied and evolved their languages and cultures (Tickell 1840b: 798). Besides distinctiveness, the Ho asserted that being born of the first pair they were Singbonga’s most favoured progenies. This strategy affirmed ‘the process of differentiation’ and more so the tendency to ‘maintain and achieve superiority over an out-group’ (Lamont and Molnar 2002: 170). This assertion of superiority was based on their historic success in carving out an exclusive political space in Singhbhum, which they called Hodesum (ibid.). This conjuncture presumably belonged to a period between the 12th century and the 18th century when the Hos expanded and colonised large territories in Singhbhum. The myth also conveys another message: the higher position accorded to the flesh eaters in the mythic feast (ibid.) implies that the Ho rated animal flesh higher to agricultural products. Moreover, the legend of the creation of plough found in Munda myth (Hoffmann and Emelen, Vol. XIII 1998: 3984–5) does not figure in Ho myth. These showed that the Ho located themselves at a pastoral and food-gathering stage, where hunting and animal husbandry occupied a higher position than agriculture. I presume that at the time of the recording of the myth (1840), due to differential growth of agriculture in Kolhan, the link with forest was still central. Hence, they preferred to highlight their pre-peasant forest-centric status to distinguish themselves from the peasant societies of the caste people around. As against this, cultural change as a means of fashioning self is different in subsequent myths. Here, centrality of agriculture in Ho socio-economy is expressed through the invocation of agricultural symbols and the use

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of rice during the ritual (Hebbar 2003: 43, 47). The version of myth recorded by Purti presents the Ho as a more complete peasant (Purti 1982: 7, 10–11). Significantly, what stands highlighted is the theme of self-refashioning, rather the dialectics of being and becoming in the Ho myths. Another modification, that is, change from agency to servitude, needs to be elaborated: the former is suggested when the Ho was engaged in the act of political expansion and colonisation, but the latter had set in with the advent of the English around Singhbhum during the second part of the 18th century, ending in the subjugation of Hodesum to the British in 1837. A significant fact is that instead of contesting, they were trying to rationalise subjugation. Before expounding on the logistics it will be pertinent to point to a wide tendency prevailing among other indigenous communities in India to rationalise political subjugation. This was done in a couple of ways, as we engage with the Baiga mythology. First, their legend portrayed that Muslims, English and the tribes, other than Gond, were born together, implying thereby that they came not under others but under one of their kin. Second, they projected subjugation as a divine ordination. They, therefore, conceived that Bhagwan convened a congregation of people to make a king for them; He arranged gold, silver and wooden chairs for them – the Muslims and English occupied the golden chair, the Hindus were offered the silver and the Gond the wooden one. But Nanga Baiga, the primeval man of their community, ‘squatted down on the floor’ (Elwin 2002: 317). The same mentality may be discerned in Jharkhand. The Ho myth records: ‘And after this from the Koles, from their senior house sprung the English, who also ate of bullock’s flesh. But they are the senior children, and the Koles the junior!’ (Tickell 1840b: 798). The sharing of the food and acceptance of a junior position to the British reflected the Ho defeat at British hands in 1836–37. Another point of view is that the abdication of the first place to the British, expressive of mythic acceptance of subjugation and defeat, was mellowed down by the wilful sharing of food. Moreover, the avowed commonness between Ho and British origins perhaps implied that they were defeated not by the other but by one of their own, rather they deliberately accepted British rule. This rationalisation indicates the hegemonisation of a section of Ho leadership who narrated the myth to the British official. The fact yet remains that a phase of anti-British uprising began during 1857–59 when the community challenged British rule. Even then, the myth was not reconstructed at that time (Dalton 1973: 185). This serves the other purpose of comprehending the Ho consciousness of history, and reveals that the oral construction/

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reconstruction of the past is not conditioned by the autonomy of the past per se but by the imperative of the present. The Santal self-fashioning through the entire complex of genesis myth is also distinct, yet different, in some respects. Kolean’s story particularly highlighted their Kherwar but not Santal identity. The legend narrates the story of migration, territorial expansion and their systematic marginalisation. To this, the version narrated by other Gurus added the story of the origin of the Kharwars and Dekos from the feast. Yet, the implied images portray an oblique recognition of Santal selfhood. This focussed more on becoming rather than any fixed or essential self-image. It begins with the story of procreation from the original couple. To multiply his creation, Thakur or Lita took them to the forest to collect the roots from which Pilcu Buri prepared the rice beer. This was followed by the birth of seven boys and seven girls. After they came of age, Pilcu Haram and Pilcu Buri taught the boys hunting and the girls’ techniques of gathering vegetables and leaves for their homes. It signifies that originally the Santals were at a hunting and gathering stage, but learnt to build their homes, sing and dance, develop the institution of marriage as well as sept norms and procreate as per Thakur’s design only later (Bodding 1994: 7). But they had then been a migratory race, engaged in searching new habitat to accommodate excess population. Implicit in this story of dispersion (ibid.: 8–9) is the emergence of subjecthood, their subordination and finally their systematic relegation to the margin by the Hindus and Muslims.

Representation of the other The representation of the other means how interethnic and intercommunity relations were constructed by the Adivasis. In Ho and Santal legends, the notion of the other is associated with the movement from primordial unity to diversity in mankind. The original Ho notion was that all, being the progenies of primeval 12 brothers and sisters, coexisted by wilfully sharing food and not interfering into other’s domain (‘none shall touch his brother’s share’). But later these brothers lived separately in their chosen places and evolved their distinct demographic identities. The Ho mentality to others was coded in the hierarchic order of creation of both the tribe and caste.13 We visualise a pronounced aversion particularly to the upper castes among the Hos. So, the Brahmins were said to be born of the third pair, Rajputs, Chatris and other Hindus of subsequent pairs. Second, they were denied the highest food of buffalo and bullock’s meat. These meant that Brahmins and Kshatriyas, who held first and second ranks in the caste hierarchy, were considered lower than that of the Ho and

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Bhumij (Tickell 1840b: 798). This metaphorically expressed their rejection of caste hierarchy itself, rather of their Hinduness. We notice this in the Baiga myth also, where the Brahmins were assigned second rank after the Gond. Moreover, they were bracketed with the Chamars (Elwin 2002: 317). Last, inferiority of the Hindus was further expressed by the Hos through the mythic denunciation of social practices like sati and charak puja (Tickell 1840b: 798–9). Similarly, the Baiga creation myth also sets up the idea of hierarchy: the first to be born were the Gonds; followed by the Chamar and Brahmin castes together; then came the Musalmans and English together and all the other ethnic groups; and last were the Pankas or village watchmen (Elwin 2002: 317). Possibly, the bias against Hindus among Jharkhandi Adivasis had originated due to Hindu expansion in the Chota Nagpur plateau, which forced the exodus of a section of the Mundas. So, they not only prevented Brahmins, Rajputs and Muslims to enter or settle in their territory, but also caused physical harm to them.14 Of the tribes, the Bhumijs were called Matkum, that is, next in brotherhood. This affirms a familial relation. The Bhuiyans were the next. Their lower rank showed their marginalisation in Ho mental world, a reflection of their defeat at the hands of the Ho during the power struggle for territorial control in an unidentified past (Tickell 1840b: 696–7). The Santal came next. Their relegation related their political insignificance due to their numerical smallness in Kolhan. The Santal representation of the other, rather their interethniccommunity relation, was based on the notions of assimilation and dichotomy. It reflects that like the Hos, the Santals were also ‘sensitive to meaningful features of their immediate environment’ that motivated them to ‘adjust their thinking and doing to what seems contextually relevant’ and finally motivated them ‘to incorporate others into identity’ (Leary and Tangney 2012: 84–5). Assimilation was formulated at two distinct levels. First, it was done by focussing on the notion of initial universal selfhood and basic unity and solidarity of mankind and second, by underlining the solidarity of the marginals and dominated. Hence, their myth invented the idea of unity of the Santals, Mundas, Birhor, Kurmbis and others, who were believed to have once belonged to the same Kherwar stock (Bodding 1994: 12). Likewise, the legend also projected the idea of racial oneness with such castes as Doms, Kamars, Tilis, Hadis, Bauris, Kunkals and unnamed others (ibid.: 20–1). The central theme of the myth, however, is the portrayal of the dichotomy between the Santals and Hindus/Muslims. This was conceived through the division of mankind into the broad ethnic category called Santal/Kharwar and non-ethnic groups or Dekos, the division enacted

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as part of divine design through the metaphor of selection of different shares of food by these groups of people (ibid.: 19). However, their myth portrays the changing nature of this relationship – they were friends, initially. This was why ‘all Kharwar people’ accompanied Ram Raja to Ceylon and helped him defeat Ravan (ibid.: 10). Their relations were later soiled. Gradually, antagonism towards Dekos grew, which could be assigned to the cultural and political expansion of the Hindus and Muslims (ibid.: 12–14, 20). This could be the origin of the idea of Deko or ethnic outsiders as tormentors and oppressors, as witnessed even today. The Santals projected a low profile of the upper castes to give vent to their strong aversion to Brahmanic rather than folk Hinduism. The former were believed to be the torchbearers of Hindu cultural hegemony who not only disrupted the greater Kharwar solidarity, but also defiled the core Kharwar self through ‘illicit intercourse’ and marriage (ibid.: 12). Cultural fissure became political when the internal clash between the Kiskus (called rapaj, i.e. kings) and Marandis (kipisar or collection of wealthy people), two Santal septs, encouraged the Dekos to enter and rob the people, defeat the opposing Murmus (Thakur or priests), another Santal sept and finally occupy ‘the whole country’. This caused a fresh wave of Santal migration and Dekoisation of the remainder (ibid.: 20). This was the historical backdrop that created the essential dialectical relations between the dominant and dominated and conduct the polarisation of the marginals against the dominant Dekos. The Santal myth does not attempt to underplay the reality of subjection. As mentioned earlier, subjection was both defined and reasoned in terms of cultural and political subjugation under the Hindus. This bred anger and hate, which prompted them to liken the Hindus as detestable thorns (Sinha, Sen and Panchabhai 1969: 127). This phase was followed by the expansion of the Muslims; there is no clear admission of their being politically conquered. Rather, the narration of their displacement and flight obliquely referred to their earlier habitats being run over by the enemies, leading finally to confinement of the Santals to the east of Ajay River. The British conquest was covertly admitted by referring to the Santal Insurrection against the British. But this was somewhat toned down when they were referred as a bulwark against the Santal attempt ‘to make the Ganges our boundary’ by driving out the Dekos (Bodding 1994: 10–11).

Portrayal of landscape While the narration of self is the central theme of the legend of creation, reference to landscape is peripheral and community specific. According

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to Adivasi creation myths, the concept of the world, interchangeably space and landscape also, is both metaphysical and physical, comprising the pure and eternal primordial world, the visible empirical world and an invisible world of spirits, coexistent with the empirical world (P. Sen 2006b: 314). But besides this universalistic notion, they showed an inchoate tendency to refer to geocentric, that is, physical or territorial, space represented by the valleys, hills and forests they occupied. Though they were not conversant with the scientific and philosophical notion of space or the empirical and lived world, they ‘had the awareness of the concept of extension in one or more dimensions, distance, directions and emptiness’ (ibid.: 315). The creation stories of the Munda, Oraon and Ho do not have much to offer as to how they defined the landscape and shaped their understanding of the interrelationship between self and landscape. The Mundas referred to the earth as the locus of all vegetation, human beings and animals. This does not relate the story of how earth was subsequently divided into territories inhabited by the Mundas and other communities. Significantly, the legend of the ‘making of the first plough’ symbolises the advent of agriculture and conversion of the original wilderness into cultural landscape (Hoffmann and Emelen Vol. XIII 1998: 3981–5). However, in the Oraon legend, we do not find the crystallisation of the concept in its full dimensions. It merely relates the genesis of mankind, the institution of agriculture, discovery of iron and the origin of the gods and spirits (Roy 1984: 251–72). It is silent on the territorialisation of the landscape, putting more emphasis on the conversion of the physical landscape into a cultural one, where humankind pursued agriculture and iron smelting technology. As we engage with the Hos, first we find the conception of earth comprising land mass, water, flora, fauna and human beings. Second, there is the primal universalistic vision of demography and space who lived together as there was no distinction of race, caste, language and geography (Tickell 1840b: 798). Third, the division of primal mankind into castes, tribes and races also accepted the idea of living separately in their territories, comprising near and ‘far countries’ (ibid.). This is the backdrop in which the Hos, the first in the divine scheme of creation, seemed to have inhabited on a territory, which as Tickell informed, they called Hodesum. However, the myth merely gives an oblique hint to the nature of the landscape. The metaphor of the primacy of animal flesh locates them as a hunter-forager, and therefore their landscape as a natural space full of forests and animals. But the version of myth, as recorded by Purti, reveals the consolidation

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of cultivation and their peasanthood, implying thereby the change of their wild landscape into a cultural one. We, however, find a different vision of landscape among the Santals. As mentioned earlier, they conceptualised landscape originally as one and unbounded space from which the suggestion of the creation of the community-specific areas may be apprehended. But their legend is very certain and eloquent about place-specific changing Santal selfhood. According to their myth, it was at their original but unnamed home that the original pair had given birth to seven sons and seven daughters (Hunter 1975: 452–3). When after re-peopling, mankind multiplied, they moved to a ‘very large plain’ named Sasanbead (Bodding 1994: 7–10). When human race was divided into tribes and their number grew, they had to make several change of places through migrations. Finally, they arrived at Champa (ibid.: 7–10). As territory/ region/place, landscape came under focus again with the affirmation of their Santal linguistic identity. This crystallised when they moved from Cae to Jarpi and then to Cae Campa, where the Santals finally attained full selfhood with the strengthening of their settled village system and socio-economic fabric (ibid.: 20). The occupation of the undefined ‘whole country’ by the Hindus, the confinement of the Santals to the east of Ajay River after Muslim expansion and ‘to make the Ganges our (Santal) boundary’ were other territorial expressions (ibid.: 10–11, 20). Differentiating people locationally was another way to forge self-landscape affinity. To exemplify, the Dekos were defined as the ‘non-Santals of the better class, especially Hindus’ who ‘were living in the plains’ as against the Santals who lived ‘in the forests and on the hills’ (ibid.: 10). The Adivasi creation legends thus produce the early imagery of self and landscape which broadly set the parameters of this linkage. We now move from myth to more material and substantial terrain of history to understand how the notions of self and landscape changed over time and how the Adivasis negotiated with these. But before entering the core part of this study, I would like to underline that of the three elements of landscape, that is, land, water and forest, the first has been studied in its three variants – land as territory where the Adivasis built their homeland; the village spaces on which they constructed their huts for living; and land comprising the area under plough that sustained them. This close linkage with land, water and forest as well as institutions of social governance of the landscape forms the subject of the following chapters, beginning with the affinity between identity and territory.

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Notes 1 Earlier version of the chapter were presented at the Research Colloquium, Department of Sociology, Delhi School of Economics on 28 October 2004 and published in Saikia 2008: 12–16. 2 Underlining this bias, Heehs writes: ‘Myth and history are often considered antithetical modes of explanation’ (1994: 1–19). 3 Levi Strauss affirms that ‘myths signify the mind that evolves them by making use of the world of which it is a part’ (Sturrock 1979: 34, 41). 4 I am inspired by Barthes, who observes: ‘As a total of linguistic signs, the meaning of the myth has its own value, it belongs to a history’ (1973: 126–7). 5 This is Bagh Rai’s narrative of ‘the history of his race from the creation to the establishment of British rule’ (Dalton 1973: 209–11). 6 However, the volume of Munda legend increases if we add the legend of Rain of fire (Hoffmann and Emelen Vol. XIII 1998: 3919–21). 7 Danda-katta and Bhelwa are performed to save men, specially children, cattle and crops from the evil eye and evil mouth (Roy 1984: 251, 266–9). 8 ‘Memory “resurrects”, “re-cycles”, and makes the past “reappear” and live again in the present, it cannot perform historically, since it refuses to keep the past in the past, to draw the line, as it were, that is constitutive of the modern enterprise of history’ (Spiegel 2002: 149–62). 9 For concept of time among the Adivasis of Jharkhand, see P. Sen (2006b). 10 For a detailed version of the myth, see Hoffmann and Emelem, Vol. XIII, 1998: 3985–8. 11 E. Roughsedge to C. T. Metcalfe, Secretary to the Government, 9 May 1820, para 18, South West Frontier Political Despatch Register (SWFPDR), 20 April 1820 to 7 June 1821, Vol. XXVII. 12 This fact is corroborated by the Tuckey Settlement Village Papers. 13 I am inspired by Partha Chatterji (1992: 169–209). 14 Roughsedge to Metcalfe, para 15.

4

Notion of territory and the formation of pre-state political order and beyond

Drawing boundaries is an essential process in the crystallisation of the notion of collective self. However, the scholarly world is divided over the relative importance of constitutive elements. For some, social boundary is more important than territorial context (Barth 1966: 15). But generally speaking, a community is identified with a distinct geographical space, where they have a preponderance of number (Barth 2000: 23). So, when identity is constructed on the basis of ‘shared sameness and their distinction from others’, there is a certain reference to a place or territory (ibid.: 18–19). But what constitutes this territory or landscape? The notion of landscape emerged in the 15th- and early 16th-century Europe as ‘a way of seeing the external world’ (Cosgrove 1985: 5–62). But gradually, the idea of landscape came to signify historically ‘deep organic ties between a native people and their land’ (Cosgrove, Roscoe and Rycroft 1996: 536). Therefore, in Africa, the identity of a tribe has been characterised by a close link with ‘unique territory’ (Evans-Pritchard 1940: 142). Ranajit Guha underlines that territoriality or the linkage with a particular geographical landscape is composed of consanguinity and contiguity (Guha 1983: 279). For this reason, often a group of people come ‘to think of themselves, as being rooted in place’ and ‘they derive their identity’ or sense of ‘nativity’ from this rootedness (Lund 2005: 372). The question is how far territorial root is central in determining Adivasi identity in Jharkhand. More so, how far their claim of nativity is justified? Though lexically ‘tribe’ denotes ‘a group of people of the same race’, ‘living in a particular area’, it does not confirm nativity. But its other variant ‘indigene’ specifies people ‘belonging to a particular place rather than coming to it from somewhere else’ (Hornby 2005: 1638). In that sense, an indigenous community constitutes the native or aboriginal, rather Adivasi. However, in view of large-scale global human migrations, due both to environmental and existentialist

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factors during prehistoric and historic times, territorial identity often becomes specious. Therefore, the claim of nativity is widely considered rhetorical and political. But since the claim of ‘indigenous slot’ has lately emerged at the global level, it becomes topical to comprehend the very context and content of their territorial assertion. This underlines, as Sergio Sauer observes, their ‘self-definition or self-recognition as a socially differentiated group with an identity of its own and a close relation to a specific territory and land’ (2012: 85). Likewise, Vinita Damodaran writes: The reference to land or territory has been an important part of the definition of the word ‘indigenous’, and environmentalists have argued that for those people who consider themselves indigenous a special relationship with the land is a fundamental aspect of their identity. (2013: 1) Before taking the above discussion forward, we should comprehend the difference between symbolic and physical landscapes. The former is invoked in this study to mean the amorphous and undefined idea of a physical space or environment, around which Adivasi ‘lifeworld was (is) imaginatively constructed in myth’ (Ingold 2000: 9). However, the latter is constituted by the actual geographical territory where people live and pattern their life world. There is a close link between the invention of self and this changing idea of landscape. Symbolic or imagined landscape has a necessary relationship with people at a hunting-gathering stage for whom it was to occupy a ‘natural’ rather than an ‘artificial’ or ‘built’ environment of the sedentary people (ibid.: 56). What I argue is that change in selfhood from itinerancy to sedentary way of life infuses the sense of definitive and bounded landscape or ‘boundary’, the twin word for ‘borders’ (Lamont and Molnar 2002: 167). The sensitivity ‘to meaningful features of their immediate environment’ or landscape prompted the Adivasi communities ‘to adjust their thinking and doing to what seems contextually relevant’ (Leary and Tangney 2012: 84). Therefore, this chapter engages with scholarly debate around the changing linkage between indigene and habitat/homeland, the latter comprising cradle and diaspora as caused by dispersion and displacement. The following sections will study the emergence of pre-state Adivasi polity and consequent political control over their landscape. This will be followed by its loss with their entry into state systems and finally the advent of the Jharkhand movement to assert their claim for a separate state for the Adivasis.

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Linkage between indigene and habitat/homeland To recollect, despite the knowledge of migration and resettlement, ethnic groups generally claimed nativity, rather the status of original settlers of Chota Nagpur-Santal Parganas. This ethnographic information largely fed into the portrayal of these communities as indigenes by historians, anthropologists and Adivasi activists today. The claim of Adivasihood emerged for the first time at the national level (Hardiman 1987: 13), and gradually escalated into a global movement which utilised such national and international fora as the Working Group of Indigenous People (WGIP), Indian Council of Indigenous and Tribal Peoples (ICITP) and World Council of Indigenous Peoples (WCIP) founded in 1994. Their voice also resonated at the UNO, ILO and the World Bank. The movement focussed on some broad issues: rejection of the nomenclature of tribe; their projection as indigenous but marginalised and vulnerable people; and their claim of the right of self-determination largely within their nation states. Significantly, the Draft Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples made by the UNO in 1994 underlined territorial linkage as the indissoluble mark of indigeneity (Bowen 2000: 12–6; Karlsson 2003: 403–23; Kingsbury 1998: 414–57). During the sessions of the WGIP, indigenous delegates insisted that their link with land they lived on, rather ‘Mother Earth’, was ‘spiritual’ (Karlsson 2003: 406).1 Similarly, rightist groups underlined native people’s ‘special cultural and historical tie to their territory’ as the basis for their right of self-determination within that territory (Bowen 2000: 12). Moreover, they focussed on continuity of occupation of ‘ancestral territory’ or ‘common ancestry with original occupants’ as charter for territorial claims (Kingsbury 1998: 419). On this basis, B.G. Karlsson asks, ‘Is this mere political ideology, and thus a strategic use of “myth” to get control over (disputed) lands and resources?’ (2005: 188). Damodaran adds that this claim unpacks the meaning of indigeneity which leads to their ‘understanding of landscapes, their stories of nature, their lived histories’ (2000: 4). Resonance of these ideas may be found from Latin America also, where history and memory were inscribed into the landscape. SantosGrenaro elaborates: ‘Their importance does not lie in their fidelity to what “really” happened, but in having become an integral part of the historical consciousness and the identity of the peoples that bear them’ (1998: 144). These issues make it crucial to know how the Adivasis of Jharkhand anchored their selfhood territorially and how they ‘molded, defined, and used’ the landscape (Damodaran 2005: 115, 122–4).

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The notions of cradle and diaspora We are natives of this county, Yet they are driving us out; They are driving us from our birthplace. Be learned, brother, be knowing, be a man. (Orans 1965: 109) In a recent study on South Asia, two factors coined as ‘rights of occupation’ and ‘rights of conquest’ have been considered crucial in the formation of territorial identity (Bates 1995b: 111). According to the first, occupation determined the territorial identity of the indigenous groups in India. These factors seem relevant in the context of tribal Bihar. Here, after the occupation and habitation in a forest tract, ethnic communities colonised a much greater geographical area. This gave rise to the concept of cradle and diaspora among them and the corresponding imagery of their ‘remembered landscape’. However, since they had been invaded and often dislocated from their earlier habitat in the plains by the Aryans (Dalton 1866: 153), the logic of history created a strong sense of ‘landscape of servitude’ in them while ruminating the memory of their ‘remembered landscape’. However, conquerors like the British derived from this historical experience the ‘rights of conquest’ over Adivasi-dominated territory. Next, since belonging to hills and forested region was in British perception the mark of their cultural retardation, ‘the white man’ derived the legitimacy to conquer their territory in order to carry out their historic civilising mission. Major Adivasi communities in tribal Bihar believed that since they had cleared primeval forests and founded their villages, they had earned the status of khuntkattidars or first settlers. Therefore, the Mundas-Oraons, Santals and Hos, respectively, considered the Chota Nagpur plateau, Damin-i-Koh and Kolhan-Porahat as their homeland. The concept of homeland was nonetheless saturated, more prominently among the Mundas and Santals, with the idea of the original seat or ‘cradle’ and the creation of a diaspora through occupation after the rise in population. The Hos generally do not have the notion of a unified cradle; rather, they reminisce about killi-specific mother villages and the subsequent founding of satellite villages. However, the Oraons recalled the story of their displacement from their pre-Chota Nagpur original home at Rohtas and later settlement in Chota Nagpur. We find that the absence of recorded evidence required the colonial ethnographers and the anthropologist like S.C. Roy to draw on oral tradition to reconstruct the history of the precolonial Jharkhand

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region. We can, therefore, safely say that the supportive historical evidence is a sum of both self and other representations. Reid noted that the Mundas and Oraons of the Ranchi district considered themselves ‘the pioneers or descendants of the pioneers’ and they felt ‘pride’ to address themselves as a ‘descendant of the original founders of the village (a bhuinhar or khuntkattidar)’ (1912: para 20). During Sardari Larai, a Munda related to Rakhal Das Haldar, the official supervising the survey of ancestral low-rent lands in Ranchi during 1869–80, comments: We claim bhuinhari rights because (Chota) Nagpur is our fatherland (italics added). We consider Nagpur as our Gaya, Ganga, Kasi and Prayag (sacred places in Hindu traditions). The bones of our ancestors lie buried in the bowels of Nagpur. We are no colonists from other countries, but derive our race from Nagpur. (MacDougall 1985: 60–2) Interestingly, a similar claim of nativity echoed from Latin America, where the Andean indigenes asserted: ‘We are all descendants of our ancient tributaries from whom we have our titles that secure our lands’ (Rappaport 1994: 31). Significantly, the claim of aboriginality, as reproduced from the Adivasi tradition in Jharkhand, was also occasionally supported by archaeological proofs of ancestral graves and the ruin of a fort. We later witness that sasandiri test was officially practised as a more dependable evidence to determine the first settler. We note that the idea of cross-checking of legendary history with the archaeological evidence of grave sites was deployed in other countries also.2 Both Munda and Oraon traditions depict that the latter immigrated and peacefully coexisted with the former in the Chota Nagpur plateau. Traditional Oraon history related that they were driven out of their earlier stronghold in Rohtas probably by Cheros or Kharwars. Subsequently, one of their branches settled in Palamau (Hallett 1917: 22). The Munda informant also said: ‘We allowed the Oraons of Ruhidas [the modern Rohtas, a famous fortress about 150 miles northwest of Ranchi District] to come to this country. They came peaceably, and we allowed them to occupy the country in peace’ (MacDougall 1985: 62).3 Traditions, stone memorials and ancient Sanskrit texts reveal that before the arrival of the Aryans, the Mundas and their allied communities controlled large parts of northern India. The hilly tracts of north-western India were their earliest bastion. This association was

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inscribed in their creation myth through the metaphor of Marang Buru. It was here that they achieved settled village life. If the achievements of Dasyus, with which the aboriginal races were generally associated, are added, then they had been able to raise several cities, enviable castles and wealth. This is depicted by the Rig Veda. But the Kolarian race was gradually driven to the Gangetic valley by the Aryans. After forming several intermediate habitations, they finally settled at Chota Nagpur plateau (Roy 1970: 13–14).4 Traditional history of the Mundas identified different original seats. According to one tradition, they formed their first settlement at village Omedanda in the Ranchi district or Nagpur (Hallett 1917: 22). But another tradition revealed that Satyomba was ‘revered by the whole tribe as the cradle of the race’ (Dalton 1866: 154). About the foundation of the cradle, there was yet another story. This story depicted that with 21,000 people, Risa Munda, the legendary Munda culture hero, moved towards the east and first settled in Murima village; Korumba, his follower, set up the village named after him as Korumba; Sutia, another follower, founded the village Sutiambe. Mundas inhabiting central part of Chota Nagpur still referred the latter two villages as the ‘cradle of “Konkpat” Mundas’ (Hallett 1917: 22). We further learn that after the ‘more prolific’ Oraons set their feet in the plateau, they wilfully allowed them to occupy the central part. Thus, ‘the remote ancestors of the Mundas finally secluded themselves in the valleys and jungles of Chota Nagpur’. They cleared forests and set up new villages, the boundaries of which ‘were laid down by the Pater familias’. As growth in population caused space problem, new villages continued to be founded. In the process, not only the number of villages proliferated, but also a ‘number of separate families belonging to the same kili’ grew. To prevent marriage liaisons, new killis were added to the mythic 12 families/killis, which increased to 21 during Risa Munda’s time. Gradually, the Mundas colonised the south-eastern and northwestern parts of the old Ranchi district (Roy 1970: 62–70). Oraon traditional history recounted the story of their origin in south india at a remote period. Their folklore, as reconstructed by Rev. Dehon, narrated their participation in the clash between Ram and Ravan. Presumably, being on the wrong side of this feud, they were forced to migrate first to the Narmada region and then to the valley of the river Sone. It was here that they developed their ‘ancient seats’ at Aramnagar (Arra) and Byaghra-sara (Buxar). Later, they formed their settlements in the Ruidas hills region (ibid.: 68–9).5 As mentioned earlier, they entered Chota Nagpur and entrenched themselves in its central part with the help of the Mundas.

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The Ho informants mentioned that groups of Mundas had originally migrated from Chota Nagpur plateau. They inhabited northern Singhbhum and developed Ho identity. They were involved in clashes for supremacy with the Bhuiyans6 and Saraks (Tickell 1840b: 696–7), the earlier inhabitants of this region. Later, they consolidated their control over southern Singhbhum. The Hos named this area Hodesum, although the Hindus called it Kolehan (ibid.: 694–8). According to Tickell, ‘a tract of open undulating country, averaging from sixty miles in length north and south, from thirty five to sixty in breadth’ (ibid.: 699). However, Dalton identified a total area of 4,503 square miles to be Ho or Larka Kol territory. Of the total area locating the Hos, 1,905 square miles was identified by him as the ‘exclusively Ho territory known as the Kolhan’ (1973: 178). The notion of territorial identity of the Hos was derived primarily from the logic of numerical preponderance, rather political control. According to Tickell, they constituted 85 per cent of the total population of Kolhan (1840b: 700). In 1867, their exact number was estimated at 118,281, though the percentage could not be calculated due to the non-availability of non-tribal figures.7 By the 1890s, the population in Kolhan rose to 237,320, of which aboriginal tribes numbered 175,683 (i.e. 74.2%) of the total (Craven 1898: para 66). During the Tuckey land revenue survey and settlement (1913–18), the official notion of Kolhan as the exclusive Ho land was further challenged, when it was found that a large number of villages had originally been made and dominated by non-Hos (Tuckey 1920: para 18). Even then, Kolhan continued to be regarded as exclusive Ho territory not only officially, but also by the Hos. The latter claimed that they were the khuntkattidars of primeval forests.8 In doing so, they often ignored the earlier history of village making by the Saraks and Bhuiyans (Sen 2012a: 34–40). The Santal creation myth narrated that they had carved out their homeland from the beginning of time. But with gradual dispersion, their habitat changed over time. Subsequently, they crossed the Damodar River and settled down at Sikharbhum or modern-day Hazaribagh. From there, they moved to Manbhum (roughly the present-day Purulia district of West Bengal) and Santal Parganas (Roy 1970: 60). But scholars are not uniform about the modern-day equivalents of the places they settled. Hihri Pipri, their cradle, was identified by Hunter as the Himalayan region (Hunter 1975: 155). Though their intermediate habitats are not identified, they gradually entered Chota Nagpur plateau. ‘Cae Campa’, which scholars generally identified with ‘the

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country to the northwest of the present Chotanagpur’, represented the acme of their political rise. But later, their power declined as they lost the fight against the Hindus and were forced to move to Tore Pokhori. This was ‘generally taken to be situated somewhere to the northwest of the sources of the Damuda (Damodar) river’. Next, Sir and Sikhar denoted their habitation somewhere in the Chota Nagpur region and that in Tundi in Manbhum. Similarly, Ajay River signified the extreme limit of Santal territory, beyond which existed the ‘country of the Muslims’. The story ended with their movement to their final destination Santal Pargana during British rule (Bodding 1994: 3–22). This relates Santal identification of a compact homeland around the cradle and diaspora. Emergence of Adivasi pre-state polity The dominant idea of the Adivasi polity is that of pre-state village republics. But indigenous tradition, colonial ethnography and postcolonial anthropological and historical researches on India (Sinha 1962, 1987; Singh 1971) also relate the emergence of chieftaincies among them, largely due to the impact of Sanskritisation. Their autonomy further dissipated when they were merged into Mughal and British state systems. Satyomba village was the nucleus around which the parhas of the Mundas grew up. A parha, comprising 12 or more villages, was headed by a chief who conducted the ordinary business of the parha community. In case of ‘extraordinary occasions’, ‘the Purha chiefs met and took counsel together’. This suggested the existence of an informal supra-parha institution (Dalton 1866: 159), rather parha confederacy. Dalton wrote: ‘Left to themselves, the Kols increased and multiplied, and lived a happy arcadian sort of life under their republican form of government for many centuries’ (ibid.: 160). However, this polity may be linked to their material backwardness. Being ‘in a very wild state’, they drew largely on the forests and rudimentary cultivation. This forced them to share their territory with the Oraon community who were equipped with ‘large herds of cattle and implements of husbandry’, as also with the tools to reclaim the country and extend the area of habitation (ibid.: 159). Naturally, this help somewhat strengthened the republican political system of the Mundas and Oraons. But the existing administrative set-up was found inadequate with the rise in population and number of villages. It was around the sixth century that the Mankis and parha rajas decided to

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form a centralised institution, following which they chose Madura, the Manki of Sutiambe as the chief Manki or raja (Hallett 1917: 24). The chief of Sutiambe, or the place itself, was preferred as ‘the cradle of the race’ (Dalton 1866: 160). This was how the Munda and Oraon village republic took the form of an endogenous chieftaincy. On this nucleus, the feudal state structure of Chota Nagpur raj soon developed. Ethnographers revealed that precolonial Hodesum was united around a ‘constitution of confederate village communities’ or republics, lacking the notion of a centralised government (Dalton 1973: 178; Baden-Powell 1972: 153). They had developed their grid of village administration which was uplinked with pir, a conglomerate of villages of varying number. But British ethnography revealed that a pir had grown out of Ho subordination to the chiefs of Porahat. The latter had grafted it on the native body politic in order to maintain fiscal and judicial control over the villages (Tuckey 1920: para 32). Santal tradition highlighted a state of flux among them due to recurrent migrations. Yet, there is some hint of how they had been able to evolve the state of polity. At the pre-Champa phase, they laid the foundations of their kin-ordered village and parha/pargana institutions. This system was retained till the advent of British rule (Bodding 1994: 3–10, 20–1). This broadly formed the background when due to the extraneous contact Jharkhand region entered the phase of state making. At this stage, the Adivasi conception of landscape changed from that of loose politico-cultural territorial boundary to that of rigid territorial demarcation or border that emerges with the formation of a state.

State formation and Adivasi subordination Sivaramakrishnan defines state formation or state making as the process that shaped ‘the forms and legitimations of government and governmentality’. Elaborating the idea, he further adds that state making is the analysis of ‘the pathways and modes through which locality, region, nation, and transnational bodies become spatial and cultural entities’ (1999: 5). This section seeks to comprehend how pre-state indigenous republics in Jharkhand gradually became a part of the state system and developed exogenous demographic and spatial relations. More interesting is to analyse whether the formation of a state was organic and indigenous in nature or whether this was grafted into their body politic by an extraneous agency.

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Scholars have two perceptions about state formation in Chota Nagpur plateau. The dominant view is that of the Rajputisation of the tribe (Sinha 1962: 35–80). K.S. Singh proposes the alternate idea: ‘Chotanagpur Nagbanshi chiefs were a branch of the Dravidian Nagas, who ruled over middle India as late as the 14th century.’ The Chota Nagpur raj did not, however, emerge out of ‘Munda culture-matrix’ (1971: 170). In their case, the exogenous intervention was unavoidable because the Kolarian material foundation, based on their ‘communal agrarian organization’, was not conducive for state making (ibid.). Against this, the neighbourly Chero Kingdom of Palamau, which survived for more than two centuries, could be sustained because of its solid economic and military base (ibid.: 167–9). These two ideas largely agree that besides weak material foundation, such factors as the absence of strata formation due to ‘kin-ordered mode’, egalitarianism, the inability to produce surplus wealth, democratic values and technological lag precluded the emergence of a unified centralised state system.9 It appears that the Mundas and Oraons responded to external material and moral influence favourably. First, signs are rationalisation of physical subjugation, mentioned earlier. Next was the softening of cultural hegemony when they invented the Brahmanical and Nagbanshi legends of the formation of Chota Nagpur raj (Dalton1866: 160–2; Roy 1970: 74–6; Singh 1987: 51–71; Papers relating to Chota Nagpore Agrarian Disputes 1890: 51–3). Dalton revealed that ‘a child of his house, reared in it if not born there, was, through his (Madura) influence and by the advice of a Brahmin he had taken into his service, elected supreme chief over the whole confederacy’ (1866: 160). It emphasised that as Madura found the earlier republican polity inadequate to govern an expanding network, on the advice of a Brahmin, he decided to import a more advanced administrative mechanism. Heterogeneity within Munda ranks seemed to widen as the raj entrenched itself. To abjure a supposed lowly link of a Kol, a superior pedigree was fabricated. This presaged the invention of Brahmanical origin of the dynasty. The story revealed that the dynasty originated with Pundarik of the Naga or Serpent race. To avert the wrath of Janmajay, raja of Hastinapur, he took on the persona of a Brahmin. To assimilate himself into the Brahmanical fold, he studied the shastras at the house of a Brahmin living in Benaras. The Brahmin, impressed by ‘the intelligence and grace of his pupil’, got his daughter Parvati married to him. On their return from a pilgrimage to Puri, when the couple reached Jharkhand or ‘forest land’, she gave birth to a son. But when she insisted that Pundarik should reveal his true identity, he assumed

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his ‘proper form’ of a snake and disappeared into a pool of water. Out of grief, Parvati committed sati. The abandoned child, named Phani Mukut Rai, was ‘taken to Madura’s house who adopted and brought him up with his own son’ of the same age. When the child was 12 years of age, Madura ‘convened the Purha chiefs’ and other neighbouring rajas. It was decided that the more accomplished of the two children should be selected as the future raja. The annals of the Nagbansi family claimed that inherent qualities of the boy prompted the chiefs to select Phani Mukut as their raja, but the Munda tradition narrated that when Madura found him to be more deserving than his own son, he first ‘named him as his successor’, after which ‘other Mankis and Parha-Rajas unanimously elected Phani Mukut Rai to be their Chief’ (Dalton1866: 160–1; Hallett 1917: 24). The Adivasi tradition, therefore, reflected that Chota Nagpur raj was the product of a kind of social contract. But this contract seemed to be violated, when the raj acquired exogenous features. First was the marriage of Phani Mukut with the daughter of Sikharbhum or Panchet raja against the indigenous norm of marrying within Munda or Oraon fold. Significantly, this could happen only after Pundarik reappeared and contrived a noble pedigree for his son. Since then, ‘the Nagbunsis have always intermarried with the best Rajpoot families’ (Dalton 1866: 160–1). Violation of endogamous norm seemed to disaffect the Munda and Oraons. Consequently, an internecine feud ensued at the marriage party, which calmed down only after the intervention of other guests. Imbibing in extraneous political institutions and practices was the other violation. At Sutiambe, the first capital of the raj, a mud fort was built; later, the capital was shifted to Chutia where a masonry fort and some stone temples were erected; at the next capital Doisa, the raj raised ‘some fine buildings’. These symbolised both the entrenchment of chiefly and Brahmanical traditions, as also progress ‘in art and in civilization’. Next was the adoption of expansionist strategy. Previously, Chota Nagpur raj’s area of control did not extend ‘beyond the plateau or fringe of hills’. This was later extended further to include Silli, Tamar, Barundah, Rabey and Bundu. These parganas of the raj elected their own rajas, assumed Chatri identity, wore sacred threads and married into Kshatriya families. They were later brought under the control of the Chota Nagpur raj and forced to pay tribute to him in the form of diamonds (ibid.: 161–3). The third transformative stage arrived with the gradual incorporation of the chieftaincy into imperial network. The chieftaincy, rather Chota Nagpur and the adjoining hill states known as Jharkhand, was ‘an inaccessible frontier country’ for the ruling kingdoms down to the

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Mughal Empire. Attracted by the rumours of diamonds, the Mughal army attacked this area during Emperor Akbar’s reign and made the raja of Chota Nagpur a tributary. He was compelled to provide military assistance during Mughal expeditions to the adjacent provinces. This was followed by a military expedition sent by Emperor Jahangir for ‘more complete subjection’ of the region by removing raja Durjan Sal, ‘the unknown petty Raja’ of Chota Nagpur. He was captured and sent to Delhi, but later released and ordered ‘to pay an annual tribute of Rs. 6000’. Thus, the chieftaincy of Chota Nagpur was incorporated into the Mughal Empire, with the chief allowed to run the internal administration of his territory. Administrative imperatives forced the chiefs to incorporate ideologies and practices which systematically alienated the raj from its endogenous moorings. The pressure of regular payment of tributes, which often fell in arrears, forced the rulers to promote large-scale in-migration of Hindu and Muslim mercenaries, Brahmins, Hindu peasants and traders. Ignoring the authority of the old Munda and Oraon chiefs, the raj farmed out villages to them. Furthermore, they deployed Brahmins, Rajputs and other non-Adivasi peasants and traders for ‘religious and secular services’. The inevitable result was the large-scale dispossession of the Mundas and Oraons from their villages and lands (ibid.). Paradoxically, the traditional system of village administration by the Munda and Manki continued to govern their life as per their customs. The raj appointed them in mopping up revenue and maintaining law and order. But, the Chota Nagpur chieftaincy was reduced into a disparate and extraneous institution. After the grant of Diwani of Bengal, Bihar and Orissa in 1765, Chota Nagpur came under the control of the British. But instead of enforcing direct authority, the area was left under the charge of Chota Nagpur, Palamau, Ramgarh and other smaller chiefs. However, the military collectorship at Ramgarh functioned as a controlling agency. Incessant squabbles among the chiefs, the failure to pay tributes regularly and efficiently govern their territories disaffected the aboriginals. Recurring popular protests led to the establishment of police thanas. This marked ‘the beginning of the disappearance of the feudal authority of the Raja’. But the ethnic people were subjected to rack renting and forced labour. Also, some of the thikadars indulged in the worst crime against women. These factors triggered widespread uprising of the Mundas, Oraons and Hos of Chota Nagpur in 1831–32. Though the insurrection was suppressed, it became clear to the British officials that more effective control was urgent. This saw the establishment of the South-West Frontier Agency in 1834, comprising Chota

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Nagpur proper, Palamau, Kharkadiha, Ramgarh, Bundu, the Jungle Mahals (excluding Bishenpur, Sainpahari and Shergarh), Dhalbhum Pargana and dependent Tributary Mahals, with Kishanpur (Ranchi) as its headquarters. Thomas Wilkinson was made the agent to the Governor General and the area was declared as a non-regulation territory. He framed his set of criminal and civil rules to administer this territory. Though the British introduced a paternalistic form of governance under the charge of the district heads and co-opted the village officials within colonial bureaucracy, Chota Nagpur plateau came under the canopy of the colonial state system (Jha 1987: Chapter V). The story was somewhat different in the case of the Santals. Their traditions related that in Campa, their village republican polity was transformed into a chieftaincy headed by their Kisku ‘kings’. This consolidated their politico-cultural position that presaged their ascent as a ‘great people’. Taking cue from the Munda history, we presume that their pargana chiefs had offered kingship to the Kiskus to make their polity more efficient. Efficiency was further added through division of specific functions among the killis. The Kiskus or rapaj were kings; Murmus were priests; Sorens were soldiers; the Hembroms were ‘princes or nobility’; the Marandis were the undefined ‘wealthy class’; the Tudus performed assorted jobs of drummers and makers of iron implements; Baskes as ‘merchants’ did ‘buying and selling’; Hasdas were cultivators. Nonetheless, this thriving community life was threatened by enemies. So, for protection, they built ‘great many forts’. An interesting fact is that these forts in major cases were killi-centric forts.10 Here, other Gurus, differing from what Kolean related earlier, underlined the village-centric Santal culture. Villages were self-sufficient. Interestingly, these were ‘called gar (forts)’ disputing the popular idea of fortification. All villagers were called ‘kings’ (raj, landholders) (Bodding 1994: 20), thereby contesting Kolean’s notion of a distinct royal social order. Moreover, implicit in this is the message of an egalitarian society anchored in their village republican polity. But, internally critiqued, this avowed idea is at variance with the existence of ‘comparatively poor’, as also division of occupations and the event of internal squabble between Kiskus (royal order) and Marandis (wealthy people) (ibid.). However, Kolean’s text is pregnant with a greater meaning. First is that their polity appeared to have been organised around killicontrolled spaces, where resources were reproduced within the killi itself. This is reflective of a killi confederacy that anchored the centralised polity controlled by Kisku kings. With this polity, they in ‘olden

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times . . . had possession of the country on both sides of the Ganges river’. But political recession started ever since the Hindus occupied their territory. Instead of surrendering to them, a large section left their habitat and migrated to carve out new homes. The same thing happened during the Muslim invasion, when they confined themselves to the periphery of the Ajay River. These underlined their collective effort at avoiding subjugation. But their migration to Santal Parganas, their insurrection and European help to the Dekos, which forestalled their plans to drive them beyond the Ganges, messaged their final submission to the colonial political structure (ibid.: 10–14). We do not have detailed knowledge about Ho polity from fragmentary colonial ethnography. Moreover, confusion prevails as to whether this was a politico-administrative or a cultural institution. Tickell’s construction of the political history (1840b: 696–7) of pre-British Kolhan from folklore revealed that at the time of Ho immigration, Singhbhum was under the occupation of the Bhuiyans. They were represented as ‘the inoffensive simple race’, ‘rich in cattle, and industrious cultivators’. It perhaps suggests that the Bhuiyans were organised under some kind of chiefdom headed by a ‘Bhooian Mahapator or Zamindar’ (ibid.: 696). They allowed the immigrants ‘to form settlements in the neighbouring woods’, and then ‘to reside in the central open fields’. Tickell related the entry of Saraks and their later fight with the Ho, which resulted in the expulsion of the former (ibid.: 697). Another major change was the foundation of the Porahat raj with the help of the Hos (ibid.; Dalton 1973: 179).11 The latter accepted the supremacy of the Porahat dynasty. As a mark of obedience and respect, the Hos occasionally paid the Porahat rulers ‘salamees in different taxes or “Russoomat” at periods of Hindoo festivals’ (Tickell 1840b: 698). They gradually colonised large parts of south and west Kolhan, founded their permanent villages and organised their customary social order. This was identified as the Kole territory. Venturing into this Ho bastion was fatal for any Brahmin, Rajput or Muhammedan.12 A recent essay contends the British ethnographic projection of the Ho as a pre-state order and avers that with the acceptance of the supremacy of the Porahat dynasty they became a part of the Porahat state system.13 But early colonial ethnography related that the Ho considered the Porahat rajas as an ally rather than a suzerain. We learn that the Porahat rajas and the Hos mutually agreed to divide their spheres of influence. The former chose the rich open plains towards the north, then called Singhbhum, with the seat at Porahat. We can presume that some of the Ho groups continued to inhabit Porahat and accepted the supremacy of the rulers (McPherson 1906: paras

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141–7), while others gradually spread across the ‘remaining tract of open land’ (Tickell 1840b: 697) and finally colonised Kolhan. They warded off the attempts of the chiefs of Chota Nagpur, Porahat and zamindar of Bamanghatty to subjugate their territory. They also carried out incessant raids of their neighbouring chiefs. Consequently, their military support was courted by the chiefs of Porahat, Seraikela, Kharsawan and Mayurbhanj in their contest for political superiority (ibid.: 698). These facts contend the claim that the Hos had been conclusively incorporated in the feudal state system of the local chiefs. Moreover, conceptually speaking, this would not fit into the idea of a state that defines statehood as a political institution, evolving organically out of internal socio-political dynamics but not extraneously imposed through conquest. A major and permanent incorporation into the state system occurred only after the British conquest of the ‘Kole territories’ in 1837 when these were demarcated as the Kolhan Government Estate. The political subjugation of their homeland brought in its trail slow but steady demographic marginalisation of Adivasis. Before the onset of feudal and colonial rule, they were numerically superior in the tribal belt of Bihar. But during the feudal era, Jharkhand was subjected to the steady influx of non-ethnic and spatial outsiders known as Diku. Though the inflow of functional castes in Adivasi villages had been promoted by the Adivasis themselves, the inroads made by Hindu and Muslim farmers, traders and merchants were encouraged by the local chiefs (Singh 2002: 2–9). The Diku influx proliferated during colonial rule when new elements such as government servants, lawyers, teachers, medical practitioners, contractors and miners trooped in to take advantage of the new avenues of jobs and professions which the British created. These new elements largely chose urban centres for habitation resulting in the conversion of towns and cities as Diku preserves. Even in villages, the percentage of Adivasi population registered a steady decline (Craven 1898: para 66), which sharpened as the years went by. The Census of 2011 records that out of a total 32,988,134 in Jharkhand, STs number only 7,087,068 (i.e. 26.3%) of the total (Indian Census Report of 2011, Primary Population Abstract). This systematic dwindling of Adivasi number weakened their political control over Jharkhand. Worse was the creation of the problem of land alienation (Singh 2002: 2–9). Some of the Dikus were engaged in acquiring Adivasi lands on thika, some even purchasing their lands.14 This naturally became an irritant for the ethnic groups all over tribal Bihar. But the greater problem was of the state-sponsored land alienation from Adivasis to the

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colonial government, companies and individuals (Sen 2011b: 69–72), followed by the sociocultural marginalisation of Adivasis (Singh 2002: 9–19). Diku religions like Hinduism and Christianity and languages like Hindi, Bengali and Oriya spread. These combined to relegate Adivasi culture to the background, creating in their minds a feeling of minority.

Assertion of territorial identity Politico-cultural marginalisation compelled Adivasis in India to assert their territorial specificity so that their control over the resources and pattern of life might be safeguarded. The Adivasis of Midnapur in West Bengal started a political movement during 1760–1924. This came in the wake of their systematic marginalisation commensurate with the loss of political power, subjugation, dispossession, usurpation of customary rights over the landscape and loss of culture. During this long stretch, they staged the militant Bhumij Revolt (1832–33), resorted to haat looting, refused to cultivate their lands and pay rent and finally merged their resistance with the all-India Non-Cooperation Movement (1921–22) (Dasgupta 1990: 101–35). In 1876 and 1910, the Adivasis of Bastar rebelled against the king and colonial rulers in defence of their land and customary rights (Sundar 2008: 79–150). Likewise, territorial selfhood was articulated by Jharkhandi Adivasis both through militancy and constitutional ways. It is worthwhile, therefore, to understand how this ideology crystallised and was articulated. For the Hos, Kolhan rather the Hodeusm was not merely a piece of territory they had occupied and lived but was their Nirul desum or Holy Land. This sensibility decisively inspired them to turn it into their sacred preserve denying even pilgrims passage in their journey to Puri and outsiders the opportunity to settle in their territory (Tickell 1840b: 697). To maintain their control over their habitat, they fought against the local chiefs of Porahat and Seraikela-Kharsawan in 1819–20 and the British in 1836–37 and 1857–58 (Sen 2014: 94–9). During the famous Hul of 1855–56, the Santals gave the call of Delaya birid pe, Delaya tingun pe (Arise, awake! Found the Santal Raj) to set free their cherished homeland from the control of the non-Adivasi landlords, moneylenders and the British (Sen 1992: 18–31). Similarly, during the Sardari or Kherwar movement (1858–95), the Mundas and Oraons in Chota Nagpur plateau sent petitions to the commissioner of Chota Nagpur (1867) and the lieutenant governor of Bengal (1881), to assert their status as ‘aboriginal’ and hereditary rights over the land (MacDougall 1985: 260–2).

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The pathos of loss of control over the sacred homeland is evident in the following song sung during the historic Ulgulan of the Mundas and Oraons under Birsa Munda (1895–1900): O Father of the earth, ours is the land, the country. You have made us live under others. You brought us from the Original Home, In Nagpur, our ancestors left their footprints. In the country reclaimed by us, you have made others sit On our property. (Singh 2002: 313) Similarly, riddled by the deep sense of moral and material depravation, the Santals of Midnapur fervently recalled their arcadian life in Champa (Dasgupta 1990: 121). Memory of the ‘remembered landscape’, as contrasted from ‘the landscape of their current servitude’ not only embodied their territorial and political sensitivity, but also simultaneously reinvented Adivasi selfhood.15 Originally, this was an autonomously governed but culturally imbued notion of territorial identity, which was fractured when the feudal elements and the colonial state converted ethnic landscape into a subordinate politico-cultural space and circumscribed their traditional control over it. With this, systematic marginalisation of the indigenes of Jharkhand emerged as a grim reality. They were forced to rationalise servitude and gradually adapt themselves to a constitutional and legalistic mode of political action. The graduation to this changed modality of collective protest was evident during the Sardari Larai, when the indigenes of Chota Nagpur plateau sent several petitions to the British government to defend their land and forest rights (MacDougall 1985: 260–2). This took deeper roots after the opening up of modern education in the Adivasi region and adoption of the literacy criterion, in the appointment of village and pir heads. These village officials, besides the Adivasi employees of the district administration, played a significant role in socialising the legalistic mode in Jharkhand. But the most significant impact of the diffusion of western education was the emergence of Adivasi literati as the vanguard of political action through press, public association and public meeting in place of the traditional arsenal of bow and arrow and battle axe (Sen 2014: 93–112). During colonial rule, an assertion of political identity peaked in the form of a claim for a separate state, more popularly known as the Jharkhand movement. Initiated and led by urban literate groups, this movement imported association politics in Adivasi body politic.

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Jharkhand movement However, the purpose of this section is not to elaborate how the movement originated and developed and the problems it encountered, its various weaknesses and pitfalls as also the modalities that followed. This will focus rather on how the notion of state was territorially defined and what final form this assumed. With the initial motive of providing welfare to the Christian tribals, associations such as the Christian Association (1898) and Dacca Students’ Union (1912) were formed. The Chotanagpur Tribal Association, founded in 1912, opened its membership to the non-Christian sections also. The claim for political rights, particularly statehood, was raised by a new forum named as the Chotanagpur Improvement Society or Chotanagpur Unnati Samaj. The literate section of the Society advocated for the reservation in jobs and legislative bodies, the creation of a substate comprising the tribal parts of Bihar; their demand for a full state was placed before the Simon Commission in 1928. That this state comprised only the Chota Nagpur division becomes clear from the avowed objective of the Adivasi Mahasabha formed in 1838. This state was deemed necessary to end Diku dominance, besides improving the socio-economic and political conditions of the Adivasis. Under the leadership of Jaipal Singh, the Mahasabha forged a strategic link with the Muslim League and helped the British war efforts during the Second World War. On the eve of Indian Independence, the association reiterated the demand for a separate Chota Nagpur state. After independence, the Mahasabha converted itself into a political party and reconstituted itself as the Jharkhand Party. This reiterated the demand for a separate state comprising Chota Nagpur and Santal Parganas. The resounding victory of the Adivasi candidates at the general elections in 1952 to the Bihar Assembly so enthused their leaders that not only a memorandum for separate Jharkhand was submitted, but also, more significantly, the territorial expanse of the state was reframed. This transcended its earlier politico-administrative identity and chose to denote Adivasi homeland as a distinct sociocultural and ecological formation of the indigenes. This included, besides the six Adivasi-dominated districts of Bihar, nine districts of West Bengal, Orissa and the then Madhya Pradesh. Though the Jharkhand movement continued to register its presence in the coming decades, it was plagued by internal bickering. This led to the birth of various Jharkhand-based outfits like the All India Jharkhand Party, Birsa Seva Dal, Hul Jharkhand Party, Jharkhand Mukti Morcha (JMM), Kolhan Raksha Sangh (KRS), All Jharkhand Students’ Union and Jharkhand

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People’s Party. The splits, occasional links with the nationalist parties like the Congress and Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) and the failure to strengthen its demographic base seriously sapped the movement from within and diluted the basic idea of homeland. The failure to spell the exact boundary of the claimed state was palpable. Sociocultural boundary remained merely an emotional rather than a political idea; Kolhan Raksha Dal was found active in the creation of a separate Kolhan state under the union government and cutting across party affiliations 50 MLAs and MPs of tribal Bihar made a demand for making Chota Nagpur-Santal Pargana a Centrally Administrative Territory. The formation of a separate Jharkhand state in 2000 registered perhaps the fulfilment of a long demand for an Adivasi state, comprising in all 22 districts of Chota Nagpur and Santal Pargana. Significantly, ethnic political preponderance over the new state was retained through the declaration of the state as a scheduled area, the provision of reservation of the 28 assembly seats for the STs out of a total of 81 and the post of Chief Minister enjoyed by an Adivasi till 2014 assembly elections. But the fact is that the Adivasis are clearly in minority with less than 27 per cent of the total population, where a large number of seats (general 44 and SC 9) held by the non-Adivasis and levers of economy decisively controlled by the latter.16 The historic invention of territorial identity was reinforced through the environmental articulation of their collective selfhood around land, water and forest. The next chapter therefore explores their transformation from an itinerant to a settled rural community by narrating the very process of village making as a factor in their relationship with the landscape.

Notes 1 For a claim as first settler on the basis of ‘priority of residence’, see Bowen (2000: 13). 2 Bowen refers to ‘tribal claims to grave sites as on the basis of long term occupation’ (2000: 13). 3 The link with this place survives in the Munda tradition as narrated in Roy (1970: 59). 4 For these intermediate locations, see ibid.: 35–59. 5 For their migration to Chota Nagpur and also for the suggestion of forcible entry, see Campbell (1866: 3). Campbell writes: ‘They must have been strong, to effect an ingress to a country not originally their own’ (ibid.). 6 Campbell considered them ‘the original occupants of much of the lower country to the south of the Chota-Nagpore plateau, great part of Singbhoom and Bonai, and the borders of Orissa’. He also noted: ‘These Bhooyas or Bhooians have been reputed to be the Aborigines of Bengal’ (1866: 52–3).

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7 Dr. W. H. Hayes, deputy commissioner of Singhbhum to the commissioner of Chota Nagpur, No.30, 22 February 1867, Revenue Department, June 1867, No. 122, 127. 8 Copy of memorial presented by the Hos at Chaibasa, dated 9 July 1914, vide resettlement of the Kolhan Government Estate in the district of Singhbhum, Government of Bihar and Orissa, Revenue Department, FN S/6 of 1915, Nos 1–12, Enclosure (5) to Proceedings No. 6, Appendix C, para. 9. 9 For an incisive play of some of these factors, see Wolf (2010: 88–100). 10 While Kolean considered Baskes as ‘merchants’, other Gurus called them cooks (Bodding 1994: 8–10, 20). 11 According to the tradition of the family, the dynasty was founded in the sixth century AD, while according to the British their rule commenced from the 13th century AD (Sahu 1985: 8–10). 12 Roughsedge to Metcalfe, 9 May 1820, para 13. 13 To quote: ‘State system of the Singhbhum Raj had over time entrenched itself in the countryside’ (Dasgupta 2007b: 100–4). 14 Details are provided in village-wise thika list in Craven and Tuckey Settlement Village Papers or Diku Reports. 15 This idea has been inspired by Damodaran (2002). 16 This study of Jharkhand movement is based on Singh (2006: 1–30); Vidyarthi and Sahay (1978: 85–91); Corbridge (1988: 1–42); Devalle (1992: 136–8); Amit Prakash (1999: 461–96); Kesari and Munda (2003: 216–31); Damodaran (2005: 133–43); Damodaran (2006: 179–96); Stuligross (2008: 83–97).

5

From itinerancy to settled village life

The transformation of the Adivasi communities from an itinerant to a sedentary group of people marked an historic change in selfhood. This, in turn, reshaped their relationship with the landscape in a major way. First, this infused in them a sense of identification with a territory, which developed the affinity of a community with homeland. The second and more fundamental change was the development of a more intimate linkage with the actual location, the village. This became the major site where the ‘social process’ involved individuals living there in ‘some co-operative activity’ (Mead 1934: 165). Ultimately, this created the distinct notion of rural selfhood. This is why Adivasis in India avow that rural life constitutes one of the basic markers of their identity. Elwin writes: A typical Baiga village gives an impression of a strong and vital corporate life. It is neither bound together by an exacting code of reciprocal obligations between kin, nor by a common loyalty to some dictatorial chief; but it is vitalized by a vivid consciousness of the tribal idea, a devotion to the Mother Earth, and an adherence to Baiga law. (2002: 22) Significantly, ethnic histories in some cases record a shift from itinerancy and shifting cultivation to settled village life and cultivation symbolised by the ‘origin of seed’ and ‘the goddess of food’ (ibid.: 318), but provide no details of when this had happened. However, the Ho history reveals that by the end of the 17th century, the advent of ruralisation and peasantisation had been coeval in major parts of Kolhan-Porahat, except for the people inhabiting the forested parts. Despite this movement from migrancy to sedentariness, the latter is

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accorded the status of essence in place of the original identity of an itinerant group. Presumably, assertion of rural identity derives from the historic and contemporary reality of the preponderance of village population among the ethnic groups in Jharkhand. It is, therefore, pertinent to build our understanding of how they adapted themselves to rural life and what constituted Adivasi rusticity as contrasted from what it means elsewhere in India and abroad. From the ancient to the colonial and postcolonial periods, village life has attracted scholarly attention all over the world. They have focussed on the making of a village, its social composition and relationship, economic activities, role of caste, kinship and ritual aspects, changing sociocultural and political matrix of village as also ‘the remarkable continuity said to be shown by the archaic village as the primary nucleus of society’. Together, ‘an idealized image of the village as a self-contained community’, rather ‘self-contained little republics’, was constructed during the colonial period, as was the idea of village as a site of ‘stagnant oriental social system’. But the village studies pursued through the census reports, gazetteers, district handbooks and regional surveys had largely been motivated by the urge to serve administrative needs. Since the focus was largely on caste, intimate details about the village communities and the socio-economic conditions of the Adivasi villages had mostly been scanty. However, these studies have more and less been successful in underlining village as both the site and function of their culture (Madan 2002: 4–8; Breman, Klooos and Saith 1997: 16–21; Cohn 1990: Chapters 5, 16; Inden 1990: 131–61). This chapter will, therefore, focus on the nature and role of the village among the Adivasis of Jharkhand – the centrality of village, the meaning of village in their perception as well as the process of village making and gradual changes in rural life. Further, this will also examine the veracity of such notions as self-sufficiency, immutability and its local or regional linkage.

Adivasis as rural We first ascertain how true is the claim that the Adivasis form essentially a village-based community. Linkage between rusticity and ethnicity is more or less a global phenomenon. Leroy Vail underlines that ‘Africans are inherently rural people or are in close harmony with Nature’ (1991: 16). About Latin America, ‘It is obvious that rural life and values are central to the region’ (Hoberman and Socolow1996: 1). True for Europe also, this centrality inspired the likes of L.R. Ladurie to select ‘a cluster of medieval villages in the south of France’ to write

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Montaillou (2008). Likewise, we may discern that the countryside was pivotal for the Adivasis of Jharkhand. This is borne out of the fact that in 1901, out of a total population of 1,809,737, urban population numbered merely 23,236 in the Santal Parganas (O’Malley 1999: 62–4), while the Chota Nagpur plateau was overwhelmingly rural in character,1 with agriculture as their principal vocation.2 The district of Hazaribagh in the 1870s had three chief and 32 small towns with a mere 3.74 per cent urban population.3 In 1911, Ranchi district had only three towns, while the rest of the population inhabited its 3,925 villages (Hallett 1917: 57). Similarly, the majority of population in Palamau district dwelled in 3,599 villages (Bridge 1996: para 1). One should, therefore, reason why the countryside dominated Adivasi life and why it continues to do so even today. Studies on Africa and Latin America ascribed material reason to this choice. Vail observed that rural bias persisted ‘because housing and living expenses are far lower in the rural areas than they are in the urban areas’ (1991: 16). In the same vein, Socolow suggested that the centrality of agriculture and pastoral pursuits so impacted rural life that the seasons of agricultural production, for example, tied people to the land in ways that conditioned their ability to act. Put another way, a peasant was highly unlikely to leave his plot of land, to travel to the city, or perhaps to join a revolt when his crop was due to be harvested. (Hoberman and Socolow 1996: 1) What motivated Adivasi preference for villages in Jharkhand? Was it due to comparative indigence or occupational imperative or reasons other than profane? This quest will lead us to diverse facets spanning between the origin of a village and the gradual fructification of rural culture. Portrayal of village life is more intimate and elaborate in the case of the Hos because of the more easily accessible village-centric information, though for the want of the same, a generic overview will be provided for other ethnic groups under study.

Towards a settled village life Progressive acculturation to sedentary village life was more or less a global phenomenon. It began with living in temporary villages, due largely to dependence on hunting, foraging and shifting cultivation. But living a permanent village life came in the wake of acculturation to settled cultivation (Skaria 1999: 53–4)4 largely during the precolonial

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period. This was unlike Central Africa where this was a colonial phenomenon. Chanock wrote: ‘Like tribes, in our period the villages were created by the colonial political process and people were learning to live in them, not living traditionally’ (1985: 21). However, we do not have any detailed record nor any oral evidence of why and how the Adivasis of Jharkhand abandoned itinerancy and started living in permanent villages. Hence, we have to depend on the cursory reference of the change as narrated by colonial ethnographers. These studies reveal that the itinerant Kolarian group gradually moved to the forestclad Chota Nagpur plateau in search of a permanent habitat. Though this migration has generally been ascribed to the Aryan aggression, which compelled the ethnic groups to search an inaccessible terrain in the forested and mountainous plateau region for safety reasons,5 two more reasons may be assigned. As stated earlier, legendary history located the earlier dispersions to population growth. Presumably, another pressing factor was that forager-hunter pre-peasant communities found mostly the unoccupied forested tracts an inexhaustible storehouse of food, fodder as well as arable and habitable land. Selection of the village site was very vital. In the Himalayan region, primary considerations were ‘access .  .  . to good forest and grazing ground’ (Guha 2008: 279). This necessary link with the woodland invested Adivasi rusticity with a distinctiveness, as Skaria shows in the context of the Dangs. Accordingly, village was necessarily ‘identified with jangal’ (1999: 58–9). Likewise, in Jharkhand, village life and agrarianism were saturated by a close yet variable link with the forests. In the case of the former, the selection of village site in a forested area was decided by economic, safety and ecological reasons. The Hos, for instance, first inhabited the thickly forested zone of northern Singhbhum (Tickell 1840b: 696), followed by the colonisation of south Kolhan. Here, they generally chose open and even terrain rather than the densely forested and hilly parts for village sites. This was why pirs with physiographically more open and flat surfaces located a substantial number of villages in its stretches (Craven 1898: 6–13). So, as against the southern parts, the more hospitable northern regions were ruralised first. The western part, generally hilly and forested, was not chosen, barring its few fertile valleys and occasionally the slopes. The far south, locating the famous mountainous and forested Saranda tract, contained sparse villages (Tickell 1840b: 699). In Hazaribagh and Lohardaga districts, the central plateau region with its undulating surface was the location for ‘prosperous villages and a fair extent of villages’. However, its extensively forested valley region was less densely rural (Hunter 1976: 23).

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Another factor that impinged on site selection was the material progress achieved by the community. This is true about the Oraons and the Mundas. Since the Oraons were agriculturally advanced, they preferred the open central parts of the plateau (Roy 1984: 65). On the other hand, though the Munda immigrants cleared jungles and established their villages ‘in the heart of deep dense forests’, they abandoned its central parts for the Oraons and moved to the north-western and later south-eastern parts (Roy 1970: 62).

Official and indigenous meanings of a village Official and indigenous meanings of a village were different. With the gradual exploration of the conquered tract, colonial ethnographers and administrators learnt that village was not only the epicentre of Indian culture, but also the base for Indian agrarian economy. Extensive researches were, therefore, undertaken during land revenue surveys and census operations. These defined a village in terms of physical boundary, demographic settlement, resources and occupational pattern (Bridge 1996: para 230). In the CNT Act, ‘village’ denotes any local area in which a survey has been made and record of rights prepared under any enactment for the time being in force, the area included within the same exterior boundary in the village map finally adopted in making such survey and record, as subsequently modified by the decision (if any) of a court of competent jurisdiction. (Datta 1928: Section 3, Chapter I, 21) Thus, under British rule, village emerged as the lowest unit within the district, divisional and provincial administrative framework. This created an ambivalent situation where the identity of a village was at the same time recognised and diluted. To an Adivasi, the idea of a village was multiple, perhaps more cultural than administrative. In ethnic social tradition, this was not only a place of governance, but also one that contained the Jahira and the Sasans where their departed ancestors rested. The material making of the village began the moment the early man delineated the boundary, cleared forests for human settlement and the Munda was selected. But other cultural symbols signified its gradual coming of age. The process often formalised the staged cutting of the umbilical cord from the mother village from which the pioneers had moved out. In sum, village to them was not simply a physical space, continuity with which

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provided the charter for their existing social positions (Hallett 1917: 64–6), it was the site where they replicated most of the symbolic elements of their mother villages by laying down the nitty-gritty of their culture.

UNDER THE SAME TAMARIND TREE RESTS MY SIRE Early man as village founder The above Ho saying reminisces the historic moment and its maker as a landmark in Adivasi history. Relating the association between graves and tamarind trees, Dalton wrote: ‘The collection of these massive grave stones under the fine old tamarind trees is a remarkable feature in Kol villages, and almost an indelible one, for they are found in many places where Kols have existed for centuries’ (1866: 194). Now, the Adivasi oral tradition and the sasandiris may be deployed as a potent archaeological evidence for the recovery of their past (Sen 2012b: 29–44). Dalton commented that when indigenous ‘traditions’ were not available, ‘ancient and modern monuments’ like the burial stones could be a useful source for rewriting their history (1873: 112–21). What I argue about is that in order to reconstruct the story of Adivasi self-representation, we should rely on the physical evidence stated above. The arrival of a group of Munda and Oraon agnatic families in the virgin forests of Chota Nagpur initiated the process of village making there. On reciprocal agreement, these families demarcated their separate areas for clearance and habitation. This area formed the nucleus of their hatu or village, which was identified as khuntkatti or Bhuinhari hatu (Roy 1970: 63; 1984: 65). The founding killi enjoyed a privileged status among Adivasis, in general.6 In Jharkhand, the Mundas and the Hos acknowledged the crucial role of the pater familias or the early man, whom the Ho called Ham. It was he who first selected and demarcated the village space within a forested tract (Roy 1970: 63).7 On the other hand, the Santals, while recognising the key role of a leader, related the tradition of a group of village makers. Kolean described: ‘To found a village three to four men will go with a leader and investigate a forest’ (Bodding 1994: 100). Selection of the village site underwent specific material and moral verifications (Bridge 1996: para 227; Sifton 1996: para 186). The Santals, for instance, first performed faunal tests. If they came across ‘any of the three kinds of quails flying’, the chosen site was considered

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ominous, and so abandoned; if they saw these birds ‘sitting quiet on their eggs’, or if they found either a tiger or its footmark, they deemed this to be auspicious. Next, they conducted the ecological tests by verifying whether the ground was dry, whether the place abounded with good proportion of highland and homestead fields, whether rice fields could be prepared and if water was easily available or not, and then waited till they got ‘full good omens’ (Bodding 1994: 100–1; Bridge 1996: para 227; Sifton 1996: para 186). Presumably, amongst the ethnic groups, the verification of omen was the job of the Ojhas or medicine men. Dalton noted: ‘They (the Oraons) never build a house, or select a new site for a village or a new threshing-floor, without consulting the ojha and omens.’ The same is true about the Mundas (Dalton 1866: 188–9). A prayer was then offered to the Singbonga for the success of their endeavour (ibid.: 189). The puja (worship) was performed by the leader or the future Munda, who at that stage acted as both their secular and religious head (ibid.: 172; Roy 1970: 64). With the help of people accompanying him, the pioneer then cleared the forest area, prepared arable lands and allocated village spaces to various people in recognition of their services in village making.8 Among the Mundas, customarily all the reclaimed forest land belonged to the founding or agnatic families. The distribution of lands was generally done when the next generation arrived to set up their own families. Later on, others were invited and allotted lands (Roy 1970: 64). Though historical evidences are not eloquent about the order of the stages, it may be proposed that these were not simultaneous and continuous processes. Nor should village making be understood as a labour-intensive activity (Chaudhuri 1993: 69). Two instances from the history of the Hos will substantiate my point. First is that often the pioneer selected and demarcated the village boundary but could not complete the subsequent processes. So, it was transferred to his successor to gradually consummate the act.9 Next are the gradual stages of house building. Along with the founder’s, his helpers’ huts came up almost together when habitation began in a wide forested region (Roy 1984: 65). But after that, the old village became the nucleus for further colonisation. In that case, house making was a process subsequent to the preparation of agricultural lands. This was behind the notion of bechappar (houseless) and bechirag (lightless) villages (Roy 1984: 65–6).10 Santal oral tradition is more informed in this respect. The leader and his associates first ‘divide (ed) between themselves the homestead fields. On their respective fields they each put up a hut for themselves, a pen to keep their cattle in’ (Bodding 1994: 101). This is akin to the

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bechirag villages. Then, other formalities like actual peopling, building of houses and delineating public spaces were observed. To quote Kolean: Thereupon they go back to their old homes and call on each other saying: When shall we start? They then take their children and all they possess with them and go to the new village. The time of moving is the months of Phalgun and Chait (middle of February to middle of April). Now all of them clear the jungle for the homestead fields, and the trees they cut down also serve them for house-timber. Any remaining timber, etc., they burn away. They build houses. Running along the middle of the place they keep a village street, and at the end of this they arrange a sacred grove. (ibid.) This quote may create the impression that they made a blanket call to all the villagers to leave with lock, stock and barrel for the new home. This was neither logical nor possible. The Ho Village Papers revealed that they only invited their own kinsfolk (hagas) or those kins with which marriage relations were normed (balas).

Naming of a village Village identity expressed itself through the name it acquired. Hatunamkeda (naming of a village) and hatubaekeda (foundation of a village) were in a way co-terminus. This ushers in the historic first contact of the early settler with the chosen place and various collective or individual experiences, which they eternalised through village naming.11 An observation on the Dangs (Skaria 1999: 55) reveals that the momentous pioneering role of the early man often invested him with the status of a culture hero. Hence, a large number of villages were named after him, as the Ho history relates.12 They sometimes gratefully remembered the village from which he had hailed and persons who had accompanied him at the time of village making.13 Usually, the gratitude was acknowledged by accepting him as the Munda of the village.14 These facts indicate that though celebrating individual culture heroes was customary, the memory about them was neither always very precise nor elaborate. Moreover, except for the rare instance of Risa Munda, we do not come across generic culture figures or community heroes. Like the Dangs (ibid.), village naming was often ecologically determined. Some villages were named after the trees with which the chosen

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site abounded or after a large tree on it at the time of the reclamation.15 Diris (stone) or the peculiarity of a particular stone such as one looking like a hal (plough) or a nearby hill also inspired village naming.16 This attitude expressed the community’s indebtedness to nature and natural elements. The Adivasis also celebrated any significant event that occurred during their journey to the chosen site. It could be a particular place where the pioneers like Rengo and Gangi had finished (Mundi in Ho) the journey. This became the reason for the place being named as Gangimundi, that is, the place where Gangi Kui had finished her sojourn.17 Similarly, at the time of reclamation, a kokar (owl) being cut along with a tree prompted the title Kokarkata.18 What may be dismissed as trivial constituted historic moments among the Adivasis. This underlines that it was in the veneration of such small things that their life was constituted. Village names constitute linguistic archaeological evidence for testing the veracity of khuntkatti claims put forth by the Adivasis during land revenue settlements. This also leads us to the complexity of village life which was ridden with disputes among families and killis as had occurred during the khuntkatti investigations (1913–18) in Kolhan. We notice that where the early man had conducted all or major steps of village founding, his status and the origin of village name were socially recognised.19 But disputes arose when the early man had not fulfilled all the requirements or a village was settled by a group of people.20 The social disputes forced investigating officials to apply Munda and Deori tests for verification.21 Often, when nomenclatural disputes broke out between communities, the local administration applied the linguistic measure to resolve the issue. Accordingly, whether the name of a village had a Ho or non-Ho word decided who had founded the village. To substantiate, Bara Raikhaman village assigned to Rai trees by Ho villagers was deemed frivolous because Khaman was a locally used Oriya and not a Ho word.22 These disputes indicated the undercurrent of inter-tribe-community tension in villages.

Village as a sacred landscape The earth is full of spirits as a tree is full of leaves The above Oraon saying establishes why the foundation of a village was not simply a profane but also a sacred act. This implies that the part of earth demarcated for human settlement was sacrosanct because this was originally the abode of the spirits. So, Adivasis believed that this village space and natural objects within its area should be preserved

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and worshipped for the well-being of the dwellers. For instance, the Mundas considered the area demarcated by the pioneer as ‘sacred and inviolable’, because the boundary god (Siman-bongako) ‘kept (keep) a vigilant watch’. So, during the Kadleta festival, the Bongas of Chatursimana (the four boundaries laid out during village foundation), as also the spirits of Garhas, Jharkas, Khunts and Piris, were worshipped. Along with this, the Mundas preserved a portion of the primeval forest for the hatubongako (village god) (Roy 1970: 63). The Oraons, Hos and Santals (Roy 1984: 66–7; Tuckey 1920: 127–8; O’Malley 1999: 118–23) replicated this and named the demarcated area as Sarna, Jaher or Jahira. It is evident that a belief in the sacredness of land and other natural objects, coupled with their material utility, inspired the Adivasis to formulate a nature-centric symbiotic worldview.

Peopling of the village and the changing notion of village community Misa tege Purtalo ale hujulena Rendered in English, the above statement in Ho means ‘We came together with the Purtis’. This is about a village founded by the Purti killi with the help of Honhaga and Tius.23 This provides a clue to how Adivasi villages got peopled and demographic relations were shaped and reshaped in rural life. About settlement details, sources on other tribes are not specific. On the Munda, Roy barely noted that ‘In course of time, men not-belonging to the village family appear to have been introduced. Relatives by marriage, – men of different Kilis, – a son-inlaw, for example, – would sometimes come and settle in the village’ (1970: 64). The information provided by Kolean creates the impression that the Santals invited the residents of the old village only. For more specific information, I shall collate details from the Ho-recorded oral tradition. Socially, a village was known after the founding killi and belonged to it. The founding killi, known as the Marang (senior) or khuntkatti (founding) killi, enjoyed the right to govern the secular and sacred affairs of the village through the offices respectively of Munda and Deori/pahan. Ascribing privileged status was also a Santal tradition. This is metaphorically evident in the statement ‘He, the leader, who is to become the headman of the village, cuts down the first tree’ (Bodding 1994: 101). This was the strategy to venerate the primate position of the leader of the Khuntkattidars. Within this privileged Khuntkatti status, we witness the change in the uni-killi to multi-killi formation of

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a village24 and the enactment of an intricate bonding process within families and killis. After the site was selected, demarcated and initially cleared, the original founder invited other members of his family or killi (Haga or brotherhood) or other killis. This becomes clear from the statement: Lopar Ho of Laiur Bodra killi was ‘the manager of affairs i.e. he distributed the Jungle among his own people & among members of other killis’.25 The land distribution began when the early man or his successor allotted village spaces to the Hagas and killis. This enforced the oral social sanction for lands owned by them and a generic feature of Adivasi societies, where (as we notice about the Dangis) oral agreement was the basis of their land rights (Skaria 1999: 101). Demographic balance was further ensured by the creation of sais or tolas under the leadership of an early land clearer.26 The oldest of the sais seemed to be the elite part of the village, often inhabited by the Munda, Deori and members of the founding killi. 27 The sai ham had a crucial role in land distribution within his area. The Santals replicated a similar democratic tradition. Kolean informed, ‘Together with the leader they now divide between themselves the homestead lands’ (Bodding 1994: 101). With the conversion of villages into multi-killi formations, the concept of village community fructified. However, Karlsson comments that it is ‘naïve’ to perceive community itself ‘as small-scale, homogenous territorial units’ (2005: 171). But, based on the information provided by Fr. Hoffman, Sivaramakrishnan affirms that the khuntkatti system ‘epitomized this collective land control by tribes and village communities’ (1999: 89). Though village community was effective in Jharkhand, yet this had undergone transformation over time. Originally, this was ‘composed of families descended from common ancestors’ (Hallett 1917: 65) who were considered owners and legitimate managers of village natural resources (Roy 1984: 72). But village community came gradually to include other killis when a village assumed multi-killi character. Another major change occurred during the pre-British period, when this came to comprise non-ethnic groups or Dikus, like the blacksmiths, cowherds and weavers, who had been invited to settle and own village lands to run the agrarian socio-economy.28 This inclusiveness may be supported by the social practice of the invocation of the dead of all the killis and castes of the village during Mage parab.29 This was reinforced by the governance of the village by the Munda with the help of the panchayat, which was constituted of village elders from other killis and families.30 All these created a sense of solidarity among villagers. As a result, when inter-village disputes occurred over boundary and the use of the water tank, the entire village generally stood as a single unit.31

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This notion of intra-ethnic and inter-community inclusiveness does not always provide the true picture of village social life. At one end, heterogeneity prevailed due to the concept of core and peripheral groups. This created the notion of insider and outsider. Roy wrote: ‘These outsiders were the eta-haturenko (literally, men of other villages) the praja-horoko of later times as contradistinguished from the hatu-horoko who were the Khuntkattidars – the descendants of the original village-family’ (1970: 64). Though not a general feature, in several villages we notice the tradition of social distinction between the founding (marang i.e. senior) and other killis, socially known as huring (junior) or praja, and then between founding and other families from the same killi, considered to be huring haga.32 This erupted in the form of inter-family-killi disputes over the khuntkatti right. At the other end, we notice tension brewing between the Adivasis and non-Adivasis. The advent of Dikus in the Adivasi heartland had two distinct phases. First was the pre-British, when the functional castes were invited by the community to serve the village socio-economy. Generally speaking, Adivasis maintained a cordial relationship with these non-ethnic elements because of their usefulness. Second was the colonial phase when Diku immigration was facilitated by the British to promote their economic and administrative interests. At this stage, the Adivasi territory was exposed to the infiltration of the Ghasis, Dhobis, Barbers, Mallahs (fishermen), Kurmis and Muslims, Santals and Oraons, as well as administrators, lawyers, teachers, medical practitioners, traders, miners and contractors. If we take the instance of Kolhan subdivision, its villages, rather the entire subdivision, assumed a mixed character. Though in some villages the preponderance of the Hos still continued,33 in some others Dikus registered quite a sizeable presence.34 The latter evidenced that at the micro level, the infiltration of these elements had severely fractured the demographic balance in the villages. At the macro level, this caused progressive numerical marginalisation of the ethnic groups in Jharkhand.

Formation of village grid Another noticeable change in Adivasi rural history had been the formation of a grid of killi-dominated villages that consolidated killi affinity and led to the emergence of killi-centric selfhood. This revealed the story of the birth of the mother village and its adjacent satellites, which can be marginally gleaned from the Oraon history. It is said that ‘almost every Oraon of Chota Nagpur always remembers and names some village or other as his Bhuinhari village, although his family may

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have long since removed to another village’ (Roy 1984: 66fn). However, greater details may be collated from Ho history. The principal Ho killis first founded their mother villages. As their numbers rose, colonisation of forest tracts became necessary, which caused a systematic movement out of the mother village and the making of killi-dominated village grids. To substantiate my point, I furnish the instance of Jamdiha or Kochra village, the principal centre of Sinku killi, from which they gradually founded Kitahatu, Deojori, Iligara, Chitrabilli, Pawaipi, Kendposhi and much more.35 Here, the staged severing of ties, signifying coming of age of daughter villages, had taken place over the decades. This often blurred the memory of the link they once had. I narrate here how the cutting of the umbilical cord was enacted and a new village fructified. An integral part of village making was the reservation of a portion of the jungle called Jahira, as the abode of their village god Desauli. But often, this process was delayed. The old Jahira continued to be commonly used by the mother and daughter villages till they decided on separation. Next, for offering prayers, they needed an independent Deori whose responsibility was to offer prayer during Mage parab.36 Ancillary to this was the making of separate Sasans for the burial of the dead. This not only consummated the intra-family break, but also the weakening of the link between the original killi centre and its satellite villages.37 These details therefore underline that the bifurcation of Jahira, Sasan and the office of the Deori completed the cutting of the umbilical cord and the coming of age of the new village.

WE ARE EQUAL Notion of village solidarity Egalitarianism and homogeneity were considered the criteria to define indigeneity by the Adivasi intellectuals as well as colonial and postcolonial scholars till recently. ‘We are equal’ was broadly the message conveyed by the Mankis and Mundas at a conference convened by Singhbhum administration on 8–9 July 1914. The occasion was determining the khuntkatti rights and quantum of rent of the village founders. The social leaders affirmed: ‘We are all Hos and we all be “khuntkatti”.’38 This implied that the Hos believed that the basic social norm of equality was unassailable. This was also officially admitted: ‘I have already explained that the Kolhan custom admits no distinction between the members of the killi whose ancestors founded each village, and those persons who reclaimed the jungle, whether

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founders of the village or not.’39 Similarly, ethnic communities are generally identified as closely knit homogenous group of people (Roy 1970: 228–30; Roy 1984: 65–71; Dalton 1973: 177–221, 245–63; O’Malley 1999: 89–151; Culshaw 1949: 7–10; Orans 1965: 3–27), being bonded around the interlinked institutions of family, killi and village. The bond was cemented further through common celebrations and religious rituals as well as assisting each other in material pursuits and adversity (Orans 1965: 3–27; Majumdar 1937: 40–1, 45, 60–1, 159,163; Sen 2012b: 25–35). These social and ethnographic notions seemed to impact postcolonial scholarship. It was remarked that the ‘cultural homogeneity and cultural continuity’,40 ‘segmentary system and absence of inequalities of class’ (Beteille 1992: 59–60) and ‘non-hierarchic and undifferentiated’ society (Dube 1977: 2) broadly featured these societies. Generally speaking, egalitarianism was ascribed to ecological and systemic reasons. The argument was that isolation due to ecological reason kept the basic egalitarian character of their society intact. As regards the Hos, they could sustain their original structure because of the geographical and cultural isolation of Singhbhum (Bradley-Birt 1903; Tickell 1840b: 696–7; Dalton 1973: 177, 185)41 from stratified and non-egalitarian societies around. This was not true for Chota Nagpur plateau which registered large-scale immigration of outsiders before the advent of the British (Singh 2002: 1–9). But the socio-economic fissure did not widen in the same way as in other parts of the country because of the geographical isolation of the plateau region from the rest of the country. The second factor was rooted in the ethnic socio-economy and cultural ethos. A recent historical account ascribed prevalence of equitability in the Munda society to the institutional control over the village resources, shifting cultivation, inadequate artificial irrigation, mono-cropping and subsistent agrarian economy (Chaudhuri 1993: 68–76). Tickell underlined the ‘levelled society’ or the absence of strata as the deterrent for capital accumulation, resulting in social and individual inability to finance the excavation of tanks (1840b: 804). However, some scholars point to the politico-socio-economic cleavages within ethnic communities that fracture their intra-ethnic solidarity. In the context of Central Africa, Chanock observed: ‘Divisions and struggles within African societies were not new. What was new was the kind of division. The latter part of the pre-colonial period must be understood as a world in which hierarchical differences were usually marked’ (1985: 13). Likewise, Elwin informs about inter-village wars, headhunting, kidnapping and slavery among the North-East

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Frontier indigenes in India (1968: XVII). Across Adivasi communities in Jharkhand, the study of their dress, ornaments, food and houses testifies to the emergence of socio-economic differences between the ‘well-to-do’, ‘higher classes’ and ‘those who cannot afford’, ‘poorer’ and the ‘poorest’ (Roy 1970: 211–18; Roy 1984: 59–60; Majumdar 1937: 26–7). A recent work has revealed how people inhabiting levelled, fertile and easily irrigable tracts were potentially better off than those living in the hilly, less fertile and water-deficient parts of Singhbhum. Within a village, those having more lands and more firstclass lands (bera) were (considerably) economically better than those having less and inferior quality of land. Moreover, the village and pir heads were generally better off than most of the other families because of the additional sources of earning through commission for collecting land tax and dues from the raiyats for rearing lac and tassar (Sen 2011b: 108–13). Socio-economic fissures were evident in the quantum of land possession, ownership of individual tanks, structure of houses and lifestyle (ibid.: 111–12). Another fissiparous trend was the evolving caste-like distinctions in several villages that dissipated their sense of village solidarity. First, it was the difference in the social standing between khuntkatti and praja families.42 Sometimes, it also resulted in caste-like food and marriage restrictions in Ho society.43 We have the example of a village, where five poor families were ostracised for marrying into the praja families.44 In Oraon society, ‘the Bhuinhars of a village have social precedence over later Oraon settlers, however rich subsequent settlers may be’ (Roy 1984: 67). Moreover, with the passage of time, individualistic trends got sharpened. This sapped their ties with the haga and kin and bred heterogeneity, which resulted in a large number of property-related cases before the colonial courts (Sen 2012b: 81–137). This is comparable to the situation in Africa. To quote: The disputes with which colonial courts and village courts found themselves dealing were in increasing numbers new conflicts caused by new demands being made of old relationships, or caused by the formation of new relationships which people tried to regulate with concepts and claims appropriate to a passing social formation. (Chanock 1985: 22) The historical and contemporary reality, therefore, presented evidence of the society being dislodged from its ideal state, rather being.

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Having studied the advent of sedentary village life, the work will now move to the study of how the Adivasis developed a distinct technique of social governance of space and resources.

Notes 1 In Hazaribagh, the distribution was urban, 41,885 out of a total of 1,288,609 in 1911; In Palamau, urban population stood at 12,097 out of a total of 687,267 in 1911, while of the total of 1,187,925, urban population numbered 40,808 in 1901 in Ranchi. In Kolhan, the divide was 9,000 urban against a rural figure of 288,969 in 1911 (Sifton 1996: paras 27, 38; Bridge 1996: paras 21, 26; Reid 1912: paras 24–5; Tuckey 1920: para 18). 2 Agriculturists and their dependants constituted 78 per cent in Hazaribagh district (Sifton 1996: para 39); 77 per cent in Palamau district (Bridge 1996: para 27); actual cultivators, classified as rentpayers comprised 74.51 per cent in Ranchi district (Reid 1912: para 24). 3 Remaining population lived in 6,668 villages (Hunter Vol.XVI, 1976: 85–6). 4 For an essential link between stable peasantry and rural way of life in Western Europe, see Duby (1989: 141–2). 5 Chota Nagpur plateau was ‘on all sides somewhat difficult to access’, and it was ‘well suited to their wants and out of reach of their enemies’ (Dalton 1866: 153; Campbell 1866: 20: Bradley-Birt 1903: 86). 6 This is found among the tribals of Bastar (Sundar 2008: 28). 7 Tuckey Settlement (TS) Papers of Cases u/s 83, Judgment, 8–10, Loharda, VN 1. 8 TSKP, Darposhi, 3, VN 20; ibid., Jaldhar, 3, VN, 20. 9 Ibid., Banamhatu, 3, VN 20; ibid., Balijor, 3–6, VN 71. 10 Ibid., Banamhatu 3; ibid., Barabardadih, 3, VN 22. 11 This suggests that their attitude was not always presentist, rather past was also significant in their collective life. 12 TSKP, Jaldhar, 3, VN 20; ibid., Sarda, 3–6, VN 9; ibid., Sidma, 3–5, VN 24. 13 Ibid., Udalkam, 3–6, VN 68. 14 Ibid., Darposhi, 3, VN 20. 15 Ibid., Kadamdiha, 3, VN 34; ibid., Udalkam, 3–6, VN 68. 16 Ibid., Dirigo, 3–5, VN 36; ibid., Debrabir, 3–4, VN 25. 17 Ibid., Gangimundi, 3–6, VN 25. 18 Ibid., Kokarkata, 3–7, VN 36. However, kata being a Diku word, its use rather than the Ho ma either indicates the Diku origin of the village or a Ho adapting a Diku word. 19 Ibid., Luia, 3–5, VN 67. 20 Ibid., Lidiam, 3, VN 37; ibid., Kadwadih, 3–5, VN 38. 21 Accordingly, the decisive proof of originality, in local parlance marangkilli (senior killi) status, was the positive evidence of continuous enjoyment of the offices of Munda and Deori by the incumbent family or killi. ibid., 3–4, VN 36. 22 Ibid., Bara Raikhaman, 3–5, VN 36. 23 Ibid., Sonro, 7–16, VN 5. 24 We have the instance of a village having 10 killis. ibid., Nakahasa, 3–4, VN 12.

112 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39

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TS Papers of cases u/s 83, Judgment, Gutuhatu, 17, VN 1. Ibid. of cases u/s 83, Malidu, 23, VN 30. Ibid., Nimdih, 6–7, VN 61. Roughsedge to Metcalfe, 9 May 1820, para 16; Roy (1970: 64; 1984: 45). TS Papers of cases u/s 83, Binj, 10, VN 5. Though Chetan Singh accepts that such consensual decisions were made by the village community, he doubts whether ‘a clear cut village community may not have existed’ (cited in Cederlof 2008: 43–4). TS Papers of case u/s 83, Dopai, Boundary Dispute, 4–5, VN 3. Ibid. of cases u/s 83, Bara Runju, 10–1, VN 27; TSKP, Bara Chiru, 3–5, VN 12. TSVN, Vol. I, Bainka, 4. Ibid., VN II, Kokcho, 209–11. TSKP, Jamdiha, 3–16, VN 50; ibid., Iligara, 3–9. Ibid., Mungadighia, 3–6, VN 48; ibid., Barusai, 3–8, VN 32. TS Papers of cases u/s 83, Bararunju, 10–11, VN 27. ‘Note of statements of Mankis and Mundas at a Conference held at Chaibasa’, Resettlement of the Kolhan Government Estate in the district of Singhbhum. Appendix B, 24–6. J. Reid, director of the Department of Land Records and Surveys, Bihar and Orissa to the commissioner of the Chota Nagpur Division, No. 6088, Ranchi, 1 October 1914, Appendix E (G – Enclosure (7) to Progs. No. 6), Department of Land Records and Surveys, Resettlement of the Kolhan Government Estate in the District of Singhbhum, 37. A recent study has challenged the ‘romantic’ idea of ‘Timeless Primitive’ or changelessness in tribal society in anthropological studies (Rosaldo 1980: 24–5). Roughsedge to Metcalfe, 9 May 1820, para 13. TSKP, Kursi, 3, VN 16; ibid., Iligara (thana no. 138), 3–4, VN 16. Ibid., Bamebasa, 3, VN 61; ibid., Siringsia, 6, VN 58; ibid., Murumburu, 3, VN 67; ibid., Sannanda, 3–8, VN 69. Ibid., Gitilpi, 3, VN 54.

6

Norms and mode of self-governance

The identification of a community with their homeland and village is generally followed by another process. What I seek to argue is that commensurate with the change in identity from an itinerant to a sedentary group, what perceptively changed was the identification of landscape from a natural to ‘built’ space comprising the homeland and village. Inhered within this was the need to develop a social organisation that sustained the idea of collective identity (Mead 1934: 164). Therefore, Adivasi communities show a clear tendency to deploy the social organisation or the system of governance as the marker of their selfhood. Histories of indigenous communities all over the world therefore relate the story of how they developed their own systems of governance. Governance by tribal chiefs was one form. Among the Nuer in Africa, for instance, their chiefs were more ‘sacred persons’ who performed ritual functions within the community. Even though they were not ‘persons of great authority’, they were also sometimes called upon to regulate the relations between political groups (Evans Pritchard 1940: 172–3). We know about the growth of the Gond kingdom that presaged the formation of their state systems (Bates 1995b: 16, 33). Skaria mentions about the fructification of Bhil state under their kings that converted them into a regional political force (1998: 197–201). Similarly, the chieftainships featured Naga polity in North-East India (Singh 1993: 37–42). The other form was the social system of village governance practised widely by ethnic groups in India (ibid.). Similarly, pre-state republican system featured polity in Jharkhand. This prompted them to underline the institutional basis of their identity. In this light, it will be pertinent to study how the norms and mode of social governance fructified over time here. During the precolonial period, the institution of autonomous social governance the Adivasi groups evolved in Jharkhand was known as the Manki-Munda system. But the fact is that over centuries, the

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original system underwent several changes. First, the feudal rule of the Chota Nagpur rajas in the plateau region and different local chiefdoms in Singhbhum considerably eroded the autonomy of the system. During the colonial era, this was converted into an official institution with specific rights and duties and gradually networked with district, divisional, provincial and central polity. Lastly, during the post-independence period, the elective Panchayati Raj was introduced as a parallel institution which progressively marginalised this hereditary indigenous system. In three sections, this chapter will seek to depict its systematic transformation, and understand why and how this institution still continues to rally contemporary political activism in Jharkhand.

Genesis and development of Manki-Munda system during the precolonial period We do not have any systematic indigenous account of how this institution originated and developed. This forces us to depend on the colonial ethnography provided by the likes of E. Roughsedge, S.R. Tickell and T. Wilkinson. Being mainly field experience of military expeditions (1819–37), they contain cursory, yet significant insight about this system as it functioned in Kolhan (Tickell 1840b: 697, 797).1 We have reasons to believe that interaction with Ho social leaders fed into this corpus. Similarly, in the Chota Nagpur plateau region, Cuthbert’s knowledge of the village administration was the result of his interaction with the community leaders during his annual tours.2 But we have more intimate and local sources (Jha 1987: 164–5)3 that often record the views and sentiments of the Adivasi villagers about their social institutions. These details help us to form an approximate understanding of the precolonial ideologies and function of social governance. The Manki-Munda system was coeval with the origin of permanent villages. In fact, among major ethnic groups, mostly two-tier system of village governance, one governing the village and the other the supra-village formation, had emerged out of their evolution as a sedentary group (Singh 1993: 85, 94, 102, 108–10, 146–8, 155–6, 186–7, 358–60). In tribal Bihar, Hatu or village was the basic social unit and pir/parha/patti was its higher body, constituting an indefinite number of villages. Munda was the village head,4 while the Manki headed a pir. The village founder was usually chosen to head a village because of his services in village making (Roy 1970: 63–4; Bodding 1994: 101). Initially, he was also the village priest or pahan/deuri (Roy 1970: 63–4; Roy 1984: 28).5 In that capacity, he had to offer ceremonial prayer

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at the time of village foundation (Roy 1984: 28, 66; Yorke 1976: 53).6 The governance of a village was at once a religious and secular function. That this was a recognised social tradition becomes clear from the official remark relating to Kolhan: ‘Usually it has been seen that the first settler becomes Munda and Deori of the village.’7 Though these offices were later bifurcated, mundane and sacerdotal authorities continued to be wielded by the founding family. This custom in a sense acknowledged the social debt to the historic role performed by this family in village reclamation. This ascription followed a pattern. Pundu Ham was assisted by his two brothers, Rui and Kulu in founding Bunumda. So while the former assumed the post of Munda, Rui became the Deori. Obviously, posts were shared to strengthen familial bonds. With this, the tradition of separate lineage of Munda and Deori originated.8 The posts were sometimes shared by two killis also. In Bara Guntia, originally Kondaiburu killi held both the posts of Munda and Deori. But later the former post passed to the Purtis.9 Obviously, this reproduced the social ideal of homogeneity, as embedded in the myth of their being progenies of the first pair. Fructification of two significant ideologies of indigenous governance needs special mention. First, the basis of governance was not authoritarian. Roughsedge remarked in 1820: ‘Each village has one or more hereditary headmen called Moonda or Mankee, whom the rest obey more through prescription and attachment I imagine, than fear, for no means of enforcing authority are apparent . . .’10 Perhaps, the reason was more profound and cultural than the above lack. This drew on the basic egalitarian ideology which they deemed as a social norm. Second, this was founded on the primacy of the community or social will, which the Munda represented, as the leader of the village community. This may be corroborated by the precolonial indigenous custom of land mortgage. S.J. Manook, the assistant commissioner of Singhbhum, wrote: it is a common thing for a Kol who has fallen into poverty, or in whose house sickness has reduced the condition of the inmates, to borrow money or paddy and for its repayment, to pledge his lands or a portion of them. But this is always done in presence of the Munda. (cited in Sen 2012b: 121) How the institutions of Manki and pir/parha/pargana developed is not very clear (Roy 1970: 238–48).11 Colonial ethnography about the Ho informed that these were land revenue as well as law and order

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agencies under the chiefs of Porahat, Mayurbhanj, Seraikela and Kharsawan (Tuckey 1920: para 32). However, among the Munda tribe, parha acted as a socio-political body of ‘allied and associated villages’ (Roy 1970: 235–6). As such, ‘parha was in ancient times simply a wider brotherhood than the village, designed so as to afford greater protection to the communities against the aggression of other village units that surrounded them’ (Hallett 1917: 23). Conventionally, the post of Manki went to ‘the Munda of the parent village, or the strongest and most influential of the headmen’. Oraons also similarly organised their parha system, with the difference that the head was known as the raja (ibid.: 23–4). Among the Mundas and Oraons, village-level officials were more or less converted into the agents of the chiefs during feudal rule. As such, besides performing his traditional civil function within the village, the Munda had to collect and remit the ‘quit-rent to the proper authority’. Transformation of the Manki’s office was more complete but area-specific. In the Bhuinhari area to the west of Khunti thana, the office of Manki had virtually ‘disappeared’ because the Hindu landlords ‘arrogated to themselves the function of the Manki’. But in the Khuntkatti area lying to the east of the above thana, even though his functions were encroached into by the feudal functionaries, the title of the Manki still survived (ibid.: 66–8). Village/pir institutions had to perform various administrative functions. They governed village common property, comprising unutilised cultivable and fallow land, as also the forest and waterbodies. About Meghalaya, North-East India, Bengt Karlsson observes that resource management by the community is ‘deeply problematic’ (2005: 170). However, in Jharkhand we find that community played a crucial role in governing common property. The idea of commonness had derived from the mythic notion of natural landscape as the creation of Singbonga. Across ethnic groups, the meaning and content of the common property was defined by the physical boundary of the village. Roy wrote that after the village site was selected, Huge bonfires were lit up at four corners of a selected tract from one point to the next, connecting the four bonfires. These lines formed the boundary-lines of the new village. And within the limits of the village thus demarcated, all the land, cultivable as well as waste, all the hills and jungles, and streams, – everything above ground and underground, became the common property of the village-family. (1970: 63)

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The same was true about the Oraon and Santal. The common property was ‘administered by the headman and are held by the village as a whole’ (Archer 1984: 25–7; For the Oraons, Roy 1984: 71). In fact, individual right emanated only when land, allotted to an individual from the village land-pool after ‘village decision’, was brought under plough. The idea of the commons was so specific that if a villager finally left the village, the land was restored to the ‘village-stock’. Archer observed ‘The village land in fact is partitioned among individual Santals only as functioning members of the community and it is the community which is the final owner’ (1984: 25–6). The same custom prevailed with the forest and natural sources of water as elaborated in two subsequent chapters. Here since individual right did not accrue, the right to enjoyment was common to all, subject however to social approval. The violation of this norm was considered a social offence (ibid.: 26). The meting out of justice within the village and pir was the next function. While at the village level, this was done by killi and village panchs, at the pir level, the pir council performed this duty. A killi panch resolved intra-killi disputes, while the village panch, besides representing the village mostly in inter-village situations, dispensed justice to all the families within a village. We do not have much evidence from precolonial times about the composition, number, mode of selection of its members and function of this institution. On the basis of its British-day working, we can presume that it comprised village elders and respectable members, with Munda as its informally selected head (Roy 1984: 28; Majumdar 1937: 60–5). But among the Santal, Manjhi (headman), paranik (subheadman), jogmanjhi (assistant to Manjhi), godet (orderly) and naeke (village priest) comprised the village panchayat (O’Malley 1999: 110–11; Archer 1984: 3–15). The village panchayat functioned at a central place of a village like the manjhi than among the Santal or the akhara, i.e. village meeting place, and dancing ground in Chota Nagpur plateau (Man 1983: 88; O’Malley 1999: 111; Roy 1935: 242). Every villager could participate in the panch trial and, if required, testify also. Judgement was orally delivered after arriving at a consensus. People generally abided by the panch decision out of attachment to tradition and also for the fear of losing support of the village community. Cases of intransigence could be neutralised either through ostracism or by declaring a renegade as a witch (Dalton 1973: 199, 257; Roy 1970: 278; Orans 1965: 17–18; Sen 2012b: 53–8). Among the Ho, the pir council, either as a primary or appellate court, did not seem to have taken roots. But among the Munda, Oraon

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and Santal, a trans-village indigenous body delivered justice at the pir level. However, in Bhuinhari areas of Chota Nagpur plateau, the feudal chief or his officials came to head the process of dispute settlement. On the other hand, in the khuntkatti areas, vestiges of the indigenous system still survived. Here two headmen of the patti, presided either by the Pat Munda or the Manki, conducted the function of the pir panchayat (Hallett 1917: 66–8). Similarly, among the Santals, ‘weighty’ social issues, which remained unresolved at the village council, were referred to a council of five Manjhis under the parganait or chief of a pargana. The ‘people in council’ was the highest communal body which resolved the specific issue of excommunication of a person from the society (O’Malley 1999: 112; Archer 1984: 15–24). This pre-state Adivasi socio-political formation in Jharkhand was sustained by chanda or subscription in kind occasionally remitted by the individual families. But after tribal areas were incorporated in the feudal state system, they were made to pay regular rent and annual chanda or selamee to the chiefs. This was collected by the Munda and remitted to the landlord through the Manki (Hallett 1917: 143–4; Reid 1912: para 188). But the original system of payment of a ‘small tribute to their local Chief gradually took the form of a regular rent’. Added to this were ‘payments of various kinds’ and ‘greatly increased services’ (Reid 1912: para 28).

British rule and the transformation of the Manki-Munda system The British incorporated Manki-Munda system as a ground-level unit of the district administration. This reflected at the outset the impact of the contemporary liberal ideology represented by utilitarianism. The exponents of this ideology were the Bentinck-day (Lord William Cavendish-Bentinck, the Governor General of India, 1828–35) administrators like Thomas Munro, John Malcolm, Charles Metcalfe and Mountstuart Elphinstone who pursued the policy of Indianisation of offices. In response, Munro wanted to restore the customary tribunals, comprising village elders, with limited civil and criminal powers (Stokes 1969: 10, 15, 142). Wilkinson was exposed to these ideas when he was serving at Nagpur. As the Principal Agent of the SouthWest Frontier Agency, he put these ideas in practice in Chota Nagpur. Meanwhile, colonial officials had encountered wide anti-British insurgency in Chota Nagpur during 1819–37. Paradoxically, when tribal militancy was thus refurbishing the image of savage, they could learn of contrary spectacle of a civil society around their Manki-Munda

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system. This confusion was conflated by incorporating the indigenous system of village administration within the British administrative network. This conformed more or less to the imperialistic pattern of inventing traditions underlined by Terrence Ranger in his study of Colonial Africa. The British imperialists identified ‘dozens of rudimentary kings’ as the representative model of governance in Africa which they combined with the British concept of Empire to lay an invented model of governance (1996: 211–12). In the case of Jharkhand, the co-option of indigenous mode of social governance was conducted to impress the people that they were governed by their social leaders, a ploy to avert the recurrence tribal militancy. But this co-option was done within the norm of British imperialism, which was not interested in extending autonomy to the ethnic communities. Further, because of the variable efficacy of the system itself, this change was not uniformly introduced throughout Jharkhand. To elaborate, this institution was very significant for the Hos of Kolhan and Porahat. This was why, in 1837, Wilkinson wrote: ‘In all civil cases you should make as much use as possible of Punchayets taking care to select the most respected and intelligent among the Coles to compose the Punch.’12 However, officials could not repose the same amount of faith on the Munda and Oraon communities in the plateau region because these offices had largely been rendered ineffective by local zamindars (Bridge 1996: paras 175, 17; Sifton 1996: paras 186–8).13 In Ranchi district, this had happened ever since the British allowed the chiefs of Chota Nagpur, like the raja of Chota Nagpur and Ramgarh, to retain their existing police and judicial functions (Reid 1912: paras 30–5, 188–9). Obviously, this practice eroded their erstwhile autonomy. However, Santal village organisation survived in ‘tolerably complete’ form when they were in Hazaribagh district before migrating to Santal Parganas. Village officials enjoyed a clear division of corporate functions and responsibilities. To substantiate, the Manjhi or Paramanik maintained law and order and meted out justice with the help of the village council. But the system had started dwindling due to the encroachment of the landlords there also (Hunter Vol. XVI 1976: 88–9). Further inroads were made by the British. These social functionaries were converted into lower village bureaucracy through the procedure of appointment of Manjhi and Parganait by the colonial administration. They were assigned the specific function of collecting village rent in lieu of commissions on the amount collected by them. Moreover, they had to maintain law and order and keep the roads, embankments, boundary pillars and circuit bungalows in proper condition. The British introduced the procedure of suspension and

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dismissal of the Manjhis for misdemeanour. The post was normally made hereditary with the only condition of fitness (ibid. Vol. XVI, 1976: 329–30). The cumulative result of British intervention had been the progressive destabilisation of Santal social governance. The statement of Guru Kolean records this palpable change: The people of the country are not nice either. They do not inform the village headman, neither do they complain to the Pargana, and to the people of the country they do not appeal either. Also a quarrel between husband and wife these wretched fools at once bring in before the European magistrate. (Bodding 1994: 128–9) The picture of progressive hybridisation of the traditional indigenous system was more complete if we contextualise the Hos of Kolhan. But before elaborating the changes, it will be appropriate to know how this involved the Hos in a crisis of identity. Since their politicoadministrative subjugation (Sen 2012b: 23–80), confusion prevailed among them whether they were custom or law-governed people, more so whether they should abide by their ideal social norms or Britishfiltered customary law (ibid.: 81–137). This dilemma, whether to locate themselves in pre-feudal or colonial history, was accentuated as the British progressively modified their customary institution of selfgovernance itself. The intervention was diverse and extensive. First, the village and pir heads were converted from social functionaries into government officials. This way the system was brought under the canopy of state power based on hierarchisation of offices. The Munda occupied the lowest rung; Manki was his superior; and deputy commissioner was the head of the district administration, subject, however, to the superintendence and control of commissioner, provincial and central administration. As the lowest rung of colonial bureaucracy, the Manki and Munda were assigned specific duties that redefined and reinforced the original system. The pattas (record of rights) issued to the village and pir heads during the land revenue settlements of 1838, 1867, 1895 and 1914 accorded revenue, police, judicial as well as powers to manage village resources. As collector of land revenue, the Manki was to oversee and ensure due and timely collection and deposition of village dues at the district treasury by the Munda. With the sanction of the Deputy Commissioner, the Manki was authorised to ‘appoint a Tahsildar . . . in order to keep account and grant receipts for rents of each mouza and  .  .  . see that the Tahsildar works according to rules’.14 For their

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service, the Manki and Munda respectively received 16 and 10 per cent of the gross sum collected as commission.15 Thus, the traditional structure was reinvented by withdrawing the power of resource mobilisation from the community and regularising fixed and timely payment of land rent in cash by villagers. In laying down the institution of civil justice, Wilkinson’s civil rules made an amalgam of indigenous and British ideologies. The Manki, Munda and panchayat formed its base. The village panchayat consisted of ‘three or five persons to be selected by the agents or assistants from amongst the persons most conversant with the matter at issue’ (Sen 1999: Appendix A, 88). In inter-village disputes, this was ‘selected from amongst the head, most influential, and respectable men of the adjacent villages’ (ibid.: 89). Subsequently, the selection remained confined largely to village and pir heads as well as substantial raiyats.16 Besides diluting the autonomy and exclusiveness of the indigenous mechanism of delivering justice, these changes subjected the primary village-level court to the superintendence and control of the district administration. Though the CNT Act of 1908 did not assign any specific judicial role to the Manki-Munda-panchayat, functionally Kolhan court system invested these offices with important primary and original jurisdictions. They made local enquiries, gave their award in a properly constituted panch before colonial official delivered the final judgement. As clogs of hierarchic district level court system, they functioned under the settlement officer and assistant settlement officer with the deputy commissioner as the final authority. According to Wilkinson’s rules, Kolhan courts had to follow the ‘common law of the country’ or rules enacted by the Governor-Generalin-Council. This by natural implication meant custom. Section 76 of the CNT Act legitimised the position of custom further by stating ‘Nothing in this Act shall affect any custom, usage or customary right not inconsistent with, or not expressly or by necessary implication modified or abolished by, its provisions’ (Datta 1928: 185). Besides the above judicial function, the Munda and Manki were made directly responsible for peace and order in their respective areas.17 As such, they apprehended criminals and delivered them to the police authorities at the district headquarters. In the maintenance of law and order, they were brought under the total supervision of the district administration (Sahu 1985: 126–8). Building upon the precolonial tradition of management of village natural resources, patta issued to the Munda and Manki enjoined them to ‘protect’ and ‘look after’ the trees of the protected forest (PF),

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village or his circle, save forest from fire, damages and encroachments by villagers and report the same to the deputy commissioner. Similarly, they had to repair and protect bandh or tank, irrigation works, boundary pillars and village roads with the help of ‘raiyats’. They were also required to report the incidence of transfer of land by gift, sale, mortgage or partition or of settlement of waste or relinquished land to the deputy commissioner.18 This way a shared realm of management of village resources was created in which the village officials were subjected to official superintendence and control. This practically put an end to the precolonial practice of community management of village resources. One more vital change was in respect of the very meaning of natural resources itself. The indigenous notion of common property as free gift of nature underlined the essentiality of symbiosis with nature as well as its frugal use for community well-being. But under British rule, nature was not only commodified but also converted into stateowned and managed property. This property was meant to primarily promote the material interests of the master, in which Adivasis had a very restricted right. Traditionally, the posts of Manki and Munda were male-centric, hereditary, familial, subject however to social approval. But order and age of succession, as well as mode of reproduction of social approval remained grey areas. The British government framed definite rules of appointment and dismissal of the village officials. The Record of Rights issued by the district administration and the Kolhan courts endorsed the incumbency of a direct male heir and family line.19 Though customarily adulthood was the criterion for succession, the age of adulthood was not specified. Colonial courts removed this uncertainty by fixing 21 as the eligible age.20 However, in the event of the minority of an incumbent, his natural guardian was empowered to act on his behalf. 21 In appointment to the post of Munda, literacy criterion came into administrative practice so that he might serve colonial administration effectively, though this was not a customarily required norm during precolonial times.22 The same was observed in the appointment to Mankiship also.23 The cruciality of literacy doubly impacted Ho society. First, a tendency developed among the Mankis and Mundas to offer literate education to their heirs. Second, often illiterate incumbents refrained from accepting the post.24 British administration subjected a Manki or Munda to dismissal for dereliction of duty and misconduct.25 The administrative procedure was ‘if a Manki or Munda is dismissed, his sons have no claims in the post. In fact in appointing a successor care is taken to select someone unconnected

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with the dismissed official’.26 Imposition of fine was another step against dereliction of duty.27 For any default in payment, the defaulter was made liable to forfeiture of commission, fine, attachment and sale of properties and finally dismissal.28 Thus, Adivasi selfhood, as represented by their system of social governance, was variously reinvented. First, an autonomous social institution of governance was merged with an official and hierarchised district, divisional, provincial and administrative network. Second, with rigidly defined rights and jurisdictions, the institution emerged as a locus of state power at village and pir levels. Lastly, through this empowerment, often drawing on social tradition also, Manki-Munda system was not only given an extended but reified lease of life. But this intervention created a problem before Adivasi society and local administration as elaborated below.

Government and society – confusion and conflation The dilution of the traditional autonomy of the village and pir heads as also customary right of control over the lived and forested landscape put the Adivasis in a double bind. They were in a fix whether to abide by the social norm like Sasandiriko Horon hokoa pata (their burial stones are the title deeds of the Munda race) or the official rule like title deeds.29 This exemplified another area of tension between being and becoming. Though generally Adivasis tended to be collaborative, to be detailed below, instances of their assuming an adversarial position were considerable. First, during early decades of British rule, villagers refrained from revealing the exact number of ploughs (Ricketts 1854: 72). This amounted to an indirect rejection of the exotic hal method of payment of regular and fixed taxes in place of customary practice of paying an occasional chanda to the village head and selamee to the local chiefs. Second, during Craven settlement in Kolhan (1895–97), when the raiyats were asked to surrender their lands within PFs, though they surrendered their gora lands, they refused to relinquish their rice lands (Tuckey 1920: 39). Third, village heads allowed Dikus to settle and own lands in tribal villages30 against the prohibitory provisions of Wilkinson’s civil rules (1837) and Thomson’s rules (1900) (ibid.: 23–4). This way, they seemingly asserted the precolonial privilege of allotting village spaces enjoyed by the founders or members of the founder’s family.31 Similarly, Mundas shirked their official responsibility of reporting all cases of land transfer through gift, sale and mortgage, inheritance and partition to the district administration (ibid.).

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Moreover, in a petition to the government against erosion of customary forest rights, village, pir heads and villagers asserted that the Mankis were previously the lords of their elakas and the Mundas and tenants had absolute right over the forest lands.32 These were palpable instances of Adivasi assertion of the pre-eminence of their customary right of social governance over the colonial attempt to govern them through British law. However, village and pir heads were generally cooperative and loyal. Under the supervision of the Mankis, the Mundas regularly collected land revenue from their villages and remitted the amount to the district treasury. Statistics of demands, collections show that percentage of collection and remittance was very high.33 Works of improvement and repair of bandhs and roads were carried out by the local administration generally through the agencies of Mankis and Mundas. Though their performance was sometimes deemed ‘unsatisfactory’ by the local administration, getting the work done through them was considered more economical and easy than done by a professional contractor.34 As the lowest law-order agencies, village and pir officials apprehended the culprits and delivered them to the police department. Their judicial role was however more elaborate and vital. They progressively displaced village elders as the repository of customs. As such, they not only spelled but interpreted indigenous customs when trials were conducted by the village panchayats (Sen 2012b: 58–68). Thus, they were more or less successful in building a bridge between Adivasis and the government ( Sen 2011a: 210–11). Similarly, the local administration deployed them in effecting social change like lowering the rate of gonong (bride price) (Dalton 1973: 192), curbing growing incidence of illicit social relations and fixing a uniform date for the Maghe parab to curb ‘heavy drinking’.35 Furthermore, officials utilised their services in eliciting social support for periodic enhancement of land revenue during Hayes (1867) and Craven land revenue settlements (Sen 2011a: 212–13).36 Despite several mutations in the institution of village governance, on the eve of Indian independence, Adivasis in general came to accept the British-filtered system itself as original and representative. But seeds of dissonance had been implanted earlier. This is amply visible in their attitude to social customs and the agencies governing them.37 Their faith in customs and traditions having a mythic origin was considerably sapped. This often involved them in a dilemma whether to abide by original customs and those re-created during precolonial and colonial eras. Similarly, with the change in the contexts of social governance during feudal and colonial rules, their faith in the Mankis

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and Mundas considerably dissipated. Consequently, despite general conformism, there were others who opposed the construction of self around the Manki-Munda system.

Manki-Munda system vis-à-vis the Panchayati Raj During post-independence decades, the British-filtered indigenous system faced a challenge from the exotic Panchayati Raj system. The issues were whether it was proper to retain a hereditary mode of governance in a democratic polity; second, why Adivasi-dominated areas should be governed by a traditional system, when Panchayati Raj system functioned in other parts of the country. The problem was confounded by varying responses to the new system by the inhabitants of Jharkhand. While non-Adivasis, who fashioned themselves as Sadans-Mulbasis, criticised the hereditary system as undemocratic and anachronistic, Adivasi response was somewhat fragmented. While one section considered the traditional system as time-honoured and sacrosanct, the others were critical of the hereditary basis of social authority and its dwindling popularity.38 This rift was more or less spatial. While Kolhan-Porahat was united in support of the traditional system where it had practically maintained an uninterrupted existence, in the Chota Nagpur plateau region opposition was extensive primarily because this had virtually been nonfunctional over several decades. Against this backdrop, the state (Bihar) and union governments were in a fix whether to pursue the policy of mainstreamisation by introducing Panchayati Raj or recognise the specificity of the Adivasis by continuing with their time-honoured system. This was palpably evident in the policies and functions of the state governments (Bihar and Jharkhand, since 2000). Theoretically speaking, Manki-Mundas still wielded revenue, judicial and police powers as per their record of rights and Kolhan-Porahat was governed by tribal customs under Wilkinson’s Civil Rules. But practically, they had been shorn of their revenue powers by the circle officer and karmacharis; their police powers were encroached into by the regular police department; their forest rights were trampled upon by the policy of forest protection and reservation, while their privilege of settling wastelands in a village was curbed by the district administration (Sundar 2009a: 194–9). Similarly, Adivasi customs, which were reinvented and reformulated during colonial rule, were further transgressed by generic laws and legal principles. Against this backdrop, the Panchayati Raj was progressively introduced during 1947–2010.

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Framing of different versions of the Panchayati Raj Act The ambiguity in attitude was palpable in the policies of the union and state governments. In pursuance of the constitutional promise of recognising the specificity of deprived Adivasi peoples, the Scheduled Area (Part A states) Order, 1950, issued by the President of India, declared some districts of Bihar39 as SA. This was extended to Jharkhand by the state legislature in 2003. This virtually converted Jharkhand into an Adivasi-dominated state. Article 244 of the Indian Constitution brought SAs40 under the purview of the Fifth Schedule. Moreover, in order to advise on matters pertaining to the welfare and advancement of the ST, TAC was formed. This comprised 20 members, three-fourths of whom were to be from ST. The Governor was empowered to stall the introduction of any central or state act in SA. As against the above, Bihar government pursued the policy of setting up a uniform system of self-governance. The Bihar Provincial Legislature passed The Bihar Panchayat Raj Act, 1947 (Bihar Act 7 of 1948) in order ‘to establish and develop local self-government in the village communities of the Province of Bihar and to organize and improve their social and economic life’. It mandated the ‘establishment and constitution of Gram Panchayat for every village’ through the election to the posts of Mukhiya, Up-Mukhiya and its four members. Further, a panel of nine ‘Panches’, including the ‘Sarpanch’, was constituted through election and nomination. The Gram Cutherry was authorised to perform the judicial functions. The system of elected panchayat was clear reversal of the hereditary basis of indigenous institution of self-governance. The union government took some measures that practically circumvented the Manki-Munda system, though its avowed objective was to honour the specificity of the indigenous system. Article 243 B of the Constitution Act 1992 (73rd Amendment, Part IX) provided for three-tier Panchayats (village, intermediate and district levels). But when the Adivasis of Jharkhand launched a strong opposition against the policy of relegating their traditional system to the backstage, both the state and union governments had to revise their policies. This led to the progressive amalgamation of the ideologies of both these institutions. In 1994, the union ministry of Rural Development appointed a committee of MPs and experts under Dilip Singh Bhuria to study and make suitable recommendations about the Panchayati Raj system for the SA. Its report of 17 January 1995 proposed the amalgamation of ‘the traditional with the modern by treating the traditional institutions as the foundation on which the modern supra-structure should be

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built’ (Sundar 2005: 4432). Accordingly, the committee recommended four tiers 41 for Adivasi-dominated Panchayat, with the avowed objective of safeguarding their customary laws, traditional practices and community ethos. This made a significant departure from the mainstreamising motif of the Panchayati Raj Act. The report presaged the passing of the Panchayats (Extension to the Scheduled Areas) Act (PESA) by the Indian Parliament in 1996.42 While extending the ‘provisions of Part IX of the Constitution relating to Panchayats to the Scheduled Areas’, the Act mandated that in no case state laws would be ‘inconsistent with . . . the customary law, social and religious practices and traditional management practices of community resources’. It required the Gram Sabha (GS) to ‘safeguard and preserve the traditions and customs of the people, their cultural identity, community resources and the customary mode of dispute resolution’. Panchayat could implement plans, programmes and projects for social and economic development in the village, only after it was approved by the GS; the former had likewise to obtain a certificate of utilisation of funds from the GS for the above; for the acquisition of land in the SA for development purposes, consultation with the GS by the panchayat was made mandatory; GS was entrusted with the planning and management of waterbodies; its recommendation was made compulsory for the grant of prospecting license, mining lease and exploitation of minor minerals. Moreover, ‘to function as institutions of self-government’, the panchayat was allowed to enforce prohibition or to regulate or restrict the sale and consumption of any intoxicant, to own minor forest produce, to prevent alienation of land in the SAs by taking appropriate action, to restore any unlawfully alienated land of a ST, to manage village markets, to exercise control over moneylending to the STs, to exercise control over institutions and functionaries in the social sectors and to control over local plans and resources for such plans including tribal sub-plans. To implement the above pro-Adivasi ideologies, structural changes were initiated. Accordingly, the Panchayat was to be constituted through reservation in proportion to the population of the concerned communities. But the representation of the STs would not be less than one-half of the total; the posts of chairpersons of Panchayats at all levels were to be reserved for the STs; in the absence of reservation at the intermediate or the district level Panchayat, the state government was directed to nominate a maximum of one-tenth of the total of elected members from them. The empowerment of the GSs and emphasis on their traditional nature (Sundar 2005: 4432) greatly reinforced indigenous mode of administration. But it was weakened, when

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the Act did not recognise the supra-village pir/parha formation as an essential unit and accord ‘any effective mechanism to override forest and police departments’ (ibid.). The state government then passed the Jharkhand Panchayat Raj Act (JPRA) in 2001, which was amended in 2003.43 This empowered a traditional village head to preside over the GS. This was given wide range of powers to administer the affairs of the village and regulate its welfare in the light of the PESA Act. But ownership of minor forest produce, the right to recommend licenses/leases of minor minerals and to regulate liquor sales, extended by the central act, was denied in the present one. However, more daunting was the fear that the state government could deny or modify the existing powers of GS (ibid.: 4433). The above attempts to reform the village-level administration failed to satisfy both the Adivasis and the non-Adivasis. Interestingly, the judicial worlds were also split. While the Jharkhand High Court held above provision of reservation unconstitutional, the appeal by the union government against it was upheld by the Supreme Court. This presaged the passing of the Jharkhand Panchayat Raj (Amendment) Ordinance of 2010 by the state and union governments, followed by the enforcement of the Jharkhand Panchayat Raj (Amendment) Act, 2010 (Bill No 93-F of 2010) (JPRA). The amendment introduced changes that virtually put an end to the primacy of Adivasi communities in village governance. The Act reserved at least 50 per cent seats for the Scheduled Castes (SCs), STs, Other Backward Castes (OBCs) and women. In General Areas (Non-Scheduled Areas), reservation to these groups was made in proportion to their population. The state government then notified the announcement of panchayat election in November 2010. In the midst of widespread agitations, elections were conducted and panchayats formed. Introduction of the Panchayati Raj finally closed a long chapter of socio-political turmoil and uncertainty over the nature of selfgovernance in Jharkhand. Though, ‘village-level political structures are being revitalized’,44 the changes finally created a hybrid institution of village governance. The traditional Manki-Munda system had largely to yield place to the mainstream institution of village administration. In the modified structure, the hereditary Manki-Munda system was virtually devoid of any role. Ignoring its traditional patriarchal nature, village and supra-village offices were rendered sex-neutral. The new institution that came up made a mix of old and new ideas. Theoretically speaking, Panchayati Raj made elected village-level institutions more effective and stronger bodies of self-rule in marked contrast to

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their colonial-day status. But the Panchayati Raj system was variously diluted by the inclusion of some salient features of the traditional institution. These are: predominantly Adivasi character of the institution, reinventing the concept of social approval through election, according primacy to their customs as a means of governance and reinforcing their control over land, forest and water.

From power-corridor to social arena – dilemma and dilution Since its introduction to the panchayat election in 2010, the concept of Panchayati Raj remained contentious, stirring up social protest in Bihar and Jharkhand. First, there was a regional polarisation of Kolhan-Porahat, where Manki-Munda system had survived, and the rest of the Adivasi region where it had dwindled. Then there was demographic split, on the one hand, between Adivasis and Sadans-Mulbasis, mobilised as these were under old and recently formed platforms and, on the other, between Ho and other Adivasi communities. Finally, even the Ho society was divided between supporters of the Manki-Munda system and Panchayati Raj. The popular protests were lodged through public meetings, demonstrations, dharna and bandh. Moreover, agitators took the matter to the High and Supreme Courts.45 With the entry of state and national political parties in the fray, a state-centric issue transcended its geographical confines. During the entire course, traditions were reinvented, prompting the Adivasis to redefine their selfhood as represented by the hybridised Manki-Munda system and Panchayati Raj. Advocates of the Manki-Munda system were divided into radical and moderate factions. The former were vocal against any kind of dilution in the traditional mode of governance. Confusion however prevailed among Adivasi intelligentsia whether to locate their identity in precolonial and colonial pasts. Their support for the Manki-Munda system apparently meant a reference to its precolonial form. But really this was not so. After the first panchayat elections in 1978, K.C. Hembrom, the head of the Kolhan Raksha Dal (KRS), and A.K. Sawaiyan, a local lawyer, contended that as the institution of Manki-Munda was an inviolable system of governance, Panchayati Raj could not be enforced here. But in doing so, they drew legitimacy not from precolonial past but from colonial-day Regulation XIII of 1833. On this logic, they reiterated that Kolhan-Porahat could be governed not by the state government but by the President of India only.46 This claim of being administered by the union and not the state government, in a

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sense, contended the normal functioning of constitutional system also. Furthermore, by revoking a British-day regulation, they questioned the legitimacy of their being governed by the Constitution of independent India. This group widened and became active with the onset of a movement for Jharkhand state in Chota Nagpur-Santal Pargana regions of Bihar. Besides protesting against material marginalisation of the tribal parts of Bihar, they appropriated historical symbolism of both customs and social governance through the Manki-Munda system to assert Adivasi identity. What is more interesting is that, while doing so, they anchored their subjectivity on an amalgamated past. Conflation of precolonial and colonial histories was a strategy to free them from tension of being and belonging. More so, they also made selective invocation of different phases of their past to reinforce a certain claim. This was very much visible in the ideas and actions of various such indigenous outfits as Jharkhand Pradesh Parha Raja, Majhi Parganait Manki Munda, Doklo Sohor Mana Samiti, Manki-Munda Sangh (MMS), KRS and the National Indigenous Party (NIP). The NIP claimed that, based on the custom of socially selected and consensually functioning customary institution of Moy Ho, i.e. five members, the Manki-Munda system was the highest form of governance, as against party-centric Panchayat Raj, constituted through secret ballot and arbitrarily run by the Mukhiya and Sarpanch.47 The idea of social selection and consensuality seemed to have been derived from precolonial history to combat recent reframing of their selfhood through what they underlined as an exotic institution. MMS of Kolhan-Porahat and seven Adivasi organisations of Ranchi declared economic blockade in September 2005 and decided to resist elections at any cost.48 When the state government announced the dates of election in 2005, a fresh wave of anti-panchayat social articulation was spearheaded mainly by the Kolhan-Porahat-based organisations like MMS, KRS and NIP. K.C. Hembrom raised the slogan Diku Dostur Kabua (Down with the Diku system), Ho dostur abua (Welcome to Ho system). These bodies formed the Kolhan-Porahat Panchayat Birodhi Sanjukt Sangharsh Samiti to resist elections at all costs. Their agitation spread across Kolhan-Porahat villages where bandh, boycott, rallies and demonstrations were organised.49 On the other hand, the moderate group advocated for a compromise between the traditional and exotic systems. Perhaps, one may read here the tendency to draw on historically reinvented Adivasi subjectivity. In doing so, they seemed to build their argument on the hybridisation of customs and institutions both during colonial and postcolonial

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eras. This middle position in a way weakened the pro-Manki-Munda faction. After the PESA Act, several GSs were formed at their initiative and stone slabs were placed inscribing the powers of this body (Sundar 2005: 4433). Johar, a Kolhan-based NGO, set up over 800 GSs between 1996 and 2001.50 This step was hailed as the ‘transformation of little communities into self-governing systems, Little Republics or Gaon Ganarajya’ (Sharma 1997: 1), an obvious borrowing from colonial representation of republican village systems. It has been rightly remarked that the ‘use of Pesa to formalize and reconstruct traditional village structures, sometimes using “elections” represents a new stage in the struggle over custom’ (ibid.). At Ranchi, the Adivasi Mahasabha deemed that the court decision to suspend the elections was tantamount to challenging the PESA Act of 1996 and the Adivasi Adhikar Morcha declared its plans to stage protest against the Governor and appeal the Supreme Court to hold panchayat elections.51 The dilemma and division in the Adivasi society was further exposed by court cases filed before the Supreme Court.52 A Special Leave Petition was filed at the Supreme Court against the judgement and final order passed by the High Court of Jharkhand dismissing the Writ Petition of 2001.53 The defence of the PESA Act and emphasis on the imperative to preserve traditional and customary systems of self-governance were palpably ambivalent. Against this background, a prominent section of Adivasi intellectuals and activists of Singhbhum articulated open support for the panchayat election.54 The Jharkhand Buddhijivi Manch held a meeting at Ranchi Central Library, where R. D. Munda observed that as PESA reflected the essence of Jharkhand movement, this would strengthen democracy at the grassroots, which in fact was the true identity of Adivasi.55 On the occasion of World Indigenous Day, speakers rose in support of the above Act in a public meeting organised at Jamshedpur.56 Lukewarm attitude to the MankiMunda system was again shown when three cases were filed before the High Court after the passing of the JPRA. These partially opposed the exotic system because of its adverse impact on the Manki-Munda system.57 It was palpable that Adivasi intelligentsia had considerably drifted towards the panchayat system as enshrined in the PESA Act. Social atmosphere was muddled when the Sadans-Mulbasis became more active and strident in their opposition to the panchayat elections. They contended that since they represented 75 per cent of Jharkhand’s total population, SAs should be rescheduled. Moreover, they opposed the reservation of key posts as this offended the constitutional provision of equality and justice.58 In protest, a case was filed at the Patna High Court in 1997 by them,59 followed by ten such before the above

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court.60 Under the banner of Sanjukt Sadan Sagharsh Morcha, they held dharna and demonstration before the Congress and BJP offices, criticised non-Adivasi members of the Parliament, State Assembly and Ministers for their failure to support their cause. Another case was filed before the Supreme Court against panchayat election and a statewide bandh was organised.61 However, the cause of election was strengthened when the BJP, JMM, Jharkhand Vikash Morcha, All-India Jharkhand Students Union and local leaders of the Congress Party openly supported panchayat election.62 Empowerment through the Jharkhand Raj Panchayat (Amendment) Act, 2010 registered a new fissure in Adivasi society, when their women became active supporters of the Panchayati Raj system. Unprecedented popular turnout evidenced by about 70 per cent polling, with high gender support, finally tilted the social balance in favour of the constitution of elected village bodies.63 However, the post-independence social protest around the institution of local governance clearly evidenced that Jharkhandi Adivasis were placed between the thorns of a dilemma. Their dilemma lay first, in what should be the representative institutional form of identity – the precolonial or colonial. This ambiguity prompted them to strategically locate them in their past to bolster up their arguments. Second, a section of intelligentsia was sceptical whether the institution in its present form would be capable of promoting their welfare under changed circumstances. Lastly, despite this questioning and uncertainty, what is perceptible is an attempt by a large section of Adivasis to project the Manki-Munda system as symbol of Adivasi selfhood.

Notes 1 Roughsedge to Metcalfe, 20 May 1820, para19; Wilkinson to Tickell, 9 May 1837, paras 6–33. 2 Cuthbert to Shakespear, para 98. 3 Board’s Miscellaneous No. 84 (BM), FlyLeaf (FL), R/995 of 1911–12, Miscellaneous Case No 543 of 1911–12, Diku Report (DR) of the elaka of Paikrai Manki, Chimsai village, 30; Village Note, Kolhan Settlement, Vol. II, Ulirajabasa, 361; Tuckey 1920: 11; Petition of the Mankis, Mundas and Tenants of government Kolhan estate in Singhbhum to the Commissioner of Singhbhum, Appendix to Letter of E.A. Gait, to Commissioner, No 334 T/LR of 21.11.1906, FS 9, para 1–2, 11, vide Formation of the Kolhan Protected Forest Block, FL, DC’s Office, RD, CN II Forests, FN 9 of 1907–8. 4 Village head was called Munda by the Munda and Ho, Manjhi by the Santal and Mahato by the Oraon. Similarly, for village priest the words were Deuri (Ho), Pahan (Munda, Oraon) and Naeke (Santal). 5 TSKP, Sini, 3,VN 16.

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22

23 24 25 26 27 28

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TS, Papers of cases u/s 83, Gunabasa, 6–8, VN 15. TSKP, Gundijowa, 3–9, VN 71. Ibid., Bunumda, 3, VN 11. TS, Cases u/s 83, Objection No 275–79, Bara Guntia, 3, VN 10. Roughsedge to Metcalfe, 9 May 1820, para 17. Wilkinson to Tickell, 13 May 1837, para 4. Ibid., para 21. Cuthbert to Shakespear, paras 26–9. Hakuknama (Record of Rights), Kolhan Government Estate, District Singhbhum, Settlement 1897, 12. ‘Translation of a Pottah given by Captain Tickell to Raoria, Mankee of Kowsillapossi in Bur Peer, dated 19th March 1838’ (Aitchison 1930: No. XIX, 363). CSVEP, Form of Order Sheet, Land Dispute Suit no 86 of 1895–96 between Sridhar Kol & others of Rajabasa vs Chara Kol of Goontia, Gara Rajabasa, 38–42, VN 74. Hakuknama (Record of Rights), 12, 17. Ibid.,12–17. CS, Village Notes, FL, Mis Case No 235 of 1907–8, Goi Munda of Argundi tendered resignation of his Mundaship and prays that it should be accepted, Argundi, 2–8, FS 9, VN 758. CS, FL, Mis. Case No 903 of 1911–12, Sagar Ho’s petition for Mankiship, FS 7, Heselberel, 1–3, VN 503. CSVEP, FL, Mis. Case No 348 of 1902–3, Buyan Ho’s Application, Sindri, 1–3, FS 4 and Mis. Case No 153 of 1908–9, Guria Dubraj’s Application for appointment of Mankiship, 1–3, FS 9, VN 118; CS, VNE, FL, Mis. Case No 903 of 1911–12, Sagar Ho’s petition for Mankiship, Heselberel,1–3, FS 7,VN 503. CS,VEP, FL, Mis. Case No 162 of 1908–9, Petition of Manki Ho, Ghuntia 1–3, FS 4, VN79; CS, Village Note, FL, Mis. Case No 661 of 1910–11, Kolhan Inspector’s report on succession of Uchba Manki’s ilaka, Dhobadhobin, 2–3, FS 5, VN 494. CS, Village Note, FL, Mis. Case No 661 of 1910–11, Kolhan Inspector’s report on succession of Uchba Manki’s ilaka, Dhobadhobin, 2–3, FS 5, VN 494. Ibid., FL, Mis. Case No 114 of 1907, Goma Munda’s Report, Kumarta, 2, FS 2, VN 716. Ibid., Mis. Case No 226 of 1911, Man Singh Ho’s Application for Mankiship, Binj, 1–7; ibid., Mahuldiha, 3–5, VN 49. Ibid., Mis. Case No 226 of 1911, Man Singh Ho’s Application for Mankiship, Binj, 1–7. LRAR 1909–10, vide LRAR 1910–11, DCOS, GD, RB, CN XI, FN 3, paras 21, 68. Wilkinson to Tickell, 13 May 1837, paras 8, 18–21, 30–3; O’Malley 1999: 107–11; ‘Translation of a Sunnud given by Captain Tickell to Raoria, Mankee of Kowsillapossi in Bur Peer, dated 10th December 1838’, Aitchison 1930: No. XIX, 361–2; TSKP, Banspani, 3, VN 43. Revd. Fr, J. Hoffmann and E. Lister, ICS, ‘Special Memorandum of the Land System of the Munda Country’ (Carnduff 1905: Appendix II, xii–xiii). Ho villages were generally populated by functional castes being invited by the Munda.

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31 Board’s Miscellaneous No. 84 (BM), Fly Leaf (FL), R/995 of 1911–12, Miscellaneous Case No 543 of 1911–12, Diku Report (DR) of the elaka of Paikrai Manki, Chimsai village, 30; Village Note, Kolhan Settlement, Vol. II, Ulirajabasa, 361. The disobedience reached its peak when villagers ignored the directive of the Kolhan inspector, entrusted to report about the Diku immigration in Kolhan, to attend the meeting called by him. He rued ‘If the Mundas and Manki do not obey my word in this way, how shall I be able to work in a time fixed.’ BM, FL, R/1018 of 1912–13, Mis Case No 324 of 1912–13, DR of Turam Manki’s elaka, 40. 32 Note by Sk. Abdul Hakim, 2 February 1924, para. 1, Appended to DC’s letter to DFOs No. 909–11 R of 8 February 1924, vide Rules for the Pasturage of Cattle in government Protected Forests (Revision of the Protected Forest Rules), FL, DC’s Office, GD, RB,CN II, FN 16 of 1923 & FS 25A,5 of 1924,FS 13. 33 LRAR 1904–5, DCOS, RD, CN XIII, Annual Return and Reports, FN 6, para 4. 34 LRAR 1907–8, DCOS, RD, CN XI Returns, FN 16, para 21. 35 CS, FL, Mis. Case No. 1021 of 1909–10, Kolhan Dy. Collector’s report about celebrating Mage Parab before proper date, FS 11, Dumria, 1–2, VN 514. 36 R.H. Renny, Dy. Commissioner Singhbhum to the Commissioner of Chota Nagpur Division, Chaibasa, 29 July/3 August 1893. No 307R. FL 1892–3, 1893–4, DCOSD, RD, CN III Settlement, FN1893–4, Kolhan Settlement in Singhbhum, paras 9–17. 37 This has been amplified in Sen (2012b: 53–137). 38 Oraon parha panchayat ceased to function by the second half of the last century, and among the Mundas, this institution was operative in a few blocks only (Sundar 2009a: 197). 39 Ranchi, Singhbhum (excluding Dhalbhum subdivision), Santhal Parganas (excluding Godda and Deoghar subdivisions) and Latehar subdivision of Palamau. 40 Excluding Assam, Meghalaya and Tripura. 41 These were: Gram Sabhas, with traditional village councils or nominated heads; village panchayats, intermediate panchayats and district councils. 42 The Provisions of the Panchayats (Extension of the Scheduled Areas) Act, 1996, No. 40 of 1996, The Gazette of India, Extraordinary, Part II – Section I, Ministry of Law and Justice (Legislative Department), New Delhi, 24 December 1996, Delhi: The Controller of Publications, 1996. 43 Jharkhand Panchayat Raj Act, 2001 (Jharkhand Act-6 of 2001). 44 Ibid. 45 Ibid. 46 Singhbhumi Ekta, Vol. 1, No. 15, December 1978. 47 Hindusthan, 4 May 2010. 48 Prabhat Khabar, 1/2/5 September 2005; Ranchi Express, 5 September 2005; Dainik Jagaran, 10 September 2005. 49 Prabhat Khabar, 24 January, 23 September, 7/23 October, 2010; 14 January, 14 April, 4 May, 19/23 September; 7/22 October, 2010; Ranchi Express, 14 January 2010; Dainik Jagaran, 23 January, 1/25 October 2010. 50 Through election a committee was formed which elected its head who was generally the Munda (Sundar 2005: 4433).

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51 Ranchi Express, 9 September 2005. Dainik Jagaran, 10 September 2005. 52 Prabhat Khabar, 10 September 2005. 53 Arguments put forth against the above decision of the High Court were: PESA Act, 1996 being a central act would prevail over the Jharkhand Panchayat Act (JPA); the JPA was contrary to and in conflict with the provisions of Section 4a of the PESA Act which stated that state legislation on the panchayats should be in consonance with the customary law, social and religious practices and traditional management of practices of community resources; the Jharkhand state should have made specific provisions for the time-immemorial traditional system of self-governance such as Manki-Munda, Majhi-Pargana etc.; the Samatha judgement (SC Civil appeal Nos. 4601–2 of 1997). In the Supreme Court of India (Order XVI Rule 4 (1)(a), Civil Appellate Jurisdiction (Under Article 136 of the Constitution of India), Special Leave Petition (Civil) No. 2535 of 2006 with prayer for Interim Relief. See also Civil Writ Jurisdiction, W.P. (PIL) No. 5939 of 2001 in the Jharkhand High Court of Ranchi, Devendra Nath Champia vs the State of Jharkhand and others. 54 Prabhat Khabar, 26 October 2010; Hindusthan, 26 October 2010. 55 Dainik Jagaran, 7 February 2010. D.S. Bhuria declared at Ranchi that PESA Act represented the fundamental right of Adivasis. Ranchi Express, 17 March 2010. 56 Prabhat Khabar, 9 August 2010. 57 Dhananjay Mahato vs Union of India. CWJC 3591 of 1997, cited in Sundar (2005: 4433). 58 Hindusthan, 28 January 2010; Dainik Jagaran, 29 January 2010; Prabhat Khabar, 19 March 2010; Ranchi Express, 28 August 2010. 59 Dhananjay Mahato vs Union of India. 60 Ibid. 61 Hindusthan, 28 January 2010, 14 April 2010; New Ispat, 4 February 2010; Hindusthan, 28 January 2010. 62 Ranchi Express, 23 January 2010; Hindusthan, 8 October 2010; Prabhat Khabar, 8 October 2005, 6/10 October 2010; Dainik Jagaran, 9 October 2005. 63 Hindusthan, 8 October, 14 December 2010; Prabhat Khabar, 12 October, 8 December 2010; Ranchi Express, 9 December 2010.

7

Transformation of a hunterforager to a cultivator

I now enter the study of the invention of self and landscape that occurred when the Adivasis made a change in their ‘activities of subsistence procurement’ from hunting-foraging to cultivation. In the process, while landscape or environment was transformed from a natural into an ‘artificial’ or ‘built’ one, they assumed the identity of a settled cultivating community from their earlier identity of an itinerant group of forager-hunters. Now the question is to what extent agrarianism came to be invoked as a parameter of selfhood as either territorial or rural identity was? Historically speaking, the relationship between the Adivasis in India and agrarianism had been differential. The Bhils, Varlis and Dangis did not consider this linkage to be vital (Skaria 1999: 64–6). This is true about the Baigas also. Their creation myth valorised pre-peasant identity and deprecated agrarianism. To quote: You will cut wood and carry it on your shoulders. You will dig roots and eat them. Your wife will pick leaves and sell them. You must not tear the breast of your mother the Earth with the plough like the Gond and Hindus. (Elwin 2002: 318) Adivasi intellectuals in contemporary Jharkhand, however, assert that, as an essential marker of their identity, agrarianism provides a charter for their claim over land. Bringing a land under plough has therefore an archaeological import like the sasandiris.1 Furthermore, they articulate that agrarianism sets up the material foundations of their society and reinforces their rural selfhood. Interestingly, this claim in a way obfuscates the historicity of their transformation from the original status of forager-hunter to a peasant.

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Historicising Adivasi life or any conjuncture-like peasantisation tends generally to be tentative because of want of resources.2 The selfrepresentation through oral tradition preserves neither the memory of their nomadic life nor any trace of their movement towards agrarianism.3 Similarly, colonial and postcolonial literary sources sparsely explore the material foundations of their rural life. Consequently, when researchers attempt to apprehend the process of peasantisation of the indigenes of colonial Jharkhand either through a short essay (Singh 1969b: 652–61)4 or in the generalised accounts (Singh 1978: 17–20; Sahu 1985: 218–28),5 their writings remain fragmentary. Besides fragmentariness, another problem is that, drawing on racial interpretation of India’s past, colonial ethnographers mostly identified the Aryans as a ‘nobler’ people, representing a civilised peasant order, and the indigenous people, the ‘rude’ people or ‘the children of the hills and forest’, as its uncivilised pre-peasant antonym. Accordingly, the kin of Henry Maine, Bertle Frere, W.W. Hunter and H.H. Risley provided the guiding rules and useful basic information of the hegemonic orientalist episteme on which the entire tribal discourse in India was grounded (Bayly 1997; Bates 1995b: Chapters 6–7; Guha 1998: 423–41). Working out the tribe–peasant polarity, both colonial ethnography (Tickell 1840b: 695; Tuckey 1920),6 as well as recent historical and empirical studies on Jharkhand,7more or less concentrated on the idea that Adivasis in general were quasi peasants, who mixed their shifting cultivation with hunting, fishing and gathering. To strengthen this argument, ethnographer-administrators like Dalton, Hunter and Risley claimed that it was during British rule that historic transformation of the food-gathering tribal economy into a food-producing one had occurred. But the fact is that not only in India but elsewhere also, significant though variable movements towards agrarianism had occurred during the precolonial phase. In Latin America, ‘Indigenous peoples had perfected a complex agricultural system, based on the cultivation of such crops as corn, squash, and potato, and in certain regions, the use of irrigation and terracing, well before the arrival of the Europeans’ (Hoberman and Socolow 1996: 4). Further, colonial ethnography merely outlined the peasant order, without seeking to apprehend how this order had developed itself over time (Dalton 1973: 161–263; Hunter Vol. XVII 1976: 77; Risley Vol. I 1998: 325–6). Likewise, recent studies on Jharkhand (Singh 1969a: 547–58, 652–61; Singh 1978: 17–20; Sahu 1985: 218–23) represent them as a monolithic peasant community. Therefore, these also fail to focus on the differential nature of ethnic peasanthood, impacted as

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it was by sociological and ecological factors. However, ethnographic, anthropological and historical researches had unravelled their slow yet steady movement towards peasanthood from a forager-hunterrudimentary cultivator. The chapter therefore seeks to argue that any study on peasantisation as a marker of Adivasi identity should address some collateral issues. First, what was the foraging-hunting pre-peasant status? Second, how and why agriculture developed into the principal livelihood? Third, how the change in the material basis of indigeneity reconstituted their relation to land? Next, why their agrarian consciousness is saturated by an essential forest linkage both materially and morally? Lastly, how this forest-centric peasanthood reinvents Adivasi selfhood? These issues will be addressed under different sections beginning with the historic transformation of the Adivasis as a peasant.

Transformation of the Adivasis as peasants Though indigenous oral tradition does not depict the full story of the transformation in Adivasi material life, their genesis myth provides some clue to how during an unidentified past this change had variably occurred. While the Munda myth contained the legend of the making of plough, the Ho did not. Moreover, as related before, the pre-eminence of animal flesh to agrarian produce underlined the primacy of food-gathering and pastoralism in Ho culture. On the other hand, as we engage with the later version of Ho myth, consolidation of agrarian identity is corroborated by the principality of agrarian symbols.8 It is generally viewed that peasantisation of the indigenes was the result of their contact with the Aryans. The Oraons, however, claimed that they had introduced plough cultivation in Chota Nagpur (Roy 1984: 8). It was from them, as also Chero neighbours, the Mundas adapted primitive beora (ploughing seeds in holes drilled with a pointed bamboo) and jhum (shifting cultivation) cultivation (Singh 1969b: 653–5).9 So, early British ethnographic information does not seem convincing that the breakaway Munda groups migrating to Singhbhum after the tenth century AD lived ‘chiefly by hunting’ without much appreciating the value of cultivation (Tickell 1840b: 695). Elwin underlines shifting cultivation as a characteristic occupation of ethnic people not only in India but all over the world also (2002:

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100–31). Late into colonial rule and also later, shifting cultivation featured life in Jharkhand. Hallett wrote: ‘Jhumming’, or a form of cultivation akin to ‘jhumming’, obtains in the remote parts of the district. Under this system, the trees are felled from patches in the jungle, and burnt on the ground with the under-growth, and the land thus cleared yields poor crops for a few years and then is abandoned. The practice is undoubtedly very destructive of forests. (1917: 124) Not restricted to Jharkhand alone, this was also the popular mode in the north-eastern hills of India (Karlsson 2005: 174) and among the Badaga community of the Nilgiris (Cederlof 2008: 28). It was due to the practice of pastoralism and shifting cultivation, ethnic groups were mostly represented in colonial ethnography as backward people having no proper land rights (ibid.: 116–18). But staged movement towards agrarianism took place through exotic contact, application of technology and the pressure of paying their land rents. The early initiation of the Ho to superior technology may be assigned to their contact with more advanced ethnic and non-ethnic agriculturists. The Bhuiyans, ‘rich in cattle and industrious cultivators’ (Tickell 1840b: 696) and the Saraks, the lay Jainas, who were known for their orchards and large ponds, called the surmi durmi tanks, inspired the Ho to a settled agro-rural life and the technique of tank irrigation.10 Similarly, the use of iron tools for extension of agriculture and in actual cultivation in Chota Nagpur may be assigned to the contact with functional castes like blacksmiths, Ahirs or Goalas, potters, weavers, carpenters, etc. whom the dominant indigenous groups had allowed to settle in their villages (Roy 1984: 45–51; Man 1983: 54–5).11 I presume that two other influences had been formative in the case of the Adivasis of Jharkhand. These were the application of cattle in tilling land and cattle-driven carts. Ho raids into local chieftains’ territories about this time and large-scale plunder of cattle as booty had no doubt more than culinary motive.12 One factor that we cannot ignore is the ecological impact and the reading of the environment by the indigenous societies. About Latin America, the comment is: ‘Over the course of many centuries they had developed technological strategies and forms of social organization appropriate to their local surroundings’ (Hoberman and Socolow 1996: 187–8). This will be developed below and also in the chapter on water resources.

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The precolonial agrarian base was consolidated during the colonial period. Mohapatra lists three sets of ‘causal variables’ – demography, institutional structure and market (1991: 1043). In the case of the Dangis of Gujarat, the shift towards settled agriculture marked ‘an affinity with upper caste values’ which lauded settled cultivation (Skaria 1999: 66). But in the Jharkhand region, we find the expanded influence of the advanced agrarian communities like Mathurabasis, Goalas, Kurmis, Koiris, etc. who had meanwhile immigrated into this region from neighbouring districts of Bihar and Orissa (Reid 1912: para 20: Sifton 1996: para 29; Tuckey 1920: para 20). But it was not true that the non-ethnic impact was always beneficial. About the baneful impact of the feudal and mahajan (moneylender) system in the Chota Nagpur plateau region, Cuthbert wrote: The Ryots generally use a Plough to which two Oxen are yoked. In good seasons after defraying every expense of cultivation rent & c. the profit accruing to the Ryot on one Plough is calculated from 20 to 30 Maunds. It is not the custom of the Proprietor to make advances to the cultivators; should the latter require pecuniary assistance he must have recourse to his Mahajun, who advances him the necessary sum, receiving as Interest One anna per Rupee. If seed is advanced the Ryot must repay his Mahajun at the end of the year double what he borrowed viz. for one Maund borrowed he must return two.13 Colonial institution of regular payment of land rents to the government and the growing facility to market the products prompted villagers to concentrate on agriculture more seriously. Hunter affirmed the combined play of these forces: ‘The total quantity of rice raised throughout the District has of late years increased, and new lands are continually being brought under cultivation. A raiyat, as a rule, sells his rice-crop, and pays his rent . . .’ (Vol. XVI 1976: 101). The other factor was the imposition of colonial forest rules since the 1890s (Sen 2006: 78–88) that put an embargo on unhindered colonisation of the forests. The above factors made arable expansion necessary. This was performed earlier ‘either by founding a new village, by reclaiming a jungle or by reclaiming jungle or wasteland of an old village’ (Mohapatra 1991: 1044). The expansion ‘usually meant the extension both in don and tanr lands’ (ibid.). This was done in three ways, first ‘by the reduction in the period of following (fallowing) of tanr land’, increased double cropping and terracing of tanr land into don III land (ibid.: 1044–8). The forest acts and rules more or less forced villagers to

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practise intensive cultivation. British administrators claimed that they had fostered agricultural growth by providing certainty of tenure, freedom from agrarian disputes, low rate of rent, as well as extension of roads and markets (Hunter Vol. XVII 1976: 77). Moreover, they further averred that the benevolence of colonial rule lay, besides imposition of light taxes, in the freedom extended to the cultivators (Cederlof 2008: 118). But that the official claim was specious is evidenced by British inability to protect peasants from the highhandedness of local landlords. Cuthbert noted: In Chota Nagpore, equally with the rest of India, it is established by custom that the resident ryots have a permanent hereditary right in the soil, which they cultivate so long as they continue to pay the rent justly demanded of them with punctuality. Receipts though granted to Jageerdars and Teekadars and even to the heads of the Villages are withheld from the Ryots. I considered it my duty to urge the Rajah and principal landholders to introduce the practice of giving these people written receipts thereby rendering respective rights more secure.14 However, cultivation emerged as the principal occupation of villagers of the Chota Nagpur division since the second half of the nineteenth century.15 About Ranchi district, this is observed: ‘About four-fifths of the total population are dependent on agriculture for subsistence. The majority of these are aborigines’ (Reid 1912: para 283). The adoption of the vocation of a cultivator came to uphold their agrarian identity. But that this shift was somewhat tenuous will be elaborated below.

Agricultural system Documentary evidence (Roy 1970: 226–8; Majumdar 1937: 47–8) provides working knowledge of the indigenous method of cultivation. Peasants used iron-tipped wooden plough, spade or hoe, kurul (hatchet), henga or chauki (harrow), sickle and tangi (battleaxe). For cultivating one plough of land, i.e. twelve standard bighas, a cultivator needed one pair of oxen, one plough, a leveller, a harrow and four hoes. The small plough, driven both by cows and oxen, could, however, barely ‘scratch (ed) the earth’. Though cultivators preferred buffaloes to bullocks, the use of plough cattle was strata-centric. An ordinary peasant generally used cows, while the richer ones engaged buffaloes (Roy1970: 214–15; Roy 1984: 46, 80–4; Hunter XVI 1976: 84; Dalton 1973: 195; Tuckey 1920: 6, 120). However, plough cattle

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were generally of poor standard in Chota Nagpur. Two other features in the agricultural system were the use of manure and artificial irrigation. Manuring of rice fields had become a pervasive practice.16 Rather than using any superior technique for compost, peasants heaped up cow dung in the fields or burnt collected leaves and wood there.17 Artificial irrigation was done through tank/bandh, hilly streams, suds (natural springs) and nalas (drains).18 Villagers, individually, as also collectively, participated in the construction of these man-made sources. We will however return to the irrigation system in the next chapter. While cultivation suffered considerably in areas without the facility of irrigation,19 artificial irrigation facilitated quantitative and qualitative agrarian growth. In Kolhan, the area of cultivation rose by 29 per cent between 1895 and 1918 (Tuckey 1920: para 13). Next, it significantly augmented the items of production. These combined to earn the recognition of the Ho as an agrarian community.20 The fact cannot yet be denied that due to lukewarm attitude both of the society and government towards artificial irrigation, cultivation in Chota Nagpur remained predominantly rain-fed throughout the length of the colonial period. Despite the onset of the improved agrarian technique, the condition of Chota Nagpur peasantry remained precarious. Cuthbert testified: ‘The peasantry, generally speaking do not appear to enjoy a state of great comfort; their huts are miserable and their ordinary food is of the poorest kind.’21 For the superior and middle-rung peasants, pursuing agriculture became more expensive due to the employment of labour. Traditionally, the communities were bonded through the reproduction of cooperative strategy. This implied that in their moral and material pursuits, an individual/family would receive the cooperation and help of other individuals and members of the same killi. Even then, the trend of employing labourers, both ethnic and non-ethnic, through payment either in kind or in cash had been in practice. In the Chota Nagpur plateau, ‘The price of field labor is one pyla or wooden cup full of rice or different kinds of pulse and half an Anna per diem, some however receive one bundle in 21 bundles of the crops cut.’22 In the district of Ranchi, the percentage of agricultural labourers was 3.04 out of the 80 per cent of the total population who pursued pasture and agriculture (Reid 1912: paras 23–4). Likewise, in Hazaribagh district, while the number of cultivators and their dependants were 787,499, farm servants, field labourers and their dependants totalled 180,443 (Sifton 1996: para 39). By the turn of the 19th century, we come across their invariable presence in Kolhan also. To exemplify, in Kariaposhi village, out of a total

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population of 652, 100 worked as agricultural labourers, while in Beliapada, the number was 20 out of 92.23 Thus production of capital through community service was diffused by the practice of engaging wage labour. This doubly reinvented Adivasi selfhood. While addition of a new vocation diluted their agrarian identity, the intensification of the wage system undermined the homogenising norm of community service and cooperation. Even with this undeveloped technique and ‘extremely superstitious and conservative idea of agriculture’ (Tuckey 1920: 121), a cultivator raised multiple rice crops. Thus they deviated from the original practice of raising one crop only. The crops were gora or early, bad or autumnal and bera or winter (Hunter XVI 1976: 80; Dalton 1973: 195).24 Though rice was the principal product, as early as the 1840s, a peasant raised pulses as mung (kidney-bean), urid (Phaseolus radiatus), kurthi (Dolichos biflorus), rahar (Cytisus cajan); oil seeds as til or sesamum, mahua (Bassia latifolia) and other such items as chunna, surguja, gundli (Panicum miliare), maize, cotton and tobacco as well as vegetables like jhingi, khukra, cucumber, pumpkin and baigan (Tickell 1840b: 805). A few decades later, masur (lentil), khesari, tisi (linseed), matar (pea), but, chillis were widely added as agricultural products throughout Chota Nagpur, while wheat and spices were produced selectively.25 The addition of new items indicated that they had learnt to produce beyond those crops which ‘custom decreed they should consume’.26 Moreover, it is perhaps indicative of the socialisation of agriculture as well as its major share in providing food to the community. But the question is how total was the transformation of Adivasi cultivators? How much peasant was an Adivasi? A peasant is lexically defined as a farmer, including a marginal agricultural labour, living in a rural area and cultivating his own land. But for the present purpose, the defining character of a peasant is not simply the freedom to choose and the capability to pursue a vocation.27 Rather, in the present context, peasantness represents a sense of belonging to or developing a cultivation-centric way of life. Moreover, the depth of peasantness should be gauged by the centrality of agriculture as a livelihood. This implies that a man depending solely on agriculture is a fuller peasant, compared to one whose source of livelihood is mixed. This induces the former to mobilise maximum time and resources towards it rather than the latter. But one has at the same time to take into account the cases of both marginal and

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superior landholders. The first is forced because of smallness of holding to depend on supplementary sources of earning, even though his input of time and resources met the need of his holding. On the other hand, despite dependence on cultivation, to which he might engage his optimum time and resource, a superior landowner cultivated his lands with hired labour, besides, in some cases, his engagement in grain and money lending. So on the criterion of variable dependence, we can safely say that a peasant society does not constitute a homogenous but a layered social category.28 British ethnographic depiction of the mode of cultivation in Chota Nagpur gives us some idea about the depth of ethnic peasant consciousness. The general observation was that peasants palpably lagged behind in the use of new technology. About Ranchi district, the comment was: ‘The system of cultivation is primitive, and the soil is poor. Irrigation is neglected, manuring is practised only to a limited extent on uplands. The aborigines of the country are still one of the most backward races in India’ (Reid 1912: para 283). Hunter wrote about Hazaribagh, ‘The Quality OF The Rice continues the same as it was twenty years ago’ (Hunter Vol. XVI 176: 100). Similarly, about the Ho of Kolhan, Tuckey noted: It would be of advantage if the Hos could be taught to irrigate from the bandhs by means of earthenware pipes at the base of the embankment (bhaos) as is done in Palamau. These can be opened and closed at will. But they continued with irrigation by percolation from bandhs. (Tuckey 1920: para 14) Due to this undeveloped agrarian technology, while the Ho remained a ‘bad husbandman’ (Tickell 1840b: 804) and their system primitive (Dalton 1973: 196; Hunter Vol. XVII 1976: 80), the peasants of Hazaribagh were regarded as ‘early agricultural communities’ (Hunter Vol. XVI 1976: 99). Colonial bureaucracy in India attributed the lack of innovativeness among the Adivasis in general to cultural factors. In the case of the Dangis, these were their phenomenal laziness and improvident nature, resource crunch and unsuitable terrain (Skaria 1999: 64–6). The hill and forest societies of the Nilgiris were criticised for their indolence and lack of initiative for progress (Cederlof 2008: 97). About the Ho, Tuckey remarked: ‘The Ho is not a good cultivator. He is too lazy to make much pains about it, and if he can obtain sufficient from his land to support himself and his family he does not worry much about

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improvement’ (Tuckey 1920: para 16). Similarly, about agricultural stagnation in Ranchi district, it was observed: They are thriftless and indolent by nature though physically hardy; and only the pinch of poverty drives them to undertake any sustained employment. The consequences are that we have a large population of about 900,000 persons, who scrape out of the soil just sufficient to keep body and soul together. (Reid 1912: para 283) On the other hand, in some cases the reason assigned was ecological, like the ‘want of a continuous supply of water’ in Hazaribagh, while in Ranchi district the poor quality of soil (Hunter Vol. XVI 1976: 100; Reid 1912: para 283). Along with these detracting ethnographic evidences of lack of intent and ability, we should invoke moral parameters to measure the depth of indigenous agrarianism. I would like to argue that centrality of a livelihood should manifest in their way of life. One such test can be literary. As we apply this criterion, we are however put into a conflicting situation. If we peruse the Ho lexicons of Tickell (1840a) and Dalton (1973), we do not come across many words representing the total course of agriculture.29 Besides this, we notice an absence of personalised care for the plough cattle among them, which were customarily entrusted to the charge of the Goalas/Ahirs (Tickell 1840b: 805; Roy 1984: 46). Next, though they manufactured the wooden parts of their agricultural implements themselves, the community did not put a premium on higher technology of the use of iron. This they generally assigned to the non-ethnic blacksmiths (Dalton 1973: 195).30 These point to the lack of intensity among peasants to agriculture. On the contrary, we have evidence to prove the centrality of agriculture in both their moral and material culture. To quote Dalton: ‘The Hos are a purely agricultural people, and their festivals are all connected with that pursuit’ (1973: 196). Drawing on their natural right over land, their agrarian agitations during 1820–58 contested the infringement of this right by local chiefs and the British through the imposition of non-customary land taxes (Sahu 1985: Chapters II-III).31 Lastly, when during the second and third decades of the 20th century, the government converted forest areas into PF and imposed grazing taxes, as elaborated in a subsequent chapter, villagers underlined their forest-centric agricultural identity. To these protests, if we add the above-mentioned tendency to provide artificial irrigation and use of manure, the colonial notion of total

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lack of efforts towards agricultural development may be contended. Even then, that the peasant consciousness of a Jharkhand indigene was not as intense as that of a neighbouring non-Adivasi peasant, detailed in the next section, cannot be disputed. The answer to this seemingly lay in their aesthetics of life. In the context of the Bhils and Dangis, Skaria underlined ‘an aesthetics that affirmed pleasure and wildness’ (1999: 64). The Baiga creation myth repudiated ploughing of a land as an act of tearing the breast of their ‘Mother the Earth’ (Elwin 2002: 318). Associated with this, they attributed frugality as a divine-ordained virtue. To quote ‘you will never become rich, for if you did you would forsake the earth and then there would be no one to guard it’ (ibid.). On the other hand, less materialistic and acquisitive in temperament, the Adivasis of Jharkhand exploited natural resources more or less to meet the survivalist needs. So once the mundane need was met, they desisted from further labour. This was rooted in their worldview where, what mattered was the present, rather the immediate, and not the future (P. Sen 2014: 32–42). This aesthetics of life conflicted generally with the nonAdivasi philosophy of life, for which lack of action for growth and acquisition with an eye for the future only meant indolence and want of enterprise. This might explain the apathy of the indigenous groups to be enterprising beyond the pioneering stage. Taylor observed about Porahat: The Kol’s ideal cultivation is jhuming, pure and simple; and, as he is probably inferior to none in the clearing of forest and the felling of trees, he stands pre-eminent as a pioneer, but there his value as a cultivator ceases. (O’Malley 1910: 116) About the Mundas and Oraons of Ranchi, Reid commented: ‘The needs of Munda and Uraon are few; but, he is not industrious, and is generally heedless of the morrow. . . . The primitive aboriginal does not care to cultivate more than is necessary for his immediate needs’ (1912: para 20).

Differential peasantisation Before exploring whether Adivasi peasantisation was uniform or layered, it is pertinent to understand the parameters generally applied to problematise differentiation. This has been studied from two angles. First is developmental, rather propensity to development, when they

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are identified to belong either to backward mixed economy of huntinggathering-shifting cultivation or to full peasanthood.32 The other, and more relevant for the present work, is ecological, which contextualises type or quality of land and availability of natural source of water that made different types of peasant groups. This difference has been standardised by Census Reports where occupational divisions have been defined in terms of full/partial and principal/subsidiary nature of livelihoods (Gait 1902: 481–2, 490–1). Developmental propensity among Adivasi peasants in India was largely determined by their attitude to a more advanced mode of cultivation. To substantiate my point, I shall use three different scales of comparison. First is between peasants of ethnic and non-ethnic groups; second is interethnic and last, intra-ethnic. The Dangis, for instance, were less prone to development because they underlined their aesthetics of wildness through the practice of shifting cultivation as compared to the high caste practice of more developed settled cultivation (Skaria 1999: 66). In Ranchi district, the superiority of Koiris, migrants from Bihar, lay in adding new products as vegetables, as also the new irrigation technique in the form of shallow wells (Reid 1912: para 273; Hallett 1917: 116). The Mathurabasis, Goalas and Kurmis of Singhbhum practised an advanced mode of cultivation, as against the primitive style of the Ho cultivators (Hunter Vol. XVII 1976: 77, 80). The continuity of this difference even after forty years prompted the remark that Oriya Goalas ‘are better cultivators than the Hos’ (Tuckey 1920: 26). About the interethnic difference, a comparison between Ho and Oraon cultivators of the same locality would be revealing. Substantial raiyats of Kokcho village in Kolhan had invited some Oraon cultivators from Ranchi district, considering that they were ‘finer cultivators than the Hos’.33 More intent in cultivation, Christian aborigines in Ranchi adapted English vegetables, which non-Christians supposedly did not, while better off among Adivasi cultivators produced Indian vegetables like brinjals, onions, pumpkins etc. which the marginal farmers did not (Hallett 1917: 116–17). We shall next examine quantum and quality of land, the latter being determined by the ecological factor, which made peasant types. For their frail land holdings, the marginal cultivators had to adopt, as detailed below, subsidiary occupations. Similarly, the weavers, blacksmiths, potters etc., having small holdings, as also moneylenders and traders, supplemented their income through cultivation (ibid.: 170). On the other hand, substantial farmers generally followed a single vocation. But how these types are to be identified? About Ranchi district, it was mentioned that rent paying cultivators had an average holding

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of 12 acres, while those owning uneconomic holdings earned through ‘extraneous employments, some of them unconnected with agriculture’ (Reid 1912: paras 272–4). In Kolhan, a Ho worth three or four ploughs lived in a ‘very comfortable manner’ (Tickell 1840b: 783). It was later assessed that a single pair of oxen could cultivate about 4 acres (Hunter XVII 1976: 83). It implied, therefore, that a person owning about 12 or 16 acres could comfortably live the life of a full-time cultivator. But those who owned lesser land had to supplement their earnings, degree of dependence rising with the falling land curve. A study of the pattern of village-wise landowning in Kolhan shows a pyramidal social structure, where small peasants occupied the inflated base. Families owning less than 40 bighas were in majority, of them those having less than 10 bighas abounded (Sen 2011b: 110). How did these marginal peasants eke out a living? Some of them worked as agricultural labourers under the well-to-do landowners in the village or neighbourhood, could yet work as seasonal labourers either in the near about mines, in the railway department or under forest contractors.34 This way occupational break up of Singhbhum population in 1903–4 stood at 66.9 per cent cultivators, 11.1 per cent field labourers and 9.6 per cent general labourers.35 In the district of Ranchi, these supplementary sources were rearing of goats, sheep, cattle or pigs; cultivation of lac; one or two members of the family emigrating to Assam and the Duars. It was observed: ‘it is from these additional sources of income and not from the produce of cultivated land that the rent is paid’ and family necessities could be met (Hallett 1917: 161). Similar vocational mix is discernible in Hazaribagh and Lohardaga districts also. Here a sizeable number of cultivators owning far less than 15 bighas subsisted on wage labour (Hunter XVI 1976: 106). While such a supplementation was spatio-temporally neutral, the specificity of Adivasi agrarianism in India has to be explored elsewhere. This lies in the essential but variable link of the indigenes with forest. Skaria underlines that pursuing of shifting cultivation by the Dangis was an ‘affirmation of wildness’, implying thereby their indissoluble link with the forests. Among the Adivasis of Jharkhand also the symbiotic relationship with nature has had been crucial, which makes/made them a distinct peasant type. This link was necessitated by the peculiar physical formation of Jharkhand. Even after considerable depletion of the forest cover over centuries, Santal Parganas (ibid. XIV 1976: 272), Ranchi, Hazaribagh, Lohardaga and Singhbhum districts still retained a sizeable portion of the virgin forests. I shall cite the instance of the latter three districts to make my point. While the central plateau of Hazaribagh district registered an extensive denudation of forests, resulting in many prosperous villages and a fair extent

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of cultivation, its valley region was distinguished by ‘extensive jungle and scattered villages’ with ‘limited and deficient’ cultivation (ibid. XVI 1976: 23, 47). This ecological impact was both varied and more deep rooted in Kolhan. On the scale of forest, Kolhan was divided into three distinct zones (Tuckey 1920: 1, 18). North Kolhan was a fairly level undulating tract, generally forestless and fully cultivated. On the other hand, south Kolhan was a mixed landscape. The central part of it was level, forest-free and cultivated. But some parts of it, like the eastern region of Lalgarh and Aula pirs as well as Kotgarh and Jamda pirs in the west, were hilly and forested. Lastly, there were the forest areas with large blocks of reserved and PFs. Ho agrarianism therefore was impacted largely by the extent of exposure of a village to forest. Forest-free villages generally contained fuller peasants. Those villages, having forests on the borders, had a cultivation forest-dependent economy. But in the forest areas, the order was reversed, economy being more forest rather than cultivation reliant. Though this was more or less a generic phenomenon in Chota NagpurSantal Parganas, its diverse manifestations were more explicit in Kolhan. First, the first two types more or less practised settled cultivation, while the third performed jhum. Second, the type of land utilised also varied. In the southern forest pirs of Saranda, Rela and Latua in Kolhan, the proportion of rice land to gora, i.e. upland was less than one to three, while in other forested pirs it was about one to two, whereas the proportion in well-cultivated pirs was more than two to one (ibid.: 18–19). Last, however, provides an interesting contrast. Severity of famine was reversely proportionate to agricultural growth. As agriculture was dependent on monsoon, forest-free well-cultivated parts were generally more prone to suffering during famine, compared to less forested or forested pirs. Here people could always fall back on forest in the event of crop failure (ibid.: 6).36 In Hazaribagh and Lohardaga districts also, jungle-clad parts, with deficient cultivation, could ‘survive on roots and fruits of the surrounding jungle’, compared to people who ‘reside in the centre of cultivation and have no jungle readily accessible’ during famine (Hunter Vol. XVI 1976: 47). Likewise, aboriginals and semi-aboriginals in the district of Ranchi, ‘subsist (ed) in conditions which would play havoc with more civilized races and can maintain life, even when their crops fail, on jungle fruits and vegetables’ (Hallett 1917: 162).

Reinventing Adivasi identity Peasantisation profoundly impacted Adivasi socio-economy and redefined their selfhood. This reinvention involved two processes, addition

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of new identities and mellowing of the older ones. Settled village life and cultivation being coeval, ruralisation and agrarianism were complementary processes. Therefore, their identity of an itinerant pastoralist-hunting group changed, as narrated in an earlier chapter, to that of a sedentary agrarian type. With the advent of agrarianism and settled village life, land became a major determinant of familial and individual status. This converted Adivasis into substantial, middle-rung and marginal peasants. Therefore, their agrarian identity tended to be layered rather than uniform and egalitarian. More significantly, the wedge created by socio-ecological factors widened due to extraneous impact. Since marginal peasants had a sizeable majority in their society, marginality became a more representative identity of the Adivasis. How this happened is detailed below. With agricultural growth usury entered Adivasi land. The failure of crops largely forced cultivators to loan money or grains for purchasing necessities and paying off rents. But unable to repay, their lands mostly passed to moneylenders. This has famously factored the Santal rebellion of 1855–56. But despite this violent protest, moneylender menace took a virulent form in the entire Jharkhand region. The reality was that, by the 1910s, not in bad seasons alone but even when a cultivator had good crops, he had to borrow seed for cultivation or money at an exorbitant rate of interest from the local bania either to meet ‘extra expenditure’ due to the like of marriage. As a result, a moneylender was ‘to be found in nearly every aboriginal village’ (ibid.).37 Colonial officials insisted that villagers of Kolhan, which was under their direct management, did not suffer from mahajan menace. To quote Hunter: ‘The secluded position of Singhbhum has hitherto preserved the peasantry from that tyranny of the petty usurer and grain dealer (mahajan) which prevails in other districts of Chutianagpur’ (XVII 1976: 83). He was perhaps depicting contemporary reality, but when another official repeated the same idea a few decades later (Tuckey 1920: 26), he was obviously not informed. Colonial records informed that money and grain lending business, mostly by Dikus, and marginally even by Hos, was in operation. In Sonaposi village in Kolhan, we come across a person running a kind of a grain dealing empire covering about twenty villages.38 The situation was very miserable elsewhere. About Hazaribagh, it was officially admitted that the ‘large majority of the cultivating class are hopelessly in debt to their mahajans and, knowing that they have no chance of ever getting clear, evade payment by every means in their power’ (Sifton 1996: para 252). But the noose around them was inescapable. In spite of the restriction on land transfer and close scrutiny by local officials, large swathes of land steadily changed

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hands mostly through an ‘indefinite period’ of mortgage. Unfortunately, available statistics was ‘of very little value and can (could) give no accurate impression of the extent of indebtedness of the cultivating classes’ (ibid.: para 251). Crisis epitomised in the emergence and entrenchment of the notorious Kamiouti system, which turned a borrower into ‘bond-servants of their masters’ (ibid.: paras 265–68). Beyond these noose, the large number of Adivasis was converted into tea garden and colliery labourers, causing not only depeasantisation but permanent migration also (Mohapatra1985: 247–303; Sen 2011b: 67–84). Despite claiming a forest-centric identity, the imperatives of ruralisation and agrarianism progressively diluted this identity of the Adivasis. They were found engaged in a steady depletion of the natural forests. I shall first synchronically substantiate it in the context of Ranchi and then analyse the trend of progression from Kolhan. In 1911,

Table 7.1 Area under cultivation – 3614 sq. miles; current fallow – 10 sq.m.; old fallow – 303 sq.m. Culturable jungle – 859 sq.m.; other culturable area – 91 sq.m.; Total area – 1283 sq.m. Source: Reid (1912: paras 259, 271).

the total area of Ranchi district was 710,359 square miles. Following was the distribution of cultivated and uncultivated areas: Table 7.2 Year

Cultivated area

1837–38 1855 1867

127700000000 square yards 127990825000 square yards 128397100000 square yards

Source: Sen (2011a: 209).

Table 7.3

Cultivated Uncultivated Source: Sen (2011a: 209).

1895–97

1914–18

342452 acres 560942 acres

433334 acres 441386 acres

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The progressive depletion of the woodland may be evident from the following tables relating Kolhan. Table 7.3 shows a 29 per cent increase in cultivated area between 1897 and 1918 (Tuckey 1920: para 13). The feature of this recession of forest was that when the colonial government restricted the free expansion into virgin forests for reclamation and habitation, this was done at the cost of uplands and the unutilised forested portion of the villages.39 The consolidation of agriculture led to the growth in commerce. This engaged Adivasis in supplementary activity of marketing their products for price. With this, their agriculture and forest-centric territory acquired an additional meaning, that of a zone of trade and commerce. In fact, the onset of settled village life during the precolonial period had inaugurated local barter trade in the tribal region of Bihar. But we can draw neither a detailed picture nor the progress in trade and commerce due to paucity of information. We can form some idea from Kolhan where itinerant merchants bartered out trinkets with the local products on the eve of British rule (Tickell 1840b: 805). The colonial period accelerated the numerical growth of weekly markets or haats at the government initiative in Kolhan40 and other parts of Jharkhand. In Santal Parganas, 0.6 per cent people were supported by commerce. Trade was carried on at haats and fairs, the latter being more numerous and popular (O’Malley 1999: 64, 206–7). There were two types of markets – important/large and small/local markets. While in Santal Parganas, Sahibganj was the principal trading centre, being dominated by the Marwari traders (ibid.: 206), in Ranchi, the large trading centres were more numerous, being located at Ranchi, Gumla, Bundu, Lohardaga and Palkote. There were however numerous small weekly local markets (Reid 1912: para12). Kolhan provides interesting details of how a remote weekly market functioned. One such held at Dhobadhobin village on every Saturday, was attended on average by 500 people. Articles exchanged were rice, paddy, oilseeds, vegetables, tobacco, beads, cloth, etc.41 During the early 1870s, in Hazaribagh district ‘The local trade is (was) carried on by means of weekly village markets, at which the rayats attend, and lay in their stocks of necessary articles. In consequence of this system there are very few village shopkeepers’ (Hunter Vol. XVI 1976: 172). This reveals that over entire Chota Nagpur, Adivasi cultivators marginally moved away from subsistence economy. The following data substantiate my point. In the district of Ranchi, rice, oilseeds and other kinds of grain were among the items of export from the district.42 In Kolhan also, rice and oilseeds were the major items of export by the 1880s. This pushed up the price

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of rice from 44 seers per rupee in 1883–84 to 13 seers and 4 chataks in 1906–7 (Craven 1898: para 58).43 Adivasi participation in trade and commerce showed early signs of addition of a new livelihood, thereby weakening their agrarian identity. However, during British rule an Adivasi did not more or less prefer the occupation of either a trader or an artisan for cultural reasons. This was, as Skaria remarked about the Dangis, to remain ‘natural’ (1999: 64). Another major reason was obviously the lack of capital. His/her contact with the market was therefore merely as a seller of primary products of the field and forest and purchaser of essential commodities. In tribal Bihar, trade and commerce continued therefore to be a non-tribal domain. About the Oraons, Roy observed: the Oraons are not a commercial nor even a trading people . . . Again as the chief, and practically the sole, occupation of the Oraon is agriculture, and he considers it derogatory to himself to engage in such occupation as weaving, basketry or wicker work, pottery, and working in iron, he necessarily requires the services of people of other tribes and castes to supply his few simple needs. (1984: 44–5) This meant that agrarian and forest products failed to tilt the balance in favour of the tribal regions. Moreover, except for rudimentary carpentry, the community assigned the entire manufacturing space to the functional castes living in Adivasi villages (Tuckey 1920: 23, 118; Roy 1984: 45). This aversion to manufacture as a vocation was seemingly rooted in the Asur legend popular among indigenes. Here smelting was denounced as a vocation because Singbonga had reprimanded the day–night operation of the furnaces as polluting the universe (Hoffmann and Emelen Vol. 1 1998: 240–4). But our postcolonial experience informs that a more visible change both in material circumstance and mentality has occurred. Consequently, mostly after independence, though to a limited extent, Adivasis leaned towards new livelihoods of a trader. They are found opening up shops in the villages and performing retail trade. Moreover, they are found to join such professions as teaching, administrative jobs, legal and medical practices. In sum, the principality of their agrarian identity stands further waned in recent decades. Growth in agriculture, trade and commerce variously impacted the socio-economic landscape of the region. First, this largely stimulated the immigration 44 of non-Adivasi merchants, traders, miners and

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forest contractors as well as other professional groups across Chota Nagpur and Santal Parganas. The net result was that Adivasi preponderance systematically dwindled and they acquired a minority identity. The districts of Ranchi and Hazaribagh ‘were peopled in the past almost with aboriginals’. But by 1911, their percentage came down to less than one-third of the total in Hazaribagh and a little more than half (58%) in Ranchi (Sifton 1996: para 31). The progressive decline reached the apex in postcolonial decades, when their number dwindled to 27 per cent of the total. This diminution fuelled the claim of independent Jharkhand. This has also manifested in wide and recurrent protests against land deals with the multinationals signed by the state government and pan as well as supra-nation mobilisation for recognition of their indigenous identity and human rights. On the whole, peasantisation involved the Adivasis in ambivalence and dilemma about how they should image themselves, influenced as they were by their notions of being and becoming. On the one hand, despite their gradual movement towards a settled peasant life, they continue to affirm that the centrality of wildness cannot be diluted by the change in their material culture. Hardiman and Skaria inform that drinking, meat-eating and wildness, as represented by shifting cultivation and hunting, remain defining elements of the collective identity of the Adivasis of Gujarat (1987: 81–2, 201; 1999: 66–7, 71). In the case of the indigenes of Jharkhand, celebration of annual community hunt, called sendra and the institution of Jahira replayed and reinforced this link. As against this, what we notice is that as their dependence on forest progressively dwindled, they came more steadily to represent themselves as settled agriculturists, rather than a wild, itinerant and forested community. Interestingly, the contemporary reality is that they seek to resolve this dilemma by conflating a composite Jal-JungleJameen-centric representation. This at once forged, as elaborated in a subsequent chapter, their traditional link with the environment as also differentiated them from the singular agrarian identity of the nonethnic others. The change in identity transformed the nature of social and physical landscape. Social landscape changed when they assumed the identity of a sedentary agrarian community in place of their earlier pre-peasant and migrant identity. With the steady rise in the immigration of ethnic others, their majoritarian identity was sapped. No less significant was reinvention of the physical landscape. The ruralisation and peasantisation converted a natural zone into a cultural zone. The forested landscape wore a new look being dotted by human settlements, expanse of cultivation, trade and commerce as also of mining. The process of the

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reinvention of self as also the landscape continued as the next chapter engages with the Adivasi linkage with the waterbodies.

Notes 1 Tribe-specific archaeology has been studied in Sen (2012a: 29–44). 2 Underlining the fragmentariness of agriculture-related data, Mohapatra observed ‘issues relating to growth, however, has been stymied by the absence of reliable data on agricultural growth at the micro level’ (Mohapatra 1991: 1043–54). 3 For the shift from hunting and pastoralism to agriculture across the globe, see Crosby (2000: 17–28). 4 For a focused study on agrarian transformation, see Mohapatra (1991: 1043–54). 5 The same is true about areas beyond Jharkhand (Skaria 1999: Index; Hardiman 1987: Index under Adivasis). 6 About Porahat region, Taylor remarked ‘Ho (Kol) is a hunter who has been forced to agriculture by the contraction of the forest areas and a consequent decrease of game’ (O’Malley 1910: 116). 7 Being primitive agriculturists, they continued to stick to their wild nomadic life (Singh 1969b: 653–4; Skaria 1999: 46, 63–8; Arnold and Guha 1999: 89, 129, 179). 8 See the chapter on creation myth. 9 It in a way corrects the empirical notion that the Kharias and Mundas of the Chota Nagpur plateau had been ‘settled agriculturists probably ever since they entered Chota-Nagpur centuries ago’ (Roy 1982: 65). 10 I have formed this idea on a reading of the Tuckey Settlement Khuntkatti Records. For details, see Sen (2011a: 204–7). 11 Roughsedge to Metcalfe, 9 May 1820, para 18. 12 Ibid., paras 12–13. 13 Cuthbert to Shakespear, para 41. 14 Ibid., para 42. 15 According to the British, the Ho had become a ‘purely agricultural people’ by the 1870s (Dalton 1973: 196). In Ranchi district, the percentage of people depending on pasture and agriculture was 80.84 of the total, while in Hazaribagh district it was 78 per cent (Reid 1912: para 23; Sifton 1996: para 39). In Kolhan, the figure was 71.85 per cent (Craven 1898: para 67). 16 For the Ho, see the Village Notes and Roy (1984: 75) for the Oraons. 17 Village Notes provide details. 18 For the predominance of bandh in irrigation, see LRAR 1903–4, DCOS, GD, RB, CN. XII Annual Return, FN. 3, para 47; LRAR, 1928–29, FL, DCOS, GD, RB, CNXI, FN 19 of 1929, sec 24; TSVN, Vol. I, 7, 54, 60, 87, 243, Vol. II, 1, Vol. III, 112. 19 In Ranchi district, dependence on monsoon was considered responsible for crop failure and social distress (Reid 1912: para 7). This was true for the entire Chota Nagpur. 20 By the 1870s, the British found the Ho a ‘purely agricultural people’ (Dalton 1973: 196). 21 Cuthbert to Shakespear, para 46.

156 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29

30

31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44

Self-representation

Ibid., para. 43. CSVP, Kariposhi, 5, VN 431; Beliapada, 5, VN 432. Cuthbert to Shakespear, para 43. This is known from a perusal of Village Notes. For the Mundas, see Roy (1970: 224–6); for the Oraons, see Roy (1984: 73–4). Referring to a different situation, it is noted that a peasant produced only custom-approved crops (Duby 1989: 145). A peasant is understood ‘to mean a person who undertakes agriculture of his own, working with his own implements and using the labour of his family’ (Habib 2002: 109–10). This is closer to the Marxist analysis of stratified peasantry (Habib 2002: 109–10). We know of such expressions as nyl (ploughshare), other implements for cultivation, seetea (to plough), hertannying or the calling of a raiyat, koondee or rice field, kolom or granary, oosam oa or a farmhouse in the fields, gooyo or a hut to watch crops etc. (Tickell 1840a: 1063–90). As against this, Dalton has only hertanai or cultivator (1973: 235–41). Of the functional castes, the ‘status of the Kamars (blacksmiths) is the lowest in Kolhan, and they are the poorest’ (Craven 1998: 21). This shows that the use of iron as a technology was not accorded much importance in Ho socio-economy. In Palamau district, Lohars formed a sizeable part of the caste groups (Bridge 1996: para 23). Kamars and Lohars constituted 1.3 per cent of the total population of Santal Parganas (O’Malley 1999: 70). It is well known that protection of land rights was the central issue during tribal uprisings in Jharkhand. To quote: ‘Tribal society in the Indian context is ambiguous and includes a range of cultures from stone-age hunters and gatherers to peasant cultivators’ (Thapar 1990: 18). Village Note, Vol. II, 209. LRAR, 1907–8, DCOS, GD, RB, CNXI Returns, FN16, para 21vi, 47; LRAR, 1928–29, FL, DCOS, GD, RB, CNXI, FN 19 of 1929, sec. 49. LRAR, 1903–4, para 49A. This was true for the plateau region (Reid 1912: para 275). See also Roy (1984: 84). CSVP, Sardha, FS 5, 1–3, VN 460; Padampur, FS 9, 1–8, VN 650. See also Village Note (Vol. IV, 222–370). TSKP and Village Notes. The number rose from the first established at Chaibasa in 1837 to 37 in 1913–18 (Tuckey 1920: 3). CSVP, Dhobadhobin, 4, VN 494. At Bhangaon haat, attendance and exchange items were much greater. ibid., Bhangaon, 3–4, VN 646, Rice, sugar, molasses, grains and wheat were also exported. However, the quantum of rice imported (143,655 maunds) was considerably greater than that of its export (47,050 maunds) (Reid 1912: para 277). General Administration Report (GAR) 1883–84, Singhbhum district (Top cover missing, no further information), paras 20–1; LRAR, DCOS, GD, RB, CN XI Returns, FN 12, 1906–7, paras 47, 21. Though commercialisation accelerated the process, this was begun by the Chota Nagpur rajas when they invited different caste groups from Bihar and leased out large parcels of land (Singh 1966: Chapter I).

8

Water in Adivasi perception and the management of water resources

Sona Gara Samom-rakha, Bonga-ko-Gara Baitoroni Karo-Kuili MarangGara-te Sajao Singara Kan (The gleaming golden river Subarnarekha and Baitarani, the river of Gods; Karo, Koel and many a meandering streams flow through and adorn this beautiful land of ours) (Sen 2008c: Appendix No. III, Niral Disum (The Holy Land))

In indigenous perception, affinity to landscape, as constituted by waterbodies or Jal is the other marker of their collective identity. There is a tendency among scholars to characterise this identification as political. On the contrary, indigenous peoples of Africa consider this relationship with land and natural resources as ‘deeply felt spiritual and emotional’ (Wachira 2010: 7). Even after the nature of aquatic landscape changed with the introduction of man-made waterbodies, indigenous communities tended to affirm their close linkage with natural and man-made sources of water. Underlining this specificity, a recent essay points to ‘the transformation of the physical environment into landscapes through cultural symbols and on how these landscapes reflect our definitions of ourselves’ (Greider and Garkovich 1994: 1–24). Now the question is what the nature of this relationship was and how this was constructed? Seeking answer to these queries is however problematic because these issues have not merited scholarly attention. In India, water resources have more or less been studied in agrarian (Habib 1963; Ludden 1985; Sengupta 1980: 157–89), labour (Gyan Prakash 1990b: 13–33) and ecological (Hardiman 1999b: 185–209; Gilmartin 1999: 210–36; Whitcombe 1999: 237–60; Reeves 1999: 260–92; Morrison 2010: 182–95) contexts, with varying focus on society and polity as an incidence of management.1 The more popular trend is to engage with water resources in terms of means and relations of production. But when the

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approach is environmental, scholars tend to underline colonial rule as an ‘ecological watershed’ or ‘interventionist time’ for supposedly effecting unprecedented changes in the natural world (Arnold and Guha 1999: 12–13; Gadgil and Guha 2002: 116). On the other hand, studies specifically on the Adivasis of Jharkhand (Singh 1969b: 658; Sahu 1985: 222–3; Singh 1978: 17–19, 148–9),2 largely because of their generalised nature, have failed to appreciate that the linkage between indigenes and natural elements all over the world is not merely material but also moral. One may like to assign this lack to the absence of an inner account. The indigenous oral tradition does not unfold the role of water in the making of their culture, nor how they govern this natural source. The valorisation of the rivers of Singhbhum as related above is among the very rare depictions of what waterbodies meant to them. So this chapter will collate and analyse the colonial-day recorded data and, for the lack of postcolonial published account directly on this theme, the generic accounts both for conceptualisation and information. Though informed by observation of the lived reality and the institutional function during the period of contact, these sources are mostly extraneous. So for an intimate account, the chapter seeks to deploy the Village Papers that considerably illuminate indigenous cultural attitude to this natural source. Keeping in view the focus of this work, the chapter begins by highlighting Adivasi perception of the aquatic landscape. This informs how their hydraulically constituted moral culture and sense of history acknowledge the community’s debt to waterbodies. The second section portrays the ecological setting of the available natural and man-made sources. The third studies community-evolved governing technique to further underline their collective attitude. The fourth section examines the colonial water policy and governance and Adivasi response to it. The next examines the impact of waterbodies on Adivasi material life. Overall, these representations, both self and other, help us comprehend how waterbodies form a necessary component in the assertion of Adivasi selfhood and how historical forces reinvent it.

Waterbodies in Adivasi perception Any study on indigenous life in general, as I have argued in the introductory part, will remain incomplete if the vital link between ecology and moral life is not unfolded. A recent study observes that their ecocentric belief system had evolved out of their symbiotic relationship with nature, an intimate relationship that inspired them to develop ‘a

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bio-centric ethical attitude of respect for the natural objects’ and ‘to assign sacredness to the objects of nature, such as mountains (Marang Buru), rivers (Nage-era) and trees (Sarna, the sacred grove)’ (P. Sen 2006a: 48–59). In the context of Latin America, this has been underlined as the very meaning of living well. To quote: Living Well refers to the deep spirituality that we indigenous peoples continue to maintain with Mother Earth . . . Living Well means living in balanced harmony with all these elements. In the indigenous world view, all forms of existence are given equal weight, all have a complementary relationship, all are alive, and all are important. (Cunningham 2010: 53) Obviously, this was social acknowledgement of the debt for the various benefits derived from natural elements. Moreover, attaching sacredness to land, water as well as flora and fauna derived from their belief that Singbonga designed the world and its biotic ambience.3 This is evident in the definition of their lived space. Village for them meant not only the land demarcated by the early man and its inhabited part but also the adjacent forest, hill and water resources, both natural and man-made. The entire space became sacrosanct as the preserve of the Desauli or the village deity who, it was believed, looked after it. To secure her blessings, the Ho offered prayers during Mage festival held during January and February. During Mage, Ba, Hero and Damurai festivals, they invoked the blessings of other gods and spirits, so that they had enough crops and rains (Sahu 1985: 181–4). They needed supernatural support, obviously because without sufficient rains their rain-fed water resources would dry up and their monsoon-dependent agriculture would suffer. This was more or less the belief system of other Adivasi communities in general. Not only the belief system but their sense of history, as the Ho folklore relates, was constituted by the memory of ‘Nirul disum’. Their territorial sensibility centred on Singhbhum, their divinely blessed motherland. They had made ‘the land in the hills and dales habitable’ by driving away tigers, bears and wild animals, and by clearing the ‘uplands, slopes and glades’ of stones and jungles. Their ‘low and sloping fields’ provided ‘autumn’s rich harvest’ that signified their conversion into a settled agrarian community. They underlined the ecological specificity of their homeland, full of rivers and streams that ‘flow with crystal clearness’, of bracing breeze and sufficient rain. They particularly named the ‘gleaming golden river Subarnarekha and Baitarani, the

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river of Gods; Karo, Koel and many a meandering stream’ which made their land not only beautiful but holy as well (Sen 2008c: 115–16). Sanctification of the river is found among other ethnic communities also. It was as a sacred historical association of the Kheriahs with river Koel. While for the Santals, this was ‘Damoodah’ (Damodar). Dalton observed: ‘They were in all probability once settled on its banks in the low-lands, and clinging to it in their retreat and adopting the place of refuge that it led to, regard it still as communicating with their fatherland’ (1866: 155). Venerating ‘bongas of the water-pools’, was therefore an important aspect of Santal religion (Bodding 1994: 133). For the above reason, the river was invested with sacredness by them in the same way as the Ganges was for the Hindus. ‘Going to the Damuda river’ was the consummating act, rather ‘the final funeral ceremony’ followed by consigning of the urn containing bones and ashes, a three cubits long cloth, five cowries, one wristlet, sindur, one seer flattened rice and ears of the sacrificial animal in the river with elaborate rituals (ibid.: 181–3). The Kheriahs and Santals believed that ‘contents may be rapidly borne away by the current to mingle with the ashes of their forefathers’ (Dalton 1866: 155). Any study on the affinity between self and aquatic landscape should understand how their ‘lifeworld’ was constructed in ‘myth, religion and ceremony’ (Ingold 2000: 9). This is the source that lends continuity in relationship, even though the nature of self and landscape shifts over time. How the Adivasis negotiated with this change will be narrated below.

Harnessing natural sources and Adivasi as natural As elsewhere in India, natural sources of water in Jharkhand were the rivers, streams and the annual rainfall. The major source was the river – Ganges, Subarnarekha, Damodar, Ajai, south and north Koel, Sankh, Son, Kanha, Karo and the tributaries of some of these rivers (Sifton 1996: para 5; Bridge 1996: para 6; Hallett 1917: 5–7; Craven 1998: paras 6–8; O’Malley 1910: 10–11; Hunter XIV 1976: 268–70). The Subarnarekha, Damodar and South Koel traversed through different districts. Most of these rivers drained the territory they passed through and contributed to heavy rainfall. South Koel, which flows through Ranchi and Singhbhum, drains roughly an area of 3,600 square miles. The drainage area of the Subarnarekha and the Sankh was 1,100 square miles within Ranchi district alone. Rivers were fordable for the greater part of the year but were not mostly navigable. Besides these, numerous streams and waterfalls fulfilled the aquatic needs of the people (Hallett 1917: 5–7). Because of the specific geological feature,

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natural lakes were absent (ibid.: 8). These waterbodies were mostly monsoon-dependent. Rainfall was not, however, uniform throughout the year. The average annual rainfall varied between 53 and 54 inches in the Chota Nagpur plateau, while it was 51.11 in the Santal Parganas (Reid 1912: para 7; Hunter XIV 1976: 380). Generally, the monsoon set in June, but the heaviest rainfall was witnessed in July and August. January, February, April, November and December were low raining months. Between 1900 and 1909, in Ranchi district, below 1 inch rain was recorded. Another feature had been that rainfall was ecologically determined. In Hazaribagh district, the high central plateau recorded both the highest and the most regular rainfall of 54 inches, while the flat cleared table-land at the centre of Giridih subdivision recorded the lowest of 34–35 inches only (Sifton 1996: para 8). When Adivasi communities entered settled village life, availability of natural source and its distance from the habitat became one of the main criteria for the selection of the village site. As regards the tribal regions of Bihar, British ethnographers were uncertain whether the source was a river or spring. Tickell noted that the Ho ‘scarcely ever build by rivers, preferring the vicinity of some small spring’ (1840b: 783). But, two decades later, another ethnographer informed that as availability of water was ‘exceedingly scarce’ at many places, the existence of a river or ‘full running stream’ led to the foundation of thickly clustered villages (Dunbar 1861: 371). However, what is certain is that spring was the common choice, mainly for its potable use. River water served other purposes like bathing and washing, as also for animals. Not all rivers provided fish (Bridge 1996: para 6), nor was it utilised for watering lands (Reid 1912: para 7). We can therefore presume that harnessing natural sources of water was both a choice and necessity. The choice was driven by their attachment to the biotic environ, and necessity because of their cultural lag. The gradual movement from nature to culture was impacted by the change in circumstances.

Deployment of man-made sources and movement towards culture This shift was initiated by the contact with the migrant non-ethnic peasant groups and other communities during the precolonial period. But during British rule, the need for extension of agriculture and the imperatives of settled life made it necessary to consolidate and extend their link with waterbodies. Consequently, newer sources like reservoirs, wells and channels were adapted. The lack of indigenous technological know-how and individual/social capital,4 other than the

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deployment of labour, made exotic knowledge/technique and material help unavoidable. In south Bihar, tanks and bandhs/ahars5 were the popular mode of irrigation. The biggest pynes, stretching over 20–30 kilometres, could irrigate a hundred villages. Francis Buchanan considered the aharpyne system as ‘a remarkable indigenous system making possible the best out of a very unfavourable natural condition’ (Sengupta 2008: 126–7). Though not as developed, this emerged as the major but variable man-made source of water in Chota Nagpur. Palamau depended largely on ahars, while this was shared between ahars and wells in Ranchi and Hazaribagh (Reid 1912: para 276; Bridge 1996: paras 11, 174; Sifton 1996: para 10). About the Ho, the Village Papers related how the shift from natural to man-made source occurred. Tankmaking was not originally their tradition.6 But they imbibed its idea and technique through exotic contact. The idea was imported by a local chief named Benu Raja who had constructed a 600-yard tank in Lalgarh pir of Kolhan (Tickell 1840b: 706–7). But the socialisation of the process was inaugurated by the non-ethnic community known as the Saraks.7 This culture was later extended by another agrarian community, the Bhuiyans. Initially, however, the attitude of the Hos to these tanks was mixed, being marked by reverence, awe and callous negligence. Mostly due to their ‘ancient’ origin,8 out of reverence, tanks were called bonga pokharis, implying that these were dug not by the Hos, i.e. human beings, but by gods.9 On occasions, the size or perhaps depth of one caused fear.10 But there were also instances when the villagers re-excavated and renamed them, while their Sarak origin survived in village tradition.11 However, with most cases having silted up, these tanks were converted into arable plots.12 We can therefore presume that the meaning of infrastructure was historically constituted. This is crucial for understanding, what Mollinga labels, the social construction of water resource management (2010: 1–18). I would like to argue that the development of a specific management technique was a ploy to draw a boundary as a mark of their self-identification.

Management of water resources The nature and management of waterbodies was determined by the changing intra and inter-village social relations.13 What I seek to emphasise is that with the lapse of time, survivalist motives prompted villagers to excavate individual/familial water reservoirs and to formulate both individual right of hydraulic and landed properties. But since they could not ignore their status as members of the village society,

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this worked within the ambit of village geo-polity. Together with this, villagers also had to redefine their inter-village social relations in respect of inter-village tanks and bandhs. Yet other aspects were the reality of their subjection to British rule and the inchoate notion of a claim to certain facilities from the government. Consequently, the Adivasis excavated four types of water resources either individually or collectively through social or official participation. First were those constructed by substantial raiyats.14 Second were the village tanks, as kind of a common village property, constructed with the labour and expenses of villagers.15 The third type was excavated by residents of more than one village.16 The last were those excavated at the initiative and expense of the government with social participation in the form of labour and money.17 Second and third types instanced, what may be termed as ‘collective and communal project of construction’ (Morrison 2010: 186–7). This may be attributed to social cohesion that generally characterised Adivasi societies. But due to lack of evidence, it is difficult to examine how this homogeneity was reproduced. However, oral societies did not always offer unique examples of cohesion. It becomes clear from ‘the historical memory of grievance suffered by specialist Voda “tank diggers”’ (ibid.: 186). Moreover, ‘distribution of rights and access in local irrigation system are (were) not necessarily equitable’ (Mollinga 2010: 3). This is evidenced by inter-village disputes both over land and water resources. In general, people favourably responded to social construction of tanks. In fact, the Adivasis succeeded in evolving the culture of apportioning time for private and public as well as agricultural and non-agricultural works. We learn that villagers ‘combined to make excellent bunds on their own initiative when they see that such will be useful and in fact between December and May they have little to do but jungle cutting & (and) making bunds’.18 Besides the introduction of man-made tanks, as in the case of the Ho, construction of durrhis and wells constituted another novel concept in Jharkhand. But this mostly supplemented other sources. While shallow wells were used along with tanks in Ranchi district, Palamau peasants deployed mainly ahars and marginally wells. In Hazaribagh, wells were deployed besides ahars and rivers (Reid 1912: para 276; Bridge 1996: paras 11, 174; Sifton 1996: para 10). Similarly, the people of Kolhan, Porahat (Taylor 1938: para 116) and Seraikela (Hakim 1996: para 32) marginally adapted durrhis or wells. We notice their presence in four Kolhan villages funded either by the government or non-Adivasi and Adivasi villagers (O’Malley 1910: 111).19 However, their sparseness clearly showed that this was not popular. One reason

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might have been the high cost in digging a regular well, which could be about Rs. 300 in the 1870s (Hunter XVII 1976: 95). The other reason was villagers’ preference for natural springs and rivers. Before elaborating the deployment of water resources, it is pertinent to engage with the material and moral aspects of usability to comprehend indigenous attitude to water. I draw on Mollinga to develop this idea. He affirms that whether water should be considered as a ‘commodity’ or not is determined by the social, including cultural, regulation of a society (2010: 11). Taking cue from this idea, what I seek to argue is that the ethnic governance of water resource incorporated both the material and moral aspects. I shall detail its material use here, while the moral aspect has been elaborated before. Of its multiple uses, the first, i.e. irrigation, is detailed below.20 As a source of potable water, people utilised tanks, wells, rivulets and rivers. Though the right to water was conceded to all villagers in common tanks, records are silent whether these were also used for drinking purposes. However, the trend of making exclusive tanks for drinking water had developed.21 On the other hand, we have the instance of its use for drinking and watering (not clear what it meant because lands in this village were not irrigated) in one village,22 while for drinking and bathing in more than one village.23 Wells were used for drinking purpose alone though, as shown before, these were very sparse. Two other sources for drinking water were the rivulet and the river,24 which were more popular in Kolhan and Seraikela. The tank was more popular as a source of fishing. While fishing rights were enjoyed by all villagers in common tanks,25 this right belonged only to the owner in private tanks.26 We have both the information of fishes being ‘grown’ in the reservoirs27 and those coming ‘by themselves’ during the rainy season.28 It seems these crops were mostly used for domestic consumption rather than for the market. By the turn of the century, we however notice marketing of fishes for which rivers were taken on lease.29 It is difficult to ascertain the customary right over waterbodies among the Adivasis in Singhbhum during the precolonial period. Since digging tanks or embankments was not originally a part of Ho culture, familial or individual right in respect of it, like a similar right in the case of land, did not evolve among them. But elsewhere, as a recent study on Kerala reveals, familial/individual right to property was coeval with the emergence of such a right over water resources (Krishnan and George 2009: 1–15). In Porahat, we find that a landowner was not required to take formal permission to excavate a tank from anybody, but in the case of wasteland, i.e. common village property, the permission of the headman was necessary (McPherson 1906: para

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102). On the other hand, natural sources like rivers and springs were in common use. Similarly, the Sarak tanks in Kolhan were treated as a common property of the villagers, subject however to the superintendence of the village community represented by the village head. This provided villagers an access to water and fishing for household purposes.30 Understandably, the concept of commonness had originated because the owners had abandoned the village.31 It may be presumed therefore that water resources were governed by individual and common right to property. Significantly, management of common property prohibited its appropriation with profit motive, and instead put a premium on its sustainable use.

British water policy and the Adivasis Like land and forest, the colonial government in India treated sources of water as a ‘commodity’ to be controlled and managed by the state. They patronised public water works to promote agriculture for a ‘permanent, fixed and progressively higher’ revenue, besides saving villagers from famine and drought.32 In fact, chronic crop failure was a nagging problem throughout the Chota Nagpur division. It was observed ‘the question is one of great practical importance in this Division which is so liable to crop failure’.33 In this light, the divisional administration drew the attention of the Kolhan administration to ‘the poverty of cultivation’ due to ‘the scarcity of irrigation works’.34 This necessitated the formulation of a technology for the construction and repair of irrigation works. The colonial government preferred to remain closer to the traditional technique, because this ‘blended more into the environmental and cultural landscape’ (Schmitthenner 2011: 181) of the region. Like hydraulic projects in south India, they therefore ‘built and expanded on older works and systems of irrigation’ (ibid.). As broached before, Adivasi villagers in Chota Nagpur generally constructed small- and medium-sized tanks, bandhs or ahars. Seemingly, this was built at low ecological and social costs. Taking cue from this tradition as also their scientific study of the landscape, the British undertook small-scale irrigation projects. The Executive Engineer observed: ‘On account of the very undulating nature of the ground Chota Nagpur is not suitable for irrigation works of any size.’ Instead, he suggested: ‘There must be reservoir to store up excess drainage. So to be successful every irrigation project in Chota Nagpur must have a reservoir.’35 In the case of Lohardaga district, due to ‘the height and strength of the riverbanks’, large embankments were not considered viable (Hunter XVI 1976: 409). However, long before the generic

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official policy was spelled, the Singhbhum district administration had been funding the excavation of small tanks and bandhs for storing rainwater. Ecological logic was combined with the government’s inability to make necessary allocation. Due to this reason, the government had to depend on private investments for implementing major projects in south India (Ludden 1985: 144–5). This had a dual impact in the context of Jharkhand. First, the government encouraged local support and management, in the same way as they had done in south Bihar and south India (Sengupta 1980: 165–8; Ludden 1985:143–5). The following quotation elaborates the official policy: ‘By a system of local cooperation the natural facilities which the country affords, can be used for irrigation purposes, and the stock of food stuffs thereby enormously increased  .  .  .’ Local cooperation here meant ‘the missionaries and intelligent and public spirited landlords’, who it was averred ‘could do much to develop the system of irrigation’.36 There was however a lack of unanimity as to the nature of private agency. About Ranchi district, Reid preferred landlords and other substantial peasants. To quote, ‘until the zamindars and cultivators develop a system of artificial irrigation on a considerable scale’ large areas would suffer from famine and scarcity (1912: para 7). Similarly, in Palamau district, it was officially admitted that ‘irrigation works can only be made by zamindars’ (Bridge 1996: para 120). Paradoxically, the failure to launch any large project was ascribed to the bankrupt condition of the former and improvidence of the latter, rather than lack of necessary official allocation (Hallet 1917: 113). However, in Kolhan, officials deviated from this policy mainly because landlords had practically no role here, while missionaries could not command useful support from society due to general apathy of the Ho towards them. Instead, they relied more on the village community which traditionally managed the common properties in the village. Second, the local administration deployed ‘a simple and inexpensive system’ and ‘the judicious expenditure of a small capital’ (Reid 1912: para 276) to excavate tanks and embankments. This prompted Kolhan officials to collaborate with villagers in excavating 96 bandhs and tanks as against 731 exclusively done by villagers (Craven 1898: paras 21–46). On the whole, due to official and social apathy, irrigation technology remained virtually stagnant and arrangements to combat drought and famine miserably inadequate. This will be elaborated below. In India, the colonial policy of inaugurating partial state management of water required official ‘procedures, rules and rights for access’ (Rao 2011: 153; Sengupta 1980: 166–7). This was essentially hybrid

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that conflated indigenous and British concepts of property. Though individual and common rights were duly recognised, for excavating a private or public work, formal permission of the district head was mandatory.37 To procure sanction, as we find in Kolhan, some conditions were laid down. First, the scheme should be socially proposed through a petition to the district administration by the Munda, in the case of a village, and from the Manki, when the project was an intervillage one. Second, problem of land alienation had to be minimal, and if so could be easily resolved. Lastly, where official support was necessary, the financial responsibility had to be shared both by the government and by the community, the latter contributing both physically and monetarily. It was incumbent on the local administration to ensure the quality of the work and proper use of the money allocated.38 Though water resources were brought under official management, the government could not ignore prevailing indigenous customs. This compromise was understandably the result of, like land and forest, a latent fear psychosis.39 Individual and collective rights over tanks and bandhs were legitimised by precisely recording them in the Village Note and Village Enquiry Paper. Traditionally, right devolved on a family and individual when by dint of personal labour and expenses its natural character was changed from a forest space to an arable land or a piece of land to either a tank/bandh.40 Like land, a son therefore inherited family tank or bandh after the death of his father.41 Moreover, the right to enjoyment of water or fishes belonged to its owner.42 Not only that, like family proprietorship in land, this could be inherited by his son also.43 The Adivasi society, however, made practical distinction between title (ownership right) and enjoyment (use right). On the precise ground of owning the land on which the tank had been excavated, right of title belonged to the person. But he had to share the usufruct with the villagers, if the latter had invested labour or money for its excavation or repairs. This was legitimised by the court.44 Common right, both title and right of enjoyment, customarily devolved over tanks or embankments on a village land after the villagers had put in their labour and money towards its making. This was officially endorsed and recorded in the Village Papers.45 The same principle operated in the case of bandhs which were constructed on government land, with villagers’ labour and money in its excavation and repairs. What we generally find is that the local administration provided half of the excavation cost, while the raiyats rendered either half of the cost or other half in the form of labour.46 Here also for providing land, title accrued to the government, while use right devolved on villagers.47

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Governance of water resource marked a clear mix of indigenous and British concepts of property and management. Proprietary right to individuals followed the British notion of private property. But, split right of title and enjoyment to the individual and villagers reflected the indigenous concept of management and enjoyment of village resources. However, one cannot deny that the British diluted the indigenous custom. Individual proprietary right was partially infringed into by withdrawing the owner’s right to change the character of land similar to that which existed in relation to the land and forest. The right of management in respect of village resources, which traditionally belonged to the village community headed by the Munda, was also curtailed. The British encroachment into traditional water rights should have normally caused social ferment. But evidence of social protest against hydraulic policy, unlike land and forest, was rather rare (Sen 2011a: 202–7). However, we notice that state intervention in customary rights created a fluid state in which often these rights were contested. As a result, litigations at individual-familial, intra as well as inter-village levels became a social feature (Sen 2012b: 91–7). Moreover, individual or social attitude towards social and official projects differed. Villagers readily extended their help when the village community found that the social project was of public use. On the contrary, their response, in the form of money and labour to government bandhs, was lukewarm and evasive. The district head rued, ‘The raiyats hardly agree to construct bandhs on the above conditions and irrigation is generally neglected.’48 An obvious reason for popular aversion was that they were paid ‘wages at half the usual rates’.49 This evasiveness also prevailed at the village-official level. It was remarked that even at the risk of paying fines, the Mankis neglected repair work of the bandhs even after receiving advances from the government.50 Weighed against free labour rendered to community-sponsored waterbodies shown above, one should perhaps ascribe the evasion to a cause more deep-rooted than payment of inadequate wage by the government. A more pressing factor was the fear of land alienation to excavate a new reservoir. Though they were paid compensation and a matching land in return, there were instances of peasant opposition and protest. In one village, two Ho villagers declined to accept land in exchange.51 Similarly, in another case, a peasant initially opposed to part with his five kathas of land, but he later agreed, after receiving the sum of Rs. 5 and a separate piece of land.52 Though not numerous, these are examples of rankling problems of land alienation which could be resolved only by above sensitive official attitude.

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I would like to emphasise that the above social attitude to irrigation projects broadly defined the Adivasi concept of development. The villagers underlined that development tended to become salutary when projects were socially endorsed and participated, rather than being imposed by the state. Furthermore, social cost in the form of land alienation should be minimal, which official projects often failed to ensure. This became evident during the post-independence decades.

Sources of water and remaking of collective identity The use of man-made and natural water resources intensified the ongoing processes of ruralisation, peasantisation and remaking of Adivasi social structure. Setting up of a village began only after ensuring the availability of water in or near the delineated village area in the woodland. But the nitty-gritty of village life, particularly agriculture, needed additional sources of water. During precolonial times, the Hos made partial use of Sarak and Bhuiyan tanks. Later, they resorted to the excavation of self and community tanks and embankments. These arrangements helped them to become settled villagers. Similarly, their slow yet steady peasantisation from hunter-gatherer to cultivator drew on the increasing contact with artificial irrigation. At the early stage, when the Adivasis practised shifting cultivation, they did not obviously engage in artificial irrigation. But, their graduation to settled cultivation, as we see in the case of the Ho, depended on their exposure to the tank irrigation technique imported by the Saraks and Bhuiyans. During the precolonial phase itself, emergence of many of their populous and well-cultivated villages owed significantly to their acculturation to the tank irrigation technique.53 During British rule, the extension of cultivation was considerably facilitated by the self and community-excavated tanks. Adoption of irrigation technology had an ambivalent impact on the Adivasis.54 On the one hand, they had to formulate a ‘set of social relations’ for the ‘control and allocation of water’, as also ‘resolution of conflicts’. The norms of property rights elaborated above were therefore socially evolved and brought under the management of the village community. In a way, this helped bonding the community. On the other hand, these, along with other changes mentioned above, helped generate fissiparous tendencies. As stated earlier, though empirical and historical writings underlined egalitarianism as the distinguishing feature of indigenous life, its steady dilution in Chota Nagpur plateau has also attracted scholarly attention.55 The study of the Ho further informs that property rights over waterbodies adversely affected their

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basic egalitarian and homogenous character both at individual and collective levels. Understandably, people residing in the plain and highly arable parts were better off compared to those located in the hilly and forested areas (Sen 2011b: 104–17). Likewise, the hydraulic factor also widened material wedges both at the familial and regional levels. In fact, the topographical advantage was accentuated when it had irrigational support (Craven 1898: paras 97–8; Tuckey 1920: para 14). These factors definitely combined to extend the areas and margin of affluence in Adivasi society. The result was that the absence of material resource precluding excavation of water reservoirs during early part of British rule (Tickell 1840b: 804) was considerably offset when some decades later we notice the emergence of many Mankis, Mundas and a substantial number of villagers owning private tanks.56 One Manki was rich enough to spend Rs. 2,400 for digging eight private water reservoirs.57 Some of the raiyats had the capability to successfully vie with non-Adivasi thikadars in getting fishing rights of the government bandhs and rivers.58 This in turn accelerated social heterogeneity. Individual, familial and inter-village disputes over waterbodies were not very rare. It was both individual and familial when two villagers of the same killi fought over the possession of a tank.59 Village solidarity was ruptured further when Adivasi and non-Adivasi raiyats lodged official complaints against the village headman for not allowing them to use the village bandh for irrigation.60 Inter-village conflict, over a bandh,61 watercourse,62 and over a bandh meant for one village, being constructed within the area of another village, had occurred.63 These disputes exposed the latent social tension over the control of reservoirs and due to inequitable distribution of water mentioned above. The weakening of inter-familial and village homogeneity was its natural sequel. Despite the inventive character of Adivasi identity, what remained constant, even after the end of colonial rule, was the indissoluble link with the aquatic environment. With this, we move to the penultimate chapter that unravels how they defined their notion of self and landscape in the context of the forests.

Notes 1 For a study of water management in tribal villages in neighbouring East Singhbhum, see Hill (2008). 2 However, more recent researches contend this understanding and emphasise the ‘ecological limits of empire’ (Kumar, Damodaran and D’ Souza 2011). 3 See an earlier chapter for details.

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4 Tickell rued the absence of material resource precluding excavation of water reservoirs (1840b: 804). 5 These were called ahars in south Bihar (Sengupta 1980: 159–61). 6 TSKP, Rengarbera, 3–8, VN 47. 7 Saraks and Bhuiyans were pre-Ho settlers in Kolhan. They were an agrarian community who introduced the concepts of tanks and mango groves. 8 TSKP, Jetea, 3–18, VN 70, also ibid., Padampur, 3–9, VN 47. 9 Ibid., Iligara, 3–9, VN 51. 10 Ibid., Jetea, 7–8. 11 Ibid., Bara Raikhaman, 3–5, VN 36, also CSVEP, Gitilpi, 5, VN 177. 12 TSKP, Karanjia, 3–5,VN 50, also ibid., Goriaduba, 3–5, VN 48. 13 This idea is stoked by Mollinga (2010: 3). 14 CSVEP, Khunti, 4,VN 58; TSVN, Pukhriakhas, 3–4, VN 284. 15 CSVEP, Gara Rajabasa, 4, VN 74. 16 Ibid., Sarda, 6, VN 83. 17 Ibid., Khuntpani, 5. 18 LRAR 1908–9, DCOS, GD, RB, CNXI Return, FN I0 of 1908–9, para 21ii. 19 CSVEP, Khuntpani, 5, VN 16; CSVN, Kokcho, 10, VN 258; CSVN, Baliaposhi, VN 545; CSVEP, Bashudebpur, 3, VN 598. 20 See also the chapter on peasantisation. 21 CSVEP, Lagiapi, 4, VN 133; CSVN, Noagaon, 3, VN 459. 22 CSVNE, Bankodar, 3, VN 416. 23 CSVNERR, Karanjia, 3, VN 612; ibid., Saradiha, 3, VN 618; ibid., Kuira, 3, VN 619. 24 From Chirchee rivulet, CSVN, Kokcho, 10, VN 258 and from Kongra River, Gurgaon, 5, VN 541. 25 See Janambera, Sarda and Gitilpi above. 26 See Tentra, Raladi and Pukhriakhas. 27 See Raladi, Pukhriakhas. 28 VNE, Kumardungi, 3, VN 382. 29 TSVN I, 475, 495, 505; II, 8. 30 CSVEP, Gitilpi, 5, VN 177. 31 For instance, the tank constructed by a Brahmin became village common property as he had left no heirs. CSVN, Diku Balkand, 3, VN 532. 32 For the role of revenue as a factor in a different context, see Ludden (1985: 142–4; Rao 2011: 150). The other factor was identified as ‘a rhetoric of protection .  .  . against flood, poverty and especially famine’ (Morrison 2010: 188). 33 Kanti Bhusan Sen, PA to the Commissioner of CNP (Chota Nagpur) to the DC of Singhbhum, No 2400R of 15 November 1912. FL, DCOS, GD, RB, CN VII, FN 20 of 1912–13, 13 of 1913–14, Irrigation Scheme of the District. 34 Ibid. 35 S.S. Paul, Executive Engineer’s Report, dated 6 April 1907, Irrigation, Chota Nagpur, vide Kanti Bhusan Sen to DC, Singhbhum. 36 J.F. Grunning, Secretary to Government of Bihar and Orissa, Revenue Department to the Commissioner of Chota Nagpur, No 2631R (A) III E-9, 9 August 1912, vide Kanti Bhusan Sen to DC, Singhbhum. 37 CS, FL, Mis. Case No 915 of 1911–12, Binj, 1, VN 1.

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38 CS, FL, Mis Case No 410 of 1907–8, Gardi Ho Munda of Karsakola’s petition for a bund at the mouza at Government expense, Karsakola, FS 4, 1–21, VN 516; CS, FL, Mis Case No 357 of 1907–8, Balbhadra Manki of Uligutu asks permission to construct a bund at the common boundary of two villages Uligutu and Loharda, Uligutu, FS 6, 1–10, VN 757. 39 For details, see Sen (2006: 78–88; 2011a: 212–17). 40 TS, Papers of Cases u/s 83, Pandrasali, 3, VN 31. 41 Ibid. ; CSVNERR, Amjora, 3, VN 580. 42 CSVNE, Kumardungi, 3, VN 382. 43 CSVN, Kokcho, 3–4, VN 258. 44 CSVEP, Janambera, 3, CS, VN2. See also TS, Tanaza Papers, Case between Kul mouza (the entire villagers) vs Madhu Ho, Patahatu, 4–5, VN 28. 45 CSVEP, Kenduabasa; CS, Village Note, Barmita, 3, VN 521. 46 LRAR 1911–12, DCOS, GD, RB, CN. XI, Annual Return, FN 1, 16; TSVN I, 421. 47 CSVNE, Sonaposhi, 3, VN 483. 48 From DC to Commissioner, No 1588R of 31 March 1913, Irrigation Scheme of the District, FS 11, para 2. 49 Ibid. 50 LRAR 1907–8, DCOS, GD, RB, CNXI Return, FN I6, para 13. 51 CS, FL, Case No 667 of 1900, Petition of Rautu Ho & others, Argundi, FS 4, VN 758, 1–9. 52 CS, Mis. Case No. 357 of 1907–8, Balbhadra Manki of Uligutu asks permission to construct a bund at the common boundary of two villages Uligutu and Loharda, Uligutu, FS 6, VN 757, 1–10. 53 Roughsedge to Metcalfe, 9 May 1820, paras 17–18. 54 Section on ‘Social Organization’ in Sengupta (2008: 129–30) has been very evocative. 55 For details, see Sen (2011b: 104–17); Singh (1985: 14). 56 TSVN, Khajuria and Khas Pukhuria, Vol. II, 316, 396. Many other villagers owning tanks could also be cited from the above source. 57 TSVN II, 369. 58 TSVN I, 475, 495, 505; VN II, 8. This substantiality seems evident in the case of Sadhu Manki who spent Rs. 2,400 for excavating eight bandhs. ibid., II, 369. 59 TS, Tanaza Papers, Abin Manki of Khairpal vs Disu Ho of Baliaposi, 2, VN 44. 60 CSVN, Kongsgarh, 16, VN 878. 61 TS, Papers of cases u/s 83, Objection Case No.16 between all the raiyats vs Mulia Munda, Kitahatu, 5–6, VN 8. 62 CS, FL, Mis. Case No16 of 1903–4, petition of Satri Manki, Gitilpi, Gumra pir, FS 8, 4–6, VN 177. 63 CS, Combined Title Page & FL, Case No 726 of 1913–14, Hardab Ho of Amrai prays that Lota Ho & others of Matkamhatu have cultivated the maharir without permission, Amrai, FS 10, 1–9, VN 72.

9

Forest as a marker of collective identity

Assertion of an unassailable link with the forests or jungle has been the other prominent agenda of the Adivasi identarian movement. The crucial point for investigation is what had/has been the nature of forest that they had been negotiating with? Since original wilderness had suffered recession over time due to human intervention, it was basically with the changed wooded landscape that the Adivasi communities had/have to mediate with. Construction of the relationship between self and forest therefore naturally tends to be tenuous. The question is how the Adivasi communities seek to address this dilemma in constructing their linkage with the woodland. Before going into the details, it is pertinent to know how social scientists have dealt with forests. Scholarly studies on forests present the picture of a multi-patterned embroidery. This growing corpus may be thematically classified under the following heads. Along with land, water and minerals, forests were initially viewed as a material resource. This inspired the peripheral presence of forest in some of the historico-anthropological accounts with varying focus (Roy 1970; 1984: Chapters II–IV; Hardiman 1987: see Index). The other genre of studies engaged forest as a power regime. This largely elaborated the contest for rights between the state and forested communities.1 The recent trend is however to study forests in the context of social ecology and environment. Some of these works study the colonial and postcolonial state policies on the forests (Arnold and Guha 1999; Gadgil and Guha 2002; Rangarajan 1999; Sivaramakrishnan 1999; Skaria 1999: see Index) to unravel contesting ecological ideologies of the state and forested communities (Gadgil and Guha 2002: 17–26; Arnold and Guha 1999: 107; Rangarajan 1999: 29; Baviskar 2006: 35; Hardiman 1999a: 6–7, 90–1). There is yet another strand. While addressing forests in the context of development, scholars underlined the interrelationship between Adivasis and

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the forests. It was viewed that these communities remained backward and marginalised because they inhabited insulated landscape (Cederlof 2008: 28–9, 263). Moreover, the incorporation of wooded terrain into the administrative and economic mainstream was deemed as a prerequisite for development (ibid.: 172; Sivaramakrishnan 1999: 22, Chapter 7) for those who had lived in isolation. Furthermore, recent scholarship emphasises that in order to comprehend the intricacies of the interrelationship between culture and nature, an interdisciplinary approach is necessary (Head, Trigger and Mulcock 2005: 253–5). In a recent essay, Sivaramakrishnan evocatively maps how ‘forest history, the domain of environmental history’ may further grow by imbibing scientific approaches. He further argues that since sources are scant, ‘a certain amount of creativity’ is necessary to avoid ‘linear narratives of landscape transformation’ (2009: 299–304). This creativity has made regional ‘historically specific and culturally nuanced accounts of conflicts over nature, their consequences, and representations . . . vitally necessary’ (ibid.: 311). These trajectories of forest-related researches reveal that predominantly Adivasi regions in India, Jharkhand in particular, may be a potential site for nuanced scholarly intervention. But the question is whether the above approaches should suffice and whether issues are somewhat exclusive and specific in their case. While focussing on the specificity of the forest issue, the author seeks to foreground its role, like land and water, as an identity marker, more so how this was defined and redefined. This brings on board the vital issues of changing selfhood and landscape as also their interrelationship. Though studies on custom-law dialectics and tribe–forest linkage also somewhat foreground forest-centric identity assertion, forest as a parameter of self-imaging needs further probing to comprehend the logistics of representation, both by self and the other, as also the never-ending debate between being and becoming current among the Adivasis of Jharkhand. This knowledge is crucial because both the transformation of the community as well as the forests and ecosystems, as a recent study on Meghalaya argues, were intertwined (ibid.: 311).

Colonial and Indigenous perceptions of the forests The chapter on the land and people in the gazetteer, land revenue reports etc. details the topography, the quality and character of the land, sources of water, forest and mineral resources as well as the people in India. One salient feature of this reporting is that, besides providing exclusive topographical and demographic accounts, this

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unfolds the reciprocal relation between landscape, forest in the present context and people. This section will first mention colonial perception of the woodland, followed by the representation of Adivasis, rather forest communities, in the context of forests. Colonial ethnographers depicted that Jharkhand constituted ‘the jungle highland of central India remote, forbidding and barbarous’ (Sifton 1996: para 41). In their perception, the woodland represented virtually as a border between nature and culture, rather, what Sivaramakrishnan termed, as ‘zones of anomaly’. Except for two British engineers, who were captivated by the ‘lofty and luxuriant green forests in every direction’ of the Western Ghats of Kerala (Tucker 1989: 120), colonial representation of the landscape was materially motivated (Skaria 1999: 205–6). In England, for instance, its general usefulness invited the comment: ‘Within man’s memory, it was held impossible to have any want of wood in England’ (Wilkinson 1989: 82). About Chota Nagpur, James Grant wrote in 1787 that this ‘was an unfruitful country’ because this ‘scarcely ever yielded to the State a revenue exceeding two lakhs and a half of rupees’ (Quoted in Sifton 1990: para 41). But the meaning of materiality changed over time. During the early part of their rule in India, the focus was on the extension of cultivation. Therefore, colonial ethnographers defined landscape in terms of ‘settled cultivation, wasteland and forest’ (Cederlof 2008: 34). The forests as a wasteful spectacle, as against the ‘well-fenced field’, created the contrasting images of dreariness and beauty (Arnold and Guha 1999: 72). Therefore, they wanted to remove this ‘obstruction to agriculture’ and extend agrarian border for the material prosperity of people and the empire (Rangarajan 1999: 16–9, 44–5; Gadgil and Guha 2002: 120). However, officials later came to perceive forest as a broader zone of ‘resource within a wider system of production’, as a propertied zone or as a ‘zone of commerce’.2 As such, this was conceived as a potential source of revenue for the state; sal and deodar were found essential for shipbuilding and railways; forests were considered a rich source of timber for construction and fuel, tamarind, sabai grass and precious minerals (Rangarajan 1999: 8, 19–21, 55–6 ; Hardiman 1999a: 105, 112, 116–19; Craven 1898, para 57).3 Of these, the regular supply of ‘valuable’ (Skaria1999: 201) timber occupied the top of official agenda.4 In the context of mineral potential, it was observed ‘there is every prospect of a large revenue accruing to government in the shape of royalty when the mineral wealth of this district is opened up’.5 The material significance of the forested Jharkhand region grew with the extension of the railways since the 1890s (Reid 1912: para 9; Sifton 1996: para 14; Bridge 1996: para

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13).6 This utilitarian linkage forced the comment: ‘In early days no one thought of the jungle one way or the other because there was so much of it that it was a positive nuisance. But now it is a valuable property.’7 The woodland in India was also conceived as a power regime. To assert sovereignty over space and people (Skaria1999: 208; Cederlof 2008: 226–7; Guha 2008: 284), the British decided that this must be possessed and controlled as a matter of right (Rangarajan 1999: 18–21, 30). This inaugurated the regime of state forestry which undertook regular survey and demarcation of the Indian forests. The policy of reservation and state management followed. Imposition of restrictions on the free use of natural space and resources by forested groups came in tandem (Guha 2008: 290). Sivaramakrishnan shows that not only the British but local landlords in Bihar and Bengal were often engaged in the curtailment of indigenous rights (2009: 311–18). Thus, the colonial government began, what he termed, the ‘process of deterritorialization and re-territorialization’ in India (1999: 131–2). It is however relevant to mention that because of the impact of diverse ‘scientific, governmental, land- and resource-related’ interests, the policy of state forestry was not implemented by an even, homogenous and uniform colonial state (Cederlof 2008: 168). There was yet another aspect to this intervention. The bureaucracy could not ignore ‘customary forest rights’ and ‘ancient privileges’ of the forest people.8 This sensitivity was not simply altruistic. Officials apprehended that any transgression might cause tribal rebellion, raids, robbery and murder (Sivaramakrishnan 1999: 167; Guha 2008: 290–302). W.B. Thomson, the deputy commissioner of Singhbhum, and another official recalled the Birsite revolt.9 The fear of forest disturbances and conflict with the Santals and Paharias prompted officials in Santal Parganas to allow them to practise shifting cultivation (Sivaramakrishnan 1999: 167). Another fear was that of large-scale migration that might jeopardise the supply of cheap tribal ‘labour pool for forestry works’ (ibid.). The bureaucratic probe into the local people’s relationship with the nature initiated the debate whether ‘to treat the customary use of the forest as based either on “right” or “privilege”’. However, they finally resolved that recognition of customary rights should in no way jeopardise the position of the government ‘as the property holder’ (Guha 2008: 284; Cederlof 2013: 375–82). Officials could learn that traditionally villagers accessed village forests under the supervision of village and pir heads. But the custom of collecting and selling flowers, fruits, thatching and sabai grass, appeared to one of them ‘essentially inconsistent with the ultimate ownership of the state’.10 So the Forest Acts of 1865 and 1878 infringed on the customary domain. Areas were annexed as reserved and protected zones, which restricted the

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customary right of clearing for cultivation, cutting trees, free entry and collection of forest produce (Reid 1912: para 294). The contemporary ecological ideas of the scientists and academics had some bearing on colonial forest policy. Chota Nagpur-based missionary, Fr. Hoffmann underlined the need of maintaining adequate forest cover to ensure sufficient rainfall so that the moisture of soil might be retained.11 This seemed to make Chota Nagpur administration particularly sensitive to ‘the disastrous effects which such denudations were believed to produce on the climatic conditions and the rainfall of the country’.12 The state bureaucracy was however divided over the extent of impact. Reid observed ‘there is no evidence whatsoever that the thinning of the forests and the reclamation of parts of the jungle for cultivation have had yet any effect in decreasing the rainfall, or even in causing appreciable disturbances in its distribution. There is also no proof that the subsoil water level has receded. (1912: para 302) We will now seek to comprehend how colonial officials portrayed the Adivasis, nay forest people, in the light of the forests. The basis of this representation was whether they were development and environment friendly or not. To take up the first issue, as the Adivasis lived in the secluded forested and hilly parts of the country, they were termed as a wild and backward people (Skaria 1999: 37–8; Cederlof 2008: 263). Dalton observed that the Kolarian group inhabiting Chota Nagpur were ‘the most unimprovable of the race . . . who . . .  hide themselves in the hilly forests, and relapse into their conditions as savages’ (1865: 4). In colonial perception, indigenous/forest people were therefore ideally a pre-civilisation people, whom the British had been ordained to put on the path of development. Environment–Adivasi linkage prompted British officials to explore the potential causes behind the denudation of forests. Generally speaking, the extension of agriculture by the cultivators, landlords, shifting cultivation, sale or lease of forest to the contractors and opening up of the railways, roads and markets were identified as causes for deforestation (Sivaramakrishnan 1999: 121–30; Reid 1912: paras 296–7). But British officials mostly configured the indigenes as the major vandaliser. Their reckless felling of trees due to shifting cultivation was deemed ‘an evil’, like the sati or dreaded small pox (Hardiman 1999a: 118–20; Rangarajan 1999: 20–1, 30–1; Arnold and Guha 1999: 132). In 1901, the commissioner of Chota Nagpur blamed the people for recklessly denuding the state forest of valuable timber.13 The forest

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officials were harder: ‘If left to their own devices the aboriginals will clear everything in less than one generation.’14 As forests shaped colonial representation of the indigenous communities, these people constructed their selfhood in relation to the landscape. As elaborated in the context of water, this was equally moral, as it had been material. About the Adivasis of Jharkhand, Damodaran aptly remarked that they appropriated the landscape ‘as an economic, ethnic, anthropological, religious, and ecological terrain’ (2005: 115). They particularly identified themselves as forest-people because their habitat abounded in ‘huge forest’ (Hallett 1917: 121) or ‘virgin jungle’ (Reid 1912: para 292). Likewise, the making of villages in the forested tracts shaped their rural identity. This was expressed through village naming after the hills, trees, streams, animals etc.15 to venerate their utilitarian link with the above natural objects. Forest vitally influenced their material life. After carving out their hearth and home in the forest region, they learnt to survive through foraging, hunting and tilling. This dependence prompted them to identify themselves as a forest-centric agrarian community. Moreover, the woodland provided grazing grounds for the cattle, fuel, fruits, herbs, bamboo and wood for house making as well as ranu for preparing their sacred drink called illi or hanria (Tickell 1840b: 803–4; Tuckey1920: 120). Their economy was sustained by the sale of sabai grass, tassar cocoon, lac, items prepared from bamboo and wood and oil made from mohua, neem, kusum, karanj fruits and seeds (Craven 1898: paras 55–8, 159–60; Tuckey1920: para 16; McPherson 1906: para 119; O’Malley 1910: 153).16 Similarly, cultural practices of the Indian indigenes in general were ecologically constituted. The first strategy adopted by them was to deify natural space. Warlis worshipped nature as ‘Hirva’ (green), or the Dangis considered forests as their spiritual home or tree, pond, grove and mountain peaks as sacred (Hardiman 1999a: 90–1, 117; Gadgil and Guha 2002: 20). Forest people treated plants, animals and the landscape as their kin; Bhils, Konkonis and Varlis considered the forests as their ambience and neighbours; and Baigas constituted their social practices ecologically (Gadgil and Guha 2002: 20; Hardiman 1999a: 130). Likewise, Jharkhandi Adivasis preserved part of the primordial forests adjacent to villages as the sacred grove, locally known as Jahira or Sarna (Roy 1970: 221–2). This was believed to be the abode of Desauli, the village deity, and his wife Jahira Buri (Dalton 1973: 141, 186, 188, 214, 281; McPherson 1906: para 123; Tuckey 1920: 127–8). Seemingly, this deification symbolised both the remembering of the primordiality of the forests and the social repentance for the sin of maiming it.

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The other strategy was to evolve beliefs and practices that celebrated their affinity with the primeval forest. Adivasi festivals like Baha, Sarhul, Sohrai and Karam celebrated the advent of different seasons (Roy 1970: 272–5). Felling of trees laden with fruits was sparingly done (McPherson 1906: para 119). Asan trees that reared tassar cocoon as well as palas, peepal and kusum, which reared lac, were considered sacred. So they could be cut or lopped off only with discrimination.17 Traditionally, the eating of forest fruits and making of leaf cups from sal leaves before the observance of spring festival was a taboo (Dalton 1973: 197; Majumdar 1950: 212–3). Likewise, during Mage festival, the Ho society offered bread prepared from rice flour, seeds of sisum and palash flower to the Desauli of the Jahira (Dalton 1973: 141, 186, 188, 196, 214, 281; Tuckey 1920: 127–8; Majumdar 1950: 211–7). The Mundas worshipped bongas or deities related to the woods, the hills, streams, fields and groves (Roy 1970: 271–2). Moreover, forests delineated the custom-based selfhood of Jharkhand Adivasis. First was the totemic origin of the killis that set the endogamic norms of Adivasi societies. To exemplify, Tuti killi was named after tuti plant, Soe killi after Soel fish, Horo or Kachua killi after tortoise, Nag killi after Nag snake (ibid.: 229–33); Lugum killi was named after Lugum or tusser; Deogam after a bird, Melgandi after peepal, Kaika after Kaika tree and Kudada after blackberry juice (Majumdar 1950: 97–100). This was an act of social acknowledgement of the debt to those elements of nature and eternalisation of the moment when this link was forged. Once this norm was set up, it was reinforced by naming villages after such killi names as Angaria, Kudada, Pareya, Kandeyang, Bobonga, Sirka, Tubid as well as Deogaon after Deogam killi and Hesadi after Hessa killi (Areeparampil 1993: 15). Though ‘community control over the forest resources has completely failed to safeguard the forests’ in the eastern Himalayan region (Karlsson 2005: 171), community stewardship of the forests more or less distinguished indigenous communities. Recent scholarship believed that ethnic societies showed an ‘ecological prudence’ and damaged the forests only in a limited way being guided by the logic of sustenance and survival (Gadgil and Guha 2002: 25–6; Gadgil 1985: 1909). Ramchandra Guha emphasises that the ‘religion, folklore and tradition’ of the Khasa communities of Kumayun evidenced their ‘natural system of conservancy’ (2008: 282–3). The indigenes of Khasi hills in Meghalaya preserved ‘sacred forests’ or ‘sacred groves’ which not only displayed their sacred link with the environment, but also constructed their indigenous identity (Karlsson 2005: 186–7). In Kolhan, forests adjacent to villages were socially governed through the

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village headmen. They appointed chaukidars to ensure that no villager took tree without permission and excess of requirement. For this service, villagers each paid them a fixed amount of paddy generally every month.18 On the basis of the above facts, one may conclude that Adivasi institutions and practices represented them as communities having symbiotic link with the forests. But some scholars caution us against overemphasising the indigenous tradition of prudence and conservation of nature and the state of ‘pre-colonial equilibrium’.19 This critique is refurbished when we probe Bihar and Jharkhand. Earlier chapters have depicted the story of the recession of the woodland with the growth of agriculture and villages. A later chapter will show how a section of the Adivasis in Jharkhand indulged in cutting the jungle. Despite this ambivalence, they believed that their forest-centric identity is unassailable, as also their sensitivity to rights that devolved on them due to this historical link. This notion of empowerment manifested itself in their social protests against forest rules enforced by the colonial government.

Colonial forest rules and the assertion of Adivasi identity During British rule, forest emerged as the focus of a prolonged conflict between colonial and indigenous ideologies in India. In the 1890s, the Bhils of eastern Gujarat took up arms against the harassment of forest officials. They demanded that they should be given the right to cut and sell wood from the forests freely to alleviate their suffering due to famine (Hardiman 1990: 39). The Adivasis of Bastar lodged social protest against the colonial policy of reservation of forests that encroached into their customary forest rights and dislocation from villages (Sundar 2008: 104–20). To cite another instance, Ramchandra Guha underlines that ‘alternative conceptions of property and ownership lay at the root of the conflict between the state and hill villagers over forest rights’ (2008: 291). The Adivasis of the Garhwal region in the Himalayas were agitated because the reservation of Kumaun forest had encroached into their traditional rights. This forced them to start ‘violent and sustained opposition’ by resorting to strikes and ‘incendiary fire’. Significantly, villagers ‘looked back, not altogether without justification, to a ‘golden age’ when they had full freedom to roam over their forest habitat, and state interference was at its minimum (ibid.: 288–302). Jharkhand was the other site where the conflict surfaced between state control over the forests and traditional forest rights of the

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Adivasis. The British government was haunted by the lurking fear of tribal rebellion that the recession of customary rights might cause.20 The policy the officials pursued was to create a balance between indigenous customary right over the woodland and British right of governmentality. At the ground level, the dominant perception was that the social crime against the forests could be checked only by creating a shared realm of governance. So the government co-opted community management by the Mankis and Mundas under the direction of the forest officers.21 The idea was to convince people that the government was sensitive to their customary forest rights in response to Section 28 of the Act of 1878. In Kolhan, this sensitivity was the product of an empirical study made by L.B. Burrows and A.C. Das, two Singhbhum district officials.22 The policy of state forestry was gradually introduced through stringent but staged interventions by the generic Forest Acts of 1865, 1878 and particularistic local rules and regulations. The Notification No. 3375 of 5 September 1892 converted all unreserved forests into PFs. Invoking Section 31 of the Forest Act of 1878, the local administration then framed the PF rules in 1895, which were partially modified in 1896. During Craven Settlement, 58 forests blocks were demarcated, and in 1903 the remaining areas were delineated as village forests. The district administration framed Twidell’s Rules in 1903 to regulate the disposal of trees and other forest produce. This was duly approved in 1904. Later, 14 new PF blocks were carved out of the village forests.23 The Notification of 24 March 1922 imposed grazing taxes of 8 annas for each cattle over the number four. They argued that sheep and goats caused greatest damage to the forests.24 These official measures made encroachments into the customary forest rights of the Adivasis, leading to a fresh round of conflict and confrontation between the colonial state and the Adivasis. Social protests against the above infringement of forest rights were on the whole peaceful. Adivasis resorted first to disobedience and wilful breaking of law. They indulged in setting fire to the forests, clandestine felling of trees and removing forest produce and illegally grazing cattle in the prohibited forested zones. Reported cases of law-breaking in 1914–15 and 1915–16 were: injury by fire 30 and 30; unauthorised felling or removal of forest produce 77 and 49; unauthorised grazing 5 and 1; while other offences were 6 and 26. While the total of 106 for 1915–16 showed a decline from 118 of 1914–15, these registered a marked rise from the average of 88 for five years ending 1914–15.25 Breaking law was hazardous. So the Adivasis sought to ameliorate their grievances within the framework of British rule. In 1906,

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33 Mankis and Mundas, representing the villagers of their respective areas, sent a petition to the commissioner of Chota Nagpur against the formation of new PF blocks.26 When the Singhbhum District administration imposed grazing taxes, more than one thousand raiyats of Kolhan filed another petition to the deputy commissioner (DC).27 The movement from militancy (1831–58 and 1895–1901) to legalism showed that decades of alien rule had taught them to reformulate their own self-image. Evidently, this was that of a dependent people who could ameliorate their grievances only within the parameters of law. However, a more interesting fact was how the petitioners preeminently underlined their unassailable forest-centric identity. They reiterated that though they had become peasants, their original link with forest invested them with a distinct peasanthood as different from the undiluted peasant types found in forest-free regions. On the intimate link with forests, they observed that the inhabitants of Kolhan are naturally fond of jungles than populous towns; their habits and customs are suited to living in the Jungle; and if the Protected forests which are under their control be taken away from their hands they will be out of their elements and will feel the greatest hardship.28 Furthermore, they focussed on their agrarian identity. First, they averred that ‘We have no other means except cultivation’. Then they went on to elaborate how denial of customary forest rights would jeopardise their livelihood: payment of grazing taxes would hamper their cultivation generally and particularly of those who had ‘large quantity of land’ requiring ‘large number of cattle for cultivation’; they would be denied manure for cultivation if sufficient cattle were not kept; they had to maintain ‘cows and cow buffaloes, sheep and she goats for breeding purposes’ without which cultivation would suffer at a time when market prices of cattle were very high’.29 The above arguments obviously underlined their marginality. To reiterate it, they stated ‘fire is the only means of their protection from cold. If they do not get easy access into and free supply from the forest they will have to die of cold’.30 Moreover, they contended the claim of J.E. Scott, the DC, who had remarked ‘the villagers pay very low rent and cesses, and are exceedingly well off ’.31 More interestingly, the petitioners highlighted their precolonial status of governor of the woodland to challenge official claim of its ownership. They argued that the forests, being nature’s free gift to

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them, invested them with the right to appropriate the resources. They objected to the official decision of taking out the village forest areas from the supervision of the village pir heads and placing them under the management of a special officer. They expressed their concern against the adjoining and settled lands of the villagers being resumed and included within the PFs and a strict supervision being imposed on them.32 They prayed that the PF be kept and managed by the Mankis and Mundas, gora lands of tenants should not be resumed and included within PF and no change in the established system of PF be made.33 Villagers also dismissed the official castigation of ethnic groups as vandalisers. To quote: that the Protected Forest has not suffered in the hands of the Mankis and Mundas. Notwithstanding the use of the Jungle by the tenants of Kolhan, it is thriving as usual and nature supplies the want which is made by its use. The Protected Forest is not intended to grow big timbers. It is intended for such fuel and trees as are often required for the use of Ho families.34 Adivasis were however in a double bind. First, petitioners drew sustenance from their position as a loyal British subject rather than from their customary rights. This is why they argued that if settled gora lands were resumed, ‘they will (would) be deprived of this earning by which to pay the rent’.35 The willingness to pay rent was a mark of civil obedience. Moreover, they sought to defend an officially approved right. So they rued that ‘we are not allowed to take wood and the jungle produce free of royalty from those protected forest blocks although we were promised to get wood and other jungle produce for our use free of royalty’.36 Yet they did not fail to remind the government that the taxes were historically unsupportable as they had ‘never paid grazing tax to Government’.37 After arguing within the ruler–ruled network of relations, the petitioners finally claimed usufruct as a matter of right for the free services rendered by them in the form of extinguishing forest fire and clearing the lines.38 The above confusion may be located within the inner conflict between being and becoming as represented by their precolonial autonomy and colonial subjecthood. Asserting selfhood had a cultural mooring that underlined the specificity of their practices and aesthetics. One would find here the function of boundary-making as a ploy to distinguish them from nonethnic neighbours. The petitioners observed that ‘during our marriages we have to give numbers of cattle towards Pan. If we do not keep

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sufficient number of cattle for this purpose, it is impossible to meet the demand of Pan during the marriage of our children’.39 Then again: According to the custom of the Hos we during our illness use to make Pujas by sacrificing our sheep and goats instead of using medicine .  .  . The goats and sheep are also used for performing marriage and death ceremonies and in the festivals . . . We do not keep cattle for selling Ghee or milk.40 This way they were underlining their difference from those who used medicine and sell ghee or milk. Moreover, they emphasised their unique social mechanism of homogenisation. They pointed to their social practice of lending bullocks, cows and buffaloes and cow dung to those who had less or none by those who had them in plenty. In return, they paid goats and sheep for feast to the village community.41 Thus cultural practices were invoked as a tool to safeguard their forest rights, as also to underline their distinction from non-ethnic others. Basic to this cultural difference was the differing aesthetics of life, based, as a recent essay identified, on ‘the Culture of Present’ (P. Sen 2014). Contending the glib official logic of preserving the jungles for ‘the future generation’, villagers contended that if the Protected forest is intended for the benefit of the tenants of Kolhan, that intention is frustrated if the Kols are not allowed to use it as necessity requires. The present want must be first supplied and then provision for future want should be made.42 This was indeed a common man’s prudence developed from the logic of survival to contend the colonial castigation of the tribe as profligate. Though this forest-centric identity was consistently reframed, while ‘defining and managing boundaries between wildness and civility’, the notion of an indissoluble link with forest, nay entire biotic environ, came under cloud as we enter the post-independence decades.

Notes 1 I would like to particularly mention Hardiman (1999a: 89–147) and Cederloff (2008: 27–54). 2 This is true about other parts of India like Assam and Kerala (Worster 1989: 120–33). 3 Of these, as minor forest product sabai was an important item of trade in Singhbhum and Santal Parganas (Sivaramakrishnan 1999: 188). 4 Divisional Conservator of Forests (DCF) comments in the margin to the Note by H.D. Carey, Deputy Commissioner of Singhbhum, on the

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5 6 7

8 9

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

19 20

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Preservation of Private Forests in the Chota Nagpur Division, Singhbhum vide Protection of Private Forest, FL, DCOS, RD, CN II, FN 16 of 1908–9, FS 7, para 1. Letter from V.G. Pigott to H.F. Samman, DC, 22 April 1904, vide Application of Mr V.G. Pigott for a prospecting lease for limestone in the Kolhan, FL, DCOS, RD, CN XV Mining, FN7/5 of 1904–5. FS 13, para 10. Letter from C.N. De, PA to the Commissioner to the DC, Singhbhum, No. 804 LR of 1 July 1907 vide Protection of Private Forests, FS 3, Appendix I, para 6 & FS 7, ibid. Divisional Conservator of Forests (DCF) comments in the margin to the Note by H.D. Carey, Deputy Commissioner of Singhbhum, on the Preservation of Private Forests in the Chota Nagpur Division, Singhbhum vide Protection of Private Forest, FL, DCOS, RD, CN II, FN 16 of 1908–9, FS 7, para 4. This was recorded in the settlement reports (Reid 1912: para 293; Bridge 1996: 168–70, 173; Sifton 1996: paras 283–7). W.B. Thomson to Conservator of Forest dated 23 April 1900, vide Leasing out the Sabai grass, FL, DC’s Office, RD,CN II Forests, FN 7 of 1900–01, FS 2, para 4; A. Forbes, Commissioner, Chota Nagpur Division to Conservator of Forests, dated 15 July 1901, Leasing out the Sabai Grass; ibid., FS 3, para 5. Report of L.B. Burrows, 19. C.N. De, PA to the Commissioner, to the DC, Singhbhum, No. 804 LR of 1 July 1907, Appendix, FS 3, para 7, vide Protection of Private Forest. Cited in Report of L.B. Burrows, para 2. Report of L.B. Burrows, para 2, Appendix to DC, Singhbhum’s letter to the Commissioner, No. 181R of 15 May 1912, vide Constitution of the Kolhan Reserved Forest Division. Report of L.B.Burrows, para 6. See also, Formation of the Kolhan Protected Forest Block, FS 9, para 2. See Chapter V. Dr W. H. Hayes, Deputy Commissioner of Singhbhum to the Commissioner of Chota Nagpur, no.30, 22 February 1867, Revenue Department, June 1867, no. 122, 129. Hayes to the Commissioner of Chota Nagpur, no. 30, 22 February 1867, 129. Report of L.B. Burrows, Appendix to DC’s letter to the Commissioner, No. 181R of 15 May 1912, vide Constitution of Kolhan Protected Forest Division, FL, DCOS, GD, RB,CN II Forests, FN I of 1915, FS 2, Annexure B, cases of Bara Chiru, Kodalbera, Hatimanda. See, for instance, Gadgil and Guha (2002: 87–9) for a focus on the tradition of conservation, and for its critique Sivaramakrishnan (2009: 303) and Prasad (1998: 325–6). W.B. Thomson to Conservator of Forest dated 23 April 1900, vide Leasing out the Sabai grass, FL, DCOS, RD, CN II Forests, FN 7 of 1900–1, FS 2, para 4. It was articulated: ‘The people, (Kols) are excitable and turbulent people, of which we have recently had notable instances in the Ranchi and Singhbhum districts already consider that they have been badly treated in respect of their ancient jungle rights, and I am very averse to imposing upon them any further restrictions at present in this regard.’ A. Forbes, Commissioner, Chota Nagpur Division to Conservator of Forests, dated 15 July 1901, Leasing out the Sabai grass, FS 3, para 5.

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21 Letter of E. A. Gait, Commissioner, Chota Nagpur Division to the Deputy Commissioner, Singhbhum, Formation of the Kolhan Protected Forest Block, FL, DCOS, RD, CN II Forests, FN 9 of 1907–8, FS 9, paras 2–5. 22 Report of L.B. Burrows, 12–22. 23 DC, Singhbhum to the Commissioner, 2 November 1913, FS 61, paras 2–5, Constitution of KPFD. 24 Report of L.B. Burrows, 20. 25 Forest Administration Report 1915–16, FL of English Correspondence, DCOS, RD, CN II Forests, FN 9 of 1916, para 27. 26 Gait to the Deputy Commissioner, Singhbhum, vide Formation of the Kolhan Protected Forest Block. 27 J.C. Scott, Deputy Commissioner, Singhbhum to RGA Hannah, Divisional Forest Officer, Singhbhum Division, 31 January 1924. FS 14.FL, DCOS, GD, RB, CN II, FN 16 of 1923 and FN 5 of 1924. Rules for pasturage of Cattle in Govt. Protected Forests (Revision of the Protected Forest Rules). 28 Petition of the Mankis, Mundas and Tenants, para 6, vide Gait to the Deputy Commissioner, Singhbhum. 29 Note by Sk. Abdul Hakim, 2nd Officer, Kolhan, paras 4–11, vide D.C. to DFO, Chaibasa, Porahat, Singhbhum Divisions No. 909–11 R of 8 February 1924, FS 25 A. Rules for the pasturage of Cattle. 30 Petition of the Mankis, Mundas and Tenants, para 6, vide Gait to the Deputy Commissioner, Singhbhum, para 8. 31 Letter of J.E. Scott to DFO, No. 3659R of 20 July 1923, FS 13, para 2 (b), Rules for pasturage of Cattle. 32 Petition of the Mankis, Mundas and Tenants, paras 1–2. 33 Ibid., para 11. 34 Ibid., para 9. 35 Ibid., para 4. 36 Note by Sk. Abdul Hakim, para 1. 37 Ibid., para 9. 38 Ibid., para 7. 39 Ibid., para 4. 40 Ibid., para 6. 41 Ibid., paras 5–6. 42 Petition of the Mankis, Mundas and Tenants, para 10.

10 Landscape and fashioning of self The post-independence scenario

Thousands of villagers of Noamundi and Jagannathpur blocks in West Singhbhum were celebrating Victory Day on 12 September 2014 on the release of the Munda and Dakua of Lampahasa village by a local court. They had been arrested in connection with public protest against the opening up of a china clay mine. Jairam Barjo, the Munda of Merelgara village in Noamundi block, was one of the speakers in the meeting. He proclaimed: ‘Land is the identity of Adivasis.’1 What he sought to articulate was the close linkage between landscape and Adivasi identity. During the post-independence decades, this was endangered by the state-sponsored policy of development through national and international companies. This triggered a new phase of land-related tension, particularly in the ethnic regions in India (Baviskar 2013: 517–49). The prominent sites of Adivasi protest movements were Jharkhand, Odisha, Andhra Pradesh, Uttarakhand, erstwhile state of Madhya Pradesh, Meghalaya and West Bengal. The movements, which came more to the limelight, are Chipko Movement, Narmada Bachao Movement (Save Narmada Movement), Kalinga Nagar Movement, Gandhamardan Bachao Movement and popular resistance struggles against land acquisition in Singur and Nandigram in West Bengal (Karlsson 2005: 170–98; Linkenbach 2005: 151–69; Baviskar 2013: 517–49; Pattnaik 2014: 113–48; Guzy 2014: 149–60; Nielsen 2015: 618–39). These movements put focus on ecological degradation, historical linkage of the Adivasis with the landscape, their customary rights evidencing ‘stewardship of nature’, besides the issues of human right and marginalisation. The ‘land struggle’, as Sauer argues, invested new meanings to territory and territorial right of the traditional communities (2012: 85–6). The resistance of indigenous communities against land expropriation, required for the ‘development’, sharpened the dichotomous relations between votaries of ‘development’ and the rural communities, rather

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between land as means of production and a traditional use of the land by the village communities (ibid.). The postcolonial scenario of India thus rendered people dependent on their ‘natural base’, more or less ‘the reluctant subjects of development’ (Baviskar 2013: 517). They have been called upon first to focus on their ‘self-definition or self-recognition as a socially differentiated group with an identity of its own and a close relation to a specific territory and land’. Second, they are required to rebut the castigation that they are essentially retrogressive and anti-development, epithets that have been hurled on them due to their resistance to land acquisition (Sauer 2012: 87–96). This prompted them to question ‘the state’s monopoly over the determination of national interest and conservation’ that set them on a struggle ‘to establish alternative bases for their legitimacy’ (Baviskar 2013: 517). There was however a basic difference in the way these bases were articulated. In north-east India, response to ‘losing control over their land’ and the erosion of ‘indigenous people’s way of land management’ initiated demands for self-determination’ (Karlsson 2005: 176), in the rest the struggles did not throw such a challenge to the legitimacy of the Indian nation state. Another significant point was that with the change in the landscape, the ‘modes of resistance and the resisting agents themselves changed’ (Sundar 2008: 12). This chapter studies how the context of development brought land, water and forest at the centre stage and how the indigenous communities ‘idealized’ their selfhood and initiated a new ‘politics of resistance’. The assertion of subjectivity will be explored in two sections, beginning with the context, followed by the text of this assertion.

Policy of development and threat to Adivasi natural ambience The imperatives of development made Adivasi heartland, particularly its mineral and forest resources, the cynosure not only of the state but national and international corporate bodies also (Sundar 2008: 7–8; Pattnaik 2014: 114–15). The lure of this rich natural property encouraged the government to inaugurate a regime of ‘sustainable development’ backed up by ‘Corporate Social responsibility’. But these were really, as Felix Padel observes, ‘masks that conceal the genocide’ of the ethnic communities in India (2014: 83). Tribal Bihar had rich reserves of coal, iron ore, mica, bauxite, limestone, copper, chromite, asbestos, kyanite, china clay, fire clay, steatite, uranium, manganese, dolomite, tungsten etc. Of the country’s total reserves, this region alone produced 48 per cent of coal, 45 per cent of mica, 48 per cent of bauxite,

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90 per cent of its apatite and all of kyanite. Moreover, this contained 84.42 per cent of Bihar’s total forest area, of which the erstwhile Singhbhum district was the richest in sal forests in the whole of Asia (Areeparampil 1996: 1524. See also Ajitha Susan George 2009: 157–88). Unprecedented growth of mining, industrialisation and urbanisation, accelerated after Indian independence, created diverse problems for the local inhabitants. First was the intensification of the problem of their land alienation and displacement. Large swathes of land were acquired, for instance, for the purpose of coal mining, like 1,50,000 acres of land by the Central Coalfields and Eastern Coalfields between 1981 and 1985.2 Land was acquired in large scale to set up industries and river valley projects epitomised by the likes of the Heavy Engineering Corporations at Hatia near Ranchi, the Bokaro Steel Plant and the Damodar Valley Corporation (DVC) (Areeparampil 1996: 1525; Stuligross 2008: 87). The displaced were in general cases the tribals, Sadans and Mulbasis. The phenomenal growth in urbanisation that came in the wake of mining and manufacturing activities accentuated the problem further (Areeparampil 1996: 1525).3 Mainly comprising non-Adivasis, urban centres became disparate, yet elite politico-cultural centre that marginalised the rural hinterland and Adivasis and other marginal groups. Industrialisation and urbanisation stepped up the precolonial trend of the influx of non-ethnic outsiders into towns, cities and villages. This disrupted the demographic balance in Jharkhand. In the entire Chota Nagpur-Santal Pargana regions, the percentage of ST population dropped from 30.26 in 1981 to 27.67 in 1991. As this migration was permanent in nature, large cases of land transfer from Adivasis to Dikus occurred. The extent of progressive decline in total land share can be understood from the sharp increase in the percentage of their landlessness from 20 to 33 between 1961 and 1971 (Bates 1995b: 15–16). The adverse environmental impact was the natural sequel of the entire process of development. Due to large-scale mining operations, ground water table fell considerably. This intensified the already existing aquatic crisis. The discharge of effluents from mines and industries polluted streams and rivers. While mining wastes adversely affected agricultural production, air pollution due to mining and industrial activities created serious health problems (Areeparampil 1996: 1524). The capitalist mode of development converted the indigenes of ethnic and non-ethnic variety in Bihar/Jharkhand into victims, rather than beneficiaries, of development. Naturally, the Jharkhandis fiercely opposed land alienation, displacement, marginalisation and environmental degradation. Similar issues came to the fore in Adivasi

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resistance against the setting up of mining-based industries at Kalinganagar, Kashipur and Lanjigarh in Odisha (Pattnaik 2014: 114). Their protests did not simply vindicate their ire against loss of rights but became the occasions to formulate an alternate concept of development itself. It will be topical to relate what this alternate concept was. The basic propositions as related in earlier chapters were that development schemes should originate at the local level as a social initiative rather than imposed from the top by an extraneous agency; social participation would, according to them, ensure its success; lastly, the social cost of development should be minimal. In a similar vein, the Adivasi intelligentsia conceptualised development on the eve of Indian independence. Jharkhandi leaders emphasised the state of backwardness, the exploitation of Adivasis by outsiders causing their progressive marginalisation. They underlined their uniqueness and distinction from the mainstream, as also they could develop in tune with their distinct ethos. At the same time, they did not fail to remind the nation that it was imperative on the part of the government to give them their rightful dues (Amit Prakash 1999: 466–83). After independence, lack of development and exploitation of the people of Jharkhand by outsiders were reiterated by them in support of their claim for a separate state. Even after the creation of Jharkhand, when their problems accentuated, they resorted to vigorous identarian movement, in the same way as in Uttarakhand, where nature became ‘an element of identification and politicization’ (Linkenbach 2005: 152).

Fashioning of self and jal, jungle and jameen As the control over natural ambience loosened, Adivasi communities in Jharkhand resorted to collective protest to assert traditional rights over land, forest and water. This generated a contest in which, while the state derived legitimacy from ‘the discourse of development’, Adivasis drew on precolonial and colonial ecological pasts to focus on the symbiotic link with nature as the basis of their selfhood. But appropriation of the past often put them in a dilemma whether to draw on precolonial or colonial legacies and then what should be the proper evidence, archaeological, like sasandiri or textual/literate-like colonial documents to legitimise their claims. Likewise, they had also to address the dissonance between their rural/agrarian identity and linkage with the forest. As a result, Adivasi communities were vertically split over the issue of redefining their environmental selfhood.

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Land Land-related movements were a general feature of Indian public life in post-independence India. We are aware of the instance of Singrauli which caused displacement and impoverishment of the marginal communities to establish coal mines and thermal power plants in Chattisgarh. We are also aware of the Gandhamardan Bachao movement in Bora Sambar Region of western Orissa against the attempt to set up an aluminium project in the 1980s by the Bharat Aluminium Company with foreign technical collaboration (Guzy 2014: 149–59), popular movements against setting up Kalinganagar Industrial Complex in Orissa in the 1990s and POSCO, a mining and steel plant project launched by the Orissa government with foreign collaboration (Padel 2014: 74–7), besides the famous Singur movement in Midnapur district of West Bengal against land alienation. Similarly, ‘struggles over land rights have been critical to the politics and history of Jharkhand’ (Upadhya 2009: 30–55). One marked feature of the land-related protests was that Adivasis did not always distinguish whether this was due to mining, industrialisation and large dam construction or for more salutary purposes like building roads, railways and educational institutions. This may be ascribed to the lurking fear that irrespective of the cause of land alienation, as individuals, not only they would lose the main basis of their existence, but the so-called institutions of development would also entrench extraneous culture and elements and ultimately jeopardise their control over the homeland. A recent study observes that the regional movements in India for establishing the control over ‘the lives, bodies, and land’ were in fact ‘struggles for social and environmental justice’ (Baviskar 2013: 521–2). We have stated earlier that in Meghalaya, the indigenous people raised protests against ‘losing control over their land’ and they asserted that their ‘way of land management’ be recognised. The Bastar region of Chattisgarh witnessed similar protests against land acquisition for an industrial forestry project during 1976–83 (Sundar 2008: 7–8). In Jharkhand, land-related movements were principally against land acquisition due to mining and industrialisation. At a meeting organised by the JMM at Ranchi in February 1983, objections were raised against large-scale land transfer for industrialisation at Hatia near Ranchi and Bokaro and for building Maithon and Tialaya dams. Speakers expressed their resentment against the displacement of about two lakh people from their soil and the lack of any sincere effort to rehabilitate them.4 Voices of protest became more strident since the

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implementation of the National Industrial Policy in the 1990s. People feared that this would expose the entire area to corporate groups like Mittal, Essar, Jindal, Bhusan Steel and others.5 People of several villages in Chandil block of east Singhbhum held a rally against transfer of their lands to the Jindal group. They raised slogans like ‘We will lay down our lives but our lands, never’. They followed this up by staging a ‘Save Land Conference’ at Chandil in 2005.6 The fear of land alienation was so intense that villagers even opposed land acquisition for the construction of an Engineering College near Chaibasa.7 The National Scheduled Tribe Council sent a petition to the Chief Minister of Jharkhand opposing land acquisition for the new campus of Ranchi University at Kanke and Pithoria.8 A mega project involving acquisition of 1,112 acres of land for railway linkage with Hazaribagh similarly became the target of popular protest.9 The other agenda of land-centric movement was to correct the historic wrong of illegal occupation of Adivasi lands by the non-Adivasi individuals and corporate groups. JMM organised a rally of the residents of 92 villages in 2005 for the restoration of lands in Adityapur near Jamshedpur which had been allotted to the Adityapur Industrial Development Agency (AIDA).10 On the occasion of the celebration of the centenary of the CNT Act at Ranchi in 2008, Shibu Soren, the Chief Minister of Jharkhand, expressed his firm resolve for the restitution of Adivasi lands. But an interesting fact was that he insisted on social vigilance and in this context likened the safety of their land rights to that of their daughters and daughters-in-law.11 The significant fact was that in order to justify their claim over the landscape, Adivasis derived legitimacy both from precolonial and colonial pasts. In doing so, they in a way defined their selfhood in historical and contemporary perspectives. The Gandhamardan ecological resistance movement of the 1980s in the Bora Sambar region of western Odisha against bauxite mining and industrialisation was built around the logic of sacredness of the Gandhamardan hills. It also drew legitimacy from the history when people traced the link between the Bora Sambar region and autonomous ‘tribal kingdom’ (Guzy 2014: 149– 55). In Jharkhand, remembering precolonial landscape was a strategy adopted by the agitators to underline an idyllic state and their agency. In support, they cited archaeological evidence of village desauli/sarna which implied the precolonial making of village by them that affirmed their status as original reclaimers. Opposing the operation of china clay and quartz mines by the Sarda Company, villagers of Bandaburu in west Singhbhum sought to defend not only their right over ancestral land but also their economic, cultural and religious values.12 Similarly,

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in another village, the opposition to encroachment into their burial ground (sasan) was a conscious way to focus on a cultural symbol in defence of their land right.13 However, Adivasis no less invoked colonial act and Indian Constitution to mitigate a contemporary wrong perpetrated by the government. This emphasis on law and constitution in a way symbolised the dilution of their agency and acceptance of subordination to extraneous orders. Significantly, of these two, they reposed faith more on the colonial legal symbols like CNT and SPT Acts. So when Babulal Marandi, the supreme leader of Jharkhand Vikas Morcha (JVM) and former Chief Minister of Jharkhand, reiterated the need to make suitable changes in the CNT Act, vociferous protests were raised. Different political parties and the Adivasi Ho Samaj Mahasabha cautioned the Jharkhand government not to do so.14 At a meeting of political leaders and activists held at Ranchi in 2012, Salkhan Murmu observed: ‘CNT Act and SPT Act are symbols of Adivasi identity. Adivasis want development along with proper safeguard to their existence, identity and share.’ Dayamani Barla demanded that the provisions of the CNT Act must be more stringently enforced. But Marandi did not alone represent the voice of dissent among Adivasi intellectuals. Rameshwar Oraon, the chairman of the Scheduled Tribe Commission, proposed suitable changes in the Act not however deviating from its basic spirit.15 Selectively however, Adivasi leaders also invoked more contemporary symbols like the Fifth Schedule of Indian Constitution and the Samata Judgement where specificity of their custom and identity received due recognition. This was done by the council of Mankis of Kolhan-Porahat to reiterate their claim over land.16 Adivasi protest was therefore organised within the framework of law. This marked a clear reinvention of their original strategy of protesting a wrong through migration17 and anti-feudal and anti-colonial militancy as done during precolonial and colonial eras. In a way, this also signified a change in self-identification. While migration somewhat symbolised a subordinate mindset, armed militancy against feudal rulers and the British was offered to vindicate their agency. Meanwhile, subjugation of the entire Jharkhand region under British rule imposed a subordinate status to the Adivasis. The logic of subordination and gradual marginalisation prompted them to surrender militancy and tread a legal and peaceful course.18 Contemporary Adivasi identity assertion over land therefore continues to take recourse to public meetings, rallies, demonstrations as also sending petitions to the state and central governments.19About this inventive nature of Adivasi resistance movements and selfhood, Skaria writes ‘the nature of

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resistance that communities put up changes with their understandings of themselves. Insurgency is just one form of resistance’ (1999: 273).

Forest Assertion of traditional right over the woodland20 had a pan-Indian dimension. The Chipko Movement of the 1970s in Uttarakhand is a well-known story. The political movement, in support of a separate state that followed foregrounded the ‘question of ecology, forest rights and citizenships’ and also the ways in which identity of the people were constructed (Linkenbach 2005: 152–3). Another important site of movement was the forest-rich district of Bastar. People of Jagdalpur of the district formed the Bastar Society for the Conservation of Nature. Due to their movements, the World Bank–funded industrial forestry project, referred above, and a bank-funded hydroelectric project had to be abandoned (Sundar 2008: 7–8). The movements of Jharkhand were characterised by continuity and change. Continuity was evident first in the claim of forest-centrism of Adivasi selfhood, and second in seeking legitimacy both from precolonial and colonial symbols. The change is discernible in the fact that the forest movement was more strident and recurrent as compared to the movement around land. Second, while society was more united in asserting right over the landed terrain, a perceptible social rift may be visible in respect of forested landscape between those who wanted to protect jungle and others who wanted to decimate it. This clearly shows that over time a change not only in social perception of the woodland, but also in the notion of forest-centric selfhood had occurred. Forest movement had diverse agenda. First, it advocated for the restoration of right over the forests, a right, Adivasis argued, was rooted in their precolonial customs. They strongly believed that any dilution of it would adversely affect their culture and identity. This way they referred back to a time when they were the makers of their destiny. At the meeting of Adivasis from different villages in Arki block of Ranchi district, held in 2005, Doge Munda of Chaipi village averred ‘Forest is both our culture and capital’. Three other Mundas rued how withdrawal of their traditional control over the woodland had damaged their life support system and social order.21 In this light, Johan Munda of Chalkad complained against the dissipation of khuntkatti rights over forest.22 The second was to challenge the state control over the forests, and in this process to assert customary control of the Adivasis over it. This initiated widespread forest movement which was known as Jangal

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Katai Andolan (Cut Forest Movement) of the late 1970s and 1980s. However, the protagonists of the movement pursued different modalities. One was to fell jungle, which earned the movement the above epithet. Adivasis sought historical validity from precolonial symbol of khuntkatti right to assert their status as the original people. The patent argument of the agitators was that they were not cutting state-owned trees but those trees which their ancestors had planted and owned. In support, they pointed to their ancient burial stones found in the forests.23 The other was to protect jungle from being destroyed. The diverse agenda put them in an identity crisis. Those who indulged in deforestation did so to convert the cleared space into arable lands to reinforce their agrarian identity. But the other group harped on the symbiotic link with the forest to underline their wildness. This confusion in self-representation and ecological perception featured the forest movement detailed below. Jangal Katai Andolan was precipitated by some of the steps of Bihar government that infringed into customary forest rights of the Adivasis. This had happened because the government converted ‘right and privilege’ enjoyed by them during the colonial period into mere ‘concessions’. Moreover, Bihar state systematically eroded even these concessions in order to transform forests into a zone of commerce. The government constituted the state Forest Development Corporation (FDC) in 1975 to derive commercial profit from the rich forests of tribal Bihar. The state government leased out 1.92 hectares of forest land. An extensive programme of planting teak in place of traditional and more benign trees like sal, mahua, kusum etc. followed, resulting in the denudation of mixed forests in areas like Goilkera and Sonua blocks in west Singhbhum. The other unsalutary policy was the nationalisation of kendu leaves trade in 1973 and sal seeds trade in 1976, followed by the nationalisation of the entire Minor Forest Produce in 1978. Adivasis deemed these steps detrimental to their material interests and culture. This triggered widespread Adivasi ferment in Chota Nagpur (Areeparampil 1992: 143–86). Agitators opposed nationalisation of minor forest products and demanded the closure of FDC. They resorted to obstruction of the Corporation from functioning, offered gherao and indulged in physical assault of the forest officials.24 The matter came to a head when the police opened fire on a large Adivasi gathering at Simdega near Ranchi on 25 June 1978, resulting in the death of one person. The incident intensified the movement further. Armed with bows and arrows, under the leadership of Deven Majhi and Sailendra Mahato of Singhbhum Mazdur Union, 2,000 Adivasis staged a demonstration

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before the office of the Deputy Commissioner Singhbhum at Chaibasa in September 1978. They submitted a petition demanding the closure of FDC and withdrawal of the Porahat Forest Project and the Subarnarekha Dam Project.25 Forest movement however did not remain peaceful. Irate villagers of Jonko in Bandgaon subdivision set fire to the Forest Dak Bungalow on 14 July 1979.26 They damaged state forest as a symbolic act of contesting state ownership of the woodland and asserting the historical right of the Adivasis over the forests. They targeted teak as an extraneous and statist symbol. Popular agitation therefore came to be designated as sagwan vs sal (teak vs Shorea robusta) movement, signifying a contest between non-Adivasi and Adivasi cultures. Culture contest was joined by the evaluation of comparative usefulness of these elements, in which teak was considered comparatively less useful than sal. In a way, this was a strategy to underline the essential symbiotic nature– human linkage. Rejection of teak also manifested in acts of offence against the agency promoting plantation of teak. On 2 October 1978, agitators destroyed all teak saplings planted by the FDC in Goilkera and all the pumpsets belonging to the Corporation. They also set all the huts of the nursery on fire. About 1,000 villagers uprooted all the sagwan plants planted on several acres of forest land and ploughed the deforested area for cultivation.27 KRS organised a public meeting, which was attended by 5,000 people, to protest against the promotion of teak plantation at the cost of sal at Palisai village of Tonto region in west Singhbhum.28 However, simultaneously indigenous people organised a counter movement of saving jungles. This was deemed necessary because of the loss of 40,000 acres of forest cover within two decades mainly due to the machinations of anti-forest agitators and forest mafias. The result was that primeval and dense forests remained mostly confined at the upper fringes of the Kolhan-Porahat hills.29 This denudation created serious existentialist problems. Villagers were exposed to recurrent attacks of elephants resulting in large-scale destruction of paddy, houses and human lives.30 People came to ascribe the problem to the denudation of forest cover.31 This ecological concern compelled Adivasis to hark back on the tradition of symbiosis with the natural environ. Villagers began to oppose illegal cutting of trees by the forest contractors.32 But it was only during the first decade of the present century the movement gained momentum. Interestingly, the protagonists argued that the forests could be protected only if the traditional forest rights were restored to the Adivasis. This became the main line of argument put forth by people of some villages in Arki prakhand

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(block) of Ranchi district. Samuel Munda of Kulburu village affirmed that saving forests was urgently necessary to protect Adivasis from starvation and safeguard their social structure. But he insisted that this could be done only when people had strong will to do so.33 People of about a dozen forest villages formed a ‘Save Forest Committee’ to put a stop to felling of trees.34 One noticeable trend was gender activism which often surpassed the responses of their male counterparts. Women of Bagodar (Sariya) forest region of Giridih district constituted a Save Forest Committee and took lead in guarding adjacent forests in their locality.35 This was replicated by women of Khunchidih village in Seraikela-Kharsawan district.36 The local ecological issue soon merged into a global environmental movement. On the occasion of World Environmental Day, people of eleven villages of Goilkera placed stone slabs at the border of their village forests on which they recorded that this forest was a protected area and therefore cutting trees was prohibited here.37 Another focal issue was the restoration of the rights of people living in forest villages. The right was claimed on the basis of precolonial settlements in those villages as well as colonial-day rent receipts.38 The demand of the agitators was to convert forest villages into revenue villages. This, they argued, was not only legitimated by history but also due to severe contemporary crisis created by the felling of trees.39 Significantly, they claimed dignified living as a matter of right as citizen of the country which had been extended to them through clauses 7, 8 and 9 of the CNT Act.40 In support of their claim, residents of 98 forest villages of Bandgaon, Tonto, Sonua and Goilkera blocks of west Singhbhum staged a dharna.41 Branjo Hansdah of the Janata Party sent a petition to the then Forest Minister of Bihar urging him to convert Vangaon, Nawagaon and Karampada forest villages in Noamundi block into revenue villages. He argued that these villages had a pre-British origin, a claim based on British revenue receipts and khatians.42 When the Forest Act of 2006 was passed by the Parliament to protect the right of the forest villagers, it was widely acclaimed. R.D. Munda observed that this Act would ensure the growth of the forests besides safeguarding the interests of forest villagers. Alaister Bodra, the co-coordinator of the Save Forest Movement in Jharkhand, lauded this measure as ensuring peoples’ right and saving them from land alienation.43 But at the same time, Adivasi intellectuals lamented the pervasive lack of awareness among people about the Act, which had made this august step virtually ineffective. This was the consensus opinion of the Adivasi activists and intellectuals at a meeting held at Chaibasa under the aegis of Human Rights Law Network Ranchi,

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Save Forest Movement Group of Ranchi and Johar of Chaibasa in October 2011.44 The entire gamut of Adivasi activism over forest underlined their close linkage with the woodland. Despite the palpable hiatus between cut forest and save forest agitators, we notice a perceptible affinity particularly in respect of drawing legitimacy from both precolonial and colonial symbols. They appropriated history as a political tool to safeguard their customary rights. But they generally confined themselves within the legal framework, except for the occasional show of militancy by cut forest agitators. Appropriation of history served yet another purpose. This was to assert their ecologically sensitive identity. But one cannot deny that the destruction of forests instrumented both by the government and people created unprecedented existentialist crisis that whetted environmentalism. Another feature was discernible in the ambivalence whether to pitch on agrarian or forest-centric selfhood.

Water During the post-independence decades, waterbodies figured prominently in the public domain in India. Narmada Bachao Andolan (Save Narmada Movement), a multiple project of large, medium and small dams, of the erstwhile Madhya Pradesh and the Sardar Sarovar Project concerning Madhya Pradesh and Gujarat occupied the centre stage because of the regional, national and global interests that this movement generated. Hirakud and Rourkela-Mandira dam projects of Orissa created regional stirs (Baviskar 2009: 160–222; Baviskar 2013: 522–8; Padel 2014: 75). The issues the agitators raised were the submergence of large swathes of cultivable lands as also of villages and large-scale displacement of the marginals. These protests against water projects exposed the contradictions ‘embedded in relations within the community’, as also ‘contradictions in the nature of relationship between the community and nature’ (Baviskar 2009: 106–59), a fact we have witnessed above more sharply. In Jharkhand, Adivasi response to water projects was differential. They opposed large dams due to the fear of land alienation and submergence of their villages under water. But there was also a political overtone. Since the large dams were commissioned by the government, these were more or less considered extraneous symbols, palpable manifestation of loss of their control over the landscape. As against this, they were more responsive to smaller and socially launched projects. We can underline some broad features of their aquatic movements.

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First, they contested state control over natural resources to assert their customary control over them. Second, on the ecological reading of the aquatic landscape, they supported small projects in line with their colonial-day responses to smaller projects like ponds, ahars and pynes. Lastly, they supported micro rather than macro projects because they felt that this was the surer way to escape from marginalisation and poverty. Adivasi collective protest centred around such mega projects as the Subarnarekha, Koel-Karo and Icha dams. The opposition to the Subarnarekha Project was triggered mainly by the fear of losing between 45 and 50,000 acres of land imperilling the lives of about 60–70,000 people of 65 villages.45 Villagers therefore raised such slogans as ‘Stop Subarnarekha River Project. We do not want Dam. We will lay down our lives but not let our motherland be submerged under water.’46 The Kharkai Dam Project (also known as Icha Dam Project) faced opposition because people of the affected villages apprehended that this would submerge about 60,000 acres of arable land of 120 villages and endanger the lives of about one lakh people, most of whom were Adivasis.47 The fear of land alienation and displacement due to dam projects, as also mining and industrialisation, brought the generic issue of denial and marginalisation to the centre stage.48 The movement against the Koel-Karo Project was unique in nature because of the modality of protest. The project was launched in 1955, when the Bihar Government began the survey of the villages on the banks of the Koel and Karo rivers (Chandra 2013: 53). In 1976, the government deployed engineers and labourers to commence work at the project area. The plan was to construct two dams, 44 and 55 m high, connected by a 34.7 m long canal, on the Koel and Karo rivers. This would submerge in all 256 villages in Simdega and Torpa blocks of Ranchi district (ibid.: 54). Adivasis feared that acquisition of 45,112 acres of land would uproot them from their ancestral land.49 They were equally apprehensive of the decimation of their cultural symbols like sasandiris and sarnas. It was articulated: ‘they did not care that our sasandiris [burial stones] and sarnas [sacred groves] mean everything for us Mundas. They dispossessed the villagers, stomped all over their lands, and desecrated their ancestral faith’ (ibid.). Under the leadership of Soma Munda, villagers formed village-level Koel–Karo Jan Sangathans, the purpose of which, as Soma avowed, was ‘to resist and protest, but peacefully. No arms or violence. If we got violent, they’d brand us as extremists (ugravadi), kick us out in an instant, and lay claim to all our lands’ (ibid.: 54–5). When the government

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refused to yield, Karo Jan Sangathan clamped a jan curfew (people’s curfew). The strategy was no one would be allowed to enter or exit villages in the proposed dam area. They were forced to ask for supplies from the block office in Torpa, over 10 km away. They would bring water in tanks that would stop at the village boundary, from where the junior officers had to carry it in containers into their camps. It was great fun watching them toil in the sun. (ibid.) But despite this, construction of the dam continued. Agitators then united all local Sangathans into a single unified body and decided to fight the wrong through Adivasi custom and law. Soma observed, We told them that we, adivasis, have only three things: sasan [burial stones of ancestors], sarna [sacred groves], and the CNT Act. These are tribal lands, which are defined by our religious customs and protected by law. We cannot allow them to be submerged. Koel-Karo alo thalouka [must stop]. (ibid.) Agitators thus amalgamated their precolonial and colonial symbols in defence of their right. To negotiate with the Sangathan, the government proposed to resettle the displaced in new villages with their sasans and sarnas. But the government did not take any practical step and continued with the project. Villagers retaliated by planting corn around the government camps. The strategy was ‘if they stepped on our corn, we could lodge a case against them and demand compensation’. Moreover, the Sangathan prevented project people to collect firewood from the nearby forests and villagers and even from defecating in the village arguing that this would pollute the sacred sarnas. This unique modality of indigenous protest through encirclement and ostracism forced the government to stop work. In 2003, the Jharkhand government took the final decision of rolling the project back (ibid.). As regards the Kharkai Project, opposition was similarly built on cultural and ecological grounds. An old Adivasi protested that this had destroyed even the desauli that their forefathers had built on a highland.50 This in a way overtly invoked archaeological support to contest the denial of an ancient right over the landscape. This was reinforced by ecological logic that undulating terrain of west Singhbhum was not conducive for large dams.51 Significantly, this in a way

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brought people on the same platform with the colonial official who, as shown before, invoked the same logic to deny the construction of large dams in Chota Nagpur. Adivasis unitedly protested against the pollution of water reservoirs because of serious health hazards this created. They were no less concerned about the prevailing problem of paucity of water, mainly because villagers largely depended on springs, rivers and ponds for their aquatic needs. At a large public meeting held under the banner of All India Vanvasi Panchayat, people opposed the construction of a large dam at Kumri village on the ground of their previous experiences of how a dam or an industrial unit was environmentally degrading. They cited the instance of a dam at Karampada village on the Koena River depleting the river and the mineral wastes of Kiriburu Iron Ore Washing Plant polluting all aquatic sources over a stretch of 20 km between Karampada and Jamkundia in west Singhbhum.52 A similar problem of water and air pollution damaging human and cattle lives due to the iron ore mines at Noamundi was cited by people.53 People were no less critical about the pollution of the river and canals and of air damaging lives and cultivation due to the Associated Cement Company (ACC) factory at Jhinkpani near Chaibasa.54 However, Jharkhandis, both Adivasis and Mulbasis, were not ignorant of the role of aquatic projects in improving the quality of their lives. What they wanted was that the projects should be ecologically conducive and backed by local support and social participation. This gives a hint of their counter strategy of development of the area and the people. So opposition to dams was impacted by the size of the project and the agency promoting it. As against state-sponsored large dams, they stood behind socially and officially sponsored small projects. This attitude united 1,000 villagers in the Potka block of east Singhbhum to invest 20 days’ labour to build Sahid Birsa Dam at Rasun Chopa village. The object of the project was to irrigate 40,000 acres of land with the help of a two-mile long canal.55 Villagers of Lohardaga district protested against the lack of irrigation facility as rendering thousands of acres of land fallow. They demanded that the government should take initiative in activating the Lift Irrigation Projects which had been put into operation by the Bihar government.56 The above demands had emanated from the Adivasis and other Jharkhandis from their positions as cultivators. In seeking the transformation of the landscape from a natural to cultural zone and the shift in identity from a pre-peasant to an agrarian community, they were reproducing the development strategy of the colonial government. At the same time, they showed a clear understanding that with the change in their status

202

Self-representation

from agency to servitude, there should be an accompanying change in the perception of the ideal development model itself along the lines stated above. There was yet another change in the mentality of Jharkhandis. This encouraged them to conceive of improving their material life by taking advantage of the undergoing development programmes. This was why the agitators while demanding stoppage of the Subarnarekha Project could lay claim to adequate compensation for their lands, proper rehabilitation of the displaced, employment of local labour and contractors in construction work, opening up of a large industry at Chandil to provide employment to those who had been displaced, building metalled roads, extension of bus services and stoppages of a number of express trains at some of the local stations.57

Notes 1 Johar Sakam, Vol. 22, No. 11, November 2014, 4. 2 For more details, see Areeparampil (1996: 1525). 3 The number of towns rising from 8 in 1872 to 134 in 1991 was one indicator. The other was the growth in urban population from 2 per cent at the beginning of the 20th century to 21.25 per cent in 1991.This further rose to 24 per cent as per the census of 2011 (Primary Population Abstract of Jharkhand, Indian Census Report of 2011). 4 Singhbhumi Ekta, February 1983, Vol. V, No. 19. 5 Ranchi Express, 18 August 2005. 6 Prabhat Khabar, 11 July 2005; Ranchi Express, 18 August 2005. 7 Hindustan, 23 October 2005. 8 Ranchi Express, 10 January 2007. 9 Hindustan, 17 February 2006. 10 Prabhat Khabar, 12 August 2005. 11 Prabhat Khabar, 12 November 2008; Hindustan, 12 November 2008. 12 Singhbhumi Ekta, May Special No, 1983. 13 Hindustan, 3 December 2005. 14 Ibid., 20 September 2009. 15 Prabhat Khabar, 26 February 2012; Chamakta Aina, 26 February 2012. 16 Prabhat Khabar, 5 September 2006. 17 This was resorted to when the infiltration of the Hindus and Oraons into Chota Nagpur prompted large groups of Mundas to leave their homeland in the plateau region for safer habitat in Singhbhum. 18 About the changing modalities of Adivasi protest, see Sen (2014: 93–112). 19 Prabhat Khabar, 11 July, 12 August, 23 October 2005, 5 September 2006, 12 January 2008, 26 February 2012; Ranchi Express, 18 August 2005, 10 January 2007; Hindustan, 20 September 2009, 26 May 2010; Chamakta Aina, 26 February 2012. 20 The contest between traditional right and law has been evocatively studied in Vasan (2009: 113–31). 21 Ranchi Express, 19 August 2005.

Landscape and fashioning of self 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57

203

Ibid. Singhbhumi Ekta, September 1980, Vol. III, No. 10. Ibid. Singhbhumi Ekta, September 1978, Vol. I, No 9. Ibid., August 1979, Vol. II, No. 7. Ibid., October 1978, Vol. I, No. 12. Ibid., January, February 1981, Vol. III, Nos 18–19. Prabhat Khabar, 12 July 2005. Hindustan, 1 July 2005; Samvad Bhaskar, January 2015. Dainik Jagaran, 22 February 2006. Singhbhumi Ekta, July 1983. Ranchi Express, 19 August 2005. Prabhat Khabar, 5 March 2006. Ranchi Express, 20 March 2006. Prabhat Khabar, 18 April 2006. Hindustan, 5 June 2013. Singhbhumi Ekta, September 1978, Vol. I, No. 9. Prabhat Khabar, 5 March 2006. Hindustan, 18 October 2005; Prabhat Khabar, 18 October 2005. Ibid. Singhbhumi Ekta, September 1978, Vol. I, No. 9. Prabhat Khabar, 16 December 2006; Dainik Jagaran 17 December 2006. New Ispat, 30 October 2011. Singhbhumi Ekta, June 1979, Vol. II, No. 4. Ibid. Ibid., 16 March 1985, Vol. VII, No. 36. Ibid., February 1983,Vol. V, No. 19. Singhbhumi Ekta, 14 January 1984, Vol. VI, No. 37. Singhbhumi Ekta, 23 February 1985, Vol. VII, No. 34. Ibid. Ibid., March 1979, Vol. I, No. 21. Ibid., May 1978, Vol. I, No. 2. Ibid., January 1982, Vol. V, No. 17. Ibid., 24 September 1983, Vol. VI, No. 21. Prabhat Khabar, 3 January 2009. Singhbhumi Ekta, June 1979, Vol. II, No. 4.

11 Conclusion

Rooted in Bihar/Jharkhand, this study interacts with the wider panIndian and global contexts to reconstruct the story of the representation of the Adivasis/indigenes in history. The first part presents an overview of how the tribals were identified in Sanskritic and colonial writings in India. The other part forming the staple of this work relates the story of self-fashioning around jal, jungle and jameen as it had developed between precolonial eras and the lived present. This unravels the inventive character of self and landscape which initiates the creative tension between being and becoming and the conscious attempt to conflate the ongoing conflict. Chapter 1 examines how the representation of the tribe in Sanskrit texts had largely been derogatory, though this characterisation did not always correspond to reality. However, besides providing an early glimpse of what others thought about the ethnic groups, Sanskritic texts also relate the cultural achievements of these communities in the past as an historic evidence of their subjecthood. The same tradition continued in colonial ethnography. British ethnographers largely identified Adivasis as a backward linguistic, pre-state and pre-peasant community inhabiting a well-defined territory with a culture and lifestyle distinct from the Indian mainstream. But this conceptualisation often obfuscates their movement towards peasantness and modernity during precolonial times and its acceleration under colonial rule. Part II, the thrust area of the present study, begins with the second chapter. This seeks to understand how the key terms landscape and self have been defined in social science, in what sense these words have been invoked in the present work, how the dynamics of selffashioning come into operation and how Adivasis seek to conflate the ongoing conflict in their representation of self and landscape. Since colonial representation was not always real but value-laden, in order to decolonise the Adivasi discourse, an attempt has been made in the

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second part to present the story of changing landscape and self with the help of internal sources. But since these intrinsic accounts are not comprehensive and adequate, the present work has finally juxtaposed both the sources in order to present a more reliable account of historically mediated representation of self and landscape. Chapter 3 begins the story of representation of self and landscape in Adivasi creation myths. Generally rooted in space and time, these relate what they conceived of themselves and their non-ethnic neighbours inhabiting the same territory. But the problem is that Munda, Ho and Oraon myths are not as historically complete as the Santal myth is, while Ho creation legend cursorily covers the entire stretch from the primordial to the lived colonial and postcolonial present. Diversity of self-representation is equally significant: the Ho portrayed their pre-peasant identity; Munda and Oraon focussed on agrarianism and Santal identified themselves as a more materially and morally developed people. Locating themselves against others, while the focus is missing among the Munda and Oraon, the Ho projected the image of a reified selfhood as against Santal remaking of the self from a vibrant and expanding community to one pushed in the margins by others. Self-identification through the myth by Jharkhandi Adivasis, barring the Santals, however portrays more the vision of a symbolic landscape rather than the physical one. The depiction of the more tangible historical phase begins by taking up land or Jameen, the first constituent of landscape, in the fourth chapter. This heralds the first stage in the transformation of natural landscape into a cultural territory, which the Adivasis identified as their habitat or homeland. The territorial identity was saturated by the notions of cradle and diaspora. This way, Chota Nagpur plateau-Santal Parganas objectified the politico-cultural idea of a distinct homeland for the Adivasis of Jharkhand. Memories of the original home, dispersion due to rise in number and later displacement and migration, owing to Aryan, feudal as well as colonial expansions, fructified their changing notion of territorial selfhood. This set the stage for their transformation from an itinerant to a settled rural community, as narrated in the next chapter. Chapter 5 relates that the setting up of villages, marking the second stage, consolidates the domain of the built landscape and the transformation of the itinerant groups into sedentary communities. Rusticity, claimed to be basic to indigenous selfhood, however did not conceive village simply as a living space. This was more a historico-cultural site where their moral and material ideologies and institutions had developed. This was different both from official and non-ethnic visions of a

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Self-representation

village. However, this remaking obfuscates the reality of their transformation from itinerancy, and focusses on village-centrism as a founding marker of selfhood. This specificity prompted them to evolve the Manki-Munda system as a distinct institution of social governance of space and resources. While Chapters 4 and 5 drew the territorial boundary, the Adivasis developed their system of social organisation to further underline their distinct identity. Chapter 6 elaborates how the institution of village administration fructified during the precolonial period in which village heads functioned as social leaders and took consensual decisions in consonance with collective will. This included the governance of all resources within the village by the village community. But this original system was gradually modified due to internal dynamics and pressure of feudal control. In recognition of its historical status, colonial rule co-opted this into the Raj framework. But gradually exotic administrative ideologies and forms considerably changed its basic character. The British reinvented it as a legitimate, empowered and effective groundlevel bureaucratic institution from its precolonial informal mechanism of social governance. An interesting fact however is that this filtered Manki-Munda system continues to be identified as a marker of Adivasi selfhood, often oblivious of its original form. After Indian independence, union and state governments, in pursuance of the policies of democratisation and laying down a uniform system of local governance, sought to legalise the Panchayati Raj as a parallel institution of local governance. But the Adivasis of Jharkhand in general and the Kolhan-Porahat in particular vociferously opposed this attempt to dilute their time-honoured institution. However, the post-independence movement in support of Manki-Munda system as basic to their identity was mired by a fissiparous tendency that clearly evinced that linkage to this social institution had ceased to be total and uniform. The passage of legislations and holding of Panchayati elections presaged further hybridisation of the Manki-Munda system. What we notice therefore is the progressive reinvention of the original notion of Adivasi selfhood as represented by the Manki-Munda system. But the interesting fact is that votaries of the traditional system continue to return to the moor and tend to project becoming as their being. The ambivalent self-fashioning forms the theme of the subsequent chapters beginning with the peasantisation of the Adivasis. This transformation in selfhood, from that of a forager-hunter to that of a farmer, was accompanied by the corresponding consolidation of the built landscape. Chapter 7 contends the tribe–peasant dichotomy and unravels how agriculture developed over centuries to be the principal

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vocation of the Adivasis of Bihar/Jharkhand. But due to the basic differential nature of peasanthood, they preferred to identify themselves as a forest-dependent agricultural people rather than a purely agrarian type. Second, this historic process ushered changes that progressively transformed their material and moral base. Interestingly, despite their movement from the hunting-foraging pre-peasant socio-economy, Adivasis continue to harp on their wildness and attempt to conflate this opposition by reinventing a more composite notion of forest-centric agrarian identity. Chapter 8 explores the second aspect of landscape, i.e. Jal or water to depict the story of the changing relationship between self and aquatic landscape. Adivasis felt that as Singbonga’s free gift to them, natural sources of water had a venerable content. But to this material meaning was added, when these came to sustain their village and agriculturecentric material life. Deployment of tanks and bandhs, coupled with their dependence on natural sources, helped them to consolidate their agro-rural collective identity. Another major change occurred when they developed their characteristic mode of governance of waterbodies that integrated the concepts of private and common rights. Though the colonial policy of enforcing state management over water resources considerably eroded Adivasi customary water rights, circumstances forced the colonial state to combine indigenous and British concepts of property and management. Despite these changes, Adivasis continue to cherish the link with natural sources as vital for selfhood. Link with forest, the third constituent of landscape, has/had been considered by Adivasis as an essence of indigeneity. Exploring this harmony, Chapter 9 seeks to unfold how this linkage invested distinctiveness to their selfhood. The forest-centric studies foreground how colonial as well as postcolonial administrators treated forest more or less as a material resource, as a power regime, as an environmental space and as a backward but developmentally prone natural zone. Along with this, they believed that Adivasi practices of shifting cultivation, indiscriminate felling of trees and grazing cattle made them the vandaliser of natural forests. Against this grain, parallel scholarship, as also the Adivasis in Bihar/Jharkhand and elsewhere in India, challenge this mythology. The latter assert themselves as forest people, having woven a symbiotic forest-centric lifestyle. However, we cannot ignore that over centuries, the growth of agriculture and village life, trade and commerce, as also state management of natural resources, have worked in tandem to sap this linkage. The last chapter connects precolonial and colonial pasts with the postindependence decades to embody the Adivasi notion of environmental

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selfhood. The threat to their traditional linkage with the environment due to the development programmes caused their increasing marginalisation. This forced a new spurt of Adivasi assertions that reiterated the symbiotic relationship with nature. However, they had to grapple with the reality of their transformation from agency to servitude and then from a life full of pleasure and plenty to marginalisation and poverty. So, while offering resistance to a capitalist mode of development, they mapped an ecologically sensitive state–society collaborative development programme as a surer way to escape from their contemporary predicament and assert the distinctiveness of their collective self. The study therefore explores and examines oral tradition, official sources as well as contemporary identity assertion to embody how the Adivasi selfhood, saturated by an affinity with landscape, fructified over centuries, and how this impinged on community psyche certain distinctive features of Adivasism. On the basis of the above reading, we can draw some broad conclusions. First, Adivasis, as also a section of scholars, consider that spiritual and material relationship with land, water and forest, rather with nature at large, agrarianism, village life and specific mode of social governance were/are unassailable markers of indigeneity. Second, critical historical forces forced them to redefine their identity, which in its turn considerably diluted their linkage with nature and customary social norms and institutions. This way they tended to move away from their essence/being and assumed a changed notion of self. Third, there is an ongoing conflict between essence, rather ideal Adivasihood and its real form, to be more precise between being and becoming (See Sen 2012b: 81–137 for amplification). Lastly, this tension is resolved by conflating the notions of being and becoming that created in them a sense of belonging. But the interesting fact is that as the notion of being is not static, invented being hood, rather becoming, is assumed to be the essence of indigeneity. Though this definition of environmental selfhood often becomes political (Bates 1995b: 125) and polemical, we have to put a premium on this selfrepresentation because this is self-identifying as also more representative and intimate. The need of the time is that an intimate, rather an alternate, Adivasi study takes deeper root in line with the Dalit and feminist studies, a study that will seek to comprehend the commonality and differences in the indigenous self-assertions at the national and global levels today.

Glossary

Anna Asan Bad Bair Balas Bandh Bera Bigha

Bonga Dalkatti Darraiyat Deuri Diku Dhur Gairmajrua Gundli Goala Gonong Gora Haga Hakuknama Hal Haat Huring Jahera Jote

One-sixteenth of a rupee Terminalia tomentosa Second class of rice land for wet cultivation Ziziphus jujuba In laws An embankment made at the lower end of a depression or by embanking three sides of a slope Frist class of rice land for wet cultivation A measure of land varying in extent. In Bengal it contained only 1,600 square yards or a little less than one-third of an acre Spirit Fees paid for the cultivation of lac and tassar Underraiyat A village priest Outsider, more often a non-Adivasi A measure of land, one-twentieth part of a katha Uncultivated land but may be made fit for cultivation Panicum miliare Cowherd Brideprice Cultivated upland Agnates Record of Rights issued to a Manki or Munda Plough Market place, weekly market Junior or non-founding killi Sacred grove Tenure of a cultivator

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Glossary

Jungle Kaji Kamhar Karanj Katha Kayemi Khatian Khesari Khet Khewat Khuntkatti Khuntkattidar Killi Kodali Kos Kumhar Kusum Lakhiraj Lakhirajdar Larka Mallah Marwa Manki Matkum Munda Nala Nim Pahun/Pahan Parcha Paseri Patta Pir Praja Rahar Raiyat Sag Sai Sahukar Sal

Forests Language Blacksmith Pongamia pinnata A measure of land, the twentieth part of a Bengal bigha, i.e. 80 sq. yards Status of a settled raiyat The record of rights of tenants A kind of pulse A piece of agricultural land The record of rights of proprietors and tenure holders Original clearance Original clearer of land in a village Clan or sept among the Hos, Adivasis A sort of hoe or spade A measure of distance varying in different parts of India, usually two miles Potter Schleichera trijuga Holder of a revenue-free grant of village Holder of a revenue-free grant Fighting Fisherman Eleusine coracana Head of pir Bhumij Head of a village Artificial channel, commission of rent Azadirachta indica Village priest Settlement record A weight of five seers A deed of lease A cluster of villages resembling a pargana Subject Cytisus cajan Tenant cultivator Spinach A tola, a separate section of a village Moneylender Shorea robusta

Glossary Sarna Sarpanch Sasandiri Seer Selamee Singbonga Surguja Surmidurmi Tahsildar Tanaza Thana Thika Thikadar Tisi

A sacred grove Head of panch A gravestone placed flat over the burial bones in sasan, i.e. burial place Measure of weight one-fortieth of a maund Tribute Highest god of the Ho Adivasis A kind of oil seed Sarak tanks Accountant and revenue collector Local court Police station Mortgage A farmer, a leaseholder Linseed

211

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Newspapers Chamakta Aina Dainik Jagaran Hindustan Johar Sakam Prabhat Khabar New Ispat Ranchi Express Singhbhumi Ekta The Telegraph

Index

aborigines, aboriginals, autochthon 3, 10, 16–23, 26, 28–31, 33–5, 53, 76, 80–2, 87, 91, 141, 144, 146–7, 149–50, 154, 178 Adivasi festivals 37, 58, 63–4, 75, 89, 124, 145, 159, 179, 184 Adivasi intellectuals, intelligentsia 5, 7, 50–4, 108, 129, 131, 136, 190, 193, 197 Adivasi leaders 193; Birsa Munda 92; Jaipal Singh 52–3, 93; R.D. Munda 53, 131, 197; Shibu Soren 192 Adivasi Mahasabha 5, 93, 131 Adivasi: gods, bongas, spirits 60–4, 66–8, 70, 79, 81, 105, 116, 153, 159–60, 179, 207, 211 Adivasis, Adivasihood 3, 5–11, 18–19, 24, 35–7, 43, 47–65, 67, 70–1, 73–4, 76–80, 83–4, 86–7, 90–4, 96–101, 104–8, 110–11, 113–14, 118, 122–32, 136–9, 143–4, 146–54, 157–61, 163–5, 167, 169–70, 173–5, 177–81, 183, 187–201, 204–8 aesthetics 35, 146–7, 183–4 Africa, African 5, 7–10, 20, 30, 37, 46, 53, 64, 76, 97–9, 109–10, 113, 119, 157 agency 7–8, 18, 45, 47–8, 58, 69, 84, 87, 166, 190, 192–3, 196, 201–2, 208 agrarian agitations, disputes 141, 145 agrarian community 142, 154, 159, 162, 178, 201 agrarian identity 53, 138, 141, 143, 150, 153–4, 182, 190, 195, 207

agriculture, agricultural 24, 30, 36, 68, 73, 98, 100, 102, 137–46, 148–50, 152–6, 159, 161, 163, 165, 169, 175, 177, 180, 189, 206–7 Andean 58, 80 Andhra Pradesh 187 Annals of Rural Bengal 27, 59 anthropology, anthropological 10–11, 25, 27–8, 30–1, 36, 38, 58, 83, 112, 138, 173, 178 archaeology 46, 155 Aryans 5, 16–18, 25–6, 28–9, 31, 33, 52, 59, 79–81, 99, 137–8, 205 Asiatic Society of Bengal, Journal of 20, 23, 25, 27, 38 Assam 134, 148, 184 Australia 63 Austro-Asiatic 52 backwardness 35, 83, 190 Badaga community 139 Baigas 61, 64–6, 69, 71, 96, 136, 146, 178 Bailey, F.G. 6 Ball, V. 26–7 Banjara trading community 36 Barthes, Rolland 57, 75 Bastar 6, 91, 111, 180, 191, 194 becoming 28, 31, 48–9, 51, 54–5, 58, 69–70, 123, 154, 174, 183, 204, 206, 208 being 28, 31, 48–9, 51, 54–5, 69, 123, 130, 154, 174, 183, 204, 206, 208 belonging 37, 46, 48–9, 54–5, 130, 208

232

Index

Bengal/West Bengal 20, 26, 82, 87, 91, 93–4, 176, 187, 191, 209–10 Bengali 6, 31–3, 91 Bertle Frere 137 Beteille, Andre 5 Bharatiya Janata Party 94 Bhils 6, 12, 18, 35, 113, 136, 146, 178, 180 Bhuinhars, bhuinhari 80, 101, 107, 110, 116, 118 Bhuiyans 66, 71, 82, 89, 139, 162, 169, 171 Bhumij 25, 30, 33, 37, 66, 71, 91, 210 Bihar 8–9, 21, 23, 32, 47, 52, 64, 79, 87, 90, 93–4, 114, 125–6, 129–30, 140, 147, 152–3, 156, 161–2, 166, 171, 176, 180, 188–9, 195, 197, 199, 201, 204, 207 Bininj 63 Birhors 67, 71 Bodra, Lako 54 Bokaro Steel plant 189 Bora Sambar Region 191–2 Bose, N.K. 6 British Acts, Colonial Acts, Regulations, Rules: CNT Act 50, 100, 192–3; Forest Acts 1865, 1878 181; Regulation XIII of 1833 129; SPT Act 50, 193; Thomson’s Rules123; Twidell’s Rules181; Wilkinson’s Rules 50, 121, 123, 125 British/colonial government, rule 3, 11, 21, 25, 30, 33, 50, 53–4, 60, 69, 75, 85–4, 90–2, 100, 118, 122–5, 137, 139, 141, 152–3, 158, 161, 163, 165, 169–70, 176, 180–1, 193, 201, 204–5 British/colonial, ethnogrphy, ethnographers 3–4, 6–7, 10, 15, 18–21, 23, 29–37, 50, 79, 83–4, 89, 99–100, 114–5, 137, 139, 161, 175, 204 Burial/grave stones, sasandiris 101, 123, 195, 199–200 Burrows, L.B. 32, 38, 181 Callero, P.L. 44–5 Campbell, Justice 18, 22, 25, 28–31, 33, 35–6, 94

caste groups: Brahmins 16, 18, 66, 70–1, 87; Chattris 70; Goalas/Ahirs 66, 139–40, 145, 147; Rajputs 66, 70–1; see also functional castes Cederlof, G. 15, 23, 34–5 Census 20–1, 27, 90, 97, 100, 147, 202 Chae Champa, Champa 51, 74, 84, 92 change 11, 32, 36–7, 46, 48–51, 55, 66, 68–9, 74, 77, 82, 84, 89, 92, 96–7, 99, 105–7, 113–4, 119, 120–2, 124, 127–8, 132, 136, 138, 150, 153–4, 157–8, 160–1, 167–9, 173, 175, 183, 188, 193–4, 201–2, 206–8 Chanock, M. 56, 99, 109 charak puja 65, 71 Chattisgarh 191 Cheros, kingdom 23, 80, 85, 138 Chota Nagpur plateau 22, 24, 30, 33–4, 51–2, 68, 71, 79– 83, 85–6, 88, 91–2, 94, 98–100, 109, 111, 114, 117–9, 125, 140, 142, 148, 155–6, 161, 169, 202 Chota Nagpur, Chotanagpur 22, 24, 36, 83, 85, 93–4, 141 Chotanagpur Improvement Society or Chotanagpur Unnati Samaj 93 Christian, Christianity, mission, missionaries 7–9, 22, 26, 32–3, 59–61, 81, 91, 93, 147 Cleveland, James 6, 12 Colebrooke, H.T. 18 collective protest 92, 190, 199 colonial bureaucracy, officials 20–1, 23–8, 35, 50, 60, 80, 88, 115, 118, 120, 144, 150, 177, 182 Comaroff, J. 9, 22, 32 common rights 165, 167, 207 concepts of property 167–8, 207 Congress party 94, 132 Constituent Assembly 52–3 Cooper, F. 8, 51 corporate bodies, groups, companies 54, 91, 187–8, 191–2 Cosgrove, D.E. 46 cosmology, cosmological 57–8, 61, 63 cradle 77, 79, 81–4, 205 Cronon, W. 56

Index crop failure 149, 155, 165 cultivation 7, 11, 36, 38, 63, 74, 83, 96, 98, 109, 136–44, 146–51, 154, 156, 165, 169, 175–7, 182, 196, 201, 207, 209 culture hero 81, 103 culture, cultural 4–5, 7–8, 10, 16–17, 22, 30, 32, 35, 43, 45–8, 51–3, 55, 57, 59, 63–4, 68, 72–4, 78–9, 81, 84–5, 88–9, 91–4, 97–8, 100–1, 103, 109, 115, 127, 138, 144–5, 153–4, 156–8, 161–4, 174–5, 178, 183–4, 189, 191–6, 199–201, 204–5 customary law 30, 120, 127, 135 customary rights 91, 168, 176, 181, 183, 187, 198 customary tribunals 118 customs 4, 24, 29, 54, 87, 124–5, 127, 129–30, 167, 182, 194, 200 Cuthbert, S.T. 24, 34, 114, 140–2 Cuttack 35 Dalton, E.T. 18, 22, 25–35, 37, 50, 59–60, 82–3, 85, 101–2, 137, 145, 156, 160, 177 Damin-i-Koh 34, 79 Damodaran, V. 6, 11, 19, 77–8, 95, 178 Dangis, Dangs 35, 99, 103, 106, 136, 140, 144, 146–8, 153, 178 deforestation 177, 195 Delhi 87 Deori 104–6, 108, 111, 115 Depree, G.C. 27, 34, 36, 38 Desauli 108, 159, 178–9, 192, 200 development 4, 25, 35, 126–7, 146–7, 169, 173–4, 177, 187–93, 201–2, 207–8 Dhangar Kols 34 diaspora 77, 79, 83, 205 Dikus, Dekos 10, 67, 70–2, 89–90, 106–7, 123, 150, 189; see also outsiders dispersion 60, 70, 77, 82, 99, 205 displacement 17, 19, 34, 72, 77, 79, 189, 191, 198–9, 205 disputes 104, 106–7, 110, 117, 121, 141, 163, 170

233

divine creation 61, 63 Dravidians 5, 32, 52, 85 Eastern Coalfields 189 ecological 6, 11, 33, 47, 49, 83, 99, 102–3, 109, 138–9, 145, 147, 149–50, 157–9, 161, 165–6, 170, 173, 177–9, 187, 190, 192, 195–201, 208 egalitarianism 54, 85, 108–9, 169 Ekeh, P.P. 8, 10 Elwin, Verrier 57–9, 61, 64–5, 96, 109, 138 empowerment 33, 123, 127, 132, 180 Encyclopaedia Mundarica 33, 59 England 175 English law 21 environment, environmental 57–8, 60, 65, 67, 71, 76–7, 94, 136, 139, 154, 157–8, 165, 170, 173–4, 177, 179, 189–91, 197–8, 201, 207–8 ethnic communities/groups 5–7, 10, 16, 18–19, 23–5, 28, 30, 36–7, 54, 67, 71, 78–9, 90, 97–9, 102, 107, 109, 113–14, 116, 119, 139, 160, 183, 188, 204 ethnicity 11, 31, 33, 53, 97 ethnography, ethnographic 3–4, 20, 25–8, 31, 34, 78, 109, 138, 145 ethnology, ethnological 15–16, 20, 25–31, 59 Europeans 3, 37, 137 famine, drought 34, 149, 165–6, 171, 180 feast, mythic 66–8, 70 feudal rule, oppression, state system 24, 43, 51, 84, 87, 90, 92, 114, 116, 118, 124, 140, 193, 205–6 field labourers 142, 148 folklore 8–9, 26, 51, 81, 89, 159, 179 forest acts 140, 181 forest movement 193–8 forest villages 197 forest, communities 6, 11–12, 15, 17, 23, 29, 30, 33–5, 47, 51, 55, 68, 70, 73–4, 79, 81–3, 85, 92, 94, 96, 99–102, 105, 108, 116–17, 121–5, 127–9, 137–40, 144–6,

234

Index

148–9, 151–5, 159, 165, 167–8, 170, 173–84, 188–91, 194–200, 207–8, 210; see also woodland functional castes 66, 90, 107, 133, 139, 153, 156 Ganges 72, 74, 89, 160 Garhwal 180 Ghurye, G.S. 6 globalisation 43, 55 Gonds 12, 30, 66, 69, 71, 113, 136 Governor 126, 131, 182 Governor General 21, 38, 51, 88, 118, 121 Gram Panchayat 126 Gram Sabha 127, 134 Grammar of the Kol Language 32 grazing taxes 145, 181–2 Guha, Ramchandra 179–80 Guha, Ranajit 76 Gujarat 140, 154, 180, 198 Gyan Prakash 58 habitat/homeland 51, 70, 72, 74, 77–9, 82–3, 89–94, 96, 99, 113, 159, 161, 178, 180, 191, 202, 205 Hagas 103, 106–7, 110, 209 Ham 101, 106, 115 Hardiman, D. 6, 10, 154 Hazaribagh 38, 52, 82, 98–9, 111, 119, 142, 144–5, 148–50, 152, 154–5, 161–3, 192 headman 105, 117, 120, 164, 182 Hembrom, K. C. 129–30 hills 29, 31, 33–4, 73–4, 79, 81, 86, 116, 137, 139, 159, 178–9, 192, 196 Himalayan region 83, 99, 179 Hindi 31, 33, 91 Hinduisation, Rajputisation 24, 26, 36, 65, 85 Hindus, Hinduism 6, 16, 18–19, 24, 26, 29–30, 36, 53–4, 61, 65–7, 69–72, 74, 80, 82–3, 87, 89–91, 116, 136, 160, 202 Ho 8, 29, 32–4, 36–7, 51, 54, 66, 68, 70–1, 73, 79, 82, 87, 89–91, 95, 98–9, 101–2, 105, 107–9, 119–20, 144–5, 147, 150, 162, 169, 184, 210 Ho Grammar 32, 38 Ho Samaj Mahasabha 193 Hodesum 34, 51, 68–9, 73, 82, 84

homogeneity 37, 54–5, 108–9, 115, 163, 170 Horkoren Mare Hapramko Reak Katha 9, 50, 59 human rights 7, 54, 154, 197 Hunter, W.W. 8, 18, 21, 25–7, 34, 38, 50, 59–60, 66, 82, 137, 140, 144, 150 identification, self-identification 5–6, 37, 50, 52–3, 65, 83, 96, 113, 157, 162, 190, 193, 205 identity, assertion, movement 4, 6–7, 9–11, 19, 31, 36, 43–5, 47–56, 58, 63, 70–1, 74, 76–9, 82, 85–6, 91–4, 96–7, 100, 103, 113, 120, 127, 129–32, 136, 138, 141, 143, 145, 149–51, 153–4, 157, 169–70, 173–4, 178–80, 182, 184, 187–8, 190, 193–5, 198, 201, 205–8 ILO 78 Imperial Gazetteer 25, 38 India, Indian 78–81, 83, 85, 91, 93, 96–7, 100, 110, 113, 116, 124, 130, 136–9, 141, 144, 147–8, 156–7, 160, 165–6, 174–6, 178, 180, 184, 187–91, 193–4, 198, 204, 206–7, 210 Indian Constitution 4, 53–4, 126, 193; Eighth Schedule 55–6; Fifth Schedule 4, 126, 193 Indian Council of Indigenous and Tribal Peoples (ICITP) 78 Indian Parliament 4, 127, 132, 197 indigenes 3, 5–6, 9, 11–12, 48, 53, 64, 76–8, 80, 92–3, 108, 110, 137–8, 146, 148, 153–4, 158, 177–9, 189, 204, 207–8 indigenous/communities, groups, peoples 3, 5–6, 8, 11, 15, 28, 30, 43, 48, 53–4, 63, 69, 76–9, 83–4, 86, 100–1, 113–15, 118–22, 124–7, 130, 137–9, 141, 145–9, 161–2, 164, 167–9, 174, 176–81, 187–8, 191, 196, 200, 205, 207–8 indigenous/local/Munda/native, informants/voice 9, 19, 24, 26–8, 37, 59, 80 industrial forestry project 191, 194 industrialisation 189, 191–2, 199 Ingold, Tim 47, 49

Index International Work Group of Indigenous Affairs (IWGIA) 7 Introduction to the Santal Language 32 irrigation 109, 122, 137, 139, 142, 144–5, 147, 155, 162–6, 168–70, 201 Jackson, J.B. 45–6 Jahira, Jaher 105, 108, 154, 178–9 Janata Party 197 Jharkhand 5–9, 22–3, 32, 47–8, 52, 56, 58–60, 65–5, 69, 75, 77–80, 84–6, 90–4, 97–9, 101, 106–7, 110, 113–14, 116, 118–19, 125–6, 128–31, 135–7, 139–40, 146, 148, 150, 152, 154–6, 158, 160, 163, 166, 174–5, 178–80, 187, 189–94, 197–8, 200–1, 204–7 Jharkhand High Court 128, 131 Jharkhand movement 77, 92–5, 131 Jharkhand Panchayati Raj, introduction, movement 126–32 Jharkhand, political organisations/ parties 93–4, 129–32, 191–2 jhum cultivation 138–9, 146, 149; see also shifting cultivation Jones, William 23, 38 jungles 11, 29, 34–5, 38, 43, 48, 81, 88, 100, 103, 106, 108, 116, 139–40, 148–9, 151, 154, 159, 163, 173, 175–8, 180, 182–5, 190, 194–6, 204, 210; see also forest; woodland Karlsson, B.G./Bengt 4, 8, 78, 106, 116 Kerala 164, 175, 184 Kharias, Kheriahs 33, 155, 160 Kharsawan 23, 90–1, 116, 197 Kharwars, Kherwar 23, 33, 67, 70–1, 80 khuntkatti, khuntkattidars 79–80, 82, 101, 104–8, 110, 116, 118, 155, 194–5, 210 Killis 29, 66, 79, 81, 88, 101, 104–9, 111, 115, 117, 142, 170, 179, 209–10 Kiskus 72, 88 Kol language 31–2 Kolarian 16–7, 22, 29, 31, 37, 61, 68, 81, 85, 99, 177

235

Kolhan, Kolhan Government Estate 8, 21, 24, 33, 39, 50–2, 59, 66, 68, 71, 79, 82, 89–91, 94, 96, 99, 104, 107–8, 111, 114–15, 119–23, 125, 129–31, 142, 144, 147–52, 155–6, 162–7, 171, 179, 181–4, 193, 196, 206 Kumayun, Kumaun 179–80 Kunkals 67, 71 Kurmbis 67, 71 Kurmis 66, 107, 140, 147 Kwashirai, V.C. 46 Ladurie, L.R. 97 land acquisition 187–8, 191–2 land alienation 90, 167–9, 189, 191–2, 197–9 landlords 6, 91, 116, 118–19, 141, 166, 176–7 lands 4, 11–12, 21, 24–6, 29, 33–6, 45, 47, 53, 55, 61–2, 73–4, 76–80, 82, 85, 87, 90–2, 94, 98–9, 102, 105–7, 110, 115–17, 121–4, 127, 129, 136, 138–41, 143–50, 154, 156–7, 159–61, 163–5, 167–8, 173–4, 176, 182–3, 187–96, 198–201, 205, 208–10 landscape 9–11, 23, 34, 43, 45–51, 53, 57–8, 64, 68, 72–4, 76–9, 84, 91–2, 94, 96, 104, 113, 116, 123, 136, 149, 153–4, 157–8, 160, 165, 170, 173–5, 178, 187–8, 192, 194, 198–201, 204–8 Latin America 78, 80, 97–8, 137, 139, 159 Leach, M. and Mearns, R. 46–7 legends 18, 26, 50, 58–61, 65, 70, 74, 85 Levi Strauss, C. 57, 75 local chiefs 21, 23, 90–1, 123, 145 Lohardaga 25, 38, 99, 148–9, 152, 165, 201 Madhya Pradesh 93, 187, 198 Madura 84–6 Maine, Henry 137 mainstream 6, 8, 34–7, 125, 127–8, 174, 190 Malinowski, B. 57–8 Mals 30 Manjhis 117–20, 132

236

Index

Manki-Munda Sangh 130 Manki-Munda system 53, 113–14, 118, 123, 125–6, 128–32, 206 Mankis 25, 59–60, 84, 86–7, 108, 118, 120–2, 124, 134, 167–8, 170, 172, 181–3, 193, 209–10 Mann, E.G. 26 Marandis 72, 88 marginal peasants 148, 150 marginals 71–2, 198 markets, haats 91, 127, 140–1, 152–3, 156, 164, 177, 182, 209 Mayurbhanj 90, 116 medicine 102, 184 Meghalaya 116, 134, 174, 179, 187, 191 memory 8, 12, 46, 57, 59, 64, 75, 78–9, 92, 103, 108, 137, 159, 163, 175 merchants 36, 88, 90, 95, 152–3 Midnapur 38, 91–2, 191 migration, in, out 5, 17, 24, 26, 34, 54, 60, 70, 72, 74, 76, 78, 84, 87, 89, 94, 99, 107, 109, 134, 151, 153–4, 176, 189, 193, 205 minerals/resources 34, 127–8, 173–5 mines, mining 127, 148, 154 , 189–92, 199, 201 Mogul Emperor Akbar 52, 87 Mohapatra, P.P. 140, 155 Mollinga, P.P. 162, 164, 171 moneylenders, mahajan 6, 91, 140, 147, 150, 210 monsoon 149, 155, 159, 161 Mother Earth 78, 96, 159 Munda (community) 6, 25–6, 30, 32–5, 37–8, 48, 51–2, 54, 58– 65, 67–8, 71, 73, 75, 79–88, 91–2, 94, 100–2, 105, 109, 116–17, 119, 123, 132, 138, 146, 155, 179, 199, 202, 205 Munda (post) 100, 102–6, 108, 111, 114–18, 120–5, 132–4, 167–8, 170, 181–3, 187, 194, 209–10 Munda language, grammar 32, 37, 59 Murmus 72, 88 Musalmans 66, 71 myths, creation myth 5–10, 18, 26, 46, 50–1, 55, 57–78, 81–2, 115–6, 124, 136, 138, 146, 155, 160, 205

Naga 85, 113 Nanga Baiga 69 natives 5, 22–5, 30, 34, 52, 79 nativity 6, 17, 34, 76–8, 80 natural resources 11, 51, 54, 106, 121–2, 146, 157, 199, 207 natural sources 117, 160–1, 165, 207 Nilgiris, region 23–4, 26, 29, 50, 139, 144 Nkoya 53 non-Adivasis 3, 10, 53, 67, 94, 107, 125, 128, 189; see also Dikus, Dekos non-Aryan 17, 26, 28, 33, 43 North-East Frontier of India 58 Nuer 113 Odisha, Orissa 87, 93–4, 140, 187, 190–2, 198 Ojhas 102 oral traditions 8, 50, 54, 58–9, 79, 101–2, 105, 137–8, 158, 208 Oraon language 32 Oraons 6, 24, 26, 29, 32–3, 38, 51–2, 54, 61–3, 65, 73, 79–81, 83–7, 91–2, 100–2, 104–5, 107, 110, 116–7, 119, 132, 134, 138, 146–7, 153, 155, 193, 202, 205 orientalism 15, 19 original settlers 34, 78 other 3, 6–8, 10, 15, 20, 25, 36–7, 44, 48, 50–2, 54, 56, 58, 63, 65, 67–71, 76, 80, 87, 92, 154, 158, 174, 184, 205 outsiders 6–7, 72, 90–1, 107, 109, 189–90; see also Dikus, Dekos Palamau 80, 85, 87–8, 98, 111, 134, 144, 156, 162–3, 166 panchayat elections 128–9, 131–2 panchayat system 131–2 Panchayati Raj/Act, Ordinance 4, 124, 126–8, 131–2 Panchayati Raj/system 114, 125–6, 128–30, 206 panchayats, village, pir 4, 53, 106, 117–8, 121, 124, 127, 130, 134–5 Pandit Raghunath Murmu 54 Parha Rajas 84, 86

Index Parker, J. and Rathbone, R. 7, 10, 64 Parvati 63, 85–6 pastoralist, pastoralism 7, 17, 138–9, 150, 155 Patna High Court 131 peasanthood 74, 137–8, 147, 182, 207 peasantisation 96, 138, 146, 149, 154, 169, 171, 206 peasantry, peasants 68–9, 87, 98, 111, 136–8, 141–50, 154, 156, 161, 163, 166, 168, 182, 202 Phani Mukut Rai 86 pirs, parha-parganait, patti 25–6, 53, 83–4, 92, 99, 110, 114–8, 120–1, 123–4, 128, 149, 162, 176, 183, 210 plough 60, 67–8, 73–4, 104, 117, 123, 136, 138, 140–1, 145–6, 148, 156, 196, 209 popular agitation, movements, resistance: colonial period 23, 35, 58, 69, 72, 78, 80, 87, 91–2, 118, 156, 176, 193; post-independence 187, 190–201 pre-colonial 109, 180 pre-literate 37, 54 pre-peasant 36, 68, 99, 136–8, 154, 201, 204–5, 207 President of India 50–1, 126, 129 pre-state 83–4, 89, 113, 118, 204 primitive 3, 5–6, 20, 22, 32, 35, 64, 112, 138, 144, 146–7, 155 property rights 169 protected forests 3–4, 121, 123, 145, 149, 181–3 Pundarik 85–6 Punjab 17 Puri 36, 85, 91 Purti, D.S. 59, 69, 73 races 3, 5.15, 17–18, 20, 23, 26–9, 43, 59, 60–3, 65–6, 70, 73–6, 80–1, 84–5, 89, 123, 144, 149, 177 raids 6, 90, 139, 176 railways 175, 177, 191 rainfall 160–1, 177 Ramgarh 38, 87–8, 119 Ranchi, district 32, 80–1, 88, 99, 111, 119, 130–1, 134–5, 141–2,

237

144–9, 151–2, 154–5, 160–3, 166, 185, 189, 191–5, 197–9 Record of Rights 100, 120, 122, 125, 209–10 Reid, J. 80, 146, 166, 177 religion 29, 36, 53, 91, 160, 179 republican system/polity, republics 37, 83–5, 88, 97, 113, 131 reservation: forest 125, 176, 180; seats, posts 4, 93–4, 108, 127–8, 131 revenue 34, 38, 87, 115, 120, 124–5, 165, 171, 175, 197, 210–1 revenue settlements, land 75, 82, 95, 100, 104, 120, 123–4, 155, 174, 181 revenue villages 197 Risa Munda 81, 103 Risley, H.H. 19, 25–30, 33, 38, 50, 137 river valley projects/dams, large, small 157, 165–6, 189, 191, 198–201 roads 119, 122, 124, 141, 177, 191, 202 Rohtas 79–80 Roughsedge, E. 23, 26, 35, 114–5 Roy, S.C. 18, 79, 94, 105, 107, 116, 153, 155 ruralisation 54, 96, 150–1, 154, 169 rusticity 97, 99, 205 Rycroft, D.J. 25 ryots, raiyats 110, 121–3, 140–1, 147, 163, 167–8, 170, 182 sabai grass 175–6, 178 sacred groves 179, 199–200 Sadans-Mulbasis 129, 131 Said, Edward 19 Sal 175, 179, 189, 195–6, 210 Sanskrit/ic texts: epics, Purana, Samhitas, Upanishads, Veds 3, 7, 10, 15–18, 25, 80, 204 Santal Gurus, Guru Kolean 59, 67, 70, 88, 95, 101, 103, 105–6, 120 Santal Parganas 52, 78, 82, 89, 93, 98, 119, 148–9, 152–3, 156, 161, 176, 184, 205 Santals 6, 8, 25–6, 29–30, 32–5, 37–8, 48, 50–2, 54, 56, 58–62, 65–7, 70–2, 74, 79, 82–4, 88, 91–2, 101–2, 105–7, 117–20, 130, 132, 160, 176, 205

238

Index

Sarak tanks, bonga pokhari, surmidurmi 139, 162, 165, 211 Saraks 82, 89, 139, 162, 169, 171 Saranda 99, 149 sasandiris, sasans 80, 100–1, 108, 136, 190, 199–200, 211 sati 65, 71, 86, 177 Sauer, S. 77, 187 savages 3–4, 16–7, 20–1, 28, 30, 34–6, 118, 177 Scheduled Areas 4, 127 Scheduled Tribe 4, 192–3 self, determination, recognition 5, 76, 78, 188 self, selfhood 3, 6, 8–11, 19, 43–51, 54–5, 57, 63–8, 70–4, 76–8, 80, 91–2, 94, 96, 107, 113, 123, 129–30, 132, 136, 138, 143, 149, 154, 158, 160, 170, 173–4, 178–9, 183, 188, 190–4, 198, 204–8 self-fashioning, imaging, portrayal, representation 7, 9–11, 37, 43, 48–51, 55, 58, 67–70, 101, 137, 174, 182, 195, 204–6, 208 self-identification, identity 5–6, 49–50, 53, 162, 193, 205, 208 sense of history 28, 58, 64, 158–9 Seraikela 23, 90–1, 116, 163–4, 197 settled cultivation 7, 11, 98, 140, 147, 149, 169, 175 shifting cultivation 11, 36, 96, 98, 109, 137–9, 147–8, 154, 169, 176–7, 207; see also jhum cultivation Simon Commission 53, 93 Singhbhum, east, west 21, 23, 25, 31, 37, 39, 68–9, 82, 89, 95, 99, 108–10, 114–5, 131, 138, 147–8, 150, 158–60, 164, 166, 170, 176, 181–2, 184–5, 187, 189, 192, 195–7, 200–2 Sivaramakrishnan, K. 84, 106, 174–6 Skaria, A. 3, 8, 35, 99, 113, 146, 148, 153–4, 193 social construction 44–5, 162–3 social ecology, environment 65–6, 173 social governance 11, 50–1, 53–4, 74, 113–14, 119–20, 123–4, 130, 206, 208

social movements, protests 8, 129, 132, 168, 180–1 social participation 163, 190, 201 sociologists 43–5, 65 state forest, forestry 176–7, 181, 196 Sundar, Nandini 6, 56 Supreme Court 128–9, 131–2 Tanganyika 30 tassar cocoon 178–9 teak 195–6 technology 65, 73, 139, 144–5, 156, 165–6, 169 Terrence Ranger 119 territorial identity 54, 77, 79, 82, 91–2, 94, 205 territoriality 33, 76 thika 90, 95, 211 thikadars 87, 170, 211 Tickell, S.R. 8, 21, 24, 26–7, 32, 35–7, 39, 59–60, 73, 82, 89, 109, 114, 145, 161, 171 tigers 35, 159 timbers 103, 175, 177, 183 Toda community 24, 33 Touraine, Alain 55 trade and commerce, traders 20, 24, 87, 90, 107, 147, 152–4, 175, 184, 195, 207 traditions 4, 9, 12, 26, 43, 50, 55, 59–61, 80, 86, 88, 101, 119, 124, 127, 129 tribal communities 4, 7–8, 15–6, 28, 32, 35 tribal kingdom 12, 85, 113, 192 tribal militancy 118–9 tribal regions 32, 152–3, 161 Tribes Advisory Council 4, 126 tribes, tribalism 7, 12, 15–23, 26–31, 33, 35–7, 56, 61, 65–6, 69–71, 73–4, 76, 78, 81–2, 85, 99, 104–6, 116, 137, 153, 155, 174, 184, 192–3, 204, 206 Tswana 9, 22 Tuckey, A.D. 144 union government 94, 125–6, 128 University of Ibadan 4 UNO 7, 54, 78 urbanisation 189

Index Uriya 31, 33 Uttarakhand 187, 190, 194 Vail, Leroy 97 Van Schendel, W. 15 Vansina, Jan 12, 57 Varlis/Warlis 35, 136, 178 village administration, governance, system, officials 4, 24, 71, 74, 84, 87–8, 92, 110, 113–35, 162–3, 170, 176, 180, 180, 183, 206 village common property, resources 116–17, 120–2, 163–5, 168, 170–1, 176, 181, 183 village community/ies 37, 84, 97, 105–6, 112, 115, 117, 126, 165–6, 168–9, 184, 188, 206 village elders 106, 118, 124 village making, foundation 82, 94, 97, 100–5, 108–9, 114–15, 140, 178 village memories, history 9, 50 Village Papers 8–9, 50, 103, 158, 162 village priest 114, 117, 132 villages, life 10, 24–6, 35, 37, 50–1, 53, 66, 74, 79–84, 88–90, 96–111, 114–9, 123, 126–7, 130, 134, 139–42, 147–50, 152–3, 159, 161–4, 166–70, 178–81, 187, 189, 192–4, 196–201, 205–10

239

‘Vocabulary of the Ho Language, The’ 32 Voda ‘tank diggers’ 163 Waran Kshiti 54 water, policy/right 158, 165, 169, 207 waterbodies: bandhs, ahars, embankments 124, 144, 162–3, 165–72, 199, 207; rivers 72, 74, 82–3, 89, 157–61, 163–5, 170, 189, 199, 201; springs 38, 142, 161, 164–5, 201; streams 38, 116, 142, 157, 159–60, 178–9, 189; tanks 109–10, 139, 162–7, 169–72, 200, 207, 211; wells 147, 161–4 Western Ghats 175 wilderness 73, 173 wildness 146–8, 154, 184, 195, 207 Wilkinson, Captain T. 21, 24, 50, 88, 114, 118–19 woodland 99, 151, 169, 173, 175–6, 178, 180–2, 194, 196, 198 World Bank 7, 78, 194 World Council of Indigenous Peoples (WCIP) 78 World Environmental Day 197 World Indigenous Day 131 Xaxa, Virginius 5