Margins of Faith: Dalit and Tribal Christianity in India 2010023246, 9788132104674

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MARGINS OF FAITH

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Margins of Faith

MARGINS OF FAITH Dalit and Tribal Christianity in India

Edited by

Rowena Robinson Joseph Marianus Kujur

Copyright © Rowena Robinson and Joseph Marianus Kujur, 2010 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. First published in 2010 by SAGE Publications India Pvt Ltd B1/I-1 Mohan Cooperative Industrial Area Mathura Road, New Delhi 110 044, India www.sagepub.in SAGE Publications Inc 2455 Teller Road Thousand Oaks, California 91320, USA SAGE Publications Ltd 1 Oliver’s Yard, 55 City Road London EC1Y 1SP, United Kingdom SAGE Publications Asia-Pacific Pte Ltd 33 Pekin Street #02-01 Far East Square Singapore 048763 Published by Vivek Mehra for SAGE Publications India Pvt Ltd, typeset in 10.5/12.5pt Adobe Garamond by Star Compugraphics Private Limited, Delhi and printed at Chaman Enterprises, New Delhi. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Margins of Faith: Dalit and tribal Christianity in India/edited by Rowena Robinson, Joseph Marianus Kujur. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Christianity—India. 2. Church and minorities—India. 3. Dalits—India—Religion. 4. Marginality, Social—India. 5. Marginality, Social—Religious aspects—Christianity. 6. India—Religion. I. Robinson, Rowena, 1967– II. Kujur, Joseph Marianus. BR1155.M355

275.40086’94—dc22

2010

2010023246

ISBN: 978-81-321-0467-4 (HB) The SAGE Team: Rekha Natarajan, Swati Sengupta and Vijay Sah

Contents Acknowledgements CHAPTER 1 Introduction Rowena Robinson and Joseph Marianus Kujur

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CHAPTER 2 Tribal Church in the Margins: Oraons of Central India Joseph Marianus Kujur

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CHAPTER 3 Dalit Encounter with Christianity: Change and Continuity S.M. Michael

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CHAPTER 4 Margins of Faith: Dalits and Tribal Christians in Eastern India Jose Kalapura

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CHAPTER 5 Varieties of Dalit Christianity in North India John C.B. Webster

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CHAPTER 6 Christian Piety and the Emergence of Hindu Nationalism in Central India Peggy Froerer

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CHAPTER 7 Legally Hindu: Dalit Lutheran Christians of Coastal Andhra Pradesh Ashok Kumar M. and Rowena Robinson

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CHAPTER 8 Contradiction and Change in the Mizo Church Lakshmi Bhatia

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CHAPTER 9 The Broken Mirror: John Masih’s Journey from Isai to Dalit Mathew N. Schmalz

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CHAPTER 10 Christianization, Hinduization and Indigenous Revivalism among the Tribals of Gujarat Lancy Lobo CHAPTER 11 The Catholic Church and Dalit Christian Activism in Contemporary Tamil Nadu David Mosse CHAPTER 12 Identity, Conversion and Violence: Dalits, Adivasis and the 2007–08 Riots in Orissa Chad M. Bauman About the Editors and Contributors Index

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Acknowledgements Putting together a volume like this always promises to be a stressful experience, but perhaps this particular one is the exception to that rule. Though it has been long in the making, as is with all edited ventures, it has been a pleasant experience throughout. Marianus and I first spoke about the project around three years ago. Thanks to the Internet and electronic mail, we carried on the collaboration, though we met just a few times the whole duration. Both of us are social anthropologists, interested in religion and both, independently, felt that (a) Dalit and tribal Christianity are not adequately treated in the literature and, (b) they are independent expressions of faith but were marginalized by mainstream Christianity, regardless of denomination. These two initial thoughts became the framework for the proposal that we submitted to Sage. Dalit and tribal Christianity have generally been constituted negatively. They are characterized more by their deficiencies in relation to the dominant framework, which is elite and Brahminical. We wanted the chapters in this volume to represent the range of contemporary Christian practices and beliefs among different Dalit and tribal communities from different parts of the country. The authors look at what are Dalit and tribal Christianities, rather than at what they are not and what they, presumably, lack. We are deeply grateful to the authors, who have written wonderful pieces for the volume, based largely on original fieldwork, and have also been immensely cooperative and accommodative of deadlines and the associated imperatives of a work of academic collaboration. We would like to place on record that Professor Selva J. Raj had agreed to write for the volume but tragically passed away before he could do so. It is,

indeed, a loss for us and for the academic world as a whole; the depth of Professor Raj’s knowledge about Christianity in India was profound and he leaves a gap hard to fill. Marianus would like to express his sincere gratitude to Professor Virginius Xaxa for his continuous support. He is also thankful to the people of Mandar in the Ranchi district of Jharkhand for helping him with his field research. He would like to dedicate the volume to his mother Regina and dad late Joachim for inspiring him to be what he is today. We jointly convey our appreciation to our editors at SAGE who, with their customary courtesy, patience and efficiency, make publishing a pleasure. Rowena Robinson Joseph Marianus Kujur New Delhi November 2009

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Margins of Faith

C H A P T E R 1 Introduction Rowena Robinson and Joseph Marianus Kujur

In the fields of sociology and anthropology it has taken a long while for the worlds and worldviews of tribals, and of Dalits, in particular, to gain centrality of focus. It is true, of course, that tribal ethnographies have been traditional to the discipline of anthropology. Even so, somehow the domain of converted tribes remained peripheral perhaps because anthropologists were so often convinced that tribal religions were damaged in the process of conversion and the real focus should be on these religions and the processes of their decline. As Elwin argued, the missionary and the reformer ‘try very hard to make the aboriginal good: they only succeed in making him dull’ (Rustomji and Elwin 1989). In any case, tribal worldviews have more often than not suffered from the insinuation of primitivism in relation to the sophisticated universe of Sanskritic Hinduism. The worlds of Dalit Christians too suffered from being considered marginal. For one, the traditional focus on caste Hinduism within the Brahminical or Sanskritic framework tends to put Dalits on the periphery. Dalit religion is constituted negatively; it is characterized by what it ‘lacks’

in terms of the dominant framework. Again, Dalit Christians are also marginalized. They are on the margins in actuality: Schmalz (2005), for instance, records how a distinction develops in the north Indian context, describing the Catholic and the Chamar as, respectively, the asli (real, true) and the phasali (trapped) Christian. The phasali Christian is regarded as caught between Catholicism and ‘untouchability’. The Dalit Christian is also marginalized in the scholarship, which has until recently focused much more on the sphere of caste Christianity. Socio-historical studies of conversion to Christianity, which in many parts of the country meant Dalit conversion, are now fairly extensively available. These include, for instance, Forrester (1980), Oddie (1991), Webster (2000), Frykenberg (1976, 1980), Kooiman (1989), Manickam (1977), Bugge (1994) and Grafe (1990). North and, particularly, northwest India and southern India, especially Tamil Nadu, are perhaps better represented in the literature. Even so, there are far fewer analyses of contemporary Dalit societies from an anthropological perspective (though see Mosse 1986, 1994, 1997; Deliège 1998 and Schmalz 2005). With regard to tribal Christianity, in recent years there have been some interesting studies, particularly of the central Indian region (Froerer 2007; John 1999; Kujur 2004). This volume centres around the worlds of Dalit and tribal Christians. It stems from the notion that it is at its brink, that authority (of state, religion or dominant social order) is most vulnerable. Of course, it may be true that today ‘[m]arginality is becoming universal’ and pervasive (Certeau 1984: xvii) and it is possible to be ‘other within the very colonization’ that assimilates one by deflecting and thereby escaping the power of the dominant social order ‘without leaving it’ (Certeau 1984: xiii). This does not nullify the idea that the dominant order spatially and institutionally localizes itself, assumes a place and distances itself from that which is exterior to it. This is then the proper (propre); indeed, one might say the nucleus where the dominant order achieves a degree of stability and establishes an arrangement of positions that is relatively secure (Certeau 1984: ix). This volume deals with those quite transparently deemed to be on the edges of the social world. As is usually the case, these worlds are also often spatially/geographically/territorially marginal: the tribals may live in the hills or in and near forests, remote from the influence of the state or of dominant ideologies (see Froerer in this volume), while the Dalits 2

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live outside the villages (Schmalz 2005: 219) or in their own villages, separate from caste Hindu society (Deliège 1998), and hedged around by a variety of prohibitions. Thus, working its way from the fringe to the centre, the volume queries some of the received wisdoms regarding faith and its practice by those encompassed by but considered peripheral to the dominant social and ritual order. Dalits and tribals are on the periphery not only in a spatial or territorial sense. There are many layers to the marginality of Dalits and tribals as understood in the chapters in this volume. Their marginality makes them the target of practices of discrimination and/or patronage. Dalits encounter caste even after they become Christian. In the first place, they face discrimination from Hindus. As Kumar and Robinson point out in their chapter on Andhra Dalit Christians in this volume, caste Hindus in the countryside do not differentiate between a converted Dalit Christian and a Dalit. All Dalits are meted out the same treatment by those considered high in the caste hierarchy. Second, Dalits also face discrimination from those regarded as upper caste Christians. As Mosse’s chapter in the volume shows us, the dominance of those considered upper caste in the church hierarchy does not sit well with the fact that Dalits and tribals make up the main body of Indian Christians. In his chapter in the volume, Michael points out in some detail how, in some places, there are separate seating arrangements for the Dalits in churches, while in others liturgical services are performed separately for those presumed ‘high’ or ‘low’ in caste. Sometimes, Dalits are asked to sit on the floor, even where raised seating is available and there are in some places two cemeteries and two hearses for dead bodies. In some places, separate queues are formed for receiving Holy Communion. Third, the state also discriminates against and excludes the Dalit Christians. In independent India, they have been excluded from the list of Scheduled Castes (SCs). Thus, they have not had access to the privileges of positive discrimination that other Dalit Christians could avail of. They were not eligible for reservations in local government structures or in education and employment. Even more crucially, they have been denied the protection of the Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes (Prevention of Atrocities) Act 1989. They are, thus, vulnerable to oppression and even violence from the so-called upper castes. In some states, Dalit Christians are placed in the category of the Other Backward Classes. However, as Mosse points out Introduction

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in his chapter on Tamil Nadu, they are hardly in a position to compete for reservations or other benefits with the regionally dominant castes, which are also part of this category. As mentioned at the start, tribals have always had to contend with the label of the ‘backward’. Kujur, in his chapter in the volume, argues that the tribal church is doubly marginalized. It has to constantly defend itself from the accusations of those at the local level who claim that it has destroyed traditional culture and divided the community. Again, it is also criticized by the orthodox within the church hierarchy who see the experiments in tribal liturgy and theology of the tribal churches as divisive and anti-universal. Froerer, in turn, emphasizes in her chapter how the local priests are continually concerned with the possibility of the Oraons backsliding into what they consider to be ‘superstitious’ beliefs and practices. They continue to view the tribal community through their concerns of moral progress, and believe that they are ‘civilizing’ them. From all perspectives, therefore, Dalits and tribals are marginal people. At these margins, the rule of authoritative structures and ideas—of, for instance, the church or the state—is ambiguous and constantly under threat and contestation. Order encounters the wild, the core meets the remote and requires to assert its own authority repeatedly, perhaps even violently, and, unquestionably, in the face of continual undermining or resistance (see, for instance, Froerer 2007 and in this volume). Thus, paradoxically, and from the anthropological perspective, certainly crucially, the margins must be perceived as the core—and the principal focus of consideration—for it is there that the dominant order has to shed its complacency and cannot take for granted its control and must continuously prove its command in battle with the forces of its other. The volume begins from the idea that Christianity as practised on Dalit and tribal terrain looks significantly different from what one might perceive among the higher echelons of the social order. At the periphery of the faith, as it were, Christian concepts and beliefs are incorporated but reinterpreted in radical ways and even liberating ways. The roots of this argument, of course, may be traced to Deliège’s (1992, 1993) critique of Moffat’s (1979) contention that ‘untouchable groups’ do not possess an independent ideology but replicate Brahmin ideology and traditions. They act as if they believe in their own subordination; they are in agreement with Brahmin ideology and, thereby, collude in their own oppression. He argues that this consensus with Brahminic ideology 4

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is seen in the manner in which they replicate hierarchical traditions in their own intra-caste relationships. In describing his own ethnographic research, on the other hand, Deliège argues that the Paraiyar, Pallar and other ‘untouchable’ groups do not accept Hindu orthodoxy on caste and do not view themselves, as the Brahmins view them, as inherently dishonoured or impure. Their internal divisions are not the result of hierarchy, but most often territoriality. The group myths that he analyses makes him observe that the so-called ‘untouchables’ usually view their own position not as one that is immutable or imposed by God, but that is changeable and often the result of a historical accident or bad luck or trickery on the part of the high castes. He argues that the ‘untouchables’ think of their position in the caste system in terms of a secular idiom and ‘describe their lowness in terms of servitude and poverty’, rather than by employing the idea of ‘ritual untouchability’ (Deliège 1992: 166; see also Mosse 1986 and Zene 2007). The worlds of Dalit (and tribal) Christians offer us the opportunity to examine the ways in which they might create counter-cultures or manifest their opposition and resistance both to Sanskritic Hinduism as well as to authoritative, elite Christian missionary discourses. For Dalits, religious conversion especially in the 19th century was often perceived as one of the ways of escaping from caste oppression. However, it is a moot point as to whether such expectations were fulfilled. As several authors in the text point out, around 65 to 70 per cent of Indian Christians have Dalit roots and around 15 to 20 per cent are tribals. Despite such large numbers, however, as mentioned earlier, the number of works bringing out the distinctiveness of Dalit and tribal Christianity are few. In recent literature, some authors have begun to highlight the use of the drum and accompanying songs as modes of expression of Dalit liberation and divinity. At one point of time, the breaking of the drum by the Dalit was considered a necessary preliminary to his entry into the Christian church. However, the drum remains at the heart of the Dalit religious world and the beating of the drum a symbol of resistance to the social and ritual boundaries of caste. The accompanying songs often bring out the caste exploitation experienced by the Dalits and their struggle for release from suffering. The songs are rendered to the beat of the same drums that were traditionally employed by the Dalits during Introduction

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religious rituals or to summon village meetings. An erstwhile instrument of forced service and pollution is now transformed into one of liberation (see, particularly, Clarke 1999). In this volume, too, Kalapura points out with regard to Dalit Christians of Bihar that many of them retained their jati traditions including dancing and playing the drum (dhogar). Dancing the hijda dance, in which men dressed as women and danced to the tune of the drums, usually as part of marriage rituals, was a cultural tradition that was banned by the missionaries as the dances were often sexually suggestive. Nevertheless, these dances often continued, partly because they were monetarily rewarding for the Dalits. Further, playing the dhogar is considered a cultural prerogative rather than as an aspect of the jajmani–pauni (patron–client) service and has, therefore, not been discontinued by the Dalit Christians. Schmalz (2005: 250) argues that the location of the north Indian Christian Chamars allows them a ‘subversive marginality’. The Catholic Chamar distances himself from caste Hinduism and does not defer subserviently to the local clergy. Catholic Chamars greet one another with Jai Yesu (Hail Jesus) and noticeably avoid saying Jai Ram, the typical Bhojpuri greeting in their region (Schmalz 2005: 231). One of their former catechists, Ghura Master, used to ridicule Brahminical Hindu images of the divine: for instance, he spoke of Hindus fashioning the god Ganesh in cow-dung and then worshiping it. Cow-dung is used as fuel and for coating floors; Ghura Master found it ridiculous that it was used to make a sacred image. On the other hand, Ghura Master would often sing the bhajans of nirguni poets such as Kabir or Ravidas, without referring to these as part of Hindu (read Brahminical) tradition (Schmalz 2005: 236). The Chamars also, on the other hand, distance themselves from and critique the church representatives. Their priest argued that Chamars needed education and, as part of this process, the diocese had a school offering training in north Indian classical dance and music. This was supposed to give the Chamars an experience of ‘high culture’ and thus widen their perspective. The girls trained in the school are often asked to perform for guests and on these occasions they, as it were, doll up with cosmetics and costumes (Schmalz 2005: 240). However, this imposed form of high culture is severely criticized by the Chamars, who find that it recalls the ‘worst abuses’ of the local landowning caste. Thus, they perceive 6

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the parallels between the exploitative patronage of the landowners and the local clergy and separate themselves from both. In Froerer’s chapter in this volume, she demonstrates the continuing relevance of Kurukh deities and ancestor spirits among the Oraon. The Oraon (or Kurukh) divine world includes many superior and inferior gods and spirits. The highest is Dharmes, who both creates and controls other gods. Beneath him in the divine hierarchy sit the spirits of ancestors called pa¯chba¯l or purkha as well as myriad village deities and spirits (devata¯s) and beings considered malevolent (nad). The missionaries translated nad as Satan (shaitan). Today, the term nad is used by local priests not only in reference to malevolent beings but also to include the many deities and ancestral spirits still propitiated by the Oraons. In fact, so strong is the priestly discourse that even the Oraon elders speak of these different beings as varied names for Satan. These days, the propitiation of these beings takes place with just a single blood sacrifice offered once a year by three local Oraon elders. The priests, however, continue to preach to the Oraons that they must choose between Jesus and these deities, who are collectively understood as Satanic. Engaging in the work of Satan (shaitan ka kam) by worshiping ancestors or propitiating myriad beings will, according to the local priests, result in adversity and ill luck. One must keep steadfast faith in Jesus and lean on him to protect one; only he can defend one from these Satanic beings and the misfortune they can bring. It is on this terrain that the Oraon refuse to follow the authorities of the church. They do not discard their traditional practices or their deities and ancestral spirits. Nor are they able to understand Jesus as standing completely apart from their traditional divine beings. Rather, they have incorporated Jesus into the existing divine hierarchy that includes the entire range of beings with whom they have engaged in the past. Jesus, as the ‘king of the gods’, sits at the top of this hierarchy and is considered by the Oraons the most potent and good of all the beings. Beneath him are beings both benevolent and malevolent, numerous deities as well as ancestral spirits that might refuse Oraons security from ill health or bad luck if they are not honoured from time to time. Today, moreover, the worlds of Dalit and tribal Christians are challenged and interrogated by the simultaneous enactment of a variety of different processes. The tribal and Dalit churches, which are basically communities of people, are crucially influenced by outside forces. Introduction

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There has been a change in the thinking in the church. The post-Vatican II discourses in India on Indianization, indigenization, adaptation, inculturation and tribalization are the result of the dialectics between continuity and change, tradition and modernity. Interestingly, the changes in the externals within the church have taken place at a comparatively much faster pace than those in inner beliefs and structures, which have remained relatively rigid and orthodox. However, even within the framework of the Indian theology and liturgy, there has always been an assertion for subaltern theologies and liturgical expressions. Dalit and liberation theology encapsulate some of these efforts. In the process, some doctrinal issues and practices have been seriously questioned and contested. The church’s centralized attempt to ‘indigenize’ itself in the aftermath of Vatican II has often backfired because Dalits and tribals chafe against forms and processes of indigenization that seem to draw more from Sanskritic or Brahminical Hinduism than from their own culturally familiar worlds. Many tribal and Dalit communities are reasserting their traditional cultural identities and there is ferment in these societies between different groups. For instance, the case of the Oraons brings out the ways in which tribal society is driven by tensions between Christians, nonChristian Sarnas and those seeking to ‘Hinduize’ the tribes. Conversion to Christianity among the Oraons led to the distinction between the Christian Oraons and those adhering to the traditional religion, the Sarna Oraons. For a long period, Sarnas looked on the converts with suspicion because of their betrayal of the parental community. Sarnas even demanded in the 1960s that Christians should not be considered Scheduled Tribes. Under missionary influence, the converts also had to cut themselves off from all aspects of the old religion and culture. Nowadays, there are further complications because of the presence of elements seeking to convert the tribes to Hinduism. Fundamentalist Hindu religious and political forces such as the Hindu Dharm Sansad, the Vanvasi Nawjagran Yuwa Sangh and the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) are seeking, on the one hand, to Hinduize the tribals and, on the other, to de-recognize the tribal identity of Christians and Sarnas who refuse the ‘Hindu’ label. Politicians, especially from the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), have on occasion justified violence against Christian tribes and the movements (‘home-comings’) being organized for conversion to Hinduism. Such battles over conversion and attacks 8

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against Christians in different parts of the country have been critical concerns for Indian Christians in recent times. The focus of the present work is on the Dalit and tribal communities in relation to their traditions and new developments, including new experiments in ritual and theologies. Conflict in tribal areas between Christians and neo-Hindu organizations are an important dimension of the volume. Again, it is crucial to try and unravel the dynamics of the upheaval being caused in certain regions because of the activities of new kinds of evangelical cults and sects, brought into the glare of publicity by violence in the Dangs in western India and Kandhamal in eastern India in recent times. While attention is paid to historical trajectories of mission and conversion in the volume, the important shift in our perspective is the attempt to turn the lens on the contemporary and ever-changing face of Dalit and tribal Christianity, the different inflections in practice and the shifts under the influence of political movements, identity assertion, cultural revivalism and attempts at the systematization of the paths of indigenization. The chapters in the volume entitled Margins of Faith: Dalit and Tribal Christianity in India approach their theme from a contemporary, as well as a historical perspective. The chapters are regional and thematic, and cover Catholicism and varieties of the Protestant faith. This collection of eleven chapters deals with the interface of Christianity, on the one hand, and Dalits and tribals, on the other; and thus brings into the domain of academic discourse a much neglected aspect of Dalit and tribal life in India. Five of the chapters deal with the interrelations between Christianity and Dalits, and of the six chapters that primarily deal with Christianity and tribals, two try to integrate the Dalit perspective as well. The chapter by Joseph Marianus Kujur is a crucial opening up of the issues of the tribal church in the margins through an exploration of the case of the Oraons of central India. Kujur raises some of the fundamental problems tribal churches face today. He introduces the notion of double marginalization to refer to the particular situation of the tribal church. First, the tribal church has always been in the periphery trying to defend itself from the attacks at the local level by those who accuse it of distorting tribal culture and dividing the tribal community. Second, the tribal church is the object of criticism by the orthodoxy in the church hierarchy for its ‘innovations and experimentations on tribal liturgy, tribal theology and tribal ecclesiology’. Introduction

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Kujur argues that there exist interrelations of beliefs and practices of the converts and traditional believers. In other words, the relationship between Christian tribals and traditional tribals is treated as remaining in a flux. The author tries to follow up this shared world of the converts and traditional believers through ethnographic fieldwork in a village called Malti in the Ranchi district of Jharkhand. In addition to Oraons, there are several other tribes in the region such as Santhals, Mundas, Kharias and Hos. This particular region had experienced the influx of European missions since 1845. Kujur highlights aspects of interaction between the old and the new in the context of the emergence of a new community of Christian tribals. The relationship between the old and the new facilitated the adaptation of tribal culture in the church. The author shows in a detailed manner the adaptation of the local culture by tribal Christians. In other words, there was a great deal of inculturation. There was a distinct Adivasi church which was emerging, although the liturgy was in Hindi following the Second Vatican Council that endorsed indigenization. Such an Indianization was jarring to the Adivasi sensibility. The subsequent phase witnessed, according to Kujur, Adivasi-izing of the Roman rite. The most significant development during this phase was the writing of liturgical texts in the Mundari language. This accentuated the process of the tribalization of Christian worship that eventually drew symbols and practices from tribal life and integrated these with Christian symbols and practices. In the case studies of everyday life presented in the next part of the chapter, Kujur shows the deepening inculturation. For example, he shows the twinning of the rite of baptism with chhathi which was the traditional tribal initiation rite. This has led to the innovative re-symbolization of baptism in the everyday context that makes Oraon identification with the church possible. Similarly, Christians have adapted the Oraon festival ‘Karam’ in spite of the opposition by the followers of the traditional Sarna cult. Kujur, in the case study of the Karam festival in the church and of the Karam Mass, provides an instance of the creative adaptation of tribal practices that made it possible for the church to situate itself in the tribal ethos. In the present study it is suggested as an example of a new consciousness developing in the church and it is shown that attempts are being made for an ‘integrated approach taking into account the sensitivity of the Sarnas’. In the recent past, the ‘religious’ ritual is integrated with the Mass. Similarly the Christians are encouraged to participate in 10

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the social celebration of the feast. There is a substantial re-symbolization of Karam taking place in the church, as it is celebrated in the Mass. But the negotiations between aspects of traditional culture and the church are far from complete. Kujur shows the complexities emerging out of the double marginalization that are best exemplified in the processes of Brahminical versus tribal indigenization in India and Sarna versus church indigenization in central India. The tribal church continues to be doubly marginalized in spite of its efforts to draw on the traditional tribal cultural milieu and contest the orthodoxy of the church. In actual practice, it is viewed suspiciously by both the orthodoxy in the church and the Sarnas. It is reiterated by Kujur that ‘conversion from traditional faith to Christianity does not automatically effect a ‘“total break” from the past’. These negotiations create the new tradition of Christianity as a religion of the ‘people of the soil’. Kujur argues that in spite of change in religion the converts remain Oraons socially and culturally. The chapter by S.M. Michael ‘Dalit Encounter with Christianity: Change and Continuity’ pursues the kinds of changes wrought in the lives of converts after they embrace Christianity. He argues that through education and the school and hostel facilities opened by some of the missions, Dalit Christians may be able to achieve some degree of occupational mobility. For instance, some of them manage to leave behind menial and manual forms of labour and enter into slightly more respectable occupations. Thus, a Dalit who was a ‘nobody’ may become ‘somebody’ as a Christian, but the occupational and social mobility of these groups does not usually go down well with those considered higher in the caste hierarchy, whether Hindu or Christian. Thus, while converts may develop a greater sense of self-esteem, their actual lives are usually little altered. As we have said earlier, they continue to face varied forms of discrimination. Michael shows us that government commissions have also recorded this discrimination, but the state continues to ignore the plight of Dalit Christians by refusing to admit them within the purview of benefits accorded to Scheduled Castes or to legally protect them from caste oppression. Church authorities have also often turned a blind eye to forms of discrimination and inequality within the church, and their responses seem dictated sometimes more by the fear of bad publicity. Publicly, the church has always condemned caste, but tends to argue that caste exists among the Christians because they are unable to shed this particular vestige of their Hindu past. Introduction

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Michael shows us, interestingly, how secular visionaries such as Phule and Ambedkar were both influenced by certain aspects of Christianity as well as played a big role in influencing Dalit Christians in their struggle for equality within and outside the church. He proposes that the presence of strong Dalit leaders today has helped Dalit Christians gain the courage to articulate their opposition to the caste system and form organizations to carry on their struggles in different states. As Michael shows further in his chapter, the three forms of indigenization attempted within the church—the missionary, the monastic and the ecclesiastical—have all privileged Brahminical, Sanskritic Hinduism. As such, Dalits have shown little interest in these forms of indigenization and have, in effect, rejected them. Jose Kalapura’s chapter ‘Margins of Faith: Dalits and Tribal Christians in Eastern India’ is characterized by an analysis of the complex textures of ‘lived religion’ of Dalit and Adivasi Christians, without delineating their conceptual abstractions. The author considers the ‘popular’ and ‘elite’ religious traditions in their mutual interaction rather than in their exclusion. He views the ‘great’ and ‘little’ traditions as ‘constantly negotiating and interacting with each other and with the social milieu within the contours of a specific ethnographic situation’. The term ‘margins of faith’, in author’s view, privileges the perceptions of the upper caste Christians who most often downgrade the faith and religiosity of Dalit and tribal Christians. Thus, he contends that the term shows elements of Eurocentrism and colonialism. He observes that there are imbrications of their earlier religions in the socio-religious life of Dalit and Adivasi communities even as they follow a new religion such as Christianity. The author locates the life of Dalit and Adivasi Christians in a historical perspective in the states of Bihar and Jharkhand in eastern India. Unlike many similar projects, the chapter analyses the significance of Christian beliefs and practices in the lives of Dalit and Adivasi Christians, thereby ushering in a new social world and new worldviews. The question of identity formation in the new community of the Christians becomes crucial. While comparing the Dalit and Adivasi Christians, the author argues that unlike Dalit Christians of Bihar, the tribal Christians do not experience a crisis of identity in Jharkhand as they remain tribals socially and ethnically. Further, he argues that they do not lose their constitutional entitlements despite converting to Christianity. This argument, however, 12

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is debatable as tribal Christians regardless of where they are located go through processes of identity formation and transformation in diversified forms. There is space in the chapter for analysing the structural features of inequalities and the complexity of the problems faced by Dalit Christians in everyday life. The chapter ends on a positive note by defining the Christianity of Dalits and tribals as ‘Dalit and tribal Christianity’ or ‘the religion of the Dalit Christians and tribal Christians’, recognizing the existence of heterogeneous Christian traditions today. John Webster in his chapter looks at five Dalit congregations, which he has chosen for their diversity. Each belongs to a different Christian denomination. Three are from Punjab, and one each from Delhi and western Uttar Pradesh. Of these congregations, two are urban and three rural. The five congregations are: Holy Trinity Church at Turkman Gate in Delhi, Our Lady of Assumption Church in Gakhlan village in Punjab, the Evangelical Church of God in Punjab’s Ferozpur City, the Church of North India in Bhattian village near Ludhiana in Punjab and the Dalit Avataris of the Rural Presbyterian Church in western and central Uttar Pradesh. Webster is interested not only in analysing the diversity of forms of worship among these Dalit congregations, but also in exploring if there are any general conclusions to be drawn with regard to Dalit Christianity in north India from the study. The case studies demonstrate that Dalit Christianity is not of a single type; each Dalit congregation is different. Each may have a different historical background and may also differ in terms of patterns of organization, class structure or forms of leadership. Apart from the denominational differences already mentioned, the different communities, depending on their location and social context, may face differing degrees and forms of discrimination and opposition from caste society. What the case studies also show very interestingly is that the different congregations have distinct ways of dealing with their Dalit identity. In one community, the Dalit identity may be rejected altogether, but accepted in another. In yet another case, it may be employed as a basis for a novel grouping. The ties of caste remain strong in several of the cases, but show signs of weakening here and there. One of the signs of this weakening may be the preference for Christians as brides and grooms, even if they are of dissimilar caste backgrounds. Local customs and circumstance explain some of these differences between the five communities. Webster argues that the historical Introduction

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trajectories of the communities would account for the rest. At the Holy Trinity Church, for instance, the members wanted to be identified by their class and religious status, rather than by their caste status. This community has had long exposure in its urban setting to the idea of a casteless community. At the other end, the congregation of the Dalit Avataris presents a very different picture. The Dalit Avataris have developed both as a movement of Bhangis and as a church. They employ with ease their caste identity to spread their movement; if they are committed to mobility it is more as a caste community than as individual members. Expressions of faith and their larger consequences in contemporary times are the concerns of Peggy Froerer’s chapter, ‘Christian Piety and the Emergence of Hindu Nationalism in Central India’. Based on her ethnographic work in the village Mohanpur in Chhattisgarh, where the Oraons had migrated in the 1970s from neighbouring districts, the study deals with the stringent policies, disciplinary strategies, alien external pious practices and ‘civilizing’ measures the missionaries adopted to completely incorporate the ‘backward’ Oraon Adivasis into the church, which in Froerer’s view, eventually alienated them from the other locals, both the Oraon Adivasis adherent to their traditional faith and the Hindus. This cultural divide, she claims, also led to the emergence of Hindu nationalism in the area. Subsequently, the RSS, an extreme right-wing element of the Sangh Parivar, began imitating the practices of the church thus giving rise to what the author has referred to as a mimetic relationship. The author, while dealing with the intricate relationship between Christian missionaries and Adivasis, analyses the way in which missionaries perceived themselves as ‘agents of progress’, emphasizing the importance of Christian institutions such as the school and the dispensary in the everyday context of the Oraons. The RSS is shown to be accomplishing its ‘civilizing mission’ through its interventions, such as replacing the tribal practices with upper caste practices which are considered as superior. These strategies adopted by the RSS, the author points out, were meant to differentiate between the local Oraon Christian community and their Hindu neighbours on religious grounds, for political reasons. Thus, as an antidote to the civilizing mission of the church the Hindu Right is seen introducing its own civilizing mission. The author highlights the hegemonic practices through which both the church and the RSS intervene in the life of 14

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the Adivasis. The chapter is important as it deals with the difficult aspects of the contemporary negotiations of Adivasis with hegemonic powers. Kumar and Robinson in their chapter ‘Legally Hindu: Dalit Lutheran Christians of Coastal Andhra Pradesh’ are concerned with how the Lutherans are constrained to employ Hindu names in order to gain access to benefits reserved under the law for Scheduled Castes. Since the Indian state and the judiciary have taken the view that Christianity is based on the principle of equality and there can be no caste discrimination among those who profess the Christian faith, the severely deprived and impoverished Lutherans are forced to adopt this subterfuge. The authors argue that the strategy may be viewed as a symbol of the Lutheran’s subordination and also a product of its structurally enforced marginality. Further, they assert that even more important for the Dalits, in casteridden rural Andhra Pradesh, than the benefits of reservation in education and employment is the protection offered from oppression and violence by the legal provisions of the Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes (Prevention of Atrocities) Act 1989. According to the authors, the official Hindu identity adopted by the Lutherans is an unprofessed and nominal one. It is the Dalit identity which more closely relates with the everyday reality of the Lutherans. The Lutherans embrace the Dalit identity because they find it socially and politically relevant for them. Christianity and the church have given the Dalits the strength and voice to pursue their struggles and fight for their rights. Christianity enabled the Malas to carve out a distinctive space of their own and it offered them a set of cultural and symbolic resources that they could employ to shore up their identity and gain a sense of self-worth. Thus, they are able to take on the battle against oppression by those considered upper caste. In coastal Andhra Pradesh, the mass movements led to conversions, particularly among the Dalit groups of the Malas and the Madigas (Pickett 1933). The Madigas are Baptist, while the Malas turned to Lutheranism. They are each leaders of their own churches. While the denominational difference between Malas and Madigas could have divided the Dalit movement in the region, it does not appear to have had this effect. There are few everyday reasons for battle between Malas and Madigas, for if Madigas are dominant in one village, Malas are in another. The church strengthens the Dalit movement rather than dissipating it and Dalits in the region cannot be taken lightly politically. Introduction

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Lakshmi Bhatia’s chapter ‘Contradiction and Change in the Mizo Church’ explores Christianity in Mizoram both in its historicity and contemporaneity in a comparative perspective. Mizo Christianity, according to the author, differs from Christianity in other North-Eastern states in spite of their seeming similarities. The differences are identified in terms of the growth processes and their interconnection with the broader society and polity. The author shows that the fundamental transformation that Christianity has brought about in Mizo society is the high rate of literacy. The close church–state interrelations have been another characteristic feature of Mizo Christianity. The process of Christianization started in Mizoram in 1894 and took almost a decade to gain momentum. Bhatia shows the significance of the three harhna (revival) movements that marked the consolidation of Christianity in the state. The harhna is a vehement upsurge of public excitement converging into religious communities, accompanied by diverse manifestations of emotional outbursts through songs, movements and actions. The first revival in 1905, according to Bhatia, was followed by related activities, through which the cardinal notions of Christianity, such as the coming of the Holy Spirit and confession of sins were intimated to them. According to Bhatia the Mizos did not have a notion of sin at that point of time. With the coming of Christianity the prevalent practices of the Mizos, such as head-hunting, inter-tribal raids, animal sacrifices and varieties of feasts were judged through the grid of Christian morality as sins and as such needed to be atoned through confession before the Holy Spirit. This movement of confession led to the growth of Christianity in spite of the counter-movement called Puma Zai, which is referred to as a community song of the Mizos. The second revival was around the theme of the second coming of Christ and the third one introduced the notion of soldiers of the cross. The 1919 revival was followed by a counter-movement initiated by one of the former mission teachers Tlira which critiqued many notions of the church. The people mobilized resources through practices such as ‘a handful of rice collection’ especially by women. The third revival of 1935 which was around the theme of the Holy Spirit introduced elements of Pentecostal practice including speaking in tongues. As far as social transformation is concerned the author refers to the abolition of the Bawi system of slavery. 16

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The other aspect that is dealt with is the question of Westernization, which also needs to be re-thought in the context of the debates on modernity. Rich in historical data, the sections on Christianity and social transformation in the chapter may be situated in the context of the debates on Christianity and missions especially in the recent anthropological literature. The author has highlighted the particular configuration of Christianity and Mizo nationalism, civil society and state. This particular relationship is very crucial for the contemporary politics of Mizoram. One major point that emerges is the resilience and flexibility of Christianity, which can be probed further. Mathew Schmalz’s chapter tells the necessarily fragmentary and partial tale of the Chamar ‘John Masih’s journey from Isai to Dalit’. Schmalz refuses to structure his narrative too compactly or to read too much sense into the stories that he has heard in the field. As he argues, the broken mirror of the title of the chapter reflects the incompleteness of the anthropologist’s own attempts to understand Dalit religion and experience; further, it captures John Masih’s own cracked and unfinished attempts to move away from a stigmatized past and reconstruct a new identity for himself. John’s life story unravels his predicament: how to erase the mark of ‘untouchability’? With the embrace of Catholicism, John employs new linguistic and symbolic resources to performatively create a new identity for himself. Catholicism, however, proved not to be the space of freedom that John Masih may have imagined. It came with its own structures, forms of patronage and imposed disciplines. John turned himself from sinner to healer, becoming someone who cures by his touch from being a person whose touch was defiling. As he came under the influence of the Charismatic movement, John drew on the cultural resources of asceticism—including fasting, the eating of cooling foods and the avoidance of liquor—to sketch for himself a distinctive identity. Schmalz argues that he also drew on nirguni poets such as Kabir and Ravidas to give a more indigenous grounding to his newly discovered authority as a Charismatic spiritual healer. In the end, though, the Isai (who had always avoided the very specific but locally not very meaningful label ‘Catholic’, katholik) self-consciously took the identity of Dalit. He had become a catechist at an ashram that tried to inculturate Catholicism in keeping with particular forms of Hindu worship. However, he found himself marginalized in the ashram and left Introduction

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when asked by the priest to engage in manual work, both to be useful to the community and to gain perspective on his own family legacy. John refused, believing that this was in reality a way of telling the ‘untouchable’ his place—as performer of manual tasks and inferior services. This and other circumstances forced John to embrace the identity of the Dalit. He became more active in organizing Dalits politically. He realized his inability to wipe away the mark of ‘untouchability’ and decided to take it on instead. The process of taking on the Dalit identity was also a form of challenge; John transformed it and imbued it with new meaning and new possibilities. All the chapters in the volume are concerned with the issues of change, contradiction and dissonance; in none is the Adivasi or Dalit ‘present’ depicted as static or inert. There is no depiction of religion here that is contained or complete: the descriptions of the everyday practices of the different communities are shot through with the tension of their struggles against oppression or attempts at appropriation by others. Anthropology, history and political sociology have integrated to produce ethnographic accounts and analyses of the tumult in contemporary Dalit and tribal religion, upheaval with resonance far beyond the domain of the strictly religious. Dalit and tribal Christian identity today is deeply entangled in understandings (and misunderstandings) of the idea of the nation. As Christians, Dalits and tribals are considered beyond the pale of the nation as defined by Hindu nationalist organizations. From the perspective of the ‘secular’ Indian state, the Dalits and Adivasis, already marginal, become ‘minorities’. Apparently enabling, this definition places the Dalits outside the purview of critical legal protections and debars them from entitlement to economic benefit under the law. The ‘prohibition of conversion’ laws passed by some states target Dalit and, in recent times more specifically, tribal converts to Christianity. The discourse infantilizes the minorities by presuming them ‘innocently duped’ into conversion. In several cases, conversion to Christianity has given to the tribals the linguistic and symbolic tools with which to battle an overweening, patronizing state. In the chapters that follow, Lancy Lobo, David Mosse and Chad Bauman, as notably Froerer earlier in the text, take up centrally the critical analysis of this ferment on the terrain of Dalit and tribal Christianity. The struggles against discrimination at different levels and the contestations of state, different churches and sects and Hindu organizations 18

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for control of the Adivasi future are the focus of these studies. Lobo’s chapter ‘Christianization, Hinduization and Indigenous Revivalism among the Tribals of Gujarat’ questions many received wisdoms that reign in Indian social anthropology. The author critiques various schools of anthropology on the issues of tribals, such as the isolation school and the assimilation school. Lobo also raises the fundamental issue of tribals being backward Hindus or aborigines with their distinctive religion, culture and identity. Similarly he analyses the terms ‘tribe’, ‘janjati’ and ‘adivasi’. Lobo categorizes the tribals of Gujarat into three on the basis of their faith— those holding on to their traditional faith, those converted to various Christian denominations and those who have been Hinduized following various sects, classical or modern. He analyses three phases of Christian missionary intervention in Gujarat beginning in 1880. Lobo refers to the first phase as the colonial and racial encounter, which he calls the phase of the ‘civilizing mission’. He refers to the second phase of the mission (1950–80) as the developmental phase dominated by the works of various agencies of the Catholic missions. This phase of the mission provided social support to the Adivasis and congregations of sisters engaged in non-traditional activities such as conscientization, social awareness and the mobilization of women. The second phase is marked by a change from charity and relief to transmitting skills to Adivasis for income generation. Lobo has argued that the language of conversion was changed to that of development. Lobo refers to the third phase as being represented by the evangelical missions that are more aggressive in their religious persuasion, most of whom have come from south India. They are not for gradual conversion but demand a sudden change of faith. They were of the view that the problems in the lives of the poor could be overcome through faith in Jesus Christ. Some of the missionaries claimed miraculous powers of faith healing. In certain contexts Adivasi ideas and practices were utilized to drive the ideas and practices of the Pentecostal Church. Such a perception dwelt on the use of the Bible as a Talisman. The testimonies that the author quotes of those who joined the missions show that people had multiple reasons—healing of chronic diseases, freedom from drinking and other vices, the knowledge that Jesus had died to save them from their sins—to believe in the new religion. Catholics seem to be accommodative of the Adivasi culture; that makes the author Introduction

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refer to Adivasi-ized Catholicism. The evangelical sects use elements similar to those within Adivasi culture including trances and trembling in their prayer and healing sessions. Their ideas about affliction, misfortune and illness and the ways of dealing with these also partake of Adivasi notions. The religious package of the evangelicals thus becomes attractive to the Adivasis but Lobo believes it diverts their attention from ‘miseries and real issues’. According to Lobo, the failure of the state creates the condition wherein the sects are able to strike their roots. Lobo subsequently refers to the process of Sanskritization or Hinduization of tribes that has been going on over the centuries. In addition to the acculturation, the Hinduization of Adivasis has been promoted and abetted by the state. Lobo shows the well-planned programmes of the RSS–BJP combine to Hinduize tribals and use them for their political advantage as evidenced in the collection of bricks from them during the infamous rathyatra of Advani. The Adivasis were to be schooled to follow the anti-Muslim stance of the Hindu Right which became a success soon. 1997–99 witnessed atrocities on Adivasi Christians perpetrated by the affiliates of the RSS/BJP. Dangs district in south Gujarat recorded the maximum number of such cases. It was amidst such sufferings and oppression of Adivasi Christians that the then Prime Minister of India who visited the district wanted a national debate on conversion. In the post-Godhra situation the Hindu Right could easily create a divide between tribals and Muslims. They had already realized the divide in the tribal community between the Christians and non-Christians. This time Adivasis were encouraged to attack Muslims and loot their homes, business and vehicles. It is against this general background that Lobo suggests the need to understand the revival of indigenous identity today. This new move contests the Adivasi leadership that has come up in the last fifty years with the support of the state in the form of developmental assistance and the system of reservation. They have been successfully co-opted by the dominant political parties. Jai Adivasi Samiti of Amar Singh, according to Lobo, tries to resurrect the hope of all indigenous movements and leadership. Jai Adivasi is a slogan audible in many places and people greet each other uttering this slogan. Along with this, Lobo refers to the assertion of Adivasi identity among different groups. It seems that the idea of Adivasis as moolnivasis (original inhabitants) is gaining ground. They consider their civilization 20

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as more antiquarian than Indian civilization. They also argue that Adivasis need to come together as Adivasis and not as Hindus, Christians or Muslims, by transcending their internal differences. There are also moves to reverse the Sanskritization process and develop Adivasi shrines such as the Dev Mogra shrine. Lobo suggests that this shrine has become the symbol of tribal identity and nationalism. In the Gujarat experience, Lobo shows that assimilation through Sanskritization led to the co-opting of Adivasis by the Hindu Right. Hinduization of tribals, he argues, is not just a religious issue but a matter of establishing hegemony over them. Alienation of Adivasi land and other natural resources is a consequence of this hegemonic agenda. In his chapter, David Mosse traces the complex and uneven interaction between Christianity and Dalit activism in Tamil Nadu. Many Dalits in Tamil Nadu converted to Christianity in mass movements. Through conversion, they sought to overcome the oppression of caste and their position as so-called ‘untouchables’. However, as other chapters in this volume also show, the Dalits only succeeded in becoming ‘Dalit Christians’. The very emergence of such an identity is demonstration of the failure of the church to nullify the invidious inequalities of caste. Further, Mosse argues that Dalit Christian activism has not become prominent because of the questioning of caste by Christians themselves; rather, it was Dalit Jesuit priests who initiated the critique of caste. His chapter records the voices of these priests narrating the experiences of discrimination against them within the Catholic church. The church, as also shown by S.M. Michael’s chapter, tends to locate the reasons for the persistence of caste outside of itself—in the minds of parishioners rather than in its own structures or processes. However, as Mosse insightfully shows, the denial of caste notwithstanding, the dominance of those considered high caste is established within the church and through their networks and alliances they successfully achieve the ordering of ‘a variety of Catholic institutions in powerful (but hidden) ways’. Dalit Christian activism does not permit the church to disclaim or neutralize the issue of caste or sweep it under the carpet. It has succeeded in opening up a space for discussing caste within the church itself. It is likely, Mosse argues, that the strategic support that the Dalits got from the church on certain issues came about as a result of the Hindutva movement. When the state turned pro-Hindutva, especially on issues such as conversion, the church found itself vulnerable without the Introduction

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support of the Dalit Christian community. By permitting the expression of Dalitness within its own confines, Mosse suggests, the church could claim a strong support base among the Dalits and thus protect itself against the intrusions of the state. Such an alliance of the church with the Dalit activists is pragmatic and could well be temporary. In fact, the Dalit activists themselves opposed the legislation on conversion more because of its associations with Hindu nationalism than because it was anti-church per se. Even if Christians are only minor players on the stage of Tamil Nadu Dalit activism, they have brought new leaders and a new repertoire of symbolic resources to it. Contemporary conflicts involving Dalits and Adivasis in Orissa are highlighted against a historical backdrop in Chad M. Bauman’s chapter ‘Identity, Conversion and Violence: Dalits, Adivasis, and the 2007–08 Riots in Orissa’. The author provides a persuasive analysis of the situation prevailing in Kandhamal district in Orissa, which witnessed horrific forms of violence against the Dalit Christian community. The author provides the larger background of the conflicts and shows how the Hindu Right was able to create a wedge between the extremely deprived sections that one might expect to resist the regimes of domination together. The study gives us an insight into the division in the local communities due to external agencies whose agenda of people’s transformation seem to have been guided by the principles of a hegemonic politics. Raising the alarm of conversion was one of the strategies employed to create the necessary environment for the communal violence. The author uses the anthropologist Tambiah’s concept of ‘transvaluation’ to show the way in which the Hindu Right organizations under the rubric of the Sangh exacerbated violence once it began. This had wider ramifications including the call for a national debate on conversion given by the BJP. The author, while emphasizing the change in missionary policies and practices for winning adherents to their faith, problematizes the alleged material attraction as a reason for conversion, which does not take ideological aspects of faith into consideration. There is, however, a space for critiquing the power structure of the society that denied material entitlements of any kind to the victims of caste oppression, as it existed historically. In the absence of such a perspective even critical scholarship may seem defensive at the question of the so-called material reasons for conversion. The significance of the chapter lies in the fact of 22

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its rejection of the notion of religion as the exclusive determinant of the identity of a group. The author refers to the multiple elements which in actuality constitute the identity of a social group. Exploration of this aspect brings to the centre the worldview of Dalits who have converted to Christianity. The chapters in the volume bring out the complicated histories of different Dalit and tribal communities, the varied modes of their struggles against oppression or domination and the differing character of their relations with caste society, both within and outside the church. On these spatially marginalized terrains we get a sense of the vulnerability of structures of state or church authorities. Several of the chapters bring out the ‘civilizing’ mission of the church: the church constantly feels the need to reform the tribals and, sometimes, the Dalits in order to contain them better within the confines of institutionalized religion. In Tamil Nadu, the church found that it needs the support of the Dalits to counter an increasingly intrusive state (Mosse, in this volume). In Gujarat, Lancy Lobo shows that the state abets the process of the Hinduization of the Adivasis in an attempt to create, among these peripheral communities, a reliable bank of electoral support for itself. The volume charts the multiple levels of marginality experienced by both Dalit and tribal Christians. They are spatially separated from more privileged groups. From the point of view of Hindus, Dalit Christians are just Dalits and tribal Christians are firstly ‘tribal’ (sometimes, vanvasi). Among the socially and economically privileged Christians, too, Dalits and tribals are considered on the periphery, even though they are in the majority in the Indian church. Kalapura expresses his reservations about speaking of Dalits and tribals as being on the margins of faith, for this amounts to regurgitating Eurocentric, colonial categories in contemporary discourse. He would rather see them as engaged in one among the ‘varieties of Christianity among the numerous heterogeneous Christian traditions existing in the world today’. On the other hand, most of the other contributors to the volume would like to link religion and power, as Asad (1993) persuades us to do, in their recognition of the fact that Dalit and tribal Christians are perpetually seen by clerical authorities to be lacking something, to be somehow inadequate or incomplete, to not be quite ‘pukka’, as it were, in their faith. If the culture of Christian tribes is considered morally deficient and in need of the removal of ‘superstition’, it is more or less Introduction

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the same with Dalit Christians, who are regarded as ‘phasali’ or ‘trapped’, as they cannot easily free themselves from the link with ‘untouchability’. Moreover, they may also be considered as lacking in ‘high culture’. The church has made attempts to indigenize or Indianize itself, but it has, for the most part, drawn its models of indigenous culture from Brahminical traditions. Thus, the Dalit Christian John Masih could find this new form of indigenization, actualized in the ashram arrangement, very alienating. His experiences and ideas were set aside by the ashram authorities and not taken with much seriousness. And then, in the end, he was asked to perform manual work. From the point of view of the priest of the ashram this was meant to be a helpful experience. However, in a region of entrenched hierarchies, where the performance of manual labour immediately indicated a position of inferiority, the demand could not but carry deeply negative implications. The church’s attempts at Indianization have also not found acceptance among the tribal Christians. Kujur records how, in the tribal areas of Chotanagpur, adaptation started with the use of the Hindi language. This was really a process, as he puts it, of ‘Hindi-izing the Adivasi church’ and it marginalized tribal languages. A general Indian Rite was advocated, but this was perceptibly Brahminical in influence and struck no chord with the Adivasis. The church has, subsequently, also tried to adopt Adivasi rituals and customs in worship and develop an Adivasi theology. Alongside, however, there has always been a parallel concern among some clerics that the universal liturgy will be compromised by becoming too ethnicized. Kujur argues that there is also the danger that these processes of indigenization may actually be, at the same time, processes of systematization. The terrain of Dalit and, even more transparently, tribal Christianity is today one on which bitter battles for control are being waged. The forces of Hindutva, often backed by the state, the new evangelical Christian missions and the activists for indigenous tribal culture are all in contest. As Lancy Lobo points out so critically in his chapter in the volume, these battles are not always just about religious control. They are also about the control of tribal resources, their cultural and political identity. The tribals have been steadily pushed to the hills, while the state, political parties and a number of other intermediaries wrangle over access to the resources of these regions. The natural wealth of tribal lands is necessary 24

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for the capitalist state’s projects of development, as their religious and cultural identity is crucial for moulding their political future. In fact, Lobo lets emerge his sympathy for the cause of the moolnivasi, for though it is true that the Catholic church has made attempts to indigenize itself, the contradictions of this process have already been noted. Further, the evangelical churches have displayed far less concern with the protection of indigenous culture and their aggressive conversion attempts have only exacerbated the conflicts on tribal terrain. It is in the call of the moolnivasi that one might envisage a return to a more holistic understanding of the varied but fundamentally interconnected concerns of the tribals—their political rights, economic and livelihood issues and their culture and identity aspirations. Dalit and tribal Christianity manifest forms of engagement and expression that do not merely mimic the conventions of the so-called upper castes. As the ethnographies in our chapters bring out, the beliefs, the practices, the narratives and performances of different Dalit and tribal communities are powerful enactments of their efforts to construct themselves as autonomous or as separate from the myths and traditions of the caste-dominated majority. We have spoken of the use of the drum and the songs of the Dalits as bringing out their resistance to caste society. On the other hand, we have also mentioned Schmalz’s (2005) description of how the Chamars reject the reform efforts sought to be imposed on them by their Catholic priest. In other ethnographies, as in Froerer’s for instance, we see how the Oraons refuse to accept the priestly understandings of their ancestral deities and spirits and continue to honour them despite clerical sanction on such practices. Such efforts to remain separate or autonomous may be simultaneously religious and actively political. Some of the Dalits in the chapters by Schmalz or Mosse or Kumar and Robinson engage in forms of activism that provide both organizational and symbolic resources for the Dalit political movement, while the Mizos in Bhatia’s chapter or the moolnivasis in Lobo’s claim the right to redefine the religio-cultural as well as the politico-economic trajectories of their communities. It is no part of the claims of any of the authors that these efforts are necessarily ‘successful’; indeed, that is not the point of the chapters at all. Despite their contributions to it, Dalit Christians in Tamil Nadu, for instance, are acknowledged by Mosse to play only bit parts in the Tamil Dalit political movement. Introduction

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Thus, the volume captures the ways in which Christianity may be appropriated in social understandings and histories of peoples placed on the outer rims of society or continuously subjected to the dishonouring perceptions of others. The place of Christianity—its mission, symbols and worldview—in deflecting and diffusing these negative implications and in creating a space for novel self-expressions is examined in the volume, as is also the contrary and perhaps paradoxical impulse engendered by the new faith—resistance to elite Christian self-definitions. Sometimes, there may be a dreadful sense of déjà vu about upper caste Christian self-understandings, as they reproduce older, colonial categories. There is an even greater possibility of communities on the periphery experiencing that harsh sense of the failure of the project of creating a new selfhood. New notions of hierarchy and new ways of exclusion emerge surreptitiously or deliberately in the perspectives and practices— of caste society, the church or the state—as they struggle in the attempt to control the cultural and political, and often also the material prospects and resources of the Dalits and the tribals. From the ethnographic and anthropological standpoint of this volume, what is significant is that Dalit and tribal Christianity offers, from the margins, a continuing critique of and resistance to such practices. Outside of Hinduism and beyond the core of the Christian world, the position of Dalit and tribal communities permits them a stance of critical distance from and sustained, even calculated, ambivalence towards both, a possibility that proximity to the nuclei of power might enfeeble. The distinctiveness and the surging discontent of communities on the margins perhaps capture less the bleak predictions of conflict with the propre than emerge as a contemptuous comment on the continuing (and altering) forms of discrimination and as an articulation of unrelenting opposition to these.

REFERENCES Asad, Talal. 1993. Genealogies of Religion: Discipline and Reasons of Power in Christianity and Islam. Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press. Bugge, H. 1994. Mission and Tamil Society: Social and Religious Change in South India (1840–1900). Richmond: Curzon Press. Clarke, S. 1999. Dalits and Christianity: Subaltern Religion and Liberation Theology in India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press.

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Certeau, Michel de. 1984. The Practice of Everyday Life. Berkeley and Los Angeles: The University of California Press. Deliège, R. 1992. ‘Replication and Consensus: Untouchability, Caste and Ideology in India’, Man 27(1): 155–73. ———. 1993. ‘The Myths of the Origin of the Indian Untouchables’, Man, 28(3): 533–49. ———. 1998. ‘Untouchability and Catholicism: The Case of the Paraiyars in South India’, Comparative studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East, 18(1): 30–33. Forrester, D.B. 1980. Caste and Christianity: Attitudes and Policies on Caste of Anglo-Saxon Protestant Missionaries in India. London: Curzon Press. Froerer, P. 2007. Religious Division and Social Conflict: The Emergence of Hindu Nationalism in Rural India. Delhi: Social Science Press. Frykenberg, R. E. 1976. ‘The Impact of Conversion and Social Reform upon Society in South India during the late Company Period: Questions Concerning Hindu-Christian Encounters, with Special Reference to Tinnevelly’, in C.H. Phillips and N.D. Wainwright (eds), Indian Society and the Beginnings of Modernization C 1830–1850, pp. 187–243. London: School of African and Oriental Studies. ———. 1980. ‘On the Study of Conversion Movements: A Review Article and a Theoretical Note’, The Indian Economic and Social History Review, 17(1): 121–38. John, Jose K. (Jose Kalapura). 1999. ‘Religion and Community: The Making of the Bettiah and Ravidasi Christians in Bihar, 1930–80’, unpublished Ph.D. thesis, Centre for Historical Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University. Kujur, Joseph Marianus. 2004. ‘Religion, Conversion and Identity: A Sociological Study of the Oraons in Chotanagpur’, unpublished Ph.D. thesis, Department of Sociology, Delhi University. Grafe, H. 1990. History of Christianity in India. Vol. 4, Pt. 2, The History of Christianity in Tamilnadu from 1800 to 1975. Bangalore: Church History Association of India. Kooiman, D. 1989. Conversion and Social Equality in India: The London Missionary Society in South Travancore in the 19th Century. New Delhi: Manohar Books. Manickam, S. 1977. The Social Setting of Christian Conversion in South India: The Impact of the Wesleyan Methodist Missionaries on the Trichy—Tanjore Diocese with Special Reference to the Harijan Communities of the Mass Movement Area 1820–1947. Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag. Moffat, M. 1979. An Untouchable Community in South India: Structure and Consensus. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Mosse, D. 1986. ‘Caste, Christianity and Hinduism: A Study of Social Organization and Religion in Rural Ramnad’, D.Phil. thesis, Oxford University. ———. 1994. ‘Idioms of Subordination and Styles of Protest among Christian and Hindu Harijan Castes in Tamil Nadu’, Contributions to Indian Sociology, 28(1): 67–106. ———. 1997. ‘Honour, Caste and Conflict: The Ethnohistory of a Catholic Festival in Rural Tamil Nadu (1730–1990)’, in J. Assayag and G. Tarabout (eds), Alterite et identite: Islam et Christiamisme en Inde (Collection Purusartha no. 19), pp. 71–120. Paris: Editions de L’Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales. Oddie, G.A. 1991. Hindu and Christian in South-East India. London: Curzon Press. Pickett, W. J. 1933. Christian Mass Movements in India: A Study with Recommendations. Lucknow: Lucknow Publishing House.

Introduction

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Rustomji, Nari and V. Elwin. 1989. Verrier Elwin Philanthropologist: Selected Writings. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Schmalz, Mathew. 2005. ‘Dalit Catholic Tactics of Marginality at a North Indian Mission’, History of Religions, 44(3): 216–51. Webster, J.C.B. 2000. The Dalit Christian: A History. Delhi: ISPCK. Zene, Cosimo. 2007. ‘Myth, Identity and Belonging: The Rishi of Bengal/Bangladesh’, Religion, 37(4): 257–81.

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C H A P T E R 2 Tribal Church in the Margins: Oraons of Central India Joseph Marianus Kujur

DOUBLE MARGINALIZATION Despite the contribution of Christianity, primarily in the field of education, health, culture, literature, development and political consciousness, what have often been highlighted are the mutual discrimination, segregation and alienation between tribal Christians and those with traditional faith. Christianity has also been accused of superimposing its supposedly ‘superior’ beliefs and practices on the local and its disdainful and contemptuous attitude towards new converts, projecting the latter as the ‘heathen’ families breaking the fetters of ‘heathenism’ and joining the church. The church was thought to be indulging in detribalization and cultural alienation. From the traditional tribal point of view the new ways of celebrating tribal festivals, offering sacrifices, promoting Christian

values at the cost of the local culture were a betrayal of the community. Christians’ attitudes to the religious component of the traditional culture were considered as negative, to quote Frederick Downs (1994: 194), ‘rejecting anything in the traditional culture that they judged to be religious or, to use their term, “superstitious” in character. Christianity was to replace this component.’ Christians also allegedly rejected the annual sacrifices, propitiation of malevolent spirits, multitude of rituals and the like. Moreover, even in the universal ecclesiastical hierarchy the ‘tribal church’ has often been looked upon with suspicion for its innovations and adaptations to make its liturgy sensitive to the local culture and meaningful. Any such attempt has often been examined with contempt for indulging in exclusivist, sectoral and identity politics, away from the thinking of the mainstream church. Thus, there is double marginalization of the tribal church. First, the tribal church has always been in the periphery trying to fend for itself from the attacks at the local level by those who accuse it of distorting the traditional culture and dividing their community. Second, the local tribal church is in for criticism and censorship from the orthodoxy in the church hierarchy in the process of innovations and experimentations on tribal liturgy, tribal theology and tribal ecclesiology. Thus, the effort of the tribal church to be in the mainstream traditional culture is looked upon with contempt by the traditional culture, on the one hand; and is received disdainfully by the church orthodoxy as dissent, anti-universal and parochial, on the other hand. An attempt has been made in this chapter to understand the interrelations of the beliefs and practices of the converts and the traditional believers not as dichotomous and discontinuous. The chapter shows that there have always been negotiations between the old and the new. It also treats the relationships between the Christian tribals and traditional tribals as basically fluid and constantly in a flux. Emergence of the new community of converts, as one differentiated in outlook, ideology, worldview and practice, resulted in the changed pattern of perception, thinking and articulation of the two communities towards each other. This relationship is demonstrated in their everyday life and activities— social, cultural, religious, economic and political. The present chapter attempts to look into the dynamics of relationships between converts and traditional believers in a contemporaneous ethnographic situation of Malti village in Mandar Block of Ranchi district in the state of Jharkhand with 359 households at the time of fieldwork. 30

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THE CONTEXT Central India comprises the states of Andhra Pradesh, Chhattisgarh, Jharkhand, Madhya Pradesh, Orissa and West Bengal. While Andhra Pradesh is an abode of 35 Scheduled Tribes, Chhattisgarh, Jharkhand, Madhya Pradesh, Orissa and West Bengal are homes for 42, 32, 45, 62 and 40 tribal communities respectively according to the Ministry of Tribal Affairs, Government of India. These states are inhabited primarily by tribes such as Santhals, Mundas, Kharias, Oraons, Hos, Bhunyas, Bedyas, Gonds, Bhils, Konds, Chik-Baraiks, Asurs, Kodakus and Korwas, to name a few. These tribes are classified under one of the two cultural and linguistic categories, namely, the Austric Munda language family, such as Kharia and Munda; and the Dravidian group consisting of the Oraons, Gonds and Khonds. Christianity first came among these tribes in 1845, which had wide social, cultural, economic and political ramifications in the future for both, the Christianized and the traditional tribals. Within a span of 1845 to 1920, there were six different missions in Jharkhand and parts of Chhattisgarh, Orissa and West Bengal, representing different churches. The Gossner Evangelical Lutheran Mission from Berlin, called GEL, came to central India in 1845 under its pioneers Pastor Emile Schatz, the theologian; Pastor August Brandt and Pastor Frederick Batch, the teachers; and Pastor Theodore Janke, the economist (Mahato 1971). The Lutheran Mission came to face serious problems when in 1858 after the death of Gossner the Curatorium (Board of Trustees) was formed to take care of the policy of the mission and its material needs in the Chotanagpur region of central India. The problem had its genesis in the differences between the younger representatives of the Curatorium and the older missionaries working in central India. The problem led to the split in the Lutheran church and paved the way in 1868 for the founding of the Anglican Mission, also known as the SPG (Society for the Propagation of Faith) in Ranchi (Tete 1997: 300–02). The Chotanagpur Roman Catholic Mission started in 1868 with the arrival of Fr. Stockman in Chaibasa, though people usually think that it was Fr. Lievens, who actually started the Catholic Mission of Chotanagpur. The United Free Church of Scotland came to Pachamba in 1871 under the leadership of Rev. Archbishop Templeton, a medical missionary (Mahato 1971: 126). The Dublin University Mission from Ireland arrived Tribal Church in the Margins

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in Chotanagpur in 1890. The pioneers were the graduates of the Dublin University whose offer to work in any part of the world well synchronized with the appeal of Bishop Whitley who was consecrated the first SPG Bishop of Chotanagpur in March 1890 (Mahato 1971: 129; Tete 1997: 310). The Seventh Day Adventist Church (SDA) was established in Chotanagpur in 1920 under Mrs L.J. Burges who came to Ranchi with seven students from Dehi–Serampore Road schools in Calcutta (Mahato 1971: 235). Many more denominations came to Chotanagpur later as it was considered a ‘fertile’ ground for conversions. In course of time, many tribals embraced Christianity as a result of which there was an emergence of a new community of the Christian tribals.

ENCOUNTER BETWEEN THE NEW TRADITION AND THE OLD The emergence of the new community of Christian tribals resulted in its confrontation with the old tradition. In the process, there is change and continuity. This section discusses how the shaping of relationships between the new and the old has been facilitated and reinforced by the process of adaptation to the tribal culture in the church. The adaptation can be seen both at the level of beliefs and practices.

Adaptation to the local Culture The unofficial adaptations of the tribal Christians to the local culture continued in the fields of rituals, vernacularization and translation works. The missionaries allowed two of the tribal feasts to be celebrated in the church from the very beginning of Christianity in Chotanagpur. These were Nawakhani, the feast of the harvest; and Sohrai, the feast of the cattle. The tribals were basically agriculturists and these two feasts fitted in very well with the theme of ‘thanksgiving’, which was central to the Mass in the church. Locating the first use of the vernaculars in the church is difficult. However, there is a narrative of an event of Sunday, 8 November 1891, in the chapel at Bendora, which was filled with people for instruction. They were learning prayers from the book Asnan Puthi (Book of Baptism) in the Sadri1 dialect (Tete 1997: 361). This shows that the missionaries preached in the language of the people. 32

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The real impetus, however, came from people like Fr. Martin Topno who was one of the pioneers of inculturation in Chotanagpur. In 1940s Martin initiated ‘Mothers of the Year’ celebration on the Sunday after Easter for which all the mothers who had babies in the preceding year assembled to thank God. There was an adapted liturgy in which the child was especially dedicated to God with the imposition of a sacred medal. In 1953 Martin produced an essay of 1,400 words in Mundari on the ‘Funeral Rites of the Mundas in the Ranchi Plateau’. While in Khunti, he translated and cyclostyled the Old Roman Ritual in Mundari. It however took several years for the diocese to sanction its use. Martin was the one who began to replace foreign terms by words of Munda origin and culture in the prayer book. In 1958 he wrote Komunio Puthi (Little Catechism for Beginners). While Martin was busy with his own works the poet Junas Kandulna’s collection in Mundari called Sopered’ Durangko Oro’ Eta’, Onolko (The Songs of a Youth and Other Writings) was published in 1961 posthumously (Van Exem 1991: 163–68). The foregoing examples are indicative of how because of the beliefs and practices deeply ingrained in the minds and hearts of the people over centuries a strong need was felt among the missionaries and the common people to adapt the church practices to the local conditions, thereby making the new frame of reference more meaningful. The church officially recognized the process of indigenization, which came as a response to the demands of the time.

The Adivasi Church Although the missionaries in Chotanagpur learnt the native languages and participated in the struggles of the people, the systematic adaptation of tribal culture in the church came in a revolutionary manner only with the mandate and the directives of the Second Vatican Council. The Catholic Bishops’ Conference of India (CBCI) made efforts to ‘implement’ the recommendations of the Vatican Council for an ‘indigenized’ Christian community in India. The Catholic dioceses in north India being Hindispeaking focused on the translating the Bible and rubrics into Hindi. In the tribal areas systematic adaptation started with the preferential use of Hindi thereby Hindi-izing the Adivasi church, which was at the cost of the tribal languages. Tribal Church in the Margins

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The liturgical adaptations focused on areas such as the training of the clergy in improving the liturgy for the people and the vernacularization of the liturgy. The Hindi Commission had a number of meetings regarding the implementation of the programme of adaptation. Besides, prayer books and Naya Gan (New Song) hymnal were published in Hindi. The Ranchi Liturgical Circular published Worship and Life from 1964, which soon spread to the neighbouring dioceses. Its main aim was to prepare the clergy and the religious for the promotion of vernacular liturgy. This also helped spread the hymns in Hindi (De Cuyper 1972: 192–93). A Belgian Jesuit Dr Camile Bulcke, Padma Bhushan, had translated Punya Saptah (The Holy Week) in 1958, when only Latin or English was in use. Slowly everything began to be said or sung in Hindi. In regard to the indigenization of singing, Peter Paul Van Nuffel, a Jesuit Belgian missionary, made immense contributions. Van Nuffel’s compositions of hymns for the Mass, after two years of local experimentation, were approved for use in the Chotanagpur church (De Cuyper 1972: 191–98). The composition of the ‘Grami Missa’ (Mass for Rural People) by Father Edmund, O.F.M., and of the tribal Mass by P. Topno came later which opened up space for better tribal participation in the liturgy. By the end of the decade, Hindi had taken over from Latin, and the priests instead of showing their back to the people were facing the Congregation. The Liturgical Commission in India tried to implement the recommendations of the CBCI for the creation of a ‘general’ rite at the national level. Those recommendations were often out of place at the local levels. Hence, Jos De Cuyper, a Belgian Jesuit and a pioneer in the liturgical adaptations in the church in north India, presented thus the case for the ‘local adaptation’ of the recommendations: The Liturgy of the North needs to become fully Indian. At the C.B.C.I. meeting in Delhi, 1966, the creation of a general Indian Rite was strongly advocated, especially by Bishops belonging to our Northern region. Many priests in the North would endorse this view, but they would add one corrective, such a common Indian Rite should leave sufficient room for local adaptation; people in the country-side—whether it be Chota Nagpur or the Gangetic plain—have ways of life very different from those dwelling in towns like Calcutta, Delhi … The formulation and content of the prayers too have to be adapted to each milieu. Finally, the rhythm of the Church Year should leave room for seasonal celebrations both for the tribal people and converts from the Hindu fold. A start was made this

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year in the tribal dioceses with the harvest feast. Furthermore in the rites of the sacraments of Baptism, Marriage and in the funeral rites whatever is good in the people’s social and cultural heritage should find a place in the religious celebration. (De Cuyper 1972: 198)

De Cuyper was aware that the general Indian Rite, which had a Brahminical orientation, was not in resonance with the tribal life and culture in Chotanagpur. The Hindi/Hindu-type adaptations made sense to the people and places under Brahminical influence. Other big groups, like those of the Dalits and tribals, would be passive to the foregoing kind of adaptations.2 The much hailed ‘Indianization’ of liturgy as the need of the moment sounded a jarring note for the Adivasi community, as the adaptations it recommended, in the line of the Great Traditions of India, were different from the very ethos and sensitivities of the tribals in Chotanagpur. The Chotanagpur church implemented the recommendations of the Indian Bishops but from a ‘tribal’ perspective (De Cuyper 1972: 237).

Adivasi-izing Adivasi izing the Roman Rites Together with the process of the Hindi-ization of the tribal church efforts also began to be made for the Adivasi-ization of the Roman rite in the Chotanagpur church. Van Exem (1991: 163–68) observes that Martin Topno, a pioneer in the Mundari language, wrote in 1973 a little booklet for the Sunday service to be used by lay persons in the absence of a priest. This was followed in 1975 by works such as the Joar Danrera Bintiko (Prayers of the Eucharistic Sacrifice) and the main parts of the Sunday missal. Martin worked out later on the other parts of the Sunday missal containing the common, the prefaces and the prayers of the faithful. He also translated numerous biblical passages needed for immediate use. His book on the rituals known as Om Nirik Puthi (Book of Observances in Administering Religious Ceremonies) was published in 1977. The translation of the psalms Piolio Durangko was published in 1978. He translated the Missa Granth (the Altar Missal) in Mundari in 1982. Martin was also responsible for Mathura Kahani, Volume I, which runs into 1,725 pages. His monumental contribution in the area of negotiations between the church and tribal Christian community is a heritage for posterity. Tribal Church in the Margins

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Tribal customs and costumes were introduced in the church liturgy in the late 1960s. The special features of the ‘tribalization’ of the Christian worship were the use of the broad stole with colourful tribal designs; tribal symbolism in the chasuble and altar; the use of light and incense in tribal style; dance and offering of gifts in conformity with local customs (Van Exem 1991: 240). The tribal festivities started finding place in the liturgical calendar. Tribal intellectuals, like Dr Philip Ekka, S.J.3 and Shri Pius Lakra,4 were busy experimenting in new ways to make the Christian rituals meaningful for the tribal participants. All postures and gestures in conformity with prevailing Adivasi customs accepted by Presbyteral and pastoral councils were adopted. Community singing was the normal practice in every Mass. Particular hymnals in the local idioms (Sadri, Mundari, Oraon, Kharia and Santhali) were in use. The centenary celebrations of 1969 to commemorate the coming of the first Catholic missionaries in Chotanagpur were marked by renewed interest in and the spread of tribal music in the liturgy. Several tribal festivals continued to be celebrated both liturgically and culturally (De Cuyper 1976: 185). Structure of the Roman Mass and the sacraments were respected. Functional elements like chant, dance, vestments, ornaments and sacred furnishings were increasingly borrowed from Adivasi culture and customs. In the marriage and ordination services the atmosphere was ‘genuinely Adivasi’. Great care was taken that the ‘sacredness of the liturgical actions’ was safeguarded. These initiatives were guided and positively encouraged by the Archbishop, and fully supported by the local clergy, the missionaries and the people.5 People were convinced that they had a right to preserve their own tribal identity, and in the liturgy they found an opportunity to express it (De Cuyper 1976: 186). In the area of the liturgy Adivasi Missa Sangrah (Lakra 1997) is the most commonly used book today for the tribal feasts. A concern, however, was expressed regarding the ‘integration and adaptation of tribal culture into sacramental liturgy’. While using the tribal languages in the church services, there was a danger of an ethnic divide in the church at the parish level. Furthermore, in urban centres, it was required that the liturgy remain sufficiently universal and cater to the non-tribal Christians as well (De Cuyper 1976: 189). The foregoing treatment presents the negotiations at the level of ritual and worship. However, since the late 1980s, there has also been a movement towards the tribalization/indigenization of theology and spirituality. 36

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The launching of the Regional Theological Centre (RTC) at Kanke in Ranchi was a step in this direction. The idea of locating the theological centre amidst the tribal community was to evolve a ‘Tribal Theology’ as a response to the hopes, dreams and aspirations of the tribal community. The writings of the Christian scholars, both tribal and non-tribal, are a followup of the response of the church to tribal problems. The publications of the annual journal Sevartham was to present the Christian reflections on the Indian and Adivasi cultures. In the area of theological indigenization, works that attempted at such integration have been many. Negotiations of the tribal church with the local culture are still going on. The terms such as adaptation, indigenization, inculturation, integration and dialogue used in the church circles are indicative of this. This has been working in the real-life situation of the Oraon Christians irrespective of the church orthodoxy and the self-appointed custodians of tribal culture.

CASE STUDIES OF EVERYDAY LIFE There has been a process of negotiations by the church primarily in two areas: first, the rites de passage, and second, the traditional festivals. These two aspects of tribal culture manifest the problem of marginalization and prospects of negotiation. Among various rites of passage, the chhathi (initiation) ritual is dealt with here. The initiation rite makes a person a part of the community, either of the living or of the dead. The rite has an extensive rituals bringing in certain unease in the church. It may be interesting to examine the areas of incompatibility and the church’s effort to make adaptations to ease the tension between the two. Among the major tribal festivals, the Karam, which has been researched and experimented theologically and methodologically more intensively than other festivals, will be presented.

The Rite of Baptisma-Cum-Chhathi Chhathi and baptisma, the Oraon and Hindi terms respectively for the initiation rite, are used interchangeably by the Christian Oraons. Tribal Church in the Margins

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The initiation rite, like any other rites, becomes a site for demonstrating the way in which the church negotiates with the traditional culture at the level of the institution and collectivity. The ritual performance of chhathi in the church is strictly rubricated. The precise formula during the rite of baptisma has to be recited with accurate words and proper action in order to have the desirable effect on the subject. The traditional Oraon chhathi, on the other hand, looks very informal. The case of Monica’s chhathi, first in the church and then at home in the village, shows how there is a process of negotiation between the new Christian community and the old tradition. As a preparation for chhathi the clothes of Jyoti, the mother of Mangri, the newly born baby, were washed the previous day. She was called Mangri because she was born on a mangar/mangalwar (Tuesday). The house was smeared with cow-dung. Jyoti cleansed herself with mustard oil and turmeric. From church’s point of view she was not unclean or polluted before chhathi. She could freely participate in the church ceremonies and rituals. However, she had to be prudent in her dealing with the villagers, both Christians and traditional believers. Her movements in the village were restricted and she did not join the common village functions. Jyoti had to take certain precautions due to the common belief that during pregnancy she was liable to be attacked by evil spirits. She did not touch any dead body nor did she go to the cemetery. She sought to avoid the churail (ghost of a woman who dies in pregnancy) because the latter is believed to be irritated by pregnant women and could tickle them to have miscarriages. In general, she was cautious as regards the spirits, which could cause her harm. She observed the custom of burying the naval cord at the door as the Sarnas6 did. During the post-natal period, she took great care to protect herself from the attacks of the dains (witches) and bhuts (ghosts) because at this time such women were said to be very frail. It was believed the dain would take the form of a black cat and take out the livers of the mother and the child and keep them away somewhere. As a result, both would not be able to get up. The cat was also believed to lick the discharge of the mother and suck the kudda (placenta) of the child. Hence, both of them would fall sick and it was believed sometimes might even die. This belief was quite common in the village among the Oraons, both the Sarnas and the Christians. To neutralize the effect of the dains and bhuts, Jyoti used to keep a bent stick, iron rod, sickle or spade near her head 38

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while sleeping. She also spread charcoal dust near the door before sleeping. She believed that the bhuts were scared of these and would not come close to her. While taking precautions against the evil spirits Jyoti also made the sign of the cross and recited a few Christian prayers. The continuation of the traditional beliefs in bhuts and the practices were not in conformity with the prescriptions of the church but at the level of collectivity in the village, these persisted even after one’s conversion to Christianity. However, the pregnant mother who was considered defiled, continued brewing liquor for sale and people had no inhibition sitting in her house for long hours for a glass of neat madgi arkhi (mahua liquor). Thus, the cultural restrictions were confined to certain aspects of life. They were rigid as regards some of the practices while flexible about some others. A day was fixed for the baptisma of Jyoti’s daughter. Monica was the name chosen for Mangri after her grandmother. Grandmother Monica was thus the baby’s mitan/sakhi (friend, protector) or the patron saint. On Sunday, 22 April 2001, it was around 10 am, after the second Sunday Mass in Mandar Mission Church, that Monica received her baptisma. A group of five families clustered around the baptismal font at the eastern part of the altar. There were five infants to be baptized. Only one of them, namely Monica, the daughter of Jyoti, was from Malti. Four to five people—parents, godparents, immediate relatives and close neighbours—followed each child. The parish catechist had made all the arrangements for the ritual of the baptisma. Before the priest came for the ceremony, the catechist instructed the people present about the significance of the baptisma and their responsibilities as regards the bringing up of the child: ‘Ee khaddar nimhai biswas noo baptisma hoalnar. Aar balnar ki isan ender manali. Awnge id ayo baba ara dharma ayo-baba gar hi jababdehi rai ki ee khaddar badhia kathlic mana neka.’ (These children are being baptized in ‘your’ faith because they do not know what is happening to them in baptism. It is, therefore, the responsibility of the parents and the godparents to bring them up as good Catholics.) A little later, the priest came vested in the formal attire for baptisma and with a brief introduction began the ritual. He first asked for the names selected for the children and enquired about the intention of the parents, ‘Apne bacche ke liye tum kya chahte ho?’ (What do you want for your child?) ‘Baptisma’, said the parents as instructed. The priest then reminded them of their ‘responsibility’. He asked the godparents whether they were ready Tribal Church in the Margins

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to help the parents in ‘carrying out their duties’. The godparents replied in affirmative. After this, the priest ‘welcomed’ each child to the ‘Christian community’ by making the sign of the cross on the child’s forehead and inviting the parents and the godparents to do the same. The priest questioned the parents and godparents whether they rejected ‘Satan’, all his dhumdham (activities), and all his ‘empty promises’. The parents answered in affirmative. The celebrant asked the parents and the godparents whether they made the ‘threefold profession of faith’— (a) whether they believed in God, the Almighty Father who is the Creator of heaven and earth; (b) whether they believed in Jesus Christ, his only Son, born of the Virgin Mary, crucified, died, buried, rose from the dead and is now seated at the right hand of the Father; and (c) whether they believed in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and life everlasting. To all these questions the parents and godparents said, ‘I do.’ The parents and godparents then held each child, and the priest blessed each of them. When Monica’s turn came, the priest invoked God as he had done in the other cases. Pouring water upon her he then said, ‘Monica, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.’ The priest then anointed the child in silence on the crown of the head with the sacred oil. A white garment was now put on the child. A candle was lit and given to the parents saying, ‘Receive the light of Christ.’ The Lord’s Prayer the ‘Our father’ was recited at the end by all, after which the priest gave the final blessing to conclude the ritual of baptisma. Before all departed, the catechist gave a scapular and a medal to each child to keep the ‘evil spirits’ away. With the pouring of the water on Monica’s forehead the ritual of baptisma was over. She was thus officially incorporated into the church. She was now a member of the church from the ‘religious’ point of view. She still needed ‘social’ legitimacy of the larger Oraon community in the village. It was precisely for this reason that Monica’s parents had to re-enact at home the chhathi ritual for the baby’s incorporation into the tribe. What Monica’s parents did at home was very simple and yet significant. Only a few close relatives and some immediate neighbours were invited. The traditional shaving off of the first hair of Monica by her mamu (maternal uncle) was done. A festive meal and drinks followed this. That was all. To an outsider the rituals in the church appeared to be rigid compared to the traditional chhathi which had to take place in the village. The church 40

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insisted that people came to the church for baptism. In the church a deacon (priest before his ordination) or a priest was authorized to administer baptisma. In the traditional faith, an elder preferably mamu, the maternal uncle, was responsible for the rite. He was not indispensable as in the church where baptisma had to be administered only by a competent authority. The church, nevertheless, kept its option open for any Christian to give baptisma to a non-baptized person in emergency. The church did not have any difficulty with the traditional way of chhathi celebrations in the village either. The tribal chhathi ritual takes place normally six or eight days after the birth of the child when the umbilical cord has dried up. The baptisma in the church is centralized. Unlike the individual nature of chhathi in the family, the church encourages collective baptisma to be administered by the same person on a fixed day of every week. In danger of death of the non-baptized, however, exceptions are readily made. The church’s permission to perform chhathi at home after baptisma in the parish is an endorsement for the process of Christian–tribal integration. The initiation rite is said to be a symbol of an inexpressible deeper reality. The symbolic objects used in chhathi such as water/ricebeer symbolize life and prosperity. The winnowing fan stands for the entire village community with various clans. Paddy grains are used for the divination of the name. The objects used for chhathi symbolize the agricultural produce that sustains the community. The winnowing fan is used on every significant social occasion. The symbols of water, oil, white cloth and light stand for new life and strength in the church. The symbolic actions, such as washing of mother’s clothes, burning of the mat, the mother’s bathing, shaving off of child’s first hair and washing of the child’s feet stand for purification of the mother and the child. Shaving off the child’s first hair reminds one of the purification or cleansing of the child from ‘original sin’ in Christianity. Not all Christian families shave off the first hair of their children. The symbol of the name-giving ritual by rice-grain and water divination is crucial for the whole ceremony. The name gives a new identity to the child who was before the rite ‘outside the fold’ without any tribe, without any community. The church and the traditional community both accept that the identity of the child takes shape in the initiation rite, which is reshaped and matured with the growth and maturity of the child as the years go by. Tribal Church in the Margins

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On the basis of the ritual of baptisma/chhathi, inferences can be drawn at two levels: first, at the level of the church, and second, at the level of the Oraon Christian community. Christian orthodoxy, which had once refused to accept any goodness in the Adivasi religion and culture, has today come to recognize the inherent goodness in it. This is a paradigm shift. Theologically, as per the stand of the church, the traditional faith and Christianity both converge in their belief in Dharmes, the Supreme Being whom, Christians call God the Father. The notion of the child as the image of his/her grandparents either living or dead does not contradict the beliefs of the church. There is a sense of ‘membership’ and ‘incorporation’ with the new community in the initiation rite. The initiation rite thus becomes an entrance point to other rituals and to the participation of the child in the community affairs. The church recognizes the role and responsibility of the larger Christian community in the village. The problematic Christian notion of ‘original sin’ is thus interpreted in terms of new life, purification and religious incorporation. The religious identity of the child as a Christian is asserted in baptisma whereas its Oraon/tribal social identity is reiterated in the chhathi.

Christian Adaptations of the Oraon Festival Karam Apart from other festivals, the celebration of the Karam7 among the Christians in the recent past has drawn dissension from the Sarna intellectuals in Ranchi, the state capital. Some Sarna leaders had been extremely critical of the way the Karam was being celebrated in the church. They contested the way karam branches were brought, planted and disposed of. Some simple, illiterate but conscientious Sarna tribals have internalized such objections and they too join the protest at their own villages. These criticisms have compelled the church to give a second thought to the process of indigenization. Many priests now do not take the risk of celebrating the Karam feast as before, and face the wrath of the Sarnas. These developments have led to a shift in the stand of the church regarding the celebration of the tribal feasts in the Catholic church. While the Catholic church does have the Mass in the name of the Karam feast in the church, it recommends that the cultural celebrations be in the village along with the Sarna people. This shift has created confusion in the minds of the ordinary tribal Christians who claim that they had been 42

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forbidden in the past by the church even to witness the Adivasi dance in the akhra,8 leave alone their participation with the Sarnas. Even for the educated and enlightened Christians such integration has not been an easy process. Some Christian Adivasis even look at the various attempts of the church to participate along with the Sarna people at their festivals as an act of ‘betrayal’ of the church. In the case study of the Karam festival in Malti village, the efforts by the tribal Christian community to negotiate with the traditional culture give us some insights.

The Oraon Christians and the Feast of Karam: A Case Study The feast of Karam in Malti was celebrated in the year 2001 on the BhadoEkadashi (11th day of the lunar month). Karam Raja/Deo (king/deity) was installed in the akhra by the Sarnas on July 28th and was immersed in the evening of July 29th amidst a heavy downpour. The Danda-Katta (splitting the branch) ritual in the Sarna houses to ward off evil followed the celebration of Karam. The Christians celebrated the Karam Mass at 6.30 am on 28 July 2001 without the Danda-Katta ritual. The Karam Mass in the Mandar Mission Centre began with the ‘entrance dance’ by young girls in two rows and the priest with his assistants in the middle, walking slowly through the main door towards the altar. Each of the three girls leading the procession carried a basketful of the jawa (maze sapling) which was to be distributed to all the participants at the end of the Mass. Unlike in the past the Karam Raja symbolized in the form of the karam branches, was not installed before the altar in a tin stuffed with sand. The priest did not perform the ritual of the Danda-Katta either. The theme of the Christian prayers at Mass was the protection of Dharmes over their children. Special prayers were offered for unmarried girls, standing crops and for cattle. The scripture readings in the Mass and all the prayers by the participants were in accordance of the theme of the festival. During the offering of the gifts, objects such as kheera (cucumber) symbolizing a child, and jawa standing for new life and prosperity were offered. The rest of the Mass was as usual. At the end of the Mass, as the priest came down from the altar, the dancers once again gracefully led him and his concelebrants to the exit. At the main door of the church, the young girls stood distributing Tribal Church in the Margins

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the jawa as a sign of new life and prosperity. The entire singing in the Mass was in keeping with the Karam melody, which is sung only for this occasion. Thus, the Karam Mass was very short and simple. People rushed back home after the Mass. The Karam celebration for the tribal Christians at the level of religion was over. Elderly people still recall how during the time of Fr. Xavier Kujur as the parish priest of Mandar, the feast of Karam used to be celebrated with pomp and show. Three days before the festival the girls of marriageable age were recommended to keep fast. Each girl fasting used to get a tuki (basket) with some eatables and an earthen lamp for the occasion. The Christian lads used to fetch the karam branches on the eve of the feast. When they came, a reception was given to the Karam Raja followed by the installation of the Karam Raja in the church premises. A little later, one of the elders would tell them the Karam kahani (story) followed by dancing and singing. They would then retire to their homes and come back to the church for the morning Mass when the Karam Deo would be installed in front of the main altar. The following inferences can be drawn on the basis of the case study of the feast of Karam: First, a new consciousness has come about in the church and attempts are being made for an integrated approach taking into consideration the sensitivities of the Sarnas. In the last two years, the Karam Mass in many mission centres is being performed strictly as a ‘religious’ ritual integrated with the Mass. The Christians are being encouraged to participate in the ‘social’ celebrations of the feast in the village along with their Sarna neighbours. Owing to the objections of the Sarnas and an attitude of self-criticism, the church is now in a continuous process of readjustment and rearrangement of the traditional beliefs and practices thereby shaping the identity of the Christian community. Second, the church claims to have overcome the cultural barriers in celebrating Karam by experimenting to integrate it with Mass or to separate it from Mass and allow a socio-cultural celebration in the village with the Sarna people. The confusion and chaos created in the process, however, have not yet subsided. Some tribal Christian thinkers are not ready to accept that in the church celebration of the Karam the traditional symbols, which have been crystallized down the centuries, are radically transformed. The symbols, which are things, persons and language, point to a deeper reality over which tensions between the Sarna 44

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and Christian beliefs can be seen. The centre of the Karam celebration has shifted from akhra to the structures of the church in Christianity. In the village, it is a prolonged celebration of two–three days. The Karam Mass in the church is over in just a little more than an hour. The church negotiates that the Karam Raja in fact is Dharmes, the God who is in heaven. Again, without Jesus Christ, the Karam mystery is far from being solved, hence the karam tree is understood as Karam Cross symbolizing the liberation of the people from sin, death and all that is evil, through Christ, the liberator. The Karam story is the crystallization of the ‘faithexperience’ of the Oraons, which in Christianity is interpreted as the experience of the Old Testament people in the pre-exodus stage. Christ’s intervention, thus, is said to be liberative. The Christian priest replaces pahan, the tribal priest, who is the sole religious head of the village. The Christian priesthood not only ignores the office of the village pahan but also heads a parallel religious system incompatible with that of the Sarnas. In the church’s understanding the celebration of Karam in the church is primarily ‘religious’ whereas participation with the Sarnas in the village is social. Third, the feast of the Karam is celebrated on the day of ‘BhadoEkadashi’. In the beginning the Christians did not celebrate the feast on the same day as the Sarna community. For the Christians it had to be a convenient holiday where people could come to the church. In some mission centres, the Karam Mass used to be fixed for a Sunday so that the maximum number of people coming for the weekly Mass could be present for the celebration. In small religious communities and parishes, the Christians kept the celebrations on the same day as the Sarnas. In big cities like Delhi, Chennai, Kolkata and Pune the tribal Christians in the diaspora celebrated the feast on a convenient day and not on the day of the feast itself. This has brought the church under heavy criticism compelling the church to keep the celebration on the day of the feast itself. For instance, St. Mary’s Cathedral, Ranchi, the religious centre of the tribal church in Chotanagpur, celebrates Karam on the day of the feast itself. Interestingly, the participants were mostly hostel boys, girls and clergy. The locals of Ranchi had a passive participation in these traditional celebrations. The celebration of the tribal festivals has not yet become popular in many urban as well as rural mission centres. The students, mainly the hostellers from the various educational institutions, join in the celebrations while in Ranchi. However, when they go back to their respective parishes some conservative Tribal Church in the Margins

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Christians and old-styled clergy do not encourage them to celebrate the tribal festivals in the church. The problem, therefore, is in the information dissemination. There is a gap between the theological developments in the church, their assimilation by the clergy and their dissemination to the laity. As a result, there are sharp reactions to these changes in the church. The Christian faith of the pre-Vatican II has become part of the ‘habitus’ of the people; there seems to be no willingness to unlearn it. These celebrations for the Christians are still at an experimental stage, which started in the late 1960s after Vatican II. That the Karam celebration in the church is still at an experimental stage is proved from the church’s openness to its modifications. Fourth, as stated earlier, the protagonist of the Karam myth, namely the Karam Raja is at a backseat in the church. The Karam Raja remains a mythical figure without evoking much enthusiasm in the hearts of the Christians. For the Sarnas, he is the ‘Raja’, the Real God, who liberates them from their suffering and misery. Christians cannot see God in Him. Hence, they have to place a Cross over the karam tree, to be able to see in the karam the figure of Christ who alone can save them ‘through his own suffering, death and resurrection’, a notion that is completely unfamiliar to their Sarna counterparts. The Karam Raja, without Christ’s presence does not seem to make any sense for the Christians in the realm of the sacred. The consciousness of the Karam Raja as the liberator (without Christ), in the interpretation of some Christian thinkers, is the consciousness of the pre-conversion period. In the process of the Christianization of the Sarna symbols, the Christian thinkers associate Christ to the Karam Raja. Hence, the consciousness of the Karam as a liberating Christ figure is a post-conversion experience. The negotiation between the two is complex. Fifth, the Christians acknowledge the theme of fertility in the feast. The feast has to do with the notion of agricultural and feminine fertility. Prayers are offered for the protection of crops. Further, it is the feast of the virgins, especially those who have recently been engaged or married. Invocations are made for the virgins to get good husbands. Prayers are offered so that mothers may get healthy children. What is important in all this is that the beneficiaries, who are the girls, have to fast before the feast. It is only then, they believe, that the effect of the feast will be realized. One of the Christian girls said that she had fasted last year for three days before the Karam and she broke her fast with the Mass in the church. 46

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Victoria, another Christian girl said that she prayed for her wishes and intentions not to the Karam Raja but to God the Father, Jesus the Son and the Holy Spirit. The Sarnas, on the other hand, surely invoke the Supreme Being but ardently pray to the Karam Raja to bless them with prosperity and plenty. It is this type of negotiation, which is in tandem with that of the Sarnas, that adds Christian meaning to the traditional symbols and celebrations.

CONCLUSION Two points emerge in the present chapter in the midst of the complexities of the double marginalization of the tribal church in central India: first, Brahminical versus tribal indigenization in India; and second, Sarna versus church indigenization in central India. Despite the church’s claim to have opened herself up to other cultures in the post-Second Vatican Council era, the concept of indigenization in India, in fact, had initially been more a process of Brahminization or ‘Sanskritization’ of the church in India. The symbols she used were from the dominant religions and cultures. To the tribal context, this made little or no sense, thereby calling for a different process, which would be sensitive to tribal ethos, values and culture. The model of indigenization was problematic and hence was contested by diverse cultural groups. The problems arose because of the dominant culture’s tendency of ‘absorption’, ‘assimilation’ and ‘homogenization’ of the ‘little traditions’. In the context of pluralism in India, taking a partial view for the whole truth was not only unacceptable but also dangerous. This is what the Brahminical view tried to do with regard to indigenization in India. The so-called little or local cultures made a case for recognition of diversity. Hence, it was realized that the Indian reality was much larger than that of the Brahminical, and not surprisingly, it spawned an assertive ‘tribal church’ that challenged the Brahminical model of understanding and analysing the reality of India as monolithic. Thus, the tribal church apparently positioned herself as the champion of the tribals’ cause in India. However, the ‘tribal church’ of central India, despite her claim to be engaging in the real indigenization, came in for dissension among the Sarna tribals. The local church was accused of what she accused the ‘Church of India’ of, namely, having a partial view of the total Tribal Church in the Margins

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Indian reality. Despite the local church’s recognition and appreciation of native cultures as good, there was a subtle process of homogenization into Christian faith. Though there was also a move for a tribalization process in terms of a liturgy of tribals in tribal areas followed by a contextualization process, the tribal theology, tribal spirituality and tribalness in the doctrines of the church were conspicuous by their absence. The indigenization process that followed in tribal areas was a follow up of the Second Vatican Council’s recommendations; there was an appeal for transforming the external trappings, but not internal subjectivity. In the new process, language, costumes, rituals, festivals, clergy, all underwent a change, but there were no negotiations regarding the structure, culture and formation of the church. Orthodoxy was one of the forbidden areas, uninfluenced much by the process of negotiation. The orthodoxy was conservatively Roman and not local. It remained more or less static and monolithic except for a few cosmetic and erratic changes in the externals of the church. Efforts at adaptations in a tribal context were largely unsuccessful because structural changes had not been easy. There have been some efforts in developing the theology from a tribal perspective, but it has often been restricted to a ‘translation’ model, translating the Western theology in the tribal costume. It is precisely for the foregoing reason that the Sarnas look down upon the ‘tribal’ church in central India. This contempt of the Sarna community, however, is at the level of culture leading to far-reaching political ramifications. The marginalization of the church by the traditional community is not at social, educational and economic levels, in which tribal Christians have an edge due to their access to the churchrun institutions. Their marginalization is at cultural level with political overtones because the Sarnas are demographically at a vantage point. It is due to their numerical strength that when the Sarnas align with the right wing, the Christians look very vulnerable. The argument in this chapter is that while the double marginalization of the tribal church, both from Catholic orthodoxy and from the ‘rigid’ Sarna traditional community, continues the negotiation of the church with the traditional culture affirms the idea that the church in central India is tribal as well as Christian. The goal of this negotiation is to make the identity of the church acceptable in the tribal milieu and to make the new religious framework meaningful to the tribal Christians. Moreover, the effort is also to impress upon the orthodoxy that the 48

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hierarchical church cannot exist without recognizing the structural and cultural diversity of the local. There is thus a re-structuring of identity of the new Christian community, which is trying to consolidate itself in the tribal heartland. One sure way of doing that is through dialogue, adjustment, accommodation and negotiation instead of stagnation, arrogance and monologue. In short, despite the Catholic church’s orthodoxy and the Sarna community’s contestation of the enculturation process in the tribal church of central India, the ‘unofficial’ negotiations have always been going on since the arrival of the pioneering missionaries. The innovations were mainly in the areas of ritualistic practices rather than in the areas of the belief system and structures. Some of these practices got legitimized through the writings of theologians and historians, leading to the official recognition of them by the church hierarchy. Additional impetus for such experimentations came with their legitimization in the Second Vatican Council. The ethnographic findings reveal that conversion from the traditional faith to Christianity does not automatically effect a ‘total break’ from the past. These negotiations are undertaken in view of making the new tradition called ‘Christianity’ a religion of the ‘people of the soil’. The negotiations in the church buttress the argument that in spite of the religious-level changes in the converts’ worldview, belief-pattern and practice, the converts remain Oraons socially and culturally.

NOTES 1. The dialect spoken by the Sadan people is a lingua franca in the region. 2. Dalits had Hindu influence; rather they were part of the Hindu social structure but they were averse to anything Brahminical. 3. Dr Ekka, a Ph.D. in Cultural Anthropology from Oxford University, England. 4. Sri Lakra, an artist, was attached to St. Xavier’s College, Ranchi. 5. It may be pointed out here that as long as the liturgical adaptations in the church were restricted to the Adivasi-ization of the vestments, singings and medium of communication tribal Christians did not have any problems. However, the moment the tribal church tried introducing feasts like Karam and Sarhul, there were mixed reactions. 6. A generic name for the tribes following traditional religions mainly in Chotanagpur (one of the commissionerships before the creation of Jharkhand). The communities of these tribes may be called ‘Sarna’ and their members ‘Sarna people’. In contemporary times there are political overtones attached to the use of the term ‘Sarna’.

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Dr Ram Dayal Munda (2000) advocates the idea of Constitutional recognition of one general ‘Adidharm’ (religion from time immemorial) for tribals as an alternative to other established religions recognized by the Government of India. He opines that the Adidharm is manifested in the particular regional religions such as Adidharm Sarna, Adidharm Gond and Adidharm Bhil. 7. A feast celebrated among the tribes of central India on the eleventh day of Bhado (August–September). Traditionally, boys and girls keep fast until the karam (nauclea parvifolia) branches are respectfully planted in the akhra after they bring the holy branches to the village. They watch over the branches in the akhra all through the night after listening to the myth of the origin of the worship of Karam Raja (king) and immerse them the next day. As per the Christian adaptation of the Karam feast, depending upon the situation, the branches used to be ushered in the church by the dancing maidens with the entrance procession along with the priests. The branches were then planted in a tin or a container where a cross was also planted alongside, signifying ‘Karam-cross’ as bringing salvation to mankind. There was a marked difference between the ways in which the Sarna and the Christian communities celebrated the feast. 8. A dancing yard in the village, which also functions as a centre for all community activities.

REFERENCES De Cuyper, J. 1972. ‘Archdiocese of Ranchi’, in D.S. Amadorpava (ed.), Post Vatican Liturgical Renewal in India at all Levels, Volume II, 1968–1971. Bangalore: National Catechetical and Liturgical Centre. ———. 1976. ‘Ranchi Archdiocese’, in D.S. Amadorpavadass (ed.), Post Vatican Liturgical Renewal in India at all Levels, Volume III, (1971–1973) 1963–1973. Bangalore: National Catechetical and Liturgical Centre. Downs, F.S. 1994. Essays on Christianity in North-East India. New Delhi: Indus Publishing Company. Lakra, J. 1997. Adivasi Missa Sangrah. Ranchi: The Liturgical Commission of North India. Mahato, S. 1971. Hundred Years of Christian Missions in Ranchi since 1845. Ranchi: The Chotanagpur Christian Publishing House. Munda, R.D. 2000. Adi-Dharam—Religious Beliefs of the Adivasis of India. Chaibasa: Sarini and BIRSA. Tete, P. 1997. History of the Expansion of the Catholic Mission in North India. Ranchi: St. Albert’s College. Van Exem, A. 1991. ‘Fr. Martin Topno, S. J. (1901–1988): A Pioneer of Inculturation’, in Peter Tete (ed.), To Chotanagpur with Love and Service. Ranchi: Ranchi Jesuit Society.

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C H A P T E R 3 Dalit Encounter with Christianity: Change and Continuity S.M. Michael

INTRODUCTION Even after sixty years of independence, the situation of the ex-untouchables, today popularly known as Dalits, remains pathetic. Their representation in various government and private institutions is inadequate. Social and cultural discrimination against them continues. All the same, there is persistent daily struggle among them to leave behind a life tainted and broken by others and to seize the chance of a better future. A call for change and an assertion of self-respect appear to be emerging from among them, and it is important to trace this highly significant struggle. This chapter studies the situation of the Dalit Christians and their struggle for equality in different parts of India.

DALIT ENCOUNTER WITH CHRISTIANITY Of the roughly 20 million Christians in India about 14 million are of Dalit origin; that is, about 70 per cent of all conversions to Christianity have occurred among Dalits. Their encounter with Christianity resulted in mass movements of religious conversion, due to various social, cultural, economic, political and religious reasons. While Hindu fundamentalist organizations through their assimilation policy claim that tribals and Dalits are Hindus, a large number of tribals and Dalits on the other hand reject this superimposed new identity. Upper caste Hindus, while trying to get the services of the Dalits and tribals, paid little attention to their deprived conditions. Even in academic literature, they have been addressed as ‘Backward Hindus’ (Ghurye 1963: 19). Rejecting this identity, many tribals and Dalits have found their own ways to move up the social ladder of Indian society. Conversion movements among Dalits and tribals have shown the potential for social change of religion. These movements represented an effort on the part of the Dalits to gain dignity, self-respect and the ability to choose their own destiny for themselves. John Webster (1992: 71–76) observes that ‘the massmovements constituted the first stage in the modern Dalit movement’. These were group decisions to belong to a new community which not only had a religious tradition comparable to that of the caste Hindus, but which promised new dignity and esteem. These movements were also a revolt against a socio-religious system, which failed to provide a meaningful response to Dalit needs and aspirations (Boel 1975).

CHANGE AND CONTINUITY AMONG DALIT CHRISTIANS If one asks what is the greatest benefit the Dalit Christians have received, the answer might well be education. Though illiteracy is still high among Dalit Christians in comparsion to other caste Christians, yet, the school and hostel facilities in the mission stations in several parts of India have helped the Dalit Christians in their aspiration for education (see Franco et al., 2004: 69–143). An empirical study undertaken in Bihar points out that 52

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an overwhelming majority of Dalit Christians work as agricultural coolies as their main occupation; just a handful of Dalits as cobblers, watchmen, cooks, carpentenrs, drivers, petty businessmen, constructions labourers, sweepers, gardeners, house servants, hostel wardens and so forth. … Consequently, the Dalit Christians, who have been looked down on as no body in the society, have become somebody. (Gyanoday 2009: 45)

The Dalit Vankar community in Gujarat which practised child marriage began a process of reform after their conversion to Catholic Christianity. The Catholics started the Catholic Sudharak Mandal. They held annual general assemblies where all the members participated. The association, in one of its general meetings, decided to institute a kind of life insurance society for its members. They also initiated a fund for promoting higher education for children (Valiamangalam 2008: 61). These efforts helped the Vankar Christians to improve their socioeconomic conditions. Similar changes have been brought about among Dalit Christians in Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh and other parts of India. Though Dalit Christians have made significant socio-economic progress, this has often not gone down well with upper caste Christians and caste Hindus. Dalit Christians in many parts of India continue to be badly treated. We now take a closer look at the various struggles that have taken place in the search for emancipation.

CASTE CULTURE AMONG CHRISTIANS: INTER-CASTE RELATIONS BETWEEN DALITS AND OTHERS Several studies and reports bring out how Christian communities in different parts of India exhibit their feeling of caste exclusiveness and hold tenaciously to caste customs. In many places different congregations have their own places of worship, and separate cemeteries (Koshy 1968: 1). Archbishop Casmir of Madras admits that there is a strong caste system in the church and notes, ‘When Hindus became Christians, they kept the social structures that they belonged to, the caste system overflowed into the Church. The Church condemns the system…’ (Casmir 1991: 21). After analysing the continuation of the caste system in the Christian community, Bishop Azariah (Church of South India, Madras) says, ‘… the condition cannot be said to have changed very much. Most Dalit Encounter with Christianity

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sadly even within the world-renowned and forward-looking Church of South India there still exist the caste-ridden vestiges of Hinduism’ (Azariah 1983: 10).

THE ORIGIN OF THE TERM DALIT CHRISTIANS The Dalit converts to Christianity were called the Christians of Scheduled Caste Origin (CSCO). This name became common after the First National Convention of Christian Leaders on the Plight of Christians of Scheduled Caste Origin in 1978 (NBCLC 1978). Christian circles began to use the term ‘Dalit’ for Scheduled Castes at the end of the 1970s and in the early 1980s. The concept and category of ‘Dalit Christians’ and the slogan ‘Dalit is dignified’ were formulated by the Christian Dalit Liberation Movement in 1985. National Churches and Ecumenical Councils (World Council of Churches) have become familiar with the term since 1986. Though the concept and the use of the term Dalit Christians were common among the Protestants from the end of the 1970s onwards, the Catholics began to use this term a little later. The National Convention of All India Catholic Union (AICU) in 1989 decided to refer to Scheduled Caste Christians as Dalit Christians (Stanislaus 1999: 44).

FIVE-FOLD DISCRIMINATION Today, Dalit Christians suffer from a five-fold discrimination: (a) by the state, (b) by caste Hindus, (c) by fellow Hindu Dalits, (d) by the upper caste Christian community and (e) by the subgroups of the Dalit Christians themselves.

State and legal Discrimination against Dalit Christians Before the independence of India, as a response to the demands from the ‘untouchable’ minority communities, the Government of India (Scheduled Caste) Order, 1936, brought out a list of the ‘Scheduled Castes’. 54

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Here the term ‘Scheduled Caste’ included a new specification that ‘no Indian Christian shall be deemed to be a member of a Scheduled Caste’. The implication of using a religious criterion for defining a Scheduled Caste was not immediately understood by Indian Christians. In the Consitution of India, Article 341 (1) empowers the president to give a list of the Scheduled Castes. This Scheduled Castes Order of 1950, paragraph 2 says that no person who professes a religion different from Hinduism shall be deemed to be a member of a Scheduled Caste. At this time, Christian leaders and politicians were quick to notice the discrepancy between the secular nature of the Indian Constitution and the Hindu religious bias with regard to Scheduled Caste converts to Christianity. Thus, the discrimination against Dalit Christians begins in the Consitution itself. The Central Government’s programmes for the Dalits, such as post-Matric scholarships and reservation of jobs were restricted to Dalit Hindus. These were later extended to Dalit Sikhs and Dalit Buddhists. Dalit Christians are excluded from these benefits. In Tamil Nadu and some other states, the Dalit Christians are included in the category of the Backward Classes (Tamilnadu 1986). Many Christian organizations say that the denial of ‘Scheduled Caste Status’ to Dalit Christians goes against their fundamental rights. For example, Letter No. 18/4/58 Act IV, dated 23-7-59 from the Deputy Secretary of the Governernment of India, Ministry of Home Affairs, New Delhi, to all state governemnts and union administrations, states that the Scheduled Castes of other religions, who reconvert themselves to Hinduism will be entitled to all the privileges of the Hindu Scheuled Castes (Kananaikil 1993: 73; Massey 1994: 38). This implies that if Christians of Dalit origin convert to Hinduism they will be entitled to all reservation benefits of the government, but not otherwise. There are numerous orders both from the central and state governments in this regard, which direct, approve and justify this practice and thus blatantly violate both the spirit and word of the Article 25 (Kananaikil 1984: 7). In 1983, the Tamil Nadu government gave an Order demanding that a Dalit person who holds a government job resign from the job if he changes his religion from Hinduism (Govt: TN-LET. No. 21711/ADW 11/80-26 dated 16/25.8.83 to all Heads of Departments cited in J. Kananaikil 1984: 16). Dalit Encounter with Christianity

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Accordingly a Scheduled Caste person loses his caste on conversion to Christianity but regains it when he reconverts to Hinduism! This abrogates the spirit of the Constitution as contained in Article 27 and 28, which emphasize the secular nature of the Indian state. In fact, it encourages and rewards Scheduled Caste Christians for their return to Hinduism. The right to practice a religion as one’s choice is denied. In a civil writ petition by a Dalit Christian cobbler from Madras (Soosai vs Union of India, 1983) the petitioner stated that he was an Adi Dravida convert to Christianity and on conversion he continued to be a member of that caste and suffered from the same social and economic disabilities like other members of his community. He prayed that he is being discriminated against only on the basis of religion. This petition was dismissed by the court saying: ‘It is now well established that when a violation of Article 14 or any of its related provisions is alleged, the burden rests on the petitioner to establish by clear and cogent evidence that the State has been guilty of arbitrary discrimination’ (Kananaikil 1990). The court also said, To establish that para 3 of the Constitution (Scheduled Castes) Order 1950 discriminates against Christians members of the enumerated castes (Scheduled Castes) it must be shown that they suffer from a comparable depth of social and economic disabilities and cultural and educational backwardness and similar levels of degradation within the Christian community necessitating intervention by the State under the provisions of the Contitution. It is not sufficient to show that the same caste continues after conversions. (Daniel 1988: 109)

This is not in consonance with the logic of previous amendments including Dalit converts to other religions. For example, Dalit converts to Sikhism and Buddhism have been included in the list of Scheduled Castes. No proof was called for at that time to show that they suffered the same degree of disabilities as they did previously. Dalit Christian activists ask: Why then is a different criterion used in the case of converts to Christianity? There is also another problem connected with the laws which protect the Dalits, as shown also by Kumar and Robinson in their chapter in this volume. Although there are a number of ‘Untouchability Crimes’ committed against Dalit Christians, the Scheduled Caste and Scheduled Tribe (Prevention of Atrocities) Act 1989 does not apply to 56

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Dalit Christians. Thus, the caste atrocities committed against Dalit Christians are not covered by legislation. In the absence of a comprehensive Human Rights legislation, the laws are found to be inadequate or unsuitable to deal with atrocities involving Dalit Christians. Thus ‘they do not even have a legal security!’ (Augustine 1991: 6).

Discrimination by Caste Hindus Though Christians of Dalit origin have left the caste system of the Hindus, in the eyes of caste Hindus, the Christians of Dalit origin are still Dalits. Caste Hindus deal with Dalit Christians as they deal with Hindu Dalits (see, for instance, Mosse 1986). Thus, Christians of Dalit origin are not free from the tyranny of caste system even after their conversion to Christianity.

Discrimination by Hindu Dalits Dalit Christians suffer alienation from their own fellow Dalits because of religious and cultural differences. The hierarchical caste discriminations observed by upper caste Hindus are also followed among Dalits between themselves. The Dalits are not one caste, but have several sub-castes, which are hierarchically organized. Moreover, Hindu Dalits frown upon the Christian Dalits as their potential competitors in the share of reservations, which are given by the government (Kumar 1985: 6–9). Most Hindu Dalits look upon Dalit Christians with disfavour when they seek state assistance, since they are considered to have already benefited from and uplifted by missionary assistance.

Inter-caste Discrimination Between Upper Caste and Dalit Christians Upper caste Hindus who converted to Christianity retained their caste of origin within the church. It is not uncommon for high-caste Christians to append their caste suffix to their names. Such caste names are read Dalit Encounter with Christianity

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in the church at funerals, marriages and other occasions. Normally, Christian converts follow caste customs and ceremonies during life-cycle celebrations such as birth, puberty, marriage and funeral. For marriages, every caste follows its own customs, except for the nuptial blessing in the church. They also follow the food, dressing habits and so on of their Hindu counterparts. In some instances, if the converts fail to comply with caste customs, they are ostracized from the community. Hence, practices of social distance, untouchability and social stratification are not unknown even among Christians. This is seen markedly in Tamil Nadu, for instance. Tamil Nadu has the second largest population of Christians after Kerala. Among the Christians of Tamil Nadu, around 65 per cent are Dalits (Raj 1992: 28; Statement 1994: 66). Moreover, it is in Tamil Nadu that the Backward Caste Movement and the Dravidian Movements are very active in inspiring Dalit Christians to fight for their rights. In the church history of India, one can study how caste differences and practices have persisted for the last 75 years. For example, on 15 January 1925, the Dalit Christians of Tiruchchirappalli sent a memorandum to Bishop Alexius Maria Henry Lepierier, Vicar Apostolic for India, enumerating the demands of dominant castes and the discrimination that they suffer. It stated: The absurdity of their pretentions to enforce their distinctions of caste against us in the house of God is only matched by the arrogance with which they put them forward … (1) that we should forever be segregated as untouchables in the House of God, (2) that Holy Communion should be distributed to them, first and that after they have all been served, then and then only the officiating priest should carry the Sacrament to us. (3) that our children, under no circumstances, be admitted in St. Joseph’s College, Catholic Boarding House, the Convents, the Holy Redeemer’s School, the Seminaries and other institutions.… The Hindu and the Mohomedan visitors are permitted to enter at every door in the church. Is it too much to ask for similar freedom for ourselves? We have waited long and patiently. As Catholics we demand our Catholic privilege for equal treatment in the House of God and for equal educational facilities. (Thattumkal 1983: 223–24)

One cannot bypass the problem as past history. Caste divisions and practices still exist in the Christian community. The result of the research 58

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conducted by Antony Raj and his team reveal the following discriminatory practices in the Catholic and Protestant churches in Tamil Nadu as existing in some parishes: (a) The construction of two chapels, one is for the non-Dalits and other for the Dalits. In some parishes liturgical services are conducted separately. (b) Separate seating arrangements are made within the same chapel. Dalits are usually seated in the two aisles of the church. Even if there are benches or chairs, the Dalits are asked to take their seats on the floor. (c) The existence of two separate cemeteries and two separate hearses to carry the dead bodies are found. (d ) Two separate queues are formed to receive the sacred body of Christ. In some places Dalits are asked to receive communion after the non-Dalits. (e) It is forbidden to be an altar boy or lector at the sacred liturgy. ( f ) The non-Dalits restrict the Corpus Christi procession, Palm Sunday procession and other processions only to their streets. ( g ) Dalits are not invited to participate in the washing of feet ceremony during Maundy Thursday. (h) For fear of equal participation in the celebration of the parish patron saint, the parish council does not take contribution from the Dalits. (i ) The feast of the village patron saint is celebrated separately (Raj 1992: 213–14; Stephen et al. 1990: 1–2). The report of the late Archbishop Arokiasamy, the Chairman of the Scheduled Caste/Scheduled Tribe Commission substantiates these statements of discrimination against Dalit Christians (Catholic Bishop’s Conference of India, 1989). He states: In Tamilnadu, in the predominantly Christian villages, the Harijan colony or cheri is distinct and separate from the upper caste settlement, with all the civic and municipal amenities, such as the hospital and school, being located in the area of the caste Christians. The Church in village is cruciforum (cross-shaped) as in most parts of Tamilnadu and Harijan Christians are in some places required to confine themselves to one wing of the house of God. CSCO are not allowed to assist the priest or read scriptural passages during Mass and not allowed to enter the Sanctuary. They are also denied participation in the Church choir; when Sacraments such as baptism, confirmation and marriage are being administred, the CSCO have to receive them only after the upper caste Christians have been administered the Sacraments. And they are being discriminated even in death, for CSCO are allotted their own cemeteries or a different corner of the main cemetery. In some places a wall separates the CSCOs. … Interdining is a sacrilege, while intermarriage is unheard of. Dalit Encounter with Christianity

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No caste Christian enters the home of a CSCO. During marriages in upper caste settlements CSCO are given food outside the house, served in little wicker baskets. Caste Christians never attend weddings in the cheri. Marriages or funeral processions of CSCO are banned from passing through the streets of the upper caste people. (Arokiasamy 1989: 53)

Even today, there are dissensions and quarrels between different caste groups due to the appointments or transfers of priests from one parish to another. In the selection and appointment of Bishops, caste plays a major role. So, the Christians of Dalit origin continue to live under the burden of the oppressive forces of casteism within the church and outside. There have been reports in newspapers and journals regarding ‘Christian casteism’ in many parts of India (Dinamani 2008: 5; Dina Thanthi 2008; Frontline 2008: 41; Massey 1990; Michael 1995; New Indian Express 2008a: 4, 2008b: 5; Raj 1995; Religion and Society 1987; Stanislaus 1999; Sarva Viyabhi 2008: 4; The Hindu 2008a: 10, 2008b: 5, 2008c: 8). Referring to caste within the church, The Apostolic Pro-Nuncio to India, Archbishop George Zur, in his inaugural address to the Catholic Bishops Conference of India (CBCI) at their meeting held in Pune during December 1991, made the following observations, Though Catholics of the lower castes and tribes form 60 per cent of Church membership they have no place in decision-making.… Casteism is rampant among the clergy and the religious. Though Dalit Christians make up 65 per cent of the 10 million Christians in the South, less than 4 per cent of the parishes are entrusted to Dalit priests. (as quoted by Massey 1995: 82)

The Pro-Nuncio’s observations were supported by Archbishop Alphonse Mathias, the then President of the Cahtholic Bishops’ Conference of India (CBCI). He added that the injustice meted out to Christian Dalits by the government and the church should be redressed fully (Massey 1995: 82). In spite of admonitions by the highest authorities of the church, the oppressive casteism within the church continues. On the 16th of February 1999, the late Archbishop Michael Augustine of Pondicherry–Cuddalore could not celebrate the funeral mass for the dead mother of a Dalit priest in the church of Eraiyur of his own Archdiocease. 60

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The only reason was that he was simply not permitted to do so by the majority Catholic non-Dalit Vanniyars (about 15,000) whose operative caste norms, so far, have never authorized the minority Dalits (about 1,200 Catholic Dalits and 500 non-Christian Dalits) to carry their dead along the main street of the village towards the parish church. The Archdiocesan administration has typically sat on the fence in the face of these forms of discrimination. It is only when pressure was mounted by the minority Dalits and a demand was made, by some Dalit priests, for a separate Dalit parish away from the church of Eraiyur that some attention was devoted to the issue. The response of the Archdiocese was further facilitated by the fact that there was dramatic intervention on the issue by some of the Dalit political parties such as the Viduthalai Chiruthaihal. The Statement of the Archbishop on the Eraiyur issue sought to instate justice and bring to an end the discriminatory practices. But the majority Vanniyar Catholics, though they conceded to the taking of the dead body of a Dalit along the main street that day, defied the Archbishop’s directive by destroying the cart meant exclusively for the carrying of Vanniyar corpses. They contended that a Vanniyar corpse and a Dalit corpse could not ever share the same cart on the way to the burial grounds. They alerted the press that they intended to convert en mass to Hinduism, which upholds the practices of caste discrimination and untouchability (Raja 2008: 2–3). Similar caste oppressions still continue among the Christians of different castes. The church administration claims that it feels helpless in the face of the caste consciousness of Christians, which they have inherited from Hinduism. It is not easy to calculate the number of parishes, cemeteries and places of worship, where these divisions, distinctions and discriminations are being practised today, but they are clearly present.

Discrimination by Fellow Dalit Christians Dalit Christians themselves are divided into different caste subgroups as among Hindu Dalits. In Tamil Nadu, there is a fourfold hierarchy of Dalits: namely, Pallans, Paraiyans, Sakkiliyans and Thottis. ‘Each of these has rigid and connubial restrictions. And also general urban/rural divisions [exist]…, where urbanites claim superiority. On top of it, all the class Dalit Encounter with Christianity

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divisions are added to the many subgroups of Dalits’ (Daniel 1990: 18). This is a classic example of the oppressed being ruled by the values of the oppresser. Infights are more evident in states like Andhra Pradesh, where Dalits are polarized into the subgroups of Malas and Madigas. Azariah says, ‘They (Dalit Christians) are divided among themselves into different subsects like their Hindu counterparts. They observe caste discrimination against one another, equally strongly if not more like all other Hindus’ (Augustine 1984: 36–42; Azariah 1989: 11). Christian leaders acknowledge the existence of the caste practices within the Christian community. The memorandum of the National Convention of the Christians of Scheduled Caste Origin (1981: 2–3) states: It is also found that notwithstanding conversion, caste system with all its prejudices is not destroyed but is unfortunately prevalent among the Christian converts also. They continue to be treated by their neighbours as Untouchables and are victims of the same social and economic disabilities as their Hindu bretheren of the same category. These Christian converts follow the same usages, customs, manners and habits of life characteristic to each particular caste. Except in the matter of religious belief, there is absolutely no differentiation between the converts and their Hindu brethren. In a caste-ridden society as we have in India, caste practices and prejudices die hard. Hence the Christians of Scheduled Caste origin suffer from disabilities of the practice of untouchability.

COMMISSION REPORTS ON DISCRIMINATION AGAINST DALIT CHRISTIANS Several commissions appointed by the government to study the plight of the Dalits report that Dalit converts to Christianity suffer from the same caste disabilities as Hindu Dalits even after their conversion. The Kaka Kalelkar Commission Report (1955) stated: Even a change of religion does not destroy caste. For instance, converts to Christianity sometimes carry caste practices with them though their religion does not recognize it. A large number of people belonging to lower castes, and in particular, from among the untouchables become converts to these religions to escape the rigour and humiliation of the

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Hindu caste system. It is sad to note, however, that even these converts could not easily shake off their old caste disabilities. (quoted in Raj 1992: 19)

The Kumara Pillai Commission Report (Kerala Government, 1965) too states that the caste system is found among Christians. It observes: ‘… the evidence is that the degree of segregation of the new convert from the Scheduled Castes is almost as high as before his conversion … We are convinced that in practice converts from the Scheduled Castes are treated as socially backward’ (see Arokiasamy 1992: 89). While studying the conditions of the ‘Harijan Christians in Tamilnadu’, Chidambaram states in his Evaluation Report on Intensive Agricultural Area Programme (1976: 43): The casteism is practiced widely among the members of Christian fold as judged by the prohibition of social mobility between members of different castes, inter-marriage between them, dining with members of other castes and common work. The caste system, the most archaic but the most powerful social institution in India has also permeated into the Christian religion.

The Mandal Commission Report makes the following observation (1991: 60): Though caste system is peculiar to Hindu society, yet in actual practice it also pervades to non-Hindu communities in India in varying degrees. There are two reasons for this phenomenon: first, caste system is a great conditioner of the mind and leaves an indelible mark on a person’s social consciousness and cultural moves. Consequently, even after conversion, the ex-Hindus carried with them their deeply ingrained ideas of social hierarchy and stratification … non-Hindu minorities living in a predominantly Hindu India could not escape from its dominant social cultural influences. Thus, both from within and without, castes among non-Hindu communities receive continous substance and stimulus. Despite public recognition of caste discrimination and poverty, the Dalit Christians are not included in the Scheduled Caste list. This may not be unlinked to the unspoken opposition of a Brahmanical political class to such a move as well as fears that there might be a massive shift of Dalits to Christianity if reservations were granted to them. Dalit Encounter with Christianity

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SECULAR VISIONARIES AND DALIT CHRISTIAN MOVEMENTS Secular social reformists such as Jotirao Phule, B.R. Ambedkar and several others inspired Dalit Christians in their struggle for emancipation. Jotirao Phule (1826–90) is known as the father of the Indian social revolution (Keer 1964). Other than the Christian missionaries, it was Jotirao Phule who was the first Indian to start a school for the ‘untouchables’ and a girls’ school in Maharashtra. It was his aim to reconstruct the social order of India on the basis of social equality, justice and reason. Today’s Dalit movement draws some of its basic principles from Phule. He left an indelible imprint on Ambedkar’s mind (Keer 1974: vii; Rajasekhariah 1971: 18–19). Ambedkar was inspired and guided by the example set by Phule. It is very important to understand that Jotirao Phule was greatly influenced by Christianity. He gratefully acknowledged this influence on his life and his commitment to the social concern of the downtrodden. Phule studied in the Scottish Mission School in Pune (then Poona). He was exposed to Christ and His teachings. He was so much inspired by the Holy Bible that he used to read it and applied it to his life. His social concern for the poor, marginalized women and ‘untouchables’ rose out of this Christian inspiration. He obtained much of his knowledge at the Scottish Mission School, which taught him the duties and rights of the marginalized classes (Keer 1974: 13). The impact of Christian education on Phule and his friends was such that, according to Walvekar, there were moments when they lost their faith in Hinduism and thought seriously of embracing Christianity (see Keer 1974: 15). Commenting on this, Keer writes: ‘These young students no doubt derived inspiration from the work of missionaries. Their example of service to people and their mission to spread education were worth emulating’ (1974: 15). The work of Phule was so much influenced by Christian ideals and ethics that some of his Brahmin critics from Poona began to ‘circulate a rumour among their castemen that Jotirao some day would throw them suddenly into the fold of Christianity’ (Keer 1974: 133). Phule’s perception of Christian mission can be comprehended from his attitude towards Pandita Ramabai. There was a controversy over the conversion of Pandita Ramabai to Christianity. Many upper caste Hindus condemned her for her conversion to Christianity. Jotirao, along with 64

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Rajaramshastri Bhagwat, were the two social reformers who maintained a good opinion of the Pandita even after her conversion. Phule also used this incident of her conversion to bring home the folly of Hinduism. He said that when Ramabai had not studied other religions she made brilliant speeches in Poona in exposition of Hinduism! Poor lady, ignorant of the position to which Hinduism had assigned woman and Shudra, but in England she must have realised the true position of Hinduism. (Keer 1974: 196)

Bhimrao Ramji Ambedkar (1891–1956) was very much inspired and guided by the example set by Mahatma Jotiba Phule. Ambedkar’s analysis of the reasons for caste and untouchability revealed that the Hindu scriptures are directly linked to the degraded status of the ‘untouchables’ in Hindu society. So, in 1929, Ambedkar advised the ‘untouchables’ to embrace any other religion that would regard them as human beings, give them an opportunity to break out from the oppressive structures and enable them to act, eat, walk and live like men (Wilkinson and Thomas 1972: 33). In spite of this suggestion, he was still emotionally tuned to Hinduism and was making efforts to reform Hinduism. When he found it was impossible to reform Hinduism he decided to convert to Buddhism. In spite of his conversion to Buddhism, Ambedkar’s ideas on religious conversion and Christianity inspire the Dalit Christians in their struggle for emancipation. According to Ambedkar ‘there are three reasons which have impeded the growth of Christianity’ in India. The first of these reasons is the bad morals of the early European settlers in India particularly Englishmen who were sent to India by the East India Company. The second impediment in the progress of Christianity in India is the struggle between the Catholic and non-Catholic missions for supremacy in the field of proselytization. The third reason responsible for the slow growth of Christianity is the wrong approach made by Christian missionaries in charge of Christian propaganda. The missionary approach was Brahmin-oriented. The Christian missionary wanted to get at the Brahmin. Many schools, colleges and hospitals were started to establish a contact with the Brahmin. That the Christian Missionary has been deceived is now realized by many. The Brahmin and the higher classes have taken full advantage of Dalit Encounter with Christianity

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the institutions maintained by the Christian Missions. But hardly any one of them has given any thought to the religion which brought these institutions into existence. (quoted in Moon 1989: 439)

Ambedkar also critiqued Mahatma Gandhi for his attitude towards Christian mission and conversion. Gandhi considered Harijans to be less intelligent than the cows to make decisions on their choice of religion. This attitude of Gandhi on Dalits comes out clearly during his conversation with Dr Mott. For the benefit of reading the original conversation of Gandhi with Dr Mott, I reproduce the dialogue: Dr. Mott: I agree that we ought to serve them whether they become Christians or not. Christ offered no inducements. He offered service and sacrifice. Gandhi: If Christians want to associate themselves with this reform movement, they should do so without any idea of conversion. Dr. Mott: Apart from this unseemly competition, should they not preach the Gospel with reference to its acceptance? Gandhi: Would you, Dr. Mott, preach the Gospel to a cow? Well some of the untouchables are worse than cows in understanding. I mean they can no more distinguish between the relative merits of Islam and Hindusim and Christianity than can a cow. (Gandhi 1941: 240–41)

When some missionary friends of Gandhi took exception to this comparison, he was unrepentent and did not relent, and confirmed that he had no remorse about this analogy (Gandhi 1941: 98–101). Ambedkar’s stand on conversion stands in sharp contrast to that of Gandhi. In 1935, Gandhi made the controversial statement: ‘If I had power and could legislate, the first thing I would ban is conversions.’ It is noteworthy to remember that in the same year when Gandhi made that statement, Ambedkar also made his historical proclamation on religious conversion at the Yeola Conference of 1935: ‘Though I have been born a Hindu, I shall not die as Hindu.’ According to Ambedkar, Gandhi’s arguments against Christian missions were ‘just clever’. He stated that: ‘There is nothing profound about them. They are the desperate arguments of a man who is driven to [the] wall’ (quoted in Moon 1989: 449). Ambedkar continued: ‘All these arguments of Mr. Gandhi are brought forth to prevent Christian 66

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Missionaries from converting the Untouchables’ (quoted in Moon 1989: 449). Ambedkar summarized his understanding of Gandhi on Christian mission: ‘Whatever anybody may say I have no doubt, all the Untouchables, whether they are converts or not, will agree that Mr. Gandhi has been grossly unjust to Christian Missions’ (quoted in Moon 1989: 450). Ambedkar’s perception of Christian mission comes out clear in the following statement: ‘Comparatively speaking, the achievements of Christian Missions in the field of social service are very great. Of that no one except a determined opponent of every thing Christian can have any doubt’ (quoted in Moon 1989: 452). All the same, Ambedkar was pained to realize the condition of the ‘untouchables’ in spite of their conversion to Christianity. He asked, Has Christianity been able to save the convert from the sufferings and ignominy which is the misfortune of every one who is born an untouchable? … I am sure the answer to … [the question] … must be in the negative. In other words conversion has not brought about any change in the social status of the untouchable convert. To the general mass of the Hindus the untouchable remains an untouchable even though he becomes a Christian. (quoted in Moon 1989: 470)

Ambedkar not only raised this issue, he also made a commendable analysis of why the Christian Dalits’ negative status remained the same as before their conversion. The following observation of Ambedkar with regard to the Dalit Christians is very pertinent: It is necessary to bear in mind that Indian Christians are drawn chiefly from the Untouchables and, to much less extent from low ranking Shudra castes. The social services of Missions must therefore be judged in the light of the needs of these classes. What are those needs? The services rendered by the Missions in the fields of education and medical relief are beyond the ken of the Indian Christians. They go mostly to benefit the high caste Hindu. (as quoted by Massey 1995: 107)

Influenced by these ideologies, increasingly Dalit Christians realize today that the church in India has not taken a credible step to evolve adequate strategies and programmes to walk with Dalits in their day-today struggles. The Indian church on the other hand has compromised with the caste culture of India. Hence, the Dalit Christian has become very active in the church for Dalit emancipation. Dalit Encounter with Christianity

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The present political framework influenced by Dalit leaders like Mayawati, Paswan, Ramadas Athawale, Krishnaswami, Thiru Ma Valavan and others influence the Dalit Christians to engage in their struggle for full humanity in the hierarchical Hindu society. For example, after a long struggle Dalit Christians in Bihar have formed the ‘Bihar Dalit Catholic Sabha’ to voice their concerns. This organization, based in Patna, is taking up the issue of reservation for Dalit Christians along with other national and state-level organizations in the country. It is also voicing the concerns of the Dalit Christians and the poor with respect to their placement in Catholic institutions in the Archdiocese of Patna. Similar organizations are active in Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh.

DALIT CHRISTIAN INTERROGATION OF UPPER CASTE SANSKRITIC CHRISTIANITY There is a challenge by Dalit Christians to the Indian church’s attempt to indigenize Christianity in terms of the Sanskritic culture of India. From its very inception, Christianity has been trying to indigenize itself (inculturate) on Indian cultural soil by adopting Indian architectural styles for church buildings, rituals such as aarti in the service, and lighting lamps as well as candles. These serve as official signs encouraging continuity with Hinduism. These attempts gelled with Sanskritic culture. In the beginning, there was not much resistence to this process. But with the awakening of Dalit consciousness, there is an increasing resistence to the Sanskritic model of the indigenization of Christianity. This is because the nature of Dalit religiosity, their rituals and religious practices have a distinct orientation. Their struggles have infused in their religiosity a deep sense of aversion to Sanskritic rituals and symbols of the upper castes. Let us examine the different models of indigenization that are under discussion in the Indian church(es). Scholars have analysed the varied approaches and identified models that are at work with regard to the relationship between Christianity and Indian culture(s). These models do not form watertight compartments; often they overlap. These approaches may be classified under different forms: the missionary, the monastic and the ecclesiastical models (Theckanath 2008: 2). The missionary model is one in which the missionary often tries to adopt a high-caste life-style, dress, diet customs and habits in order to be 68

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acceptable to the upper caste community, and to win them over to the faith. One classical example is that of Robert de Nobili (17th century) and some missionaries even today. The mystico-monastic model is experimented with in Christian ashrams. The insights of the Hindu classical tradition are incorporated into Christian theology and life, especially the spiritual quest for contemplation and silence, coupled with hospitality for seekers, with the spiritual leadership of a guru. Some make a distinction between Kavi and Khadi ashrams. Kavi ashrams are primarily geared towards the contemplative quest and the Khadi ashrams integrate spirituality into the socio-political movements enshrined in the ashram movement (as in the ashrams of Gandhi and Vinoba Bhave). Among the Christians the first type in the mystico-monistic model is practiced mainly by the clergy and religious men and women. This is to bring about a synthesis of Christian monasticism and the Indian form of sanyasa of the classical Sanskritic tradition within the ashram context of solitude, silence, austerity, asceticism, Christian yoga and contemplation inspired by the Upanishads, the Gita and the like. The examples of such indigenization are: Henri Le Saux (Swami Abhishiktananda), Jules Monchanin (Swami Parama Arubi Andannda), Vandana Mataji, Swami Amalorananda, Sara Grant and others. The primary path of spirituality is contemplation or the jnana marga. This model also includes Bhakti yoga through bhajans, kirtans and namjapa (chanting the holy name). These ashrams also contribute to inter-religious dialogue, mainly at the level of the elite members of both communities (Theckanath 2008: 2). The ecclesiastical model springs from the inspiration of the Second Vatican Council. The Post-Vatican II efforts in this area were initiated by ecclesiastical authorities, and designed by theologians and liturgists. It aimed at inculturating the Catholic official rituals. They emerged from the official centres and formation houses, such as seminaries and pastoral centres. These efforts began to have an effect mainly on the religious communities and were used in special celebrations. To this we can add the incultration of music, art, architecture and dance, almost all of which are related to liturgy and prayer, mostly sponsored, directed and used by the ecclesiastical set-up. These too have to a large extent drawn from the classical traditions (Theckanath 2008: 2). The foregoing experiments to indigenize Christianity in India did not bring much fruit. The Dalit Christians who form a major part of the Dalit Encounter with Christianity

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population of Indian Christians do not feel at home with the Sanskritized rituals in the Indian church. Moreover, the accumulating knowledge of the cultural reality of India as well as the socio-cultural movements of Dalits of India have added further to the questioning of the traditional understanding of Indian culture. All these have added much to the debates among theologians with regard to the methods of indigenization of Christianity in India. Maria Arul Raja, a theology professor in Chennai, laments that the Indian church has not taken ‘Dalits as their dialogical partners’ (2008: 138). He claims that ‘only a handful of Dalit priests could openly claim their cultural roots with a sense of belonging’ (Raja 2008: 139). Before Dalits converted to Christianity, they had their own traditions, mythology, customs and folk religion. This cultural creativity did not vanish with conversion and was gradually brought into consonance with the Biblical world. Yahweh could be thought of as the deity of a large family (kula deivam) or of an ethnic group or people (namma saami). These associations are viewed positively by Dalits. They are comfortable with the idea of God the Protector (kaaval deivam) and of the powerful God expressing wrath (the Lord of Hosts). The idea of God as Emmanuel resonates with their life experiences (Raja 2008). The story of the death of Jesus as the result of his defiance of the legalistic norms of his time brings immediate response from Dalits who see him as the kaaval deivam who is in deep solidarity with their struggle against caste oppression. Dalit Christians have built their own shrines and developed their own devotional practices; most of these have many elements of popular religion with or without the knowledge or approval of the offical church. Dalit popular Christianity in Tamil Nadu, for instance, has continuities with ancestor worship, nature and spirit worship. Dalit folk deities are called in Tamil variously as devams, saamis, ammans, devatas and peey-pisasus. These terms may be loosely translated as ‘gods’, ‘goddesses’ and ‘demons’ (see Moffat 1979: 219). The Christian battle between good and evil powers is configured among the Dalits as the struggle between their malevolent and benevolent deities. Dalit Christians are vehemently opposed to Sanskritized forms of indigenization of the chruch in India. While upper caste Sanskritic Christianity attempts to adopt the symbol of ‘Om’ in art and in chants, the Dalits have not taken to this symbol. 70

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CONCLUSION The chapter brings out the changes in Dalit everyday life brought about by conversion to Christianity, emphasizing that no radical social transformation took place. Indeed, the study shows that today Dalit Christians continue to suffer from five-fold discrimination, namely: discrimination (a) by the government, (b) by the caste Hindus, (c) by fellow Hindu Dalits, (d) by the upper caste Christian community and (e) by the subgroups of the Dalit Christians themselves. The battles within the church and with church authorities for the right of Dalits to equal treatment are clearly delineated. The ambivalent postures of the church authorities become transparent through the analysis. The refusal of the state to recognize Scheduled Castes among Christians becomes even more indefensible in the face of the fact that several commissions of enquiry have pointed to the segregation and discrimination of Christian Dalits. The Indian church has been making efforts to indigenize itself, but the forms of Sanskritic indigenization have been rejected by the Christian Dalits (Michael 2003: 78–107). Further, in their socio-political mobilization, Dalits have launched an attack not only on discrimination and forms of Sanskritic inculturation within the church, but also on hierarchical Hindu society as a whole. For instance, organizations in Bihar, Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh are engaged in such struggles. In their mobilization, Dalit Christians have been influenced by a range of political actors and reformists, both in the past and at present. These include Babasaheb Ambedkar and Phule as well as Paswan, Ramadas Athawale or Krishnaswami. In fact, the chapter points out how Phule and Ambedkar were themselves influenced by particular aspects of Christianity, especially the impulse towards social service, education and serving the poor. This reciprocal influence of Christianity and Indian discourses of reform is of considerable interest to understand both the particular responses of different reformers as well as that of Dalits themselves.

REFERENCES Archdiocesan Weekly. 2008. ‘Christian Protest’, in Tamil Sarva Viyabhi, Pondicherry, 6 April, p. 4.

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Arokiasamy, M. 1989. ‘Caste and Conversion’, in Report of the General Meeting of the CBCI. New Delhi: CBCI. ———. 1992. ‘Dalits’, in Report of the General Meeting of the CBCI. Pune: Ishvani Kendra. Augustine, P.A. 1984. Andhra Church: The Caste Factors. Jaipur: St. Xavier School. Augustine, S.M. 1991. ‘The Problem of the Christians of Scheduled Caste Origin’, in M.E. Prabhakar (ed.), Relevance of Dr. Ambedkar for Christian Dalit Struggles in India, pp. 1430–37. Bangalore: NCCR. Azariah, M. 1983. Witnessing in India Today. Madras: UELCI. ———. 1989. Mission in Christ’s Way in India Today. Madras: Christian Literature Society. Boel, J. 1975. Christian Mission in India: A Sociological Analysis. Amsterdam: ASA Publications. Casmir, G. 1991. ‘Wasn’t Christ a Carpenter’s Son?’ The Sunday Times of India, Bangalore, 22 December. Chidambaram, P. 1976. Evaluation Report on Intensive Agricultural Area Programme, 1975. Madras: Government of Tamil Nadu. Daniel, D. 1988. ‘The Constitution (Scheduled Castes) Order 19 of 1950 and the Scheduled Caste Christians’, paper presented in Tamilnadu Christians Dharimiga Conference, Tiruchchirappalli, 24–25 September. Daniel, P. 1990. ‘Dalit Christian Experiences’, in X. Irudayaraj (ed.), Emerging Dalit Theology, pp. 18–54. Madras: Jesuit Theological Secretariate. Dinamani. 2008. ‘Christian Protest’, Dinamani, Chennai, March, 2008, p. 5. Dina Thanthi. 2008. ‘Editorial’, Dina Thanthi, Madurai, 17 July. Fernandes, Walter, Geeta Menon and Philip Viegas. 1988. Forests, Environment and Tribal Economy: Deforestation, Impoverishment and Marginalisation in Orissa. New Delhi: Indian Social Institute. Franco, Fernando, Jyotsna Macwan and Suguna Ramanathan. 2004. Journeys to Freedom. Dalit Narratives. Kolkata: Samya. Frontline. 2008. ‘Dalit Christians Demand’, Frontline, Chennai, 15–30 April. Gandhi, M.K. 1941. Christian Missions. Ahmedabad: Navjivan Publishing House. (1960, 2nd edition) Ghurye, G.S. 1963. The Scheduled Tribes. Bombay: Popular Prakashan. Gyanoday RTC Khaspur Patna. 2009. Dalit Christians in Bihar. Their History, Identity Struggles and Future. Patna: Prabhat Prakashan. Kaka Kalelkar Commission Report. 1955. ‘Report of Kaka Kalekar’, 3 January, New Delhi: Government of India. Kananaikil, J. 1984. Constitutional Provisions for the Scheduled Castes. New Delhi: Indian Social Institute. ———. 1990. Scheduled Caste Converts and Social Disabilities: A Survey of Tamilnadu. New Delhi: Indian Social Institute. ———. 1993. Scheduled Caste Converts in Search of Justice: Constitution (Scheduled Castes) Orders (Amendment) Bill, 1990, Part III. New Delhi: Indian Social Institute. Keer, Dhananjay. 1964. Mahatma Jotirao Phooley: Father of Indian Social Revolution. Bombay: Popular Prakashan. ———. 1974. Dr. Ambedkar: Life and Mission. Bombay: Popular Prakashan.

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Koshy, Ninan. 1968. Caste in Kerala Churches. Bangalore: Religion and Society Publications. Kumar, Yogendra. 1985. ‘Dalit Christians Can’t Claim our Share in Reservations’, Dalit Voice, 4 (18): 6–9. Mandal Commission. 1991. Mandal Commission Report of the Backward Classes Commission, 1980 Reservations for Backward Classes. New Delhi: Akalank Publication. Massey, James. 1990. ‘Christian Dalits in India: An Analysis’, Religion and Society, 37(3): 24–39. ———. 1994. Roots: A Concise History of Dalits. New Delhi: ISPCK. ———. 1995. Dalits in India. Religion as a Source of Bondage or Liberation with Special Reference to Christians. New Delhi: Manohar Books. Memorandum. 1981. The Memorandum prepared by the follow-up Action Committee of the National Convention on the Plight of the Christians of Scheduled Caste Origin, pp. 4–5; see An Open Letter from Catholics of Scheduled Caste Origin belonging to the Scheduled Castes Welfare Association of the Thiruvadanai Taluk of the East Ramnad District to all the Catholic Bishops and Christians in Tamil Nadu, November 1981, pp. 2–3. Michael, S.M. 1995. ‘The Emerging Dalit Consciousness’, Indian Missiological Review, 17(1): 5–13. ———. 2003. ‘Culture, Nationalism and Globalizaton: Politics of Identity in India’, in P.G. Jogdand and S.M. Michael (eds), Globalization and Social Movements. Struggle for a Humane Society, pp. 78–107. New Delhi: Rawat Publications. Moffat, Michael. 1979. An Untouchable Community in South India: Structure and Consensus. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Moon, Vasant. 1989. Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar Writings and Speeches, Volume 5. Bombay: Education Department, Government of Maharahstra. Mosse, D. 1986. ‘Caste, Christianity and Hinduism: A Study of Social Organisation and Religion in Rural Ramnad’, D.Phil. Thesis, Oxford University. NBCLC. 1978. Statement and Resolution of the National Convention of Christian Leaders on the Plight of Christians of Scheduled Caste Origin. 15–19 June, NCCL/P/CSCO/ Doc.no.33, National Biblical, Catechetical and Liturgical Centre (NBCLC), Bangalore. Raj, A. 1992. Discrimination against Dalit Christians in Tamilnadu. Madurai: Ideas Centre. ———. 1995. ‘The Dalit Christian Reality in Tamilnadu’, in Augustine Kanjamala (ed.), Integral Mission Dynamics. An Interdisciplinary Study of the Catholic Church in India, pp. 70–88. New Delhi: Intercultural Publications. Raja, A. Maria Arul. 2008. ‘Dalit Cultural Streams as Dialogical Partner with the Church’, paper presented at the CBCI Conference on Cultural Challenges to Christian Mission Today, Ishvani Kendra, Pune, 2–4 August. Rajasekhariah, A.M. 1971. B.R. Ambedkar: The Politics of Emancipation. Bombay: Sindhu Publications. Religion and Society. 1987. ‘Editorial: Christian Dalits and Caste in Churches’, Religion and Society, 37(3): 1. Stanislaus. 1999. The Liberative Mission of the Church among Dalit Christians. New Delhi: ISPCK.

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Statement. 1994. Statement of the Tamilnadu Catholic Bishops’ Conference (TNCBC), Marian Year 1987–88, in Tamilnadu Catholic Bishops’ Conference Statements (Tamil). Madurai: Deeper Christian Life Ministry (DCLM). Stephen Nirmal, A.P. and John-Peter. 1990. The Plight of Christians of Scheduled Caste Origin (CSCO) of Roman Catholic Church in Tamilnadu. Madras: Dalit Liberation Education Trust (DLET). Tamilnadu. 1986. ‘The Tamilnadu F.O. Ms. No. 558 SWD dated 24-2-86’, in Tamilnadu Govt. Aid to the Christians, p. 131. All the Scheduled Caste Christians are included in the Backward Class category except the Paravar, Meenavar and Kukkuvar, who are included in the Most Backward Class. Thattumkal, J. 1983. Caste and Catholic Church in India: A Historical-Juridical Study on the Nature of the Caste System and its Implications on the Catholic Church in India. Rome: Pontifical Lateran University. Theckanath, Jacob. 2008. ‘Inculturation in India: Review and Prospects in the Pluricultural Context of India’, paper presented at the CBCI Consultation on Cultural Challenges to Christian Mission Today, Ishvani Kendra, Pune, 2–4 August. The New Indian Express. 2008a. ‘Dalit Christians Protest and Lock up 25 Churches’, The New Indian Express, Chennai, 17 March. ———. 2008b. ‘Nellai Teashops Mirror Caste Divide in TN’, The New Indian Express, Chennai, 29 April, p. 5. The Hindu. 2008a. ‘Dalit Christians Boycott Palm Sunday Celebrations’, The Hindu, Chennai, 17 March, p. 10. ———. 2008b. ‘Christians Threat to Convert’, The Hindu, Chennai, 28 March, p. 5. ———. 2008c. ‘Show you Care’, The Hindu, Chennai, 30 April, p. 8. Valiamangalam, Joseph. 2008. Community in Mission. Mission Consciousness of Christian Communities. A Contextual Missiological Study. New Delhi: GVD/ISPCK. Webster, John C.B. 1992. Dalit Christians: A History. New Delhi: ISPCK. Wilkinson, T. and M.M. Thomas (eds). 1972. Ambedkar and the Neo-Buddhist Movement. Madras: Christian Literature Society (CLS).

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C H A P T E R 4 Margins of Faith: Dalits and Tribal Christians in Eastern India Jose Kalapura

INTRODUCTION A discussion on the religious life of a society tends to assume that there are two types of religion: the ‘popular’ and the ‘elite’. Popular or folk religion is that of the masses, the pervasive beliefs, rituals and values of a society, whereas elite religion is that of the specialists, the learned or the clergy. Studies on the growth of Christianity in different cultural contexts have highlighted that Christianity, and Catholicism in particular, usually enmeshes with local cultures, appropriates local myths, compromises with local traditions and even borrows local beliefs and superstitions. Most Christian communities in India have retained some or other of their pre-conversion culture and practices. This chapter unravels the divergent strands in the ‘lived religion’ of Dalit and tribal Christians in eastern India. Practical faith or lived religion has always been merged in multiple traditions, whereas dogmatic religion tends to make distinctions

subtle and clearer. Robinson argues that the ‘great’ and the ‘little’ traditions are not polar opposites, but are ‘constantly negotiating and interacting with each other and with the social milieu within the contours of a specific ethnographic situation’ (Robinson 1998: 23). I shall explore from within, ‘the knit and pattern of the socio-ritual life of the community and the sifting elements blended therein’ (Robinson 1998: 24). At the outset, the theme ‘margins of faith’ needs nuanced understanding. In the colonial period, most missionaries tended to consider the faith of the new converts as marginal, characterized by pagan elements. Therefore, they did not recruit the native converts to clerical or religious life.1 Are Dalits and tribals ‘marginal’ Christians today? In this volume, Mosse argues that Christian institutions have provided the context for the reproduction of caste inequality and Dalit Christians are ruled by non-Dalits within the church. Kujur (Chapter 2 in this volume) puts forward the view that the church ends up Sanskritizing its rituals in the name of tribal inculturation, a process that only alienates tribes and their cultures further. This chapter takes up this discussion in the context of Dalit and tribal Christians of eastern India and argues for considering Dalits and tribals as different, rather than marginal. Christianization can be defined as the comprehensive process of religious transformation of which baptism is just a starting point. Apropos the objective of the missionaries, namely ‘lifting the cultural level of the people’, we should examine how this was attempted and how far the Dalit and tribal religious culture has changed. This chapter will examine in some detail, how Dalit and tribal Christians negotiate their former religions with Christianity. In other words, we focus on how they live their religion in everyday life, in two religious worlds, or at the ‘margins of faith’. Besides relevant documents and studies, I have used for this study narratives of the converts particularly older informants, my own observation of their everyday practice of religion, their ritual observances, devotional practices, celebration of life-cycle rituals and the like (John 1999).

LOCATING DALIT AND TRIBAL CHRISTIANS IN EASTERN INDIA Dalit and tribal Christian communities comprise a large majority of the Christians in eastern India. Although ‘eastern India’ comprises of 76

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Bihar, West Bengal and Jharkhand, Chhattisgarh and Orissa, in this chapter, I include only Bihar where Dalit Christians are largely found, and Jharkhand, which has the largest concentration of tribal Christians. Within these geographical limits, one can locate a considerable number of tribal Christians (mostly Santhals) in south-eastern Bihar, northern Orissa and in northern Chhattisgarh. The demographic pattern has been changing due to migration of tribal Christians from Jharkhand to many urban centres in Bihar. Hence, what is said about the tribal Christians in Jharkhand is applicable to the Santhal tribal Christians in the districts of Bhagalpur, Purnea, Katihar, Saharsa in Bihar and other tribal Christians in northern Orissa and northern Chhattisgarh. So also, what is generally said about the Dalit Christians in Bihar (mostly in south Bihar), is applicable to the Dalit Christians of eastern Uttar Pradesh, as these live in contiguous areas and share the same caste identity and religious traditions, both preconversion and post-conversion. Continuous Christian presence in Bihar is nearly 260 (since 1745) years old. Among several denominations working in Bihar, the Catholic section is the oldest and has the largest following. The three major ethnic Christian communities in Bihar are: (a) the Bettiah Christians, converted largely from upper and middle castes at Bettiah town in West Champaran district, but spread all over north India, (b) the tribal Christians consisting of mostly Santhals in south-eastern Bihar within the diocese of Bhagalpur and (c) the Dalit Christians, who live mostly in the central districts of Bihar. In Jharkhand, Christian presence began in 1845, but conversions in large numbers began only in the 1880s. Tribal Christians in Jharkhand generally belong to some ten tribes, although there are nearly thirty tribes in Jharkhand.

SECTION I Dalit Christians in Bihar Though Dalits in Bihar began to convert to Christianity in the late 1880s through Protestant missionaries, a ‘mass movement’ was visible only in the 1930s, following Jesuit missionary involvement in rural central Bihar. Unlike mass movements in Andhra Pradesh or Punjab, conversions in Bihar occurred due to kin-group ties and in family lines Margins of Faith

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within different castes. The vast majority among them were Chamars, also called Ravidasis,2 numerically the largest among the twenty-three Scheduled Castes in Bihar. The other castes which entered the Catholic church were Dusadhs, Doms, Musahars and a few others. Dusadhs form a majority, followed by Chamars and Musahars, in the Protestant churches whereas nearly 95 per cent of the Catholics are Chamars. As per church data, there are some 50,000 Dalit Catholics in three dioceses in Bihar. Certain Protestant groups (especially some forty recent Pentecostal ones) have claimed that Bihar has some 68,000 Dalit Christians from seventeen Scheduled Caste groups. Practising Christianity has religious and sociological implications. After conversion, the Dalits were placed amidst three external interacting forces: (a) the priest-in-charge and other mission functionaries of the parish as custodians, or commissioned spiritual preceptors, of a territorially bound community of believers, (b) the parish as an enlarged local community of believers in the new faith, and of its practice and (c) the mission or church as institution, through which the individual Dalits were related with the wider, universal Catholic church. The introduction of these institutions carried a change in the identity of the Dalit: he may be located in a village, but he is simultaneously a member of the local parish, the local diocese and the universal Catholic church. The networking of these structures offered the Dalit, after conversion, a sense of relatedness to other members elsewhere. The institutional framework through which the convert had to live his new religion (Christianity) was new to Dalits. The converts were expected to associate regularly with several institutions and activities: the church as the centre of Christian worship; the parish as the community of Christians in a given area; the sacraments as rites of interiorization and practice of Christian religious life; and a host of other generally recognized Christian practices. If a convert does not profess the basic tenets of the Catholic church, observe its particular laws on moral life or associate with the official church centre or parish of the area, he was not considered a ‘practising Catholic’. He remained a baptized Catholic, but in the category of ‘non-practising’ or ‘non-professing’. Due to the contemporary government policy of denying the benefits of reverse discrimination to Dalits who converted to Christianity, many converts claim to have ‘reverted’ or have remained as ‘non-practising/ non-professing’ Christians in order to avail of facilities given only to Dalits 78

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who are Hindus. This is one of the major reasons why Dalit Christians live in two religious worlds. Though Christians of Scheduled Caste origin have been campaigning for inclusion in the Scheduled Caste category, the official stance of the church has been ambiguous; its campaigns have been subdued. Further, church functionaries in Patna tend to interpret the campaign as evidence of ‘lack of faith’. Concerned over the increase in the non-practising category of Catholics, they have increased efforts at ‘faith formation’ through such means as catechising programmes, discourses, seminars and insistence on regular participation in church services, rituals and sacraments.

Christianity in Dalit life: Beliefs and Practices With conversion to Christianity, many earlier Dalit beliefs and practices came under pressure. A new set of beliefs, creeds and tenets were now placed before the Dalits. The process was apparently initiated through certain monitored channels of indoctrination. Interestingly, we see that while adopting new changes, Dalits retained certain aspects of their former religion. The former domestic religion was inside the house, around it, in the open field or under a tree. With Christianity, the centres of worship shifted to the church, which was away from the villages where Christians resided. Even the repositories of spirits shifted from the house of ancestors (sira ghar) to the Christian cemetery located near the church, which Dalits occasionally visited. Moreover, while festivals had been occasions for social gatherings in the pre-conversion period, after conversion, besides the new festivals, even regular weekly (Sunday) church services became social occasions. There was a change of format in relating to the supernatural: instead of propitiation, prayers, both formal and informal, were offered to the Christian God, with symbolic offerings and prayer for the dead. The prayers for the dead, during holy Mass and at other services seem to have been understood as substitutes for ancestor worship, which converts were expected to discard at baptism. A host of officially declared saints and venerable persons in the church were sought for intercessory functions through prayers. The former individual or family relations with the dead was linked to community prayers, when the worshipping assembly Margins of Faith

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prays for all dead members generally, and for individual dead members specifically on request. Thus, the family’s dead members have now been linked to the spiritual community of the parish and the priest. Many rituals and religious practices such as sacraments, attending holy Mass, taking out religious processions, devotions to saints, novenas3 and so forth have become part of the religious culture. Life-cycle ceremonies are marked by Christian sacraments. These are now performed mostly in the church and sometimes at home, officiated by Christian priests. Besides, the earlier set of sacred objects has been replaced with holy water, rosaries, blessed medals, pictures and the like. As an aspect of the church’s initiative in indigenizing4 the liturgy, many local cultural frameworks have been retained. For instance, in marriage ceremonies Ganga jal (water) was substituted with holy water from the church and Lord Ganesh’s statue was substituted with statues of Jesus Christ and Mother Mary. Indigenous marriage customs which came into conflict with Christian beliefs were, however, discarded (Sahay 1986: 165–69). Indigenization covered the folk tradition of the people also, particularly music, folk songs, story telling in poetry such as popularizing the singing of Isayan (Life of Christ in folk style in the local dialect).5 As one informant said, ‘Though we left Ramayan we have now Isayan.’ A significant aspect of the religio-cultural change has been the adoption of new names by the converts. Conversion being a break with the past and the beginning of a ‘new life in Christ’,6 receiving new names implied acquiring a new identity as Christian. The adoption of new names, usually after a Christian saint, became customary. Most early converts adopted completely new names, which were Christian but sounded alien.7 By the 1950s, the church encouraged indigenization in naming by permitting the use of Hindi equivalent of Christian names (for instance, ‘Vikrant’ for ‘James’ or ‘Anugrah’ for ‘John’).8 A study of the names of the converts in a particular village reveals a combination, often rhyming, of former Hindu names and the newly adopted Christian names, for instance, Gopichand Gregory, Lakhan Lucas or Madho Mathew. The original first names remained in everyday use, while the Christian names have been used for official purposes only. Some Dalits continue their former practices, particularly in times of stress and strain. Thus, there is some cultural and religious oscillation among some of the converts (Sahay 1986: 237). This was evident in the response of my informant Baptist to my query how often they consulted bhagats and pundits (Hindu priests). He said, 80

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Some Christians used to privately consult bhagats to be cured of diseases. But we stopped calling them. The pundits are called for marriages only. Marriage is a social function and we want to invite all our relatives many of whom are Hindus. The Church is far away for us.… But when the Church priests agreed to come to the villages to officiate at marriages, we stopped that practice.9

In spite of ‘re-adjustment’ and ‘compromise’ in certain aspects, some former practices and beliefs persist, coming in conflict with the newly adopted Christian beliefs, practices and values. The community has also partially retained certain jati-based cultural traditions such as playing the drum and dancing.10 By permitting partial retention of the former marriage customs and keeping up a devotional relationship with the dead, the church absorbed the ruptures that would otherwise have arisen while abandoning age-old religio-cultural customs. For instance, the marriage ritual was permitted to be held in the village to accommodate the people’s custom. From the 1960s, some missionaries had encouraged such indigenization.11 Another aspect was the change in the habit of eating certain foods, considered to be defiling for the whole community. Under strict missionary control, the converts gave up eating carrion and flesh.12 In recent times, some abandoned practices have also come to be re-evaluated and re-introduced. For instance, in Shahpur parish in southwest Bihar, a few converts who had given up Chhat puja13 decades ago celebrated it in 1989 at the grotto of St. Mary, in front of the church. The lotus-shaped grotto with the statue of Mother Mary erected inside a glass case and built in a pond provided a suitable ambience for Chhat celebration. The self-initiated celebration, however, was devoid of the usual prayer to the Chhat Mata (Chhat Mother) as in Hindu celebration, but included a prayer to the Mata Mariam and fruit offerings. How did the church functionary respond to it? He said: ‘I did not object to it because it is an expression of people’s faith, adapted and sustained in the light of new religion.’14 Nevertheless, some early converts resented it: ‘We are old Christians; we don’t celebrate any Hindu festivals,’ said one.15 We notice a shift from the local, ‘domestic’ notion of God to one of a universal nature and having more ‘power’. Christianity in the early years (for instance in Shahpur parish in Bhojpur district) was referred to as ‘the religion of Father Pollard’ (the founding Jesuit missionary of the parish) as people were wont to associate sects with preceptors (gurus), permitting a spiritual relationship with an ishtdevta.16 However, the religion of the Margins of Faith

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Dalits changed to ‘Masihi Dharma’ (Religion of the Jesus Christ, the Messiah), as succeeding missionaries focused on the indivisibility of the Messiah.

Christianity in Dalit life: Attitudes, Values and Worldviews Conversions did not automatically raise the ‘cultural level’ or the social status of the Dalits. They continued to be treated as ‘low’ by the higher castes in the early years, and were sometimes jeered for abandoning their dharma and hobnobbing with a ‘foreign’ religion. They also continued to discriminate against the castes further down the social ladder. A majority of the Dalit converts had been unwilling to inter-dine, much less inter-marry, with converts of other castes. In recent years, however, there has been greater mutual acceptance of other castes below as well as above, as caste boundaries somewhat weakened in urban contexts, especially in Patna. An inter-caste, inter-ethnic Christian ‘brotherhood in religion’ has been emerging as Dalit Christians, along with other migrant groups such as the tribal Christians from Chotanagpur, the Bettiah Christians and Christians belonging to other ethnic groups make urban parish communities. The process of ‘combination’ or replacement of socio-religious structures seems to have been simultaneous with the process of segregation from the former society and assimilation into the new Christian community (Boel 1975: 54–58; Sahay 1986: 227–63). The church sought to loosen the mindsets based on caste, and on the separateness of caste groups among the converts. This has been noticeable since the 1980s, when increasing inter-caste marriages had begun to take place among the converts. For instance, the Dhusiya jati (sub-caste) Chamar Christians of western Bihar have begun to marry the Magahiya jati Chamar Christians of central Bihar. Similarly church sources indicate that increasing number of marriages have begun to take place between Dalit Christians and Christians from Dusadh, Paswan, Musahar caste groups, on the one hand, and significantly between the tribal Christians from Jharkhand and the Bettiah Christians, on the other.17 The main considerations in these cases, it seems, were higher income, prestigious jobs and better educational qualifications.18 82

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Some Dalit Christians did not accept certain church regulations and Christian values. To a question regarding which aspects of their new religion they did not like, one informant said: The church’s restrictions on marriage are too strict. Our Christian girls are more educated than other girls of our caste are. Therefore, the Hindu bridegrooms want Christian brides. For the Christians obtaining the right choice of marriage partners is difficult because of our small number. However, the church does not permit Hindu partners.19

There were also indications of their interpretation of what constitutes ‘proper’ affiliation to Christianity. The oft-repeated terms asli, pasli and nasli/lachaar (real, half-real, fake or lukewarm) Christians indicate three perceived levels of adoption of Christianity as a way of life by the Dalits of this village. It is, in particular, the church functionaries who employ such distinctions. The earlier taunting of Dalits for their ‘foreign’ religion by the Hindu members of the community seems to have disappeared; as one Devlal Sharma, a Brahmin associate of Shahpur Mission said: ‘We disapprove of the nakli Christians, for they are neither sincere in Hindu dharma nor in the Masihi dharma.’20 The nakli Christians here would refer to those who remain non-practising or revert to Hinduism in order to get government benefits meant for Dalits. The Dalits tend to see the oppressor in every high-caste person. For instance, ‘The Dalit Christians in our village covertly object to the presence of the few Brahmin Christians (the Ojha and Shastri families in Shahpur) saying, “These [Brahmins] are coming to our Church to continue to oppress us. They want to deprive us of our benefits from the Mission.”’21 Unlike other parts of India, however, upper caste oppression in the church here has not been severe, nor Dalit discontent pronounced.22

Constructing Dalit Christian Identity and Space The Dalit socio-religious universe was reshaped extensively. The making of the Christian community of the Dalits was not a sudden process: it was a transition characterized by gradual replacement of entrenched earlier religious traditions with new understandings of religion (Christianity) Margins of Faith

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and the structuring of everyday life with alternative (Christian) rituals and practices. In the process, certain socio-religious boundaries with their former society were drawn, and other boundaries with their new co-religionists, blurred. The latter process led towards a new Christian community, with a wider identity. Several studies have highlighted this process in terms of change and continuity.23 Sahay has described it in terms of a combination of mechanisms such as replacement, compromise or combination, and persistence in the context of the tribal Christians of Chotanagpur (Sahay 1986: 227–63). The process can be conceived as a continuum. Should one search for strains of the old and new religion at any particular moment of time, he or she would find both, but in different degrees. The new socio-religious space, carried much from past, yet also contains a great deal that is novel. To use a familiar paradigm, the Dalit Christian community of Bihar has been open to two sets of influences—the earlier domestic religion which was a Little Tradition within the Great Tradition of Hinduism and the Little Tradition of the local, lived Christianity, part of the Great Tradition of Christianity (Boel 1975: 46–47, 57–58; Marriott 1955). The Little Tradition of Dalit Christianity is somewhat distant from the ‘ideal Christianity’, which the church functionaries strove to establish. The ‘open system’ wherein converts continue to live Christianity in their former Hindu neighbourhoods creates a milieu different from the ‘Mission Compound System’ (as in the case of the Bettiah Christians) where converts live Christianity in less-open neighbourhoods. The degree of control cum patronage cum preceptor relationship of mission functionaries with the converts seems to have been less in the ‘open system’. The making of this Christian community and the construction of its identity are conditioned by the context. The non-Christian wider society calls the Christians ‘Chamar Christians’, but they assert that they are ‘Dalit Christians’. ‘Chamar’ is a received, inherited identity. They have attached the ‘Dalit’ prefix as part of their new consciousness. The Christian dimension of the identity expressed itself earlier as ‘Chamar Christians’or ‘Harijan Christians’. At the time, legally and politically they were referred to as the Depressed Classes. These terms have been replaced with ‘Dalit Christians’ and ‘Scheduled Caste Christians’ respectively. Their Christian identity seems to represent their symbolic and religious re-formulation of a break from their past, their attempt to assume greater equality, freedom and 84

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justice, and to seek a new worldview under an alternative socio-religious system. Opting for this system is a ‘repossession’ of personal and social capabilities and a ‘calculated cultural move’ towards attaining desired aims (Khare 1984: 30). There is now a blurring of ethnic distinctions and of particular ethnic identities in the urban neighbourhoods, with an increasing number of marriages between Christians of diverse backgrounds. The Dalit Christians of Patna have, in recent times, begun to acquire a further layer of identity: the former ‘Harijan Christians’ of Patna are now largely known as just ‘Patna Christians’.24

SECTION II Tribal Christian Communities in Jharkhand Jharkhand state, bifurcated from Bihar in November 2000, comprises twenty-two districts and has a population of 26.9 million, of which 4.1 per cent is Christian as per Census 2001. Though considered a ‘tribal state’, the percentage of tribals is only 27.67, comprising some thirty communities, the main ones of which are Santhals, Oraons, Mundas and Hos. A majority of the Christians belong, in decreasing order, to Oraon, Munda, Kharia, Santhal and Ho tribes. Christianity arrived in the area with the Lutheran missionaries from Germany in 1845 followed by the Catholic (Jesuit) missionaries (1869) and others.25 Tribal conversions increased rapidly during the 1880s, effected mainly by a Jesuit missionary Constant Lievens popularly known as the ‘Apostle of Chotanagpur’. Lievens’ missionary methods and charisma saw a wider geographical and ecclesiastical expansion during the brief period of his ministry (1885–91). Christianity gradually spread to the other tribal inhabited contiguous areas of the present-day north-eastern Chhattisgarh state (mainly in Jashpur, Raigarh and Ambikapur regions), northern Orissa (Sambalpur, Rourkela and Sundergarh regions) and western part of the West Bengal state (regions of Purulia, Dinajpur and Raniganj). Today the tribal Christians of Chotanagpur are spread not only in Jharkhand state, but also in the Andaman Islands, Assam, West Champaran in north Bihar and North Bengal, besides in many urban centres in north India. Margins of Faith

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Tribal Christianity: The lived Religion Christianity, along with other forces of change such as colonial rule and political revolts, has had much impact on the economic, educational, social, cultural, political and religious life of the converts.26 In the socio-religious realm of the tribals, Christianity has been one of the fundamental factors of the structural, cultural and ideological changes. Change of faith replaced the old Sarna religious traditions with Christian ones, which implicated certain changes in culture, mode of celebration of cultural and religious festivals, village organization, rites of passage, social and personal life, dance, dormitory, sex life and marriage customs and norms. Till conversion a tribe was a relatively homogeneous group with shared socio-religious traditions. After conversion, Christianity brought about marked heterogeneity in their life and culture leading to what Pandey calls ‘caste like groups’ within the tribe. This stratification was stringent with regard to marriage. Earlier, rules of tribal endogamy and clan exogamy existed. After conversion, religion also came in as a criterion for choosing marriage partners within the tribe: Christians could not marry non-Christians. At the same time, encouragement was given to inter-tribe marriage among different tribes, but outside one’s clan. While it created inter-tribe solidarity founded on religion (Christianity), it created a wedge within the tribe. According to K.N. Sahay the process of Christianization was characterized by oscillation, securitization, combination, indigenization and retroversion (Sahay 1976: VIII, IX). Cultural oscillation suggests a sort of fluctuation between two essentially opposed sets of ideals and values belonging to the two different traditions. Christian tribals simultaneously held certain beliefs and practices having Christian and Sarna elements, which often tended to be contradictory. Thus, a baptized tribal attended prayers and religious services, made the sign of the Cross, put on religious medals or learned the Christian/Western way of greeting by hand-shake, but may have hardly understood the implications of the Christian faith. Secretly or openly, he/she continued to practice indigenous spirit worship, witchcraft and the observance of Sarna festivals or performances like Sarhul, Karam and Khalihani puja. These observances were definitely opposed to the Christian faith. Fellow 86

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converts call such Christians Kachcha Christians (raw Christians) as they have mithya biswas (superstitious belief) in them (Pandey 2005, Chapter 6, pp. 175–76). Cultural oscillation may also be pronounced when the converts are in some trouble or facing a critical situation (Pandey 2005: 183). Usually, in such circumstances, people revert to belief in witchcraft, the evil eye, witch-doctors and even the propitiation of indigenous spirits. The two-world religious realm of the tribals is also characterized by cultural securitization which is a process due to Christian impact that leads to the elimination (Linton 1959: 45; Murdock 1960) of certain Sarna elements, on the one hand, and the retention through cultural scrutinization of some, on the other. Generally, it is preceded by oscillation and is associated with the second and later generations. In the first generation the people were converted to Christianity mostly in adulthood, and oscillated between the two sets of values and traditions owing to their nominal affiliation with Christianity, their early socialization in Sarna traditions and their partial understanding of Christianity. The converts of the second and later generations began with a greater or complete socialization in the Christian traditions and had a greater understanding of Christianity. Their gradual religious training and continuous education by the missionaries ensured this. The elimination of Sarna elements is motivated by different factors. Several elements of the Sarna tradition stand in direct conflict with Christianity and are gradually eliminated among the converts. Ghost and spirit-worship or its associated observances and festivals like Khaddi, Karam, Kadleta, Katni, Dwar-Puja, Khunt-Puja, Bangori and KhalihaniPuja were eliminated. Belief in witchcraft, magical conjuring and witchhunting were also attacked and eliminated. Cultural scrutinization may not involve a total elimination, or total retention of a particular Sarna belief or practice. There might be the elimination of only that part of such belief or practice which conflicts with the Christian faith while other aspects that can be reconciled with Christianity may be socially approved and retained. Another factor behind the elimination of Sarna elements is a sense of distinction or the cultural and social segregation between the converts and the Sarna tribals. Acceptance of Christianity gave the people a feeling of religious superiority over the non-Christians (Pandey 2005: 184). Margins of Faith

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They were impressed by the missionaries, and paganism was considered a cursed thing. This brought a consequent gulf between the converts and their fellow Sarna tribals. The former began to look down upon most of the beliefs and practices of the latter. The Christians wanted to maintain some apparent distinction so that other people might not associate them with their ‘pagan’ brethren. This feeling of religious superiority, backed by a sense of distinction from the believers of Sarna religion, also motivated the converts to eliminate some practices associated with the latter, although these may not have clashed with the Christian faith. Another feature of the twin-religious world of the tribals is retention, wherein the religious and the social aspects of Sarna tradition are distinguished. While religious practices are opposed to the Christian faith, social practices have no conflict with Christianity and are retained. The most obvious example of such retention can be noted in a series of practices and ceremonies associated with the indigenous type of marriage known as Marwa Benja, which have found social approval among the converts and are practiced, apart from church-marriage. Cultural scrutinization is followed by the process of cultural combination, which may be described as the mixing up or combination of the retained Sarna elements with newly introduced Christian elements. This process cannot be associated with any particular generation of converts. Combination may not be smooth however, but may be preceded by prolonged conflict between the Sarna and Christian traditions.27 The concept of ‘indigenization’ involves some degree of complexity. There is a partial replacement of a Sarna belief or practice by functionally similar Christian elements fulfilling indigenous needs. Such replacement by or combination of Christian elements does not seem to disturb the framework of the indigenous belief or practice in question; rather the new elements get integrated in it and are thus indigenized.28 The ‘liminal world’29 of the tribals is also characterized by cultural retroversion process which may be described as the re-evaluation of previously eliminated Sarna elements and their re-adoption after necessary modifications to suit the changed needs and outlook of the converts (Pandey 2005: 186). This process operates generally through the understanding of Christianity, or the socialization into it acquires some depth. The use of vermilion constitutes a typical case of retroversion. This practice was eliminated by the converts at the time of their conversion 88

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as it was associated with Sarna religion. But now the Catholics have begun to realize that there is no harm in using vermilion, as it does not conflict with Christianity.

Constructing Indigenous and Tribal Identity Christianity in the region does not smack of ‘foreignness’ but appears as a religion that is culturally rich and retains many indigenous cultural aspects of the people. The only exception seems to be the use of Latin or European names as first names while indigenous surnames are retained. Belgian missionaries of Chotanagpur permitted the tribal converts to retain their respective tribal clan names. Indeed, this has proved to be a blessing for them: they can assert their tribal identity against the current onslaught of the Hindutva forces, who argue that tribals converting to Christianity have lost their tribal identity. Also, the tribal ethnic identity has benefited them as they are constitutionally entitled to get reservation as Scheduled Tribes. In brief, tribal Christians are tribals socially and ethnically, while remaining Christian, in religion. In recent decades, in a process of further indigenization, they have begun to use Indian Christian names. In keeping with the Catholic teaching of Vatican Council II from the 1960s, tribal Catholics have been carefully studying the meanings behind their pre-conversion feasts and festivals and tend to celebrate them in the same manner as their non-Christian tribal brethren. The process can be conceived as a continuum. Should one search for strains of the old and new religion at any particular moment of time, he/she would find both, but in different degrees.

Concluding Reflection: ‘Margins of Faith’ and Margins in Society As noted earlier, ‘margins of faith’ needs nuanced understanding. If the term marginal implies that the faith of the Dalits and tribals is ‘marginal’ because they are nascent Christians it would appear to smack of a Eurocentric, colonial perspective, which looked down upon Asian Margins of Faith

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varieties of Christianity as being ill-formed or shallow. Again, one has to consider the reflection in the phrase of a view often held by upper caste Christians, who present themselves as the ones who are rooted in their faith as traditional Christians. Dalits are looked at as being superficial Christians and wavering in their faith. Implied herein is the perception that the faith of the Dalits is inferior compared to the higher faith of the superior castes. In fact Dalits often defend their right to be Christian by refusing to officially change their Christian names to Hindu names, which might bring them the benefits of reservation enjoyed by other Dalits. In doing so, they forego considerable material benefit.30 At the same time, there are also Dalit Christians who use their Christian identity to take advantage of some benefits, but hide it out of fear or in circumstances of perceived threat. This could be perceived as a lack of conviction in one’s faith, but there are others who have argued in a different way. Kumar and Robinson, in this volume, argue that while it may be considered a tactic for the poor Christians to try to obtain reserved seats in educational institutions and jobs as well as other associated benefits by claiming to be Hindu, the assumed Hindu identity is also guided by a more fundamental need. An Andhra Dalit group is very vulnerable to caste brutality if it is not protected by the Scheduled Caste and Scheduled Tribe (Prevention of Atrocities) Act, 1989. Prakash Louis, in his article on Dalit Christians in Bihar narrates an incident wherein certain Dalit Christians, while carrying the dead body of a person, shout ‘Ram Naam Satya Hai’ while passing by Hindu onlookers, and while nearing the local church shout ‘Jai Yesu’. The author views this occurrence as a symbol of the subaltern predicament of the group (Louis 2000). Christian tribals do not suffer from such a constitutionally created discrimination based on religion. From this perspective, and in these areas, the idea of the ‘marginality’ of the Dalits acquires a different but urgent dimension. The question about margins of faith brings to fore certain historical aspects of Christianity and culture. Historically, when Christianity spread among communities in Asia Minor and Europe, it appropriated the customs, traditions and even rituals of the host communities and was transformed while it effected transformation on the converts. Many of the so-called Christian traditions, festivals, feasts and customs of Roman Christianity were non-Jewish, non-Christian or pagan ones. With the assault of aggressive evangelization, which effected mass conversion 90

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movements in the later Roman Empire, the existing Greek-influenced Judeo-Christianity was Romanized, accommodating non-Christian Roman names, ‘pagan’ customs, festivals and traditions. After Christianity was accorded the status as official religion of the Roman Empire, the Greco-Roman heritage of Christianity became the norm for universal Christianity. Today, the Catholic church centred in Rome is increasingly concerned about preserving this Greco-Roman heritage of the church, much to the discomfiture of a world-wide Christianity characterized by genuine diversity and respect for the indigenous and local variety in its lived form. The crucial question is: why should European Christianity be the norm? Be that as it may, European Christians today tend to revert back to their pre-Christian spirit religions and traditions. Contemporary discourse on the Christianization of Europe has raised poignant questions such as whether Europe, considered once as the centre of Christianity, was ever Christian. A rethinking on the process of Christianization of Europe reveals that Christians had borrowed ‘pagan’ beliefs and retained indigenous customs, on the one hand, and missionaries had selectively presented Christianity to draw similarity with the local cultures, on the other. The lived Christianity of the lay folk everywhere, in other words, existed in a variety of indigenous ways, though there might have been theological uniformity in varying degrees. Therefore, I would affirm and defend the diversity of Christianity rather than accept a homogenized, Eurocentric, Greco-Roman Christianity today. Well-established traditions become norms for new converts, depending on who evangelizes. Unlike St. Paul of the ancient period, who accommodated local culture, traditions and customs, European missionaries since the 16th century did not distinguish between religion and culture, and imposed, even using violent instruments as Inquisition, European Christian culture on those who accepted Christianity. They were suspicious and intolerant of indigenous religious customs and beliefs. However, there were exceptions: Jesuit missionary Robert De Nobili (d. 1656) of Madurai Mission in Tamil Nadu introduced Christianity in the Indian idiom, accommodating many Hindu customs and traditions. Indian Christian history has shown that wherever Christianity gradually gained ground without coercion under colonial dispensation, it assimilated indigenous customs and traditions and assumed local colour.31 Margins of Faith

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Fortunately, the Catholic church’s acceptance of diversity has begun to gain currency after Vatican Council II, which initiated a historical change of attitude towards Oriental Christianity and to other religions as well. Indian Christianity has a distinct identity, characterized by Hindu and Christian traditions. Further, unlike other parts of the country, in the region I have dealt with, caste has receded considerably in the church and there is no acute upper caste oppression or explicit Dalit disgruntlement. Ethnic boundaries have begun to blur and there are more inter-caste marriages. Based on my material, therefore, rather than categorizing Dalit and tribal Christians as being on the ‘margins of faith’, I would simply describe their Christianity as ‘Dalit and Tribal Christianity’ or ‘the religion of the Dalit Christians and of Tribal Christians’, which are varieties of Christianity among the numerous heterogeneous Christian traditions existing in the world today.

NOTES 1. For instance, beginning with Saint Francis Xavier the Jesuit Society for over 200 years did not recruit Indian Christians to the society due to reservations about them. So also, Xavier and other missionaries were assisted in evangelization work by trained native convert catechists from Pearl Fishery coast. However, even their names do not find mention in mission documents. For a reading on this policy, see Costelloe (1993). Also, Don (1974). 2. Named after Sant Ravidas, a medieval religious guru of the same caste, who had become popular for his panth (tradition). 3. Novenas are Christian popular devotions in honour of saints seeking their intercession for obtaining blessings of God; held usually for nine days prior to the particular saint’s day called feast day. 4. The church’s attempt at indigenizing religious life, called inculturation, is largely done at the initiative of the religious specialist: in the case of the Catholic church such steps are introduced by its official liturgical committees. Inculturation should be distinguished from indigenization, which takes place spontaneously in the lived religion of the people. 5. Written in Bhojpuri this poetic presentation of the Life of Christ resembles, the epic Ramayan. 6. Epistle of St. Paul, 2 Corinthians 5:17, Colossians 3:10. 7 . Caste names were removed and Christian names were adopted by adult converts, whereas children received their father’s name as their second name.

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8. The Hindi translation of Christian names made for use in northern India was a functional one, choosing an existing Indian name having the same meaning. Names reminiscent of Hindu mythology had been carefully avoided. For example, ‘Ignatius’ (Latin origin, meaning fiery, burning) is ‘Tejkumar’, ‘Kevin’ (Celtic origin, meaning comely) is ‘Sunderlal’, ‘Irene’ (Greek origin, meaning peace) is ‘Shanta’, ‘Ruth’ (Semitic origin, meaning friendly, beautiful) is ‘Shobha’, etc. See Sah et al. (1956). 9. Interview with Mohangu Baptist, 21 April 1997, Ganj, Bhojpur district. 10. Some Christians have retained their caste-based occupation, playing the dhogar (drum) as they considered it only a cultural prerogative rather than an aspect of the jajmani-pauni service. Secondly, playing the hijda dance (men dressed in women’s dress, dancing to the tune of drums, forming a part of certain marriage rituals) was another cultural tradition. Studies elsewhere have shown that since these dances had sexually suggestive movements, they were banned by missionaries. However, some Dalit Christians continued to perform the dance, as it was monetarily rewarding, but informants say that many converts have stopped the tradition. See Fishman (1941: 185). 11. For instance, the founder-missionary of Shahpur parish, Bhojpur district: Father Nicholas Pollard, see Cox (1994: 132). 12. For instance, eating carrion and meat. One of the traditional caste-based rights—pauni rights—of the Dalits was the flesh of dead cattle which, it seems, they used to eat. However, they have given up that habit. A similar instance has been noted by A.T. Fishman: the Madiga converts in Ongole, Andhra Pradesh gave up eating tsachina mamsamu (carrion): see Fishman (1941: 194). 13. Chhat: an important festival in Bihar celebrated on the 15th day of Kartik month, especially significant for women who offer prayers for male children and husbands. 14. Interview with Father Mani Thundathikunnel, 15 January 1998, Shahpur. 15. Interview with George Sakhichand, 19 January 1998, Ganj, Shahpur. 16. Personal god, a Hindu tradition. See similar observations among the Medak (Andhra Pradesh) Christians, by Luke and Carman (1968: 165). 17. Instances of such inter-caste marriages among the Dalit Christians elsewhere in Patna diocese are reported. There are a few such instances among the Dalits of Ganj. 18. Interview with Srikant Patrick, 29 June 1997, Patna. 19. Interview with Ramesh Robert, 23 May 1998, Ganj. 20. Mr Sharma, aged 70, has been friend and advisor of Father Pollard. Interview with Devlal Sharma, 12 May 1998, Shahpur. 21. Interview with Father Alfred Poovattil, quoting Deo Narayan Barsaun, 13 June 1997. 22. The problem of caste discrimination within the church is serious in other places. However, in Bihar, caste within the church has been less overt for a number of reasons: first, the only group which has caste origin (both upper and middle castes) is the Bettiah Christians, who are numerically very small and not caste-conscious; second, inter-caste interaction among different ethnic Christian groups occurs only in urban parish contexts wherein there has generally been a greater sense of equality and dignity among the Christians. For a study on caste discrimination against Dalit Christians, see Oommen (2003). 23. See for instance, Bayly (1992), Robinson (1998) and Godwin (1972).

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24. Meaning, local Dalit Christians of central Bihar under Patna and Buxar dioceses. 25. The main missionary bodies which have worked in Chotanagpur since 1845 are (a) Gossner Evangelical Lutheran Mission from Berlin, (b) Roman Catholic Mission from Belgium, (c) Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts from London, (d) Church Missionary Society from London, (e) Scottish Free Church Mission from Scotland and (f) Dublin University Mission from Ireland. In the post-independence era, several denominational groups such as (a) Seventh Day Adventists, (b) Christian Brethren, (c) Watch Tower Mission, (d) Mennonite Mission and numerous (e) Pentecostal sections in very recent times, began to work in Jharkhand. 26. For a study on the impact of Christianity on the tribals of Jharkhand, see Kalapura (2003), Sahay (1986), Mahto (1971) and Tete (1997). 27. Dancing presents a case in point. In the Sarna tradition, boys and girls used to dance every night at the village Akhara (dancing platform). It went until late night, and then they would retire to their respective dormitories. With the advent of Christianity, it was thought that such free mixing encouraged moral degradation. Hence, the matter was discussed in the Catholic council, and a proposal was made that the dancing at the Akhara be stopped. However, it was difficult to do away with this practice completely, as it was deep rooted. In due course a compromise was reached between Sarna and Christian values involving some degree of relaxation from both sides, which ultimately led to combination. It was decided that the converts may dance, but only during festivals like Easter, Christmas, light-procession, Nawakhani and Sohrai and that it would be stopped by sunset. 28. Pandey (2005: 186) cites an example of a confined woman. During confinement, Sarna tradition treats a woman as polluted. She is believed to be weak owing to foul blood discharged from her body and to be an object of attraction for evil spirits. To provide magical protection for her and the new child, objects like an axe, a ploughblade, a fishing-net or a cane stick are placed at her bedside. With conversion most of the converts have eliminated this practice. However, some others took a different view of it. Even now, they continue to believe that a confined woman is susceptible to evil influence and needs magical protection. But instead of indigenous objects, they now use objects of Christian importance, namely, images and pictures of Jesus Christ, Mary or St. Joseph or a cross and a rosary at her bedside. Here it should be noted that the framework of this Sarna practice, that is, belief in the protection of the woman and her child from spirits during confinement by placing certain objects at the bedside, remains as it is. Only partial elements of this practice, that is, placing of indigenous objects, have been eliminated and replaced with Christian objects that are equally believed to serve the desired magical purpose. 29. On the theme of liminality in religion, see Mayaram (1998). 30. In different parts of the country, Christian Dalits use this dual identity whenever convenient depending on the context. When they need admission in a Christian school they proclaim their Christian identity. When they look for a government job, they uphold their caste Hindu identity. Another manifestation of this dual identity is conversion and reversion depending on the opportunistic context. This has been manifested in a kind of schizophrenia among Dalits. One of the finest examples is

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found in Balasaheb Gaikwad (1990) from Ahmednagar district who has written a book Christi Mahar in Marathi. It is autobiographical and gives insights into the kind of schizophrenia that change of faith and of culture have created. See Lobo (2000). 31. For instance, St. Thomas Christians, Vasai Christians. See Visvanathan (1993) and Baptista (1967).

REFERENCES Baptista, Elsie W. 1967. The East Indians: Catholic Community of Bombay, Salsette and Bassein, Bandra. Bombay: The Bombay East Indian Association. Bayly, Susan. 1992. Saints, Goddesses & Kings, Muslims and Christians in South Indian Society, 1700–1900. New Delhi: Cambridge University Press and Foundation Book. Boel, Josef. 1975. Christian Mission in India: A Sociological Analysis. Amsterdam: Academische Pers. Costelloe, Joseph M., S.J. 1993. The Letters and Instructions of Francis Xavier. Anand: Gujarat Sahitya Prakash. Cox, Jim. 1994. We Band of Brothers, 50 Sketches of Patna Jesuits, Volume I. Patna: Patna Jesuit Society. Don, W.L.A. Peter. 1974. Xavier as Educator. Raj Niwas Marg, Delhi: Jesuit Educational Association of India. Fishman, A.T. 1941. Culture Change and the Underprivileged, A Study of Madigas in South India Under Christian Guidance. Madras: The Christian Literature Society for India. Godwin, C.J. 1972. Change and Continuity: A Study of Two Christian Village Communities in Suburban, Bombay. Bombay: Tata McGraw-Hill Publishing Company Ltd. Khare, R.S. 1984. The Untouchable as Himself: Ideology, Identity, and Pragmatism among the Lucknow Chamars. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. John, Jose K. ( Jose Kalapura). 1999. ‘Religion and Community: The Making of the Bettiah and Ravidasi Christians in Bihar, 1930–80’, unpublished Ph.D. thesis, Centre for Historical Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Dellhi. Kalapura, Jose. 2003. Church in Chotanagpur: Mediating Change through Education, in Beni Ekka, H.K. Singh, V.P. Sharan and Anirudh Prasad (eds), Catholic Church in Jharkhand: A Mediator of Change, pp. 197–221. Ranchi: Xavier Institute of Social Service. Linton, Ralph. 1959. The Tree of Culture. New York: Alfred A. Knopf Books. Lobo, Lancy. 2000. ‘Dalit Christians and Church Personnel in India’, Third Millennium, III(3): 46–67. Louis, Prakash. 2000. ‘Conversion & Cultural Alienation from the Perspective of the Converted’, Third Millennium, III(3): 68–80. Luke, P.Y. and J.B. Carman. 1986. Village Christians and Hindu Culture. London: Lutterworth.

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Mahto, S. 1971. Hundred Years of Christian Missions in Chotanagpur since 1845. Ranchi: Chotanagpur Christian Publication House. Marriott, McKim. 1955. ‘Little Communities in an Indigenous Civilisation’, in Village India: Studies in Village Tradition, pp. 171–222. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Mayaram, Shail. 1998. ‘Meo Identity: Cultural Faultline, Syncretism, Hybridity or Liminality?’ in Mushirul Hasan (ed.), Islam, Communities and the Nation: Muslim Identities in South Asia and Beyond, pp. 283–305. New Delhi: Manohar Books. Murdock, George, Peter. 1960. ‘How Culture Change’, in J.E. Nordskog (ed.), Social Change, p. 93. New York: McGraw-1 till Book Company Inc. Oommen, George. 2003. ‘Christianization or Dalitisation: The Twentieth Century Experience of Dalit Christians in Kerala’, Indian Church History Review, 36, June (1): 1–22. Pandey, Ravi Bhushan. 2005. Christianity and Tribes in India. New Delhi: Academic Excellence. Robinson, Rowena. 1998. Conversion, Continuity and Change: Lived Christianity in Southern Goa. New Delhi: Sage Publications. Sah, R.P., C. Bulcke and S.N. Wald. 1956. Hindi Christian Names. Allahabad: St. Paul’s Publications. Sahay, K.N. 1986. Christianity and Culture Change in India. New Delhi: Inter India Publications. Sahay, Keshari, N. 1976. Under the Shadow of the Cross. Calcutta: Institute of Social Research and Applied Anthropoloby. Tete, Peter. 1997. A Short History of the Expansion of the Catholic Missions in North India. Ranchi: Ranchi Jesuit Society. Visvanathan, Susan. 1993. The Christians of Kerala: History, Belief and Ritual among the Yakoba. Madras: Oxford University Press.

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C H A P T E R 5 Varieties of Dalit Christianity in North India John C.B. Webster

INTRODUCTION This chapter is based on three important assumptions. The first is that Christianity as a religion is shaped not just by its founder, its scriptures and traditions, but also by the social groups which have embraced it. Down through its history and across the globe Christianity has been an embodied religion. Just as it believes that Jesus as a person shaped the ways in which God’s grace and truth have been transmitted to the world, so too the particular sociology and culture of Christian communities have shaped the ways in which the Christian message has been experienced, understood and mediated to the wider society since then. The second assumption is that the local congregation may be the best unit for studying how Christianity is shaped by the social make-up

and culture of its adherents. Christians gather in local congregations for corporate worship, for instruction in the faith, for life-cycle rituals, for mutual care and for carrying out together whatever other activities they consider mandated, desirable or necessary. In addition, local congregations are at the very least semi-autonomous bodies with their own particular identities and visions, their own patterns of belief and piety, their own cultures, power structures and social dynamics, all of which are affected by who the members are and what kind of ‘baggage’ they bring into the church with them. All of these very human ‘facts of life’ interact with the Christian God, scriptures and traditions to give a congregation’s Christianity its own particular character. A third assumption is that a local congregation is a Dalit congregation when all or almost all of its members come from castes long considered untouchable. This is the most common current and historical use of the term ‘Dalit’ (Webster 1999), which is why it is used here. However, there were those respondents who rejected the label not because my use of it was inaccurate, but because they considered it inappropriate, and even emotionally ‘loaded’. Either it was a painful reminder of a past they wished to put behind them, or they felt caste background is (or ought to be) irrelevant to Christian identity, or they associated it with a life-style, with a standard of living and level of education, or with an ideological agenda, or with eligibility for Scheduled Caste benefits1 which did not apply to them.2 These reactions themselves are very significant because they get close to the heart of what is being explored here. This chapter seeks to describe Dalit embodiments of Christianity in north India by looking at five Dalit congregations there selected for their diversity. One is located in western Uttar Pradesh, one in Delhi and three in the Punjab. Two are urban and three are rural. Moreover, each belongs to a different Christian denominational tradition. Each of the five congregations was visited for Sunday worship. In addition, separate extended interviews were conducted with the pastor, members of the congregation’s local leadership, a group of women and some youth belonging to the congregation. These congregational case studies are preceded by a brief historical introduction, while the concluding section makes comparisons between the congregations to see what generalizations about Dalit Christianity in north India might be drawn from them. 98

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THE HISTORICAL CONTEXT Christianity was relatively late in establishing itself in north India. Its initial base was in Agra where the Jesuits’ Mughal Mission, invited initially by the Emperor Akbar, had created a small Christian community which continued a somewhat precarious existence beyond the abolition of the Jesuit order by Pope Clement XIV in 1773. Sardhana became a second important Christian centre when the European adventurer, Walter Reinhardt, received it from Emperor Shah Alam II in 1769. After his death, his widow, Begum Samru, converted to Christianity in 1781 and became patroness of the Christian community there. In 1803, when the British captured Delhi, Christian communities in the north were more transient than settled, and priests to serve them, even in Agra and Sardhana, were in very short supply. When the East India Company charter was revised in 1813, and again in 1833, to allow first British and then other missionaries to work among the Indian population, Protestant missionaries moved into the region through Bengal.3 Up until 1857 new conversions were few and slow in coming. Christianity was a novelty and social sanctions against converts were severe. Some individuals and nuclear families from diverse backgrounds were baptized each year, but nothing more. Soon after the 1857 revolt ended, however, there were some deviations from this pattern in the form of small local conversion movements within specific Dalit castes. Baptists and Anglicans found considerable interest in Christianity among the Chamars in Delhi and almost all of their converts came from Chamar bastis (neighbourhoods).4 In Moradabad district there were small group conversions first among Mazhabi Sikhs and then among some Chamars.5 Some Mazhabi Sikh sepoys in the twenty-fourth Punjab Native Infantry posted in Peshawar started converting until General Birch put a stop to it (Webster 2007: 78–79). In 1859–60 thirty-three Kabir Panthis were baptized in Dehra Dun.6 However, the major Dalit-initiated rural mass conversion movements began later in the 19th century and continued on through the first third of the 20th century. One was a Chuhra movement which was most pronounced in the central Punjab; the other was a Bhangi movement in the western districts of the United Provinces.7 The former began in the 1870s but really picked up momentum in the 1880s. The latter began in Varieties of Dalit Christianity in North India

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the 1880s but became very conspicuous from the 1890s onward. The size of the two movements is reflected in the census figures for the Christian population of the two provinces. (See Table 5.1.) After World War I, when missionaries saw their human and financial resources stretched to the limit by these growing movements, they began shifting their emphasis away from evangelizing the unbaptized towards building up self-governing, self-supporting and self-propagating churches within their various denominational structures among those already baptized. This was no easy task, given the poverty and dependency of a membership consisting almost entirely of landless Dalit agricultural labourers, as well as the often geographically scattered nature of their small congregations. However, with the possibility of Indian independence and an uncertain future for the foreign missionary on the horizon, a viable Indian church under Indian leadership was considered essential if Christianity was to survive in north India. TABLE 5.1: 5.1 Indian Christian Population of Punjab and the United Provinces, 1881–1931 Year

Punjab

1881 1891 1901 1911 1921 1931

3,912 19,750 38,513 163,994 315,031 395,629

United Provinces 13,255 23,406 68,841 136,469 168,763 173,077

Source: Census of India.

Since independence Dalit Christians in north India have been subject to the same forces of democracy, the Green Revolution, urbanization and economic development as have other Dalits, although without the assistance of Scheduled Caste benefits. In the midst of changes much more rapid than before, their percentage growth has approximated that of the region’s population at large and they have struggled to survive, not only economically but also both as members of a religious minority and as Dalits. This, then, is the broad historical context in which the five congregations under study have been living. More detailed accounts of their history and setting are provided with each case study. 100

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HOLY TRINITY CHURCH, TURKMAN GATE The oldest congregation under study is Holy Trinity Church, located close to Turkman Gate in New Delhi. Its historical roots go back to the evangelistic work of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in the Chamar bastis of Delhi and its neighbouring villages from 1860 onward. In 1883 these Anglican missionaries purchased four sites on which to settle some of their Chamar converts who agreed to avoid work on Sundays as well as participation in non-Christian rites and ceremonies.8 One of these sites was at Turkman Gate. In 1905 a beautiful Byzantinestyle church was built there, thus creating a separate congregation and cementing a close relationship between the church and the basti. Whereas all of the original residents and members were leather-workers, by 1947 none of them were, and today it is a predominantly middle class congregation of skilled and white-collar workers in diverse occupations and professions (Daniel 2002). The souvenir for the centenary celebrations in 2005, to which the Chief Minister of Delhi and the bishop of the Delhi Diocese of the Church of North India (CNI)9 came, presented in its photographs and felicitations a congregation with a respected place in church and society, as well as with strong family ties binding members to the congregation.10 Both the pastor and the local leadership describe worship at Holy Trinity as very traditional and Anglican. The people want the CNI liturgy followed strictly, that is, in a high-church Anglican manner. On the Sunday I was present, the pastor wore Anglican vestments rather than a CNI stole; portions of the liturgy were sung in Anglican style, and all the hymns were Hindustani translations of English hymns. People left their shoes at the church door before entering and the men generally sat on the right and the women on the left of central aisle. During the twohour service the pastor preached a half-hour sermon on the importance and reward of loyalty to Christ amidst competing loyalties (a major concern of his); a newly married couple came forward for a special blessing; and Holy Communion was served. Christian piety here, among women who are a majority of those attending worship, seems to be a mixture of faithfulness to tradition, close fellowship with other members and prayer. This, they find, brings inner peace and blessing. For the youth it is best expressed in music. Varieties of Dalit Christianity in North India

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Holy Trinity has a pastorate committee, members of which are elected by the congregation to three-year terms, that looks after the church property and coordinates all church activities. It reports annually to a general meeting of the congregation. In addition, there are active women’s and youth groups, both of which have their own programmes and carry out some tasks for the congregation as a whole. For example, the women visit the sick and help organize the Sunday School, while the youth clean the church and organize Christmas caroling groups. As these examples suggest, the activities of the church are confined largely to religious functions, to acts of compassion towards those in need and to the upbuilding of the church community. Within this formal structure women have sought to gain a greater voice in the pastorate committee, whereas the youth have struggled to get their initiatives accepted and funded. While members generally defer to the wishes of the pastor and pastorate committee, a few years ago the youth refused to perform their normal church duties unless their request for funding one of their programmes was met. Many members of Holy Trinity were upset at being labeled a Dalit congregation. As one put it, ‘[W]e are not Dalits; we are Christians. We should not go back.’ The pastor pointed out that there is no Dalit identity in urban churches. He neither encourages his parishioners to affirm their Dalit identities nor bases his ministry to them on the premise that they are Dalits. The important thing is their Christian identity. Members of the pastorate committee acknowledged that they hide rather than affirm their caste identity as they want to be accepted; feelings of inferiority have not entirely vanished from the congregation. One informant said that when the young people were surveyed, they expressed a desire to move out of the basti so as not to be identified with it and the low status associated with it. The drive for respectability seems strong in this upward mobile congregation and they are proud of the progress they have made. However, the demon of caste-based ascribed status is still present in their midst, even among the youth who have not experienced caste discrimination. The pastor of Holy Trinity is concerned that its members be grounded in, be shaped by and openly profess ‘a pure, Bible-centred message’ so as to be neither highly influenced by the Islamic way of life of their immediate neighbours nor lured away by such Christian sectarian groups as the Church of the End Time, the Jehovah’s Witnesses or the Mormons, 102

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who are actively seeking to win them over. The major concerns of the women interviewed seemed centred around the quality of life within the church community: its progress, harmony and an equal respect for all its members. The youth interviewed, all but one of whom were students, were concerned about future employment and, under the influence of a recent retreat on the theme, ‘Dare to be Different’, personal life-style issues. The pastorate committee’s primary concerns were growth in membership, as there had been hardly any new members in recent years who were not connected by family ties with the Turkman Gate basti, and Delhi’s master plan for the expansion of its metro line, which will cut through the basti causing the demolition of its primary school and some of its residences.11

OUR LADY OF ASSUMPTION CHURCH, GAKHLAN VILLAGE The village of Gakhlan is located about twelve kilometres from the centre of Jalandhar City in the Punjab. The first Christian families there were Protestants from the Chuhra caste. The Protestants built a church in the village but when Roman Catholic evangelists arrived, took up residence, and opened a school there, they won over most of the Protestants. In 1974 they built a small church and later when a chronically ill man was healed while praying in that church, membership increased so that in 1988 Gakhlan became a separate parish. In 1992 sisters of the Convent of the Sacred Heart arrived from Kerala and established a junior school, which has since become a senior school. A new and larger church building, Our Lady of Assumption Church, replaced the earlier one. It has classrooms for pre-school and kindergarten on the ground floor with the sisters’ residence and chapel upstairs. Plans are under way to increase the size of the chapel. The congregation of about 135 families is drawn from Gakhlan and its neighbouring villages. The members have come from the same caste as the original Christians there, whether as Balmikis or as Mazhabi Sikhs.12 An estimated 35 per cent are first generation and the rest are second generation Christians. Most are day labourers, some are skilled and several distribute gas cylinders by cycle or scooter. There is a lawyer, some nurses and an office clerk among the members. The women work ‘like slaves’ in Sikh houses or stitch footballs at Rs 12 per ball. The older generation Varieties of Dalit Christianity in North India

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is largely illiterate, but the younger generation has taken advantage of the school’s fee concessions to get a Catholic education. However, they find it difficult to get employment at decent wages because of the antiChristian bias they run into. As a result, many seek opportunities to go abroad and, when successful, send money back home. Our Lady of Assumption Church is well served by professional staff. The priest comes daily from Jalandhar to morning Mass as well as on Friday evenings and Sunday mornings for lengthier services of worship. There are also four sisters resident in the village who, in addition to their school responsibilities, conduct prayer meetings and visit parishioners either on their own or with the priest. There is an elected parish council, which includes nominees of the parish priest, which is responsible for church functions and, at its monthly meetings, offering suggestions to the priest for the betterment of the parish. There is also a women’s group (the Legion of Mary), a youth group, an angel group (young children) and a mission league (boys and girls, ages 15–20). Both the Legion of Mary and the youth group conduct prayer meetings, help with church programmes and take collections on behalf of the poor. While women’s leadership is largely confined to the Legion of Mary, the youth serve as altar boys and lead in the novena, rosary and singing during Mass. Apart from prayer meetings, worship at Our Lady of Assumption Church consists of half-hour morning Masses, a Friday evening and a Sunday morning service consisting of a rosary, adoration of the Blessed Sacrament (Fridays only), the Mass and a novena. These are conducted in Punjabi using Punjabi music led by the youth playing Punjabi instruments. They last about two hours. While the components of corporate worship are generic, during the adoration of the Blessed Sacrament the current priest uses a kind of charismatic prayer of rapidly repeated Bible verses to which the people respond with hallelujahs. On Sunday mornings the priest preaches a sermon.13 For the people corporate worship is a time to come together before God as one body, a time to be reminded of God’s love for them, a time to pray and to experience inner peace. The consecration and reception of the sacrament are, for them, the most important moments in worship. While they expressed a definite preference for Catholic worship, some among them also go to Protestant religious conventions when held nearby. From the vantage point of the Gakhlan Catholics, their root problem is poverty, not caste. They face little, if any, caste discrimination. They are 104

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content with their status as Christians, even though they do face religious discrimination because theirs is a ‘foreign religion’. They do not like to be called Dalits, do not want that known and do not feel inferior to others. Christianity has given them self-confidence and a better upbringing for their children. Others have urged their young people to say that they are Hindus when applying for admission into educational institutions or for jobs, but they have refused to do this. They are proud of their religion and do not want to deny it. In the eyes of their priest, when one is a Christian, one is neither a Dalit nor a non-Dalit. He acknowledges that Dalit Christians have more material needs and make greater material demands than do other Christians, but attributes this to their poverty and not to their caste. Similarly, members of the parish council see their lack of financial resources rather than their caste as the chief obstacle in the way of raising their status. The Our Lady of Assumption congregation is characterized by a devotional piety in which God’s love for them and their love for God is central. It is this kind of faith which the priest and sisters seek to deepen beneath the emotional level. As he put it, ‘My vision is that they be formed into a real faith-nurtured community, a real Catholic community, and do things according to the mind of the universal church, and be a replica of it.’ This piety expresses itself at Gakhlan in worship which is very participatory, with mutual help both within the congregation and among local jati (caste group based on kinship and lineage) members, in obedience to the priest (which the youth told me was a Catholic virtue), and involvement in diocesan activities. (They value the good reputation they enjoy in the diocese.) The major challenges they see themselves facing are the economic constraints and barriers to significant upward mobility the younger generation face in what is perceived to be a very tight job market.14

EVANGELICAL CHURCH OF GOD, BHATIAN BASTI The oldest congregation of the Evangelical Church of God, a Punjabi Pentecostal church which begun in 1965, is located in Bhatian Basti in Ferozpur City. It has also been the mother church for a good number of pastors who have served the Evangelical Church of God well. The members live either in Bhatian Basti or in one of two neighbouring bastis. Varieties of Dalit Christianity in North India

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Most are labourers, but some have government jobs, are shopkeepers or have their own small businesses. About half are illiterate, but the younger generation includes some with BA and MA degrees. Membership in the church is fluid and only recently was an official membership roll instituted. There are today about 150 regulars, of whom only about fifty were Christians previously, while the rest are Dalits who have become Christians. Healing, especially from possession by evil spirits, has been a major emphasis of the Evangelical Church of God, and a major reason for the growth of the Bhatian Basti congregation. In the experience of the pastors with whom I discussed this phenomenon, Dalits are more frequently possessed than are members of higher castes. This they attributed to the fact that Dalits are more involved with idol worship and ‘witchcraft doctors’, while upper caste people worship idols less and go to medical doctors. The witchcraft doctors, they explained, have the power to order a spirit into a person as well as to ameliorate temporarily the physical and mental distress the spirit causes, but cannot drive the spirit out of a person’s body. Only Jesus has the authority to do that.15 These pastors use intense prayer to Jesus in order to get rid of these spirits. Unlike some Pentecostal pastors who believe that all sickness is due to spirit possession, they distinguish between possession cases and those caused by medical problems; in the latter case they advise victims to see a doctor or go to a hospital. It is primarily the driving out of evil spirits which, according to both the pastors and the people, is responsible for the church’s growth. However, one pastor estimated that only about 10 per cent of those healed actually seek and receive baptism. Sunday worship begins around mid-day when a sufficient number of people have gathered in the church. The vast majority are women, as the men are away at work. Unlike in Holy Trinity and Our Lady of Assumption, there is no written liturgy to follow. Worship begins with singing songs from either printed books or handwritten notes in personal copy books. After about a half hour, there are prayers offered by people in the congregation. These are followed by a sermon on faith preached in a teaching style which included many scriptural quotations that congregation members read aloud from their Bibles. There are moments of celebration in the sermon with hallelujahs, but not constant shouting. It is followed by prayers and then more singing, during which an offering is taken. The pastor concludes the service with a closing prayer and a 106

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blessing, after which there is some discussion and individuals testify to how God has answered their prayers and blessed them. As people depart, some linger for the pastor’s personal prayers for sick and troubled family members or friends. As the pastor indicated in his interview, the people are seeking, and receive, healing, peace and inner power from God; they want God to lift their burdens and solve their problems. For the youth that includes protection from addictions and other bad habits. Like the worship, the organization of the congregation is informally structured. The governing committee is nominated by the pastor and approved by the congregation. It considers expenditures on the annual Christmas celebration and on other church programmes. It also helps with the marriage expenses of young women in the congregation. There is a women’s group that meets daily for prayer in the morning and evening; its members also visit homes and pray for the families there. The youth help with church functions and public meetings. In addition, the young women gather daily for Bible study, discussion and singing; the young men do the same on a monthly basis. There is also a Sunday School which precedes Sunday worship. For the Christians in Bhatian Basti the world is a hard and difficult place in which satanic forces are active and powerful. Most have become Christians because the spirits which tormented them have been cast out. The older women look forward to being with Jesus and the youth face RSS opposition,16 discrimination in employment and the ever-present threat of drug or alcohol addiction. While acknowledging their Dalit identity and feeling rather ambivalent about it, they lay primary emphasis upon their Christian identity and faith. A few converts have used their old Scheduled Caste certificates to get some benefits and others have received Backward Class scholarship aid, for which Punjabi Christians are eligible. The youth say that they have good relations with other Dalit youth; they offer help in providing security for Christian public meetings and Christian youth return the favour. However, for the Christians the identity issue boils down to a choice between the inner peace Christ gives and the worldly advantages gained from Scheduled Caste status, and they have preferred the former. The Bhatian Basti church is highly evangelistic in its orientation. Evangelism is the pastor’s top priority. The youth take a lot of initiative in organizing, leading, providing the music and security for public evangelistic meetings which draw good crowds. Dalits do not suffer the Varieties of Dalit Christianity in North India

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loss of status through conversion that non-Dalits do, but all potential converts, whether Dalit or not, face intense pressure, both before and after conversion, from community members who feel rejected. Evangelism is fed by testimonies not only of healing but also of God’s active presence changing the lives of believers for the better. Poverty and unemployment continue to be major problems for them, as does competition from other Pentecostal pastors who seek to win away members in order to enhance their own followings. However, their own pastor, who lives close by, is highly respected as a caring and resourceful person to whom they can go with their problems at any time of the day or night.17

CHURCH OF NORTH INDIA, BHATTIAN VILLAGE Just off the Jalandhar–Ludhiana section of the Grand Trunk Road, seven kilometres from Ludhiana, is the village of Bhattian, on the edge of which is a group of Christians affiliated with the Church of North India (CNI). This congregation of 20–25 families is one of four such congregations in a ‘circle’ served by one pastor who is resident in Ludhiana. He leads Sunday worship twice a month in Bhattian; the other services there are led by an evangelist who is resident in the village. The membership is made up of migrants from several castes who earn their living mostly by travelling around on cycles selling bed sheets, but also includes a carpenter, a mason and a shopkeeper as well. The women do not work outside the home. Only a few members of the older generation are educated, but some of the children now have a secondary school education. This congregation originally came from Shanti Nagar in Ludhiana city where in 1987 one of the women became a believer through the influence of a CNI pastor in nearby Phillaur. She shared her beliefs with other women in the neighbourhood and her influence was such that the people requested a pastor. Another member had a dream in which Jesus, with bleeding hands, told him to be his follower, so he too became active in encouraging others to become Christians. A major event in bringing others to faith in Christ was the miraculous healing of the woman’s son. The approximately thirty-five Christian families there built a small church on the government land on which they were living, but in 1999 the government repossessed the land, demolished the church and the congregation scattered. Six or seven families purchased cheap house plots 108

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on the edge of Bhattian village, moved there, and provided the nucleus of the present congregation. The village panchayat (local governing body of the village) has now given them a plot of land for a church building, but the congregation does not yet have the money necessary to build it. Sunday worship is held in either the courtyard or a room of the evangelist’s home. There is a heavy preponderance of younger women present. Worship begins with congregational singing accompanied by a tabla (drums) and chimta (a pair of tongs with loose discs, as those on a tambourine, mounted on them) as people gather. Then the pastor stands up, calls the people to worship and reads Psalm 100. The remainder of the worship alternates prayers with congregational singing. In the middle the pastor preaches a sermon. This Sunday it is on the text, ‘You are the salt of the earth.’ He holds up some salt and engages the congregation in a conversation about its use. Salt is a taste-enhancer; it gives taste and disappears. He wants them to act selflessly to give taste to their family and neighbourhood relationships. (Sermons on ethical living form the core of his regular preaching, while the evangelist tends of emphasize deliverance from evil spirits.) The service ends with prayers, singing, an offering and a blessing. For this congregation, and for its pastor, preaching is the most important part of worship. The people want to receive, understand and meditate upon the word of God. In addition, they experience peace, blessing, power to overcome and a family-like unity despite their differences in background. There are those who joined this church because they had been released from the power of evil spirits. In their experience Dalits are more exposed and vulnerable to evil spirits than are others because they go to or through places where evil spirits reside. Healing comes not all at once, as in the Pentecostal case, but over time through consistent prayer during both worship and home visits. The leaders report that spirit possession is not uncommon among newcomers but is rare among church members. The piety of the congregations is based primarily on faith and prayer, which provide peace, power and blessing. As one member pointed out, ‘we depend, more than others do, upon God for our needs’. Church leadership comes from leaders of the community or biradari (caste brotherhood) who meet informally as the need arises. In addition to planning for church programmes and festivals, they try to settle family disputes when they occur. There is no formal women’s or youth group and Varieties of Dalit Christianity in North India

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neither women nor youth have much influence upon decision-making. The youth do gather for singing and praying. They also help in raising funds and making arrangements for church functions. The women have tried to have meetings but could not find a time when all of them could get together, since sometimes whole families have to work. Dalit identity does not appear to be a touchy issue in this congregation. The pastor has chosen not to address it. Instead he concentrates on their felt needs and, since his people are no longer victims of untouchability, he is not sure that this is one of them. The leadership identifies illiteracy and lack of education, not caste, as the chief obstacles they face. While they believe that they should not hide their caste identities, they consider becoming new persons so that people will wonder how and why this has happened to be more important. The youth said that they were looked down upon for converting to a ‘foreign religion’ and stigmatized for that rather than for their caste, although they did note that others did not treat Mazhabis as equals. They thought that the issues of jobs and discrimination could provide a common platform with other Dalit youth. There is considerable consensus within the congregation about what needs to be done. The top priority is building a church on the land which the village panchayat has given them for that purpose. As some of them pointed out, this will help the church to grow, because some people are reluctant to worship in the courtyard of a private home. In addition, the building is also an important step towards their second major objective, namely the education of their children. The building can be used during the week as a school where their children can receive at least an informal, if not a formal, education.18

DALIT AVATARIS, ETAH DISTRICT The Dalit Avataris (a reference to Jesus as the Dalit incarnation of God) of the Gramin Prachin Mandal (Rural Presbyterian Church) in western and central Uttar Pradesh represent an intentionally and highly selfconsciously Dalit form of Christianity.19 Their roots lie in the Bhangi mass conversion movement of the late 19th and early 20th centuries and with the missionaries of the Presbyterian Church in the USA. In the 1960s when the American Presbyterians withdrew the subsidies which 110

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supported the rural clergy of its partner United Church of Northern India,20 almost all of their rural congregations fell into neglect and virtually died. In 1984, under the leadership of one of their members, later called ‘mahagyaniji’ (very learned person) and now called ‘mahaguruji’ (great teacher), a meeting of some 4,000 members was convened which decided to revive the rural church as an autonomous body. A major aim from the outset has been not just to win over but also to transform the entire Bhangi jati. It now has over 1 million members and is the largest Bhangi organization of any kind. In the village of Kanchannagla in Etah district fifteen of the twentyfive Bhangi families are Dalit Avataris; only a few had been Christians before the Dalit Avatari movement began. They are all farmers, either as landowners, or as tenants, or as labourers. There are virtually no occupational alternatives in the village and there is no nearby town or city to which they can go for daily work. Levels of education vary from illiteracy to a bachelor’s degree; their children’s education is now possible, whereas previously it was not. In their eyes the Dalit Avatari movement means independence, self-respect, progress (especially through education) and hope for their jati, none of which they enjoyed as Hindus. Living in a remote rural area where untouchability is still practiced (‘they will not eat with us or invite us’), they received no Scheduled Caste benefits as Hindus21 and, in any case, would not trade them for the blessings they have received as Christians. The Dalit Avataris do not have a set liturgy but they do have a standardized order of worship and set scriptural texts which are to be read and preached upon each week. In Kanchannagla worship is outdoors in the Bhangi section of the village. A table is placed in front with a chair for the pastor. The women sit on the ground in front and the men in back. Worship begins with singing accompanied by a harmonium, tabla and tambourine. The pastor, dressed in white with an orange stole, stands up and prays. Then everyone joins in singing the Mandal hymn, ‘Mukhti Dilaye Yisu Nam’ (‘Salvation has been given in Jesus’ name’) and praying the Lord’s Prayer. The scripture is read and this day’s sermon is on the importance of prayer and of turning to Jesus for help. The service ends with a recitation of the Apostles’ Creed, a bhajan (a devotional song). As it is sung, the Dalit Avataris come forward and place an offering upon the table. It is followed by a prayer, and a blessing. Worship, the people say, gives peace, blessings, teaching and spiritual strength, as well as a basis for unity. Varieties of Dalit Christianity in North India

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Elders of the Kanchannagla church have been chosen by the pastor and the Dalit Avatari leadership on the basis of such leadership qualities as honesty, impartiality, spiritual outlook and concern for justice. They meet to pray, to discuss how best to promote the progress of the congregation, to advise the pastor (who is not a resident and has other congregations to look after), to settle disputes among members and to represent the congregation in dealings with village officials, the police and government officers. There is no women’s group, but there are two women elders and the women do put pressure on others on matters of concern to them (for example, the education of girls). There is a youth group which meets for prayer and discussion of Bible readings as well as of both personal and collective financial matters. Both the pastor and the elders were adamant about the importance of affirming their Dalit identity. He puts the issue this way: ‘If I can struggle and be successful as a Dalit, why can’t you?’ He saw no advantage in hiding one’s Dalit identity. Instead hiding creates distrust; people become suspicious and wonder who you really are. The elders stated flatly that they are Dalits and that God has done much for them. They are proud of how far their people have come in recent years through faith, education and unity in protecting themselves from extortion by dacoits (bandits) as well as in facing opposition from the RSS and officials who want them to become Hindus again.22 Only the youth seemed somewhat ambivalent; one said that ‘I am not a Dalit because I accepted Christ’ and the others remained silent. However, the very name, Dalit Avatari, and the entire thrust of the Gramin Prachin Mandal ministry are premised on the fact that its members are Dalits (Webster 2002b). If one were to coin a slogan that captures the vision of the Kanchannagla congregation, it would be ‘faith, education and unity’. These words appear over and over again as they seek to characterize their church and its way forward. They would like to have a permanent place of worship, for that is their main and central activity as a congregation. Even personal and family conflicts are resolved during worship. The youth would like their own musical instruments, as they see music as vital to worship and as a major means of attracting others. But faith, education and unity remain not only good in their own right but also as key to inner peace and community growth; to individual, family and community progress; and to the personal and collective power necessary to withstand external threats and deal with officialdom.23 112

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DIVERSITY IN DALIT CHRISTIANITY These five case studies do not represent the full range of diversity among Dalit Christian congregations in north India. More case studies could be added, but the point has been made that there is no one single ‘type’ of Dalit Christianity there, or elsewhere in India. Dalit congregations differ in the length of their histories and in their denominational traditions, in their patterns of conversion and of worship, in the facilities at their disposal, in governance and organization, in social class and occupation, in their leadership, and in the levels of harassment, discrimination and opposition they face. Differences in orientation are perhaps less obvious. The Kanchannagla congregation appears to be the most activist, seeking the spiritual and social transformation of the entire Bhangi jati,24 while the others tend to be more individualistic in focus. Several are winning new converts annually, while Holy Trinity has had few in recent decades. The five congregations also deal with their Dalit identity in different ways. It is rejected at Holy Trinity and appears to be taboo at Our Lady of Assumption.25 It is acknowledged in Bhatian Basti and Bhattian village, while in Kanchannagla it is both taken for granted and then used as a basis for inviting others to become Dalit Avataris. The ties of caste, including matrimonial ties, are weakening at Holy Trinity Church and seem strongest in Gakhlan and especially Kanchannagla. All respondents prefer that their children marry Christians, but in Holy Trinity and Bhatian Basti they now marry Christians from other caste backgrounds. All describe relations with caste fellows of other faiths as friendly, since they join in the celebration of Christian festivals, but not necessarily close. In Bhattian village Christians do not take prasad (food offered to the deity) at other religious gatherings. In Kanchannagla, Gakhlan and Bhatian Basti Christians and their caste fellows tend to help each other out and stand together against external threats, whereas the Christians in Holy Trinity Church are pretty much on their own. Thus caste relationships across religious boundaries, like views of Dalit identity, follow no uniform pattern. These differences are not easily explained. The five congregations were chosen because of their differing locations and denominational traditions. That would explain some of the variety described earlier, as Varieties of Dalit Christianity in North India

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would peculiarities of local circumstance. For the rest, and especially for an understanding of how these congregations have dealt with their Dalit identities, one must resort to history. Holy Trinity Church, by far the oldest of the five, has a long history of exposure to what might be called ‘the gospel of individual mobility through education’ and, given both its early start and its urban setting, it has achieved by far the greatest success in this regard. In addition, it also has the longest exposure to the self-image of ‘Christianity as a community without caste’ which was so widely propagated from the 1920s onward as to be accepted as a truism in north India until relatively recently (Webster 1994: 86, 218). The members of Holy Trinity interviewed clearly wanted to be identified not just by their religion but also by their (achieved) class status rather than their (ascribed) caste status. On the other hand, internally the strong kinship ties created by a tradition of caste endogamy continue to connect members, including those who reside elsewhere, to the church and the basti. There is thus an unresolved, and perhaps irresolvable, tension here as members are drawn towards (middle) class status, on the one hand, while retaining ties rooted in jati, on the other. Our Lady of Assumption Church in Gakhlan is subject to the same inner tension as Holy Trinity, but to a lesser degree. Although much younger than Holy Trinity, it is still old enough to be a product of the period when the ‘Christianity as a community without caste’ self-image still held sway. Members also continue to hold to the ‘gospel of individual mobility through education’ which remains an axiom throughout the entire Christian community. However, the gospel has not produced the same middle class results as at Holy Trinity; Gakhlan and nearby Jalandhar City do not offer Christians as many opportunities for occupational mobility as does Delhi. There is thus not the same degree of disparity between their class status and caste status as at Holy Trinity. The congregations in Bhatian Basti and Bhattian village are more recent in origin and the tension between caste and class status evident in the two previous congregations is less pronounced in these two. Neither offers its members direct access to educational facilities, although both wish to do so. Moreover, whereas the motives for conversion at Holy Trinity and Our Lady of Assumption were linked to social aspirations for dignity and status, that does not appear to be the case in either Bhatian 114

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Basti or Bhattian village. There gratitude for the resolution of personal problems (for example, illness, spirit possession) and personal visions seem to predominate. Thus, Christianity and social status, however defined, seem less bound up with each other in the minds of members in these two congregations than in the previous two. Kanchannagla presents a sharply contrasting case. The Dalit Avataris are a Bhangi movement and church; they are quite open about that and use their caste identities to expand their movement and church. There is no ambivalence, no inner tension between caste and class identity, no separation of religion and socio-economic aspirations here. While heavily committed to education as the major means of social mobility, the mobility they seek is as much for the jati biradari as for its individual members. So even in this remote village, members take personal pride in the progress the biradari has made. This gives them a more positive selfimage and more resolve to struggle on for continued improvement. While this chapter has placed an emphasis upon variety and differences, there are also important similarities among the five congregations that should not be ignored. Although they disagree about their Dalit identity, all agreed that their Christian identity is primary and means the most to them. All organize public celebrations of Christmas, Good Friday and Easter as Christian holy days and festivals. All place emphasis upon prayer in the Christian life and all, especially the youth, give special importance to music in worship. All show a similar respect for and deference to their clergy. Perhaps most importantly, all face in various forms the inroads into their immediate surroundings of a culture of despair. This is experienced in the forms of possession by evil spirits and/or of serious alcoholism and other addictions, resulting in quarrelling, fighting or debilitating inertia. It is perhaps for this reason that they seek peace (shanti) in their worship and why faith is emphasized so much in worship, group interviews and even in answers to questions about favourite Bible stories. Jesus is crucial because Jesus gives hope in the face of despair; Jesus gives assurance and blessing when all seems lost. They entrust themselves, their families and all they hold dear to Jesus, and pray that He will look after them. They are Christians and remain Christians because, in whatever circumstances or struggles they find themselves, Jesus does bless them and those whom they care about. They ‘take refuge’ in Jesus Christ. Varieties of Dalit Christianity in North India

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NOTES 1. The Constitution of India made provision for special benefits for members of those castes traditionally considered untouchable (Scheduled Castes) to compensate them for past discrimination. These benefits included reserved seats in elected bodies, job quotas in government service, scholarship and development assistance. State governments were to determine if other disadvantaged groups (Backward Classes) were to receive similar benefits. Dalit Christians, by virtue of their religion, were deemed ineligible for Scheduled Caste but not for Backward Class benefits. 2. This ambivalence about the label ‘Dalit’ is by no means confined to just the Christian Dalits in the region. See Puri (2004). 3. A brief survey of the early missions and their locations in the Punjab and United Provinces is given in Webster (1976: 3–6). 4. The Chamars are a Dalit caste, whose ‘traditional occupation’ has been leather work (Webster 2002a). 5 . A Mazhabi is a Chuhra who is Sikh by religion. See Alter (1986: 178–80). 6. Kabir Panthis are followers of Kabir. See John C.B. Webster, The Christian Community and Change, p. 48. 7. The Chuhras and Bhangis are both Dalit castes, whose ‘traditional occupation’ has been sweeping. 8 . ‘Delhi’, The Mission Field (October 1884), p. 318. 9. In 1970 Anglicans joined with five other denominations to form the Church of North India. 10. Holy Trinity Church, 100 Years: 7th November 2005 Centenary Year 1905–2005. My Sunday visit to the church coincided with its annual fete. Families who had moved out of the basti returned not just for worship but for lunch and relaxed social visits with other member families as well. 11. Interview with the Rev. Timothy Shaw, 24 November 2007; visit to Holy Trinity Church, 25 November 2007; interview with some members of the Holy Trinity Women’s Fellowship, 26 November 2007; interview with some members of the Holy Trinity Youth Group, 26 November 2007; interview with some members of the Holy Trinity Pastorate Committee, 26 November 2007. 12. A Balmiki is a follower of Balmiki, a central figure in Chuhra religion. Today Chuhras generally prefer this religious identity to their caste identity. See Singh (2003). 13. During this visit I attended the Friday evening service. On a previous occasion I had attended Sunday Mass which is described in A Social History of Christianity, pp. 353–54. 14. Interviews with The Rt. Rev. Symphorian Keeprath, 7 December 2007; Fr. George James Waraich, 7 December 2007; the Convent of the Sacred Heart Sisters in Gakhlan, 4 December 2007; members of the Legion of Mary, Gakhlan, 4 December 2007; members of the Youth Group of Our Lady of Assumption Church, 4 December 2007; members of the Parish Council, Our Lady of Assumption Church, 7 December 2007. Visit to Our Lady of Assumption Church, Gakhlan for worship, 7 December 2007.

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15. They did acknowledge that Dalits experience more psychological distress than do upper caste people and so may be more vulnerable to evil spirits. They also pointed out that women are more likely to be possessed than men. 16. The Rashtriya Syamsevak Sangh (Association of National Volunteers) is a militant Hindu organization. 17. Interviews with Pastor Bohia Masih, Pastor Hadayat, Reginald Howell and Pastor Vikramjeet, 1 December 2007; the Bhatian Basti Church Governing Committee, women members and youth members, 2 December 2007; visit to the Bhatian Basti Church for worship, 2 December 2007. See also Webster (2007: 299–300). 18 . Interviews with the Rev. Ambrose Rogers, 30 November 2007; the CNI congregation Bhatian leadership, 9 December 2007; youth from the CNI congregation, Bhatian, 9 December 2007; women from the CNI congregation, Bhatian, 28 November 2007. Visit to the CNI church, Village Bhatian, for worship on 9 December 2007. 19. A fuller description of the Dalit Avataris is found in Webster (2002b: 96–98, 144). 20. For the background and consequences of that decision, see Webster (2008). 21. A Dalit Avatari leader told me that the census takers rarely visit remote villages and only make estimates. In examining the voter rolls he noted that only 50 of the 300 Christians in this locale had been registered. He would have to appeal this so that they could be eligible not only to vote but also to apply for government jobs, bank accounts, driver’s licenses and passports, for all of which a voter’s card was necessary. 22. One elder said that the RSS wanted Bhangis to remain slaves, but now that Dalit Avataris are educated, they will no longer be silent; they will have a strong voice in expressing their political views and in putting pressure on the administration for better facilities and development assistance. 23. Interviews with Gaurav Raja Premi, 18 November 2007; Ashok Vishwasi, 19 November 2007; Women of the Kanchannagla congregation, 19 November 2007; youth of the Kanchannagla congregation, 19 November 2007; elders of the Kanchannagla congregation and some other elders, 20 November 2007; visit to the Kanchannagla congregation for worship, 19 November 2007. 24. After reading a draft of this chapter, Mahaguruji sent me this message. ‘The subject of the exodus did not come up with the people naturally in conversation with them, but had the question been asked they would have responded to it. In contrast to other places where Dalits have become Christian, all our symbols and actions are focused upon getting out of total bondage for we consider ourselves in bondage like the Israelites did and we confirm at each step that we are in exodus spiritually and physically.’ E-mail to the author, 11 March 2008. 25. Johannes Beltz (2005: 244) found similar responses among Buddhist Mahar Dalits in Maharashtra.

REFERENCES Alter, James P. 1986. In the Doab and Rohilkhand: North Indian Christianity 1815–1915. New Delhi: ISPCK.

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Beltz, Johannes. 2005. Mahar, Buddhist and Dalit: Religious Conversion and Socio-Political Emancipation. New Delhi: Manohar Books. Daniel, Monodeep. 2002. ‘The People Who Believe that God is Faithful: The Story of the People of the Turkman Darwazah (Holy Trinity Church), Delhi’, in George Oommen and John C.B. Webster (eds), Local Dalit Christian History, pp. 110–29. New Delhi: ISPCK. Puri, Harish K. 2004. ‘Introduction’, in Harish K. Puri (ed.), Dalits in Regional Context, p. 18. Jaipur: Rawat Publications. Singh, Swaran. 2003. ‘Balmiki’ and ‘Mazhabi’, in K.S. Singh (ed.), People of India. Volume XXXVII: Punjab, edited by I.J.S. Bansal and Swaran Singh, pp. 59–65, 316–18. New Delhi: Manohar Books. Webster, John C.B. 1976. The Christian Community and Change in Nineteenth Century North India. New Delhi: Macmillan. ———. 1994. The Dalit Christians: A History (2nd edition). New Delhi: ISPCK. ———. 1999. ‘Who is a Dalit?’ in S.M. Michael (ed.), Dalits in Modern India: Vision and Values, pp. 68–79. New Delhi: Vistaar Publishers. ———. 2002a. ‘Missionary Strategy and the Development of the Christian Community: Delhi 1859–1884’, in Selva J. Raj and Corinne C. Dempsey (eds), Popular Christianity in India: Riting between the Lines, pp. 211–32. Albany: State University of New York Press. ———. 2002b. Religion and Dalit Liberation: An Examination of Perspectives (2nd edition). New Delhi: Manohar Books. ———. 2007. A Social History of Christianity: Northwest India since 1800. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. ———. 2008. ‘South Asia’, in Scott W. Sunquist and Caroline N. Becker (eds), A History of Presbyterian Mission 1944–2007, pp. 285–99, 355–58. Louisville: Geneva Press.

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C H A P T E R 6 Christian Piety and the Emergence of Hindu Nationalism in Central India Peggy Froerer

INTRODUCTION In ‘Mohanpur’, a mixed Hindu/Christian Adivasi village located in rural Chhattisgarh, post-Vatican II inculturation measures, manifested most prominently by the infusion of Christian themes into traditional myths, rituals and festivals, have had limited effect on the piety of the local Oraon Catholic community. Aimed at redressing this situation, more stringent strategies employed by local priests as part of a contemporary ‘civilizing mission’ have sought to transform ‘backward’ Oraon Adivasis into ‘proper’ Christians. These strategies combine a sort of material ‘diabolization’, where a system of ostracism and fines is imposed against those found guilty of participating in shaitan ka kam (Satan’s work) and other ‘un-Christian’ activities with a mechanism of excommunication

or ‘outcasting’, where errant members are excluded from the sacrament and their children are expelled from school. Such strategies, which go beyond the more benign inculturation tactics traditionally employed by the church, are comparable to those instituted as part of the ‘civilizing mission’ carried out in other parts of Chhattisgarh by 19th century Christian missionaries. While they have gone some way towards the betterment of the Oraons’ Christian faith and practice, these strategies have also had more insidious consequences. By drawing attention to the Oraons’ Christian status and distinguishing them more visibly from their Hindu neighbours, such strategies have succeeded in amplifying the cultural distance between local Christian and Hindu communities, thereby contributing to the emergence of Hindu nationalism in this area, through the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) and other Hindu nationalist organizations. This chapter provides an ethnographic examination of the manner by which this has happened. During the course of this examination, I consider the broader mimetic relationship between the RSS and the church.

ETHNOGRAPHIC SETTING This chapter draws on research that was carried out between 1997 and 1999 in Mohanpur, a village of roughly 900 located in one of the more densely forested districts of Chhattisgarh. At the time of my fieldwork, Chhattisgarh made up the eastern and south-eastern region of Madhya Pradesh. It became a state in November 2000, and currently boasts a population of nearly 21 million, three-quarters of whom dwell in rural areas (Chaudhuri 2001: 86). Like many Adivasi communities in this part of India, the village is geographically cut off due to thick jungle and inaccessible roads. Most villagers, who earn their livelihoods through a combination of ricecultivation and the collection and sale of non-timber forest products, have never made the five-hour journey into the nearest city of Korba, some forty kilometres away. Due to the lack of electricity, there is little access to ‘popular’ Indian or Hindu culture via television and other media. This relative geographical and cultural distance from the Hindu and Indian ‘mainstream’ contributes to the general ‘backwardness’ of the village and surrounding area.1 120

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With a population of around 900 spread across 165 households, Mohanpur is 93 per cent Adivasi, of which three-quarters are Hindus and one-quarter are Christians. The politically and socially dominant Hindus are divided into three Adivasi groups (Ratiya Kanwars, Majhuars and Dudh Kanwars) and four non-Adivasi groups (Yadav, Panika, Chohan, Chowk/Lohar). The Catholic Christians, all Oraon Adivasis, are the lowest caste in the local hierarchy that follows the order listed earlier. This hierarchy does not follow mainstream caste hierarchies found in other parts of India, which invariably place caste-Hindus above those groups categorized as Adivasi (cf. Singh 1993). Instead, it is defined by local rules of untouchability and is most visibly expressed in terms of food consumption and commensality. No Hindu castes, for example, will take food from the Oraon Christians, although such rules are quietly broken amongst individuals. While most of the Hindu castes have resided in the area for at least two to three generations, the Oraon Christians came to the area from a neighbouring district only in the early 1970s. They are descendants of converts who joined the Catholic church during one of the mass conversion movements that took place in Chhattisgarh in the 1930s.2 Most of the community, however, admit that they did not become practicing Christians until long after their migration to Mohanpur. Indeed, as I discuss later on, it has been only in the past decade that their Christian status has become a visible feature in their relationship with local Hindus. Having arrived in the area as impoverished outsiders in search of land, today, the Oraon community as a whole enjoys a relative material dominance that surpasses the Hindu community. This is largely related to their wage-based labour activities that take place outside of the village, although Oraons themselves attribute it to Jesus’s approval of their increasing piety (Froerer 2007). The present-day civilizing strategies being employed by the church in this area are comparable to those implemented in other parts of Chhattisgarh by 19th century Christian missionaries, whose ‘civilizing mission’ was accompanied by a drive to control, improve and discipline the members of the congregation. For this reason it will be useful to briefly consider the history of the Christian missionization amongst Central Indian Adivasis, along with the contemporary church’s presence, activities and engagements with local Oraon Christians. Christian Piety and the Emergence of Hindu Nationalism

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CHRISTIAN MISSIONIZATION AND ADIVASIS This chapter is largely concerned with mass conversion movements that spread throughout tribal areas from the mid-18th century onward (Bayly 1999; Dube 1977; Sahay 1976). The earliest recorded missionary presence in central India was the Free Church of Scotland, a Protestant mission established in 1840 in Nagpur, Maharashtra. This was considered to be an area ‘ideally suited to become the centre of pioneer work’ from the point of view of Christian missionaries (Neill 1985: 317). A second Protestant mission, the Gossner Lutherans from Germany, arrived in Chotanagpur (a region located in what is now the state of Jharkhand) in 1845 (Mahto 1971). After actively proselytizing for five years amongst ‘higher classes of natives’ with no results, missionaries turned their attention to the more marginal and ‘dispossessed’ groups, notably untouchables and Adivasis. It was speculated that these groups might be more susceptible to the gospel (Sahay 1976: 27). Indeed, this shift resulted in the first four Oraon converts to the Lutheran church. By November 1858, the number of Oraon Lutheran villages in Chotanagpur had grown to 205, and missionary efforts spread into Chhattisgarh (cf. Dube 1995; Roy 1912: 236). The missionaries had also begun to actively assist and advise tribal people in court cases regarding traditional Adivasi land rights. The impression rapidly gained ground that ‘to become a Christian was the best means of shaking off the oppression of the landlords’ (Tete 1984: 55), and by 1868 there were 10,000 converts to the Lutheran church (Mahto 1971; cf. Niyogi 1956; Roy 1912, 1915). Lutheran missionaries became increasingly wary of such large numbers of people who ostensibly wished to become Christians ‘of their own accord’. They attempted to shift their proselytizing efforts back to the ‘spiritual’ as opposed to the ‘secular’ or material aspects of Christianity (de Sa 1975: 88). It was perhaps due to the decreasing material support that Adivasis received from the Lutheran missionaries following this shift that many converts left and joined the Catholic church, which was established in Chotanagpur in 1869. In the early period of the Catholic mission, the Jesuits’ proselytizing practices consisted of strict evangelism with a focus on ‘inner conversion’: they did not advocate on behalf of tribal people. Consequently, the Catholics had no converts until 1873, and very few by 1880. Conversion on a mass scale to Catholicism began in 1885 under the 122

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direction of Father Constant Lievens (Bowen 1936). Lievens familiarized himself with the agrarian troubles and tenant laws, advised tribal people on legal matters and urged them to refuse illegal demands from the landlords or to pay rent without receipts. Once the mission began to be perceived as a source of assistance against the landlords, Adivasis began to come to the missionaries as whole families and villages. In time, as a condition for his help, Lievens began to demand baptism. The Catholic mission also joined other missions in participating in other kinds of ‘non-evangelical’ activities, such as education, medical services, famine relief and cooperative banking societies. Such activities together led to phenomenal results: by 1889 Lievens had succeeded in converting around 75,000 tribal people (Mahto 1971). The implication of ‘mass movements’ is that the adoption of the new religion becomes a collective, as opposed to a personal act (Caplan 1987: 217). Indeed, one issue that troubled both administrators and missionaries of the time revolved around whether Adivasis converted out of genuine spiritual belief, or whether they were induced to convert via material means and association with a powerful group of missionaries (de Sa 1975; Sahay 1976; Tete 1984). Implicit in this issue is the question over the capacity for ‘primitive’ tribal groups to possess such ‘genuine’ motives. This question also relates to the process in which the social category of ‘tribe’ was historically constructed in opposition to more ‘civilized’ Hindu society (Bates 1995; Skaria 1997). Sceptical administrators did not feel that ‘primitive’ tribals were capable of experiencing such a sophisticated cognitive transformation (cf. Hardiman 1987: 154). Whether ‘genuine’ or ‘materially motivated’, recognition of the real or perceived power of Christian missionaries was clearly a major factor in conversion (Hardiman 1987: 163). The association of Christianity with discourses of power, along with its specific link to the colonial project, has been systematically acknowledged by scholars on missionization processes within and outside of India.3 Within central India, Christianity not only offered Adivasis the means by which they could combat exploitative landlords and moneylenders, it also provided them with a ‘replacement community’ (Devalle 1992: 163), which was accompanied by a new system of schooling and education, along with new moral and legal codes that would enable Adivasis to achieve a certain level of social mobility. Christian Piety and the Emergence of Hindu Nationalism

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For some critics of these early missionization processes and dubious conversion tactics, it is this ‘replacement community’ that has threatened traditional cultures and practices and taken Adivasis away from the ‘Hindu fold’ (Niyogi 1956; Shourie 1994). The 19th century Christian missionaries who championed tribals in land disputes against Hindu landowners were accused by local Hindus of being anti-national and therefore anti-Hindu (Weiner 1978: 190). Christian converts, by extension, were accused of feeling ‘closer’ to non-tribal Indian and European Christians, than to non-Christian tribals who are still part of the ‘Hindu fold’. This was evidenced by the identification of some Christian tribals first and foremost with their religion, and only later with their ethnic origin.4 This sense of connection to a foreign ‘community’ purportedly persists in the present day.

ORAON CHRISTIANS AND THE LOCAL CHURCH In the same year (1970) that the first Oraons arrived in Mohanpur, a Catholic mission belonging to the St. Vincent Pallottine religious order was established in the neighbouring village of Madanpur, six kilometres away, to serve the growing Oraon Catholic population that lived within a roughly twenty-kilometre range. Founded in 1835 by a German called Vincent Pallotti, the headquarters of this mission are in Rome and its regional base is in the neighbouring district of Raipur. The particular calling or ‘charism’ of this order revolves around ‘service’ to the poor. Priests who are posted to this area see themselves as ‘agents of progress’ in the form of education, medical care and other charitable works conducted amongst the local tribal population. The first two priests who were stationed at the mission in the early 1970s frequently donated rice and wheat flour to the most impoverished Oraon families, and helped them to build their own well. One of the striking details about the Oraons’ narratives of when they first arrived in the village, in addition to their enduring memories of hunger and hardship discussed earlier, is the kindness and generosity of the priests. The two priests who were attached to this particular mission during my fieldwork describe the local Oraons as ‘rice Christians’ (Forrester 1977; Webster 1976), due to their willingness to accept mission donations in 124

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the past. Contrary to those who criticize such actions (Niyogi 1956; Shourie 1994), which in the past led to large numbers of converts, local priests see nothing wrong with such assistance. One of the priests even admitted to me that it was necessary, sometimes, to feed the belly before concentrating on the soul.5 The original mission station, or the ‘bangla’, as it came to be called locally, consisted of two small mud and thatch structures that served as the church house and the priests’ residence. In the late 1970s, a dispensary and health clinic were also constructed, and two Catholic Sisters-cumnurses joined the Fathers at the compound. These Sisters belonged to the St. Francis Assisi congregation, a Catholic Order that is also dedicated to service to the poor and that is often ‘paired’ with Pallottine priests. A school and hostel were added in the early 1980s, along with two additional Sisters who were trained teachers. As observed by Hardiman (n.d.) and others (Comaroff and Comaroff 1991), it was believed by church authorities that a grand church structure and compound raised the local status of missionaries. It was also an effective means to reinforce the ‘civilizing’ agenda and authority of the church (cf. Dube 1995: 180). To this end, the final addition to the mission station was the conversion of the mud and thatch church building into a large concrete structure. By the late 1980s, the wooden fences that surrounded the property had been replaced with iron, and the compound was completed. While the whitewashed church with its stained-glass windows is the most visibly imposing feature of the compound, the dispensary and clinic are the primary vehicle through which the church engages in social service and interacts with both Oraon and Hindu Adivasis. As mentioned earlier, this is in line with broader Christian practices that historically have used medical institutions, as well as schools, to establish and legitimize their presence and spread Christianity amongst Adivasi people. Hospitals in particular were thought to provide the ‘best point of contact’ between missionaries and potential Adivasi converts (Carstairs 1928: 239), where superstition could be countered and where patients and their families could be ‘taught Christianity’ (cf. Kawashima 1998: 139). Surgery especially was believed to ‘open many a closed door to missionary influence’ as well as provide the most dramatic proof of the superiority of Western medical technique (Hardiman n.d.).6 Nowadays, local priests insist that conversion of Hindu Adivasis to Christianity has never been part of their broader agenda. They do admit, Christian Piety and the Emergence of Hindu Nationalism

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however, that the prevention of the Oraons’ ‘backsliding’ into what they identify as superstitious customs and beliefs is an ongoing task.7 Locally, regular utilization of the dispensary by Oraon Christians did not come about immediately. The Oraons’ initial distrust of the dispensary revolved around a combination of unfamiliarity with biomedical techniques and practitioners, and devotion to their own healers, who believed that angry deities and ancestor spirits were the main source of illness. When the clinic first opened, moreover, there was a strong association between the medicine of the dispensary and Jesus. The medicines and ‘potions’ that were distributed by the church through the dispensary were said to be sanctioned by Jesus. As such, these not only provided competition to traditional healing methods, but also threatened the power of Oraon healers and healing practices (cf. Dube 1998: 74). This was a time ‘before we were proper Christians’, I was told by the nephew of one of the healers. ‘It was a time when we had andhviswas [superstition; literally, “blind faith”; see Parry 1994: 227–28] and believed that our illnesses were caused by bhut. Instead, we went to our own healers who would perform puja and give us bhut ka dawai ’ (literally, ‘ghost’s medicine’; see Parry 1994: 227–28). Although no records were kept at the dispensary until the early 1980s, the current nurses claim that the dispensary saw only a few hundred patients in the first few years of its existence. According to those who are old enough to remember, it was not until the last of the Oraon healers passed away in the mid-1990s that the Oraons started using the dispensary regularly. It has taken longer for local Hindus to make systematic use of the clinic, due to the strong association between biomedicine and the church. Nowadays, most Hindu families visit the clinic, and many seem grateful for the role that it has played in treating them at times of serious illness. Currently, nurses see up to a thousand patients per month, around three-quarters of whom are Hindus. This is in part due to the fact that the clinic has been the only primary health care centre in the area, catering to the basic medical needs of Adivasis living within a twentykilometre range. It is also a reflection of the demographics of this area, which is comprised of a roughly three-to-one, Hindu/Christian ratio. As elsewhere in India, education is the other vehicle through which the church engages in ‘service to the poor’. Very few Oraons who were children at the time of the school’s construction in the early 1980s were actual boarders at the school because of the cost involved. Nowadays, 126

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the school charges around Rs 800 per year, a substantial sum that most Oraon households struggle to pay. It serves 180 children between first and eighth standard, and is divided equally between boys and girls aged five to sixteen. The boarders hail from six neighbouring villages and mostly consist of the grandchildren of the original Oraon settlers of this area. Additionally, there have generally been between two and six Hindu boarders every year since the school was opened.

‘CIVILIZING MISSION’ As illustrated in the foregoing, there are clear historical connections between the kinds of social uplift activities in which the church has engaged historically and in contemporary times to diffuse Christianity throughout central India, and the ‘civilizing mission’ that was characteristic of the British colonial project (Bryce 1810; cf. Fischer-Tiné and Mann 2004). Notions of ‘improvement’, betterment’ and ‘moral and material progress’ of colonial subjects, who were regarded as ‘inferior’, characterized the civilizing mission that became the ‘sole ideology of British colonialism in India’ (Mann 2004: 24). Indeed, Britain’s civilizing mission was accompanied not only by the idea that the British were entitled to educate or ‘improve’ their Indian subjects, but that they had a duty to do so (Mann 2004). Skaria (1997: 200), who outlines how the British conceived of the ‘civilizing mission’ with respect to the Adivasis of western India, notes how it was underpinned by two strategies: to protect tribes from the outside world, and from themselves. Where the former included liquor merchants, traders and other people from the plains, the latter included ‘high-spirited boisterousness’ and a propensity for plundering, along with alcoholism and human sacrifice (cf. Padel 1995; Skaria 1997). The transformation of early British civilizing attitudes into a more coherent form began as early as the late 18th century, with the growth of England’s Christian movement (Mann 2004: 6). The diffusion of Christianity throughout India was regarded as the most effective means to civilize India’s peoples, amongst whom Adivasis were considered the most backward (cf. Bryce 1810: 112–14; Skaria 1997: 7). Although the colonial state as a matter of policy attempted to distance itself from missionary activities, colonial officials who were based in Christian Piety and the Emergence of Hindu Nationalism

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Adivasi areas were often supportive of missionaries who, it was felt, could serve as agents in the broader civilizing mission (cf. Dube 1995; cf. Hardiman n.d.). With their explicit emphasis on the ‘moral and material progress’ of ‘inferior’ and ‘dispossessed’ tribal communities, such activities continue to underpin the ‘civilizing mission’ in which the church is engaging within Adivasi communities in the present day. Colonial medicine in particular was considered to be a useful tool for civilizing the body (cf. Arnold 1993; Mann 2004: 14), and modern biomedicine continues to be viewed by the church as a useful civilizing method. Indian state officials took over the original civilizing mission after independence and extended the same ideology: tribal groups were construed as the ‘younger brothers’ of more civilized, plains Indians, and therefore had to be helped out of their primitiveness (cf. Skaria 1997: 278). Importantly, it is this latter issue in particular that is invoked by the RSS to justify its increased attention to Adivasi communities across India. As we shall see later on, however, it is through the concerted and sometimes aggressive tactics exercised by the church itself that these identities and relations are becoming communalized. But first, a brief look at the RSS and its increasing interest in Adivasi communities.

RSS AND ADIVASIS Founded in 1925, the RSS’s expressed mission has been to unite and organize Hindus on nationalistic lines against colonial British rule and against the proselytizing influence of Muslims and Christians (Andersen and Damle 1987; Basu et al. 1993; Hansen 1999; Jaffrelot 1996). The latter, viewed as ‘foreign races’ and enemies of India, were called upon to adopt the Hindu culture and language and merge with the ‘Hindu race’. From around the late 1980s onward, this mission has evolved into a more aggressive nationalist movement, with its core objective being the spread of Hindutva, or ‘Hinduness’, and the transformation of Hindu culture into a unified whole, for the purpose of achieving ‘one nation, one people, one culture’ (Khilnani 1997: 151). According to most analysts, the larger political strategy built around the Hindu nationalist quest for power can only succeed in a context where there exists a perceived threat—real or imagined—to the majority community of Hindus (Hansen 1999: 208). And indeed, the 128

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perception of the ‘threatening Other’—those whose origins and therefore allegiances apparently lay outside of this community—has been called the ‘cornerstone of the Hindu nationalist movement’ (Jaffrelot 1993: 522).8 Within Hindu nationalist discourse, the ‘threatening Other’ has historically been the Muslim community, or the ‘abstract Muslim’ (Hansen 1999: 211). Even as anti-Muslim sentiment remains the ‘master narrative’ (Varshney 2002: 34) underpinning Sangh Parivar’s attempts at consolidating the Hindu nation, attention of the RSS and other organizations was directed towards Christians across India in the mid-1990s, with a particular focus on Christian Adivasi communities. Reasons for this shift revolved around the view that Christians, as ‘foreigners and non-Hindus’, pose a threat to the national Hindu majority because they are engaging in ‘divisive and subversive’ activities, particularly amongst minority and ‘backward’ Adivasi communities (cf. Hocking 1996). Part of the RSS’s broader interest in tribal communities is thus related to the wider threat that Christian and other non-Hindu communities present to the Hindu nationalist quest for political and cultural supremacy. In response to this threat, campaigns like ghar vapasi (homecoming) or shuddhi (re-conversion) were instituted in Adivasi regions across Chhattisgarh, Jharkhand and other states to ‘reclaim the souls’ (Baviskar 2005: 5108) of Christian Adivasis who, through conversion, had ‘strayed’ from the Hindu fold.9 The issue of conversion has been a point of contention amongst Hindu nationalists since the late 19th century, when a wave of mass conversion movements to both Protestant and Catholic faiths took place across India, largely amongst the tribal belts in north-eastern and central India. These movements, which carried on through the mid-20th century, created apprehensions amongst Hindu nationalists who, at the time, alleged that such conversions were related to ‘illegitimate methods’ such as the provision of material inducements (Shourie 1994).10 The charge of ‘forced conversion’ in particular is regularly levelled against contemporary Christian and Muslim leaders by members of the Sangh Parivar, who fear further dilution of the Hindu majority. Regardless of the precise nature of this shift, it is clear that the attention of the Hindu right towards Adivasis has been driven not only by the threat of conversion that has been newly fuelled by the RSS, but by the more practical concerns of electoral representation and the need Christian Piety and the Emergence of Hindu Nationalism

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to move beyond traditional bases of support (cf. Jaffrelot 1998). While discussion of these kinds of electoral concerns is beyond the scope of this chapter, it is important to note that historical events such as the mass conversions of tribal people have shown the Sangh Parivar that they cannot take the Hindu identity of marginal groups like Adivasis for granted. And while it would of course be naïve to hold that Adivasis constitute a single group or ‘community’ of people, it is undeniable that they are seen as an important political constituency that comprises a potentially sizeable vote bank.11 It was partly in response to this potential that in the 1990s the Hindu nationalist agenda for Adivasi communities came to revolve around a twofold strategy: to bring Adivasis into the Hindu mainstream by revealing to them their ‘true’ identity as ‘Hindus’; and to counteract minority Christian cultures that have taken Adivasis away from the Hindu fold (Almond et al. 1995; cf. Basu et al. 1993: 67). This strategy was underpinned by the implicit assumption that Adivasis had failed to conform to the more correct or ‘civilized’ standards of caste Hindus, and it was accompanied by the aim of mitigating this general ‘backwardness’ of Adivasi communities (cf. Baviskar 2005: 5105; Kanungo 2002: 149–57). Like the church, the sort of ‘backwardness’ with which the RSS is concerned locally refers largely to those practices that are labelled as ‘superstition’ (andhviswas) by RSS activists and that underpin traditional Adivasi cosmology and worship: namely, the propitiation of village and forest deities instead of ‘big gods’ (Ram, Krishna, Shiva); the use of alcohol and blood offerings instead of ‘vegetarian’ offerings (incense, rice flowers); and the use of local healers and traditional healing practices instead of medical doctors during times of illness. Such customs, described by locals as dehati rivaj (rural custom) and by RSS proponents and other outsiders as ‘jangli Hinduism’, are contrasted to the practices found within mainstream, sahari (city) Hinduism. It is the eradication of andhviswas, which is opposed to ‘proper’ Hindu practices, that underpins and, in the view of their proponents, justifies the ‘civilizing missions’ in which the RSS is engaged. To advance their aims of reforming these ‘backward’ practices, since 1996, the organization has mounted a number of educational and cultural strategies in rural Adivasi villages. Each of these has been modelled after the social uplift activities in which Christian missionaries have historically engaged, and has revolved around the RSS’s ostensible concern for the 130

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physical and social welfare of local people.12 Aimed at the community as a whole, these activities include a kind of proselytizing programme that ‘mimics’ historical church inculturation practices by inserting mainstream Hindu practices into local Adivasi beliefs and traditions; the introduction of an alternative form of nursery education; and the sponsorship of a biomedical doctor who is resident in the village. These activities have their roots in the 19th century Hindu reform movements discussed earlier that attempted to defend, redefine and create ‘Hinduism’ on the model of the Christian religion (Thapar 1985: 18). I have argued elsewhere (Froerer 2007, 2008) that such campaigns are underpinned by the broader mimetic relationship that the organization has with the church, whose recent ‘civilizing’ strategies aimed at transforming ‘backward’ Oraons into ‘proper’ Christians have become increasingly stringent. Following an examination of the tensions behind the Oraons’ own engagement with ‘proper’ Christianity, it is to these that I turn.

JESUS, SHAITAN AND THE DIABOLIZATION OF LOCAL DEITIES One of the more notable strategies hailed to have been instrumental in the increasing piousness of the Oraons is the process of ‘inculturation’, or the ‘insertion’ of Christian tenets into non-Christian cultural ideas and practices (Mosse 1994; Stewart and Shaw 1994; Stirrat 1992: 45). Since Vatican II (1962–65), which reassessed the role of the church particularly with respect to non-western Catholics, the church has advocated the integration of local practices into Christian liturgy in order to ‘spread the Christian message’ in a more culturally contextual and appropriate manner.13 It was thought that communities would ‘apprehend the message of the Gospel better if they do so in their own terms’ (Stewart and Shaw 1994: 11).14 Locally, inculturation has been manifested by the transformation of numerous myths, rituals and festivals that Oraons traditionally celebrate, most of which revolve around the worship and propitiation of their deities and ancestor spirits. These have been infused with Christian themes largely emphasizing Christ’s goodness and protection.15 Christian Piety and the Emergence of Hindu Nationalism

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While these inculturation strategies have yielded nominal improvement, the Oraon community is still considered by the local priests, along with the Oraons themselves, to be ‘weak’ in faith. According to the priests, the primary obstacle to the Oraons’ transformation into proper Christians is their andhviswas, or superstition, which is underpinned by the continuing veneration of ‘Kurukh’ (Oraon) deities and ancestor spirits.16 Traditionally, these included countless ‘superior and inferior’ gods and spirits, the highest being Dharmes, the ‘creator and controller of gods’ (Roy 1915: 22). Beneath Dharmes sat the spirits of ancestors (pa¯chba¯l, purkha), as well as the myriad village deities and spirits (devata¯s) and the malevolent beings (nad). As part of the missionization process in central India, the Oraon term nad was translated into the term ‘Satan’ (shaitan) (Kujur 1989: 169; Roy 1915: 107).17 Today, the term nad is used by local priests to classify not only malevolent beings, but to encompass the numerous deities and ancestor spirits that are incompatible with Christian belief and still figure in Oraon people’s lives. In tandem with church rhetoric, even the Oraon elders admit that these beings are just different names for Satan (shaitan ka nam alag alag). Regular propitiation of these beings has diminished with the increasing influence of Christianity, and nowadays these beings are kept in good humour with a single blood sacrifice offered annually by three local Oraon elders. As part of the continuing effort to discourage worship of what they categorize as ‘Satan’, and to create what Stirrat (1992: 178–79) has identified as the necessary ‘opposition of two absolute states’, the local priests repeatedly tell the Oraons in Sunday sermons that they must choose between Jesus and Satan (good and evil), and that each choice has a consequence.18 Following Satan or indulging in ‘Satan’s work’ (shaitan ka kam) by invoking the deities or ritually worshipping the ancestors results in suffering and misfortune (Kujur 1989: 239). The only way to ensure protection is by abandoning these practices and choosing and maintaining a steady faith (viswas) in Jesus.19 Instead of discarding their deities and traditional ‘Oraon practices’, in ‘syncretic’ fashion (Stewart and Shaw 1994), Oraons have incorporated Jesus into the existing hierarchy that encompasses the whole range of supernatural beings with whom they have traditionally engaged. In a sort of ‘gradation of relative benevolence and malevolence’ (Stirrat 1992: 85), at the top of this hierarchy and reigning as ‘king of the gods’ (devata ka raja) sits Jesus, whom Oraons assert is the most powerful and good of 132

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all beings. Beneath Jesus sit the myriad deities and the ancestor spirits who, if not propitiated regularly, do not protect the Oraons from illness and misfortune. While Oraons have not entirely discarded their worship of traditional Oraon beings, they do seem to have accepted the church’s view that Jesus is the most powerful deity and that their relationship with Jesus is consequently the most beneficial and protective. One of the most visible forms of protection is the ‘Christian talisman’ (isai damru): the rosary, which is worn both ‘to remember Jesus’ and to ensure protection against evil. One example of the rosary’s power concerns Raju, a smart young Oraon man from the village. While cycling off to the bazaar one day, he suddenly came across a beautiful girl with long flowing hair, standing alone on the road. She came towards Raju and asked if she could accompany him. Frightened, he refused, and told her to wait for the next person, for he was in a rush. He admitted that while drawn to her beauty, his heart was ‘big with fear’. To calm himself, he made the sign of the cross and ‘thought of Jesus’. When he pulled out his Rosary, the girl vanished. Later on, there was much discussion about this incident. The girl’s immediate disappearance at the sight of a rosary suggested to Raju that this had been Satan in disguise. Raju’s uncles agreed and decided that if this incident had happened to a ‘katta boy’, or to someone like Sanjeev (a non-church going Oraon Christian about the same age as Raju), then he surely would have succumbed to the girl’s advances and taken ill, or perhaps have been killed, for he would not have had the protection of Jesus. In addition to protection from the clutches of shaitan, the existence of ‘complete faith’ can also be rewarded with blessings. The wife of my adoptive brother, Bahadur, had been childless for nearly a decade. During this time, they had consulted a number of different healers and tried numerous ritual cures, all to no avail. Throughout this period, Bahadur was known to be a bit of a badmash: a man of bad character, who drank a lot and stayed away from home for nights on end, chasing after other women. Moreover, he did not go to church in those days. As he put it, ‘although I said “Jesu” and wore a rosary, I did not have Jesus in my heart’. Ten years into the marriage, when Bahadur’s desperation for a child nearly drove him to take a second wife, a new priest was transferred to the local parish. This priest told Bahadur that if he would start to pray Christian Piety and the Emergence of Hindu Nationalism

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and believe in Jesus ‘from the heart’, then he would be blessed with a child. Within a year, his son Johnny was born. Needless to say, Bahadur attributes Johnny’s arrival to the power of Jesu, brought on by his own ‘change of heart’: viswas exchanged for child. It is examples like these that confirm to the Oraons that Jesus is the most powerful god, and that there is a being called ‘shaitan’ that can bring only harm and that exists in opposition to Jesus. The Oraons accept these two propositions, perhaps because their own traditional gradation of benevolent and malevolent beings is somewhat analogous to the Christian concepts of ‘good’ and ‘evil’. But what they cannot accept is that the ancestor spirits and deities, who have protected them in the past, are merely guises of Satan; or that the rituals they indulge in to honour these beings are shaitan ka kam. By extension, they cannot accept that Jesus is the only divine being who is capable of protecting them from harm. ‘Since the beginning’, I was told by one of the elders who carries out the annual puja on behalf of all Oraon supernatural beings, ‘and long before we became Christian, our ancestors have looked after us and ensured our well-being. This is why we continue to pray for protection for our farms and harvest, for the health of our cattle, our children and families.’ And herein lies the dilemma and the fundamental difference between the conceptions of the priests and the Oraons. For the priests, Jesus is unambiguously good; all other beings are forms of Satan, whose worship is unequivocally categorized as ‘shaitan ka kam’. In contrast, when Oraons are asked what they understand ‘shaitan ka kam’ to be, they agree that only the act of possession, or the process by which a person gives his viswas and his body to a particular deity or ancestor, fall unquestionably under this category. With respect to other ‘Oraon practices’, such as the yearly blood offerings made to the ancestors, or the consultation of a local healer and recitation of a mantra, there is no consensus. Only the local catechist is resolute in the view that all practices related to ancestor worship are irrefutably ‘shaitan ka kam’. This lack of consensus reflects the tensions between the dualistic rhetoric of good and evil that the Oraons are taught by the church, and the varying gradations of good and evil that underpin their experiences. The priests are determined to instil in the Oraons the notion that Jesus is the only God and that all other supernatural beings with which the Oraons have traditionally engaged are guises of Satan and therefore unambiguously evil (cf. Caplan 1987). 134

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MATERIAL DIABOLIZATION, ‘OUTCASTING’ AND THE CREATION OF ‘PROPER’ CHRISTIANS The increasing frustration over the Oraons’ continuing engagement with their own spirits and deities has recently led local priests to employ more aggressive strategies. Effected in mid-1998 and thought up specifically for the Oraon Christian congregation in this particular area, these strategies are aimed at directly opposing instead of encompassing or reinterpreting local practices. They revolve around a set of regulations that combine a sort of ‘material diabolization’, where a system of ostracism and fines is instituted against those found guilty of participating in ‘un-Christian’ activities, with a mechanism of excommunication or ‘outcasting’, where participants are excluded from the sacrament and their children are expelled from school until such fines are paid and confession is extracted. Such regulations, which go against the inculturation tactics traditionally employed by the church, are comparable to those instituted in other parts of Chhattisgarh by 19th century Christian missionaries (cf. Dube 1998: 75). The primary practices for which Oraons are punished locally revolve, unsurprisingly, around the engagement in what the priests have classified as ‘shaitan ka kam’. This includes the refusal to call a nurse or avail of church-approved treatment offered by the dispensary for illness. When the priests get to know that an Oraon has called a local healer, the patient’s family is fined Rs 50 (equivalent to nearly two days’ wages). Likewise, if it is discovered that others in the village were in attendance at or somehow had knowledge of the ritual, then they are fined the same. Another activity for which fines are meted out is the hosting of and attendance at traditional, non-church approved marriage rites. These include the engagement ceremonies (Lota Pani), where the bride-to-be gives her final, public consent to the groom by symbolically exchanging a brass vessel of water, and the ‘big feast’ (Koha Pani), an event sponsored by the groom’s family where the wedding date is fixed and brideprice negotiated. The feasting and drinking involved in these events is accompanied by a traditional ritual element, wherein Oraon elders invoke the deities and ancestor spirits to bless the couple and ensure their future happiness. The rule instituted by the local priests holds that those families who host traditional marriage rites like the Lota Pani or Koha Pani ceremonies are to be fined Rs 500 each, while the couple will Christian Piety and the Emergence of Hindu Nationalism

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be fined Rs 250. Those who attend the traditional marriage rites held in the village are also to be fined Rs 100 (a charge that is equivalent to over three days’ wages). Nowadays, prospective brides and grooms are made to attend a five-day ‘marriage preparation course’ conducted by the local priests and sisters before they are allowed to be married in the church. They are charged a fee of Rs 50–100 to attend the course, where they are taught about the importance of marriage and fidelity and given advice on maintaining harmony in the home. Some Oraons choose to postpone this course, along with the traditional Catholic service, until such time that they can afford the expense and time—usually several years later after the marriage, and often after the birth of one or two children. Alongside the rules mentioned earlier, it was announced that those who had not been married in the church and who did not make the proper arrangements to do so within six months would be refused the sacrament. Such arrangement included the completion of the fiveday marriage preparation course. If couples happened to have children, then the children would not be allowed to attend the mission boarding school until such time as their parents completed the course and consecrated their marriage in the church. In the immediate months following the announcement of these new rules, several individuals were charged with violating them and served with the requisite fines. The rule with respect to the church marriage affected nine Oraon couples, six of whom had school-going children. All but two of these couples subsequently made arrangements to attend the marriage course and consecrate their marriage in the church within six months’ time. They agreed that it was a ‘good idea’ to get married in the church, but admitted that they did so at this particular time on behalf of their children’s schooling. The remaining two argued that they could not afford the time and money for the course, and refused. They were subsequently forced to withdraw their children from the mission school. One of them did not seem particularly troubled by this, and was instead relieved that he did not have to pay the school fees of Rs 800. The other was angry and complained about how the priests were jeopardizing his daughter’s education. He did not understand why the priests had to punish his child, and boycotted Sunday Mass in protest. Most of the Oraons agreed that the priests were being unfair. Such complaints reached the ears of the priests, who refused to lessen the harsh measures, saying that ‘this is the only way that the Oraons will learn’. 136

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Other prohibitions were regularly added to the list of acts for which similar punishments were meted out. These included the Oraon customs that were carried out at the funeral, which traditionally involved the invocation of ancestors through puja. Such customs also included the placement of items belonging to the deceased alongside her body in the coffin: the plate and cup she used daily, along with her clothing and slippers and a few rupees to ensure that she would be able to purchase what she needed in the afterlife. Other rituals that fell under this new classification included the spreading of seed-rice (dhan) along the path behind the coffin as it is carried from the house to the grave. This is believed necessary to provide the spirit with sufficient food for its journey to the afterlife, as well as to provide seed to plant in the after-world. This prohibition came about after the Mother Superior based at Madanpur witnessed one particular funeral in Mohanpur. She was surprised when she saw that traditional Kurukh practices continued in such a way, and commented to the priest about how little the Oraons seem to have understood or taken the ‘message of Jesus’ into their hearts. She also took note of the ‘waste’ of the seed-rice being spread on the ground behind the coffin (which amounted to about 10 kilograms, an equivalent of two days of food for the deceased person’s family), and pointed out that this could have been used as a form of donation at the Sunday service. It was at the following Sunday Mass that the rule prohibiting the engagement in such rites was added to the list of prohibitions. Excessive drinking has also been classified as ‘un-Christian’, although the priests recognize that this is an ‘engrained’ Adivasi practice and therefore difficult to control (Hardiman 1985). The priests’ only recourse here was to ban anyone whom they suspected to have been drinking from attending Mass or prayer meetings, and to fine those who audaciously attended Mass while drunk Rs 50. Since the institution of these rules, Oraons have attempted to keep such practices away from the purview of the priests. However, the latter usually learn of such activities, either when a family member or neighbour informs of the guilty parties, or through the casual talk of children at the mission school. Once such an offence has been discovered, the guilty parties are summoned by the priests, who will then announce the offender’s name and offence at the following Sunday Mass. This ‘naming and shaming’ practice also serves to warn others of the spiritual and material consequences of such an offence. Christian Piety and the Emergence of Hindu Nationalism

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As harsh as some of the consequences seem to their intended recipients, these rules and related ‘civilizing’ efforts do appear to have had an effect on the Oraon’s piety. ‘Proof ’, according to the priests, is in the growing church attendance, the decrease in indulgence in what the church considers ‘superstitious’ practices and the increasing numbers of Oraons who are opting for church weddings. Even the man who had boycotted Sunday Mass was making plans for his church wedding when I completed my fieldwork. Such indicators revolve primarily around what Dube (1998: 74) describes as the ‘moral discourse about Christian decency’. Since the mission station was established in Madanpur, the Oraon women’s ‘social skin’ (Turner 1980) has been gradually adorned with less jewellery than their Hindu neighbours. The former tend to restrict their bodily ornaments to simple bangles and a rosary or necklace with a charm of Mary, Jesus or the Pope attached, for ‘remembrance and protection’. In contrast, members of the Hindu community wear chains with pictures of Hindu gods attached, along with protective amulets or ‘damru’ filled with medicinal herbs and numerous bangles on both arms. Oraon women have also stopped wearing the traditional nose rings worn by other Adivasi women in this area because, I was told, Jesus did not wear such jewellery. The practice of tattooing the arms, ankles and chest, once mandatory for all Adivasi women from the age of puberty onward and still sported by Hindu girls and women today, has also stopped amongst Christian women at the behest of the local priests, who actively discourage the practice because ‘it goes against Jesus to defile one’s body like this’. Nowadays, such tattoos can only be found amongst middle-aged or older women. This ‘moral discourse’ has also been extended to clothing and the idea of bodily shame (cf. Dube 1995: 180–81). Oraon women, who traditionally wore only a sari draped around their shoulders, nowadays heed to the orders of the priests, who advise them to cover their breasts with blouses. This distinctive sign of church-imposed physical modesty further sets Oraon women apart from their Hindu neighbours. The Oraon people themselves admit that these measures are helping them to become better Christians. They compare themselves with their extended kin in Pathalgaon, the town in a neighbouring district from where many of them emigrated. There are ‘thousands’ (hazar) of guises of Satan in that area, I was often told by my Oraon informants. 138

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This is because the Oraons in that area have not abandoned their traditional beliefs, and church influence is much weaker. There is also more drunkenness, violence and other kinds of behaviour that signifies the absence of Jesus amongst Oraons in Pathalgaon. When such behaviour occurs locally, everyone involved agrees that this is because the community has ‘lost its faith’. Indeed, a drunken brawl will invariably result in a sudden increase in church attendance at the following Sunday Mass, in order ‘to call Jesus back into the village’. One ostensible outcome of the Oraons’ growing piety is their relatively superior material prosperity. As mentioned earlier in the chapter, the Oraon community as a whole is considered to be wealthy by local standards. Elsewhere, I have discussed how this wealth, which is represented by their large houses and the relatively larger number of consumer and prestige goods, is due partly to their participation in wage labour, and partly to the fact that they do not own land in which to re-invest their income (Froerer 2007). While the Oraons do not refute the source of this wealth, they also believe that Jesus is rewarding them for abandoning their engagement in ‘shaitan ka kam’ and becoming better Christians. To be sure, diminishing participation in ‘shaitan ka kam’ and other ritual and social obligations of the sort mentioned earlier has contributed to the Oraons’ relative prosperity in more practical ways. Such obligations, which included regular propitiation of Kurukh deities with blood offerings and the maintenance of sacred sites, are not unlike those in which members of the Hindu community continue to engage. These are traditionally very costly and, in the past, it was not unusual for Oraon households to incur enormous debt whilst trying to meet them. The fact that the Oraons are abandoning these practices means that their monetary outlay for such obligations is less.

CHRISTIAN PIETY, THE CHURCH AND THE EMERGENCE OF HINDU NATIONALISM One of the most important outcomes of the Oraons’ enhanced piety is the public acknowledgement and recognition, by both local Hindu Adivasis and groups like the RSS, of the Oraons’ Christian status. While the latter’s low caste status has always been given greater importance Christian Piety and the Emergence of Hindu Nationalism

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and used to reinforce the high caste status of the dominant local group, very recently, Hindus in the village have begun to refer to the Oraons’ ‘Christian-ness’ or identify them as ‘Christian’ (Isai). By drawing attention to their Christian status and distinguishing them more visibly from their Hindu neighbours, then, the strategies implemented by the priests have served to amplify the cultural distance between the two communities, thereby paving the way for the RSS’s own processes of Hinduization and the inculcation of ‘Hindu-ness’ amongst local Hindu Adivasis. It is important at this stage to reiterate that the measures employed by local priests to improve and ‘civilize’ local Christian Adivasis are also being borrowed and reproduced locally by the RSS. The ethos that propels the RSS’s mission is underpinned by the idea that Adivasi cultures require ‘civilizing’ the saffron way: that is, they need to be introduced to the ‘correct’ notions of Hindu practice and groomed to defend the Hindu nation against threatening religious minorities. In short, both the church and the RSS are broadly concerned with the cultivation of appropriate religious practice and belief; both draw on processes of inculturation to inculcate such practices; and both are actively engaged in the social uplift of Adivasi communities. With respect to the RSS, such similarities are underpinned by the broader mimetic relationship that Hindu nationalist organizations have had with the church. As mentioned earlier, this relationship dates back to at least the 19th century, when Hindu reform movements sought to model and ‘redefine’ Hinduism after the Christian religion (cf. Thapar 1985). According to Panikkar (1999: xviii–xix), RSS strategies in Adivasi communities like Mohanpur are possible only if the church and its ‘good works’ are discredited and replaced by those of the RSS and its affiliated organizations. A total replacement of church-related activities—namely those that revolve around education and health care—is unlikely to happen in the foreseeable future, given the church’s respected history and efforts in this area. Successful inroads have been achieved, however, through the introduction of suitable alternatives to local people, and it is to this end that RSS activists have embarked on their own ‘civilizing mission’ (Skaria 1999). From around 1995 onward, concern for the physical and social welfare has been the ostensible motivation behind the increasing attention and the ‘upliftment’ strategies being employed by the RSS in Mohanpur. The specific focus of groups like the RSS on such strategies is viewed as necessary to make the nationalist discourse 140

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locally meaningful and available to local Adivasis. This kind of attention has not only legitimized the presence and wider agenda of the RSS, but has gone some way in counteracting the influence of the church. While the emergence of Hindu nationalism in this area can be attributed to the instrumentalist strategies employed by local RSS activists, it is the presence of Christians and the church in the first instance that has enabled this phenomenon to assume the particular trajectory that it did. The RSS and other Hindu nationalist organizations continue to see the church as a threat to the wider Hindutva agenda, not only in Mohanpur, but elsewhere in India, particularly in view of the historical reputation that it has for conversions amongst India’s backward classes. In response to this threat, the RSS has specifically sought to ‘emulate’ and ‘stigmatize’ (Jaffrelot 1996) those aspects of the church that are at once useful and threatening to their broader Hindutva agenda. The church’s active engagement in social upliftment strategies that revolve around the social and physical welfare of the community, for example, has provided the RSS with a justification to pursue similar activities. As the principal object of mimesis, the very presence of Christians alongside Hindus creates the possibility of entry into the village by the RSS. In short, while the successful spread of Hindu nationalism into this area is due principally to the strategic involvement of the RSS in local affairs, the latter is also a function of its relation of opposition with the church. In short, the church, alongside the RSS, has played a significant role in facilitating the communal cleavage between the local Christian and Hindu communities. Its contribution includes its attempts to transform local Oraons into proper Christians through materially and spiritually ‘diabolizing’ (Meyers 1999) their traditional beliefs and practices. Such strategies have played an important part in the communalization of social relations by encouraging a more distinctive, visible, Christian identity against which the identity of local Hindus can be more easily juxtaposed. More implicit, less calculating and certainly less (potentially) violent than those effected by militant Hindu groups whose presence amongst Adivasis is increasing, strategies that stress the ‘Christian-ness’ of the ‘threatening other’ have provided Hindu nationalist groups like the RSS with a convenient platform from which they can continue in their efforts to communalize local identities and bring Adivasis into the Hindu fold. Christian Piety and the Emergence of Hindu Nationalism

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NOTES 1. Popular stereotypes that contribute to this ‘backward’ label and persist within mainstream Indian society include living within forested environments, speaking a tribal dialect, holding animistic beliefs, hunting and gathering, and drinking and dancing (see Pathy et al. 1976). 2. Conversions during the late 19th and early 20th century amongst tribal communities in central India took place predominantly in the form of a ‘mass movement’. Scholars estimate that approximately half of the Catholic community and around 80 per cent of the Protestants in India are descendants of mass movement converts. For further reading on Christian conversions amongst Oraons and others in central India, see Sahay (1976: 29) and Pickett (1933: 5–21). 3. See Hardiman (1987); for comparative examples outside of India, see Comaroff and Comaroff (1991), Rafael (1988) and Stirrat (1992). 4. The issue of social identification was likely more complex than this. Pati (2003: 21), for example, notes the opposite trend, whereby Oraon Christian converts in Orissa, when asked about their identity, suppressed their Christian connection in favour of their tribal links. 5. In the Niyogi report (Niyogi 1956), the missionaries reportedly denied that the mass conversions that took place in the 1930s in central India were ‘rice conversion’ (conversion out of material inducement), and insisted that such conversions were ‘genuine’ (‘inner’ or ‘personal’). Implicit within the comments made during my fieldwork by the local priests is not only the issue of whether such conversions are ‘genuine’ or ‘spurious’, but also whether temporal ‘inducements’ are actually incompatible with the spiritual aspect of conversion. Such issues remain politically sensitive today. For further discussion, see Hefner’s (1993) edited volume on the historical and anthropological considerations of conversion. See also the useful volume edited by Robinson and Clarke (2003), which focuses mainly on the social, political and historical aspects of the conversion process within India; cf. Oddie (1977) and Pickett (1933). 6. Medical missionaries, or ‘clinical Christianity’ (Fitzgerald 2001) as it was sometimes known, was not recognized as an effective method of proselytization until the later half of the 19th century (Cavalier 1899; Dennis 1899; Williams 1982). This was attributed to the long-held conviction that medical work would distract from the purpose of conversion, and to the fact that the medical profession had not, before the mid-19th century, gained respectability (Williams 1982: 272). By the early 20th century, however, medicine had a significant place in most Christian missions. 7. Cf. Kawashima (1998: 138–39) documents how the prevention of re-conversion was a stated priority for Church Medical Missions in late 19th and early 20th century Kerala. Fitzgerald (2001: 115–16) reports on missionary complaints of the difficulty of keeping new converts from ‘straying outside the Christian fold’ and returning to traditional forms of healing, particularly when faced with the ‘crucial test of disease’. 8. Significantly, this strategy has contributed to the political success of the movement in recent years, most notably in 1997 when the Hindu supremacist political party, the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), first came to power as head of India’s national coalition government.

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9. Such campaigns were accompanied by more violent measures, and between 1997 and 1999, a period that coincided with my research, the RSS and other members of the Sangh Parivar were implicated in a number of well-publicized atrocities, including the burning and destruction of churches (throughout Adivasi districts of Gujarat, 1998), the rape of nuns (in an Adivasi district in central Madhya Pradesh, late 1998) and the murder of a foreign missionary and his two small sons (in an Adivasi district of neighbouring Orissa, early 1999). 10. Concern for the impact and influence of Christianity on (especially) lower caste and tribal communities in Madhya Pradesh eventually led to a government enquiry on missionary activities, whose conclusions and recommendations were outlined in the aforementioned Niyogi Report (Niyogi 1956). This report, which charged missionaries with being ‘anti-national’ and recommended a ban on Christian proselytization continues to have significant impact today (Bhatt 2001: 198–202; cf. Prasad 2003: 73–75). 11. This importance was made manifest in the 2004 elections, which saw the BJP come to power in states (Madhya Pradesh, Jharkhand, Rajasthan, along with Chhattisgarh) with relatively substantial Adivasi populations. To be sure, support for the RSS does not automatically translate into votes for the BJP, and the establishment of a direct electoral link between these two groups would require actual figures and greater statistical and ethnographic analysis. Here, I am only suggesting the possibility of such a connection. 12. In Chhattisgarh, it has been largely the responsibility of the RSS and its allied organizations like the Vanvasi Kalyan Ashram (VKA) to actively pursue these activities. The original remit of the VKA was to establish schools, ashrams and boarding facilities for tribal children. VKA’s more expansive objective was to ‘produce nationalistic leadership’ among tribal people and bring them more into the ‘mainstream of national life’ (Andersen and Damle 1987: 133–37; Hansen 1999: 103). It has more recently branched into medical care and vocational training, and currently runs a large number of hospitals and vocational training centres across Chhattisgarh and other parts of India (Hansen 1999: 103–07; Jaffrelot 1993: 322–23). Another affiliate of the RSS is the Vidhya Bharati (literally ‘India’s knowledge’), an umbrella body that manages primary schools (Saraswati Shishu Mandir) across India. 13. See Sahay (1992: 85–88) and Tirkey (1980) on the impact of the Vatican II transformation on Oraon Catholic culture. 14. Anthropologists might label such forms of inculturation as ‘syncretism’ as they combine diverse traditions in the area of religion, but as Stewart and Shaw (1994: 11) show, representatives of the Catholic church would dispute this usage, reserving ‘syncretism as a distortion or loss of the Truth of the Christian message’ (Stewart and Shaw 1994). Cf. van der Veer (1994) for a discussion on the meaning and application of the notion of ‘syncretism’ in anthropology and history. 15. See Roy (1985 [1928]), Tirkey (1980) and Sahay (1976, 1992) for further details on how other Oraon rituals and festivals have been reinterpreted and adapted by the church. For a discussion of inculturation in the wider Indian context, see Mattam (1991).

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16. See Belmont (1982) for an extended discussion on how the notion of ‘superstition’ has been constructed in opposition to the Christian religion and the appropriate worship of the Christian god. See also Stirrat (1992: 93). 17. The selection of specific deities as ‘God’ and the identification of other beings as agents of the ‘Devil’ was a common practice amongst missionizing traditions across the world (Horton 1967; cf. Meyer 1999). 18. See Stirrat (1992: 88–89), who also talks about how the ‘mythic structure of Catholicism’ at a local Catholic shrine in Sri Lanka is based on a series of paired oppositions: God and Satan, good and evil and so forth. There are other writers who discuss how things ‘of the Church’ are brought into a ‘relation of opposition to tradition’. See, for instance, Meyer (1996: 210). 19. Viswas is a complex notion variously glossed as faith, respect, belief (Stirrat 1992: 179). As with all indigenous notions, the problem of translation is implicit here (cf. Rafael 1988).

REFERENCES Almond, Gabriel A., Emmanuel Sivan and R. Scott Appelby. 1995. ‘Politics, Ethnicity and Fundamentalism’, in M.E. Marty and R. Scott Appleby (eds), Fundamentalisms Comprehended, pp. 483–504. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Andersen, W. and S. Damle. 1987. Brotherhood in Saffron. Boulder: Westview Press. Arnold, D. 1993. Colonizing the Body: State Medicine and Epidemic Disease in NineteenthCentury India. Berkeley: University of California Press. Basu, Tapan, Pradip Datta, Sumit Sarkar, Tanika Sarkar and Sambuddha Sen. 1993. Khaki Shorts and Saffron Flags. New Delhi: Orient Longman. Bates, C. 1995. ‘Race, Caste, and Tribe in Central India: The Early Origins of Indian Anthropometry’, in P. Robb (ed.), The Concept of Race in South Asia, pp. 219–59. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Baviskar, A. 2005. ‘Adivasi Encounters with Hindu Nationalism in MP’, Economic and Political Weekly, 40(48): 5105–13. Bayly, S. 1999. Caste, Society and Politics in India from the Eighteenth to the Modern Age. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Belmont, N. 1982. ‘Superstition and Popular Religion in Western Societies’, in M. Izard and P. Smith (eds), Between Belief and Transgression: Structuralist Essays in Religion, History and Myth, pp. 9–23. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Bhatt, C. 2001. Hindu Nationalism: Origins, Ideologies and Modern Myths. Oxford: Berg. Bowen, F.J. 1936. Father Constant Lievens. St. Louis: Herder Book Company. Bryce, James. 1810. A Sketch of the State of British India, with a view of Pointing out the Best Means of Civilizing its Inhabitants, and Diffusing the Knowledge of Christianity throughout the Eastern World, etc. Edinburgh: G. Ramsay. Caplan, L. 1987. Class and Culture in Urban India. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Carstairs, G.M. 1928. Shepherd of Udaipur and the Land he Loved. London: Hodder and Stroughton.

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Cavalier, A.R. 1899. In Northern India: A Story of Mission Work in Zenanas, Hospitals, Schools and Villages. London: S.W. Partridge and Co. Chaudhuri, K. 2001. ‘Resources Unlimited’, Frontline, 18(24, 7 December): 84–96. Comaroff, J. and J. Comaroff. 1991. Of Revelation and Revolution: Christianity, Colonialism, and Consciousness in South Africa, Volume 1. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. de Sa, F. 1975. Crisis in Chota Nagpur. Bangalore: Redemptorist Publications. Dennis, J.S. 1899. Christian Missions and Social Progress: A Sociological Study of Foreign Missions. Edinburgh: Oliphant, Andersen & Ferrier. Devalle, S. 1992. Discourses of Ethnicity: Culture and Protest in Jharkhand. New Delhi and London: Sage Publications. Dube, S. 1995. ‘Paternalism and Freedom: The Evangelical Encounter in Colonial Chhattisgarh, Central India’, Modern Asian Studies, 29(1): 171–201. ———. 1998. Untouchable Pasts: Religion, Identity and Power among a Central Indian Community, 1870–1950. New York: State University of New York Press. Dube, S.C. (ed.). 1977. Tribal Heritage of India, Volume 1. New Delhi: Vikas Publishing. Fischer-Tiné, H. and M. Mann. 2004. Colonialism as Civilizing Mission. London: Anthem Press. Fitzgerald, Rosemary. 2001. ‘“Clinical Christianity”: The Emergence of Medical Work as Missionary Strategy in Colonial India, 1800–1914’, in Biswamoy Pati and Mark Harrison (eds), Health, Medicine and Empire: Perspectives on Colonial India, pp. 88–136. London: Sangam Books. Forrester, D.B. 1977. ‘The Depressed Classes and Conversion to Christianity, 1860–1960’, in G.A. Oddie (ed.), Religion in South Asia: Religious Conversion and Revival Movements in South Asia in Medieval and Modern Times. New Delhi. Manohar Books. Froerer, P. 2007. Religious Division and Social Conflict: the Emergence of Hindu Nationalism in Rural India. New Delhi: Social Science Press; London: Berghahn. ———. 2008. ‘Activists and Adivasis: Hindu Nationalist Militants in Chhattisgarh, Central India’, in David Gellner (ed.), Activism and Civil Society in South Asia. New Delhi: Sage Publications. Hansen, T.B. 1999. The Saffron Wave. New Jersey: Princeton University Press. Hardiman, D. (n.d.). ‘Christian Therapy: Medical Missionaries and the Adivasis of Western India, 1880–1930’, unpublished paper presented at conference on Reinterpreting Adivasi Movements in South Asia, University of Sussex, UK, March 2005. ———. 1985. ‘From Custom to Crime: The Politics of Drinking in Colonial South Gujarat’, in Subaltern Studies IV, pp. 165–228. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. ———. 1987. The Coming of the Devi: Adivasi Assertion in Western India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Hefner, R.W. (ed.). 1993. Conversion to Christianity: Historical and Anthropological Perspectives on a Great Transformation. Berkeley: University of California Press. Hocking, R. 1996. ‘The Potential for BJP Expansion: Ideology, Politics and Regional Appeal—The Lessons of Jharkand’, in J. McGuire, P. Reeve and H. Brasted (eds), Politics of Violence from Ayodhya to Behrampada, pp. 219–29. New Delhi: Sage Publications. Horton, R. 1967. ‘African Traditional Thought and Western Science’, Africa, 37(1 and 2): 50–57, 155–87.

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Jaffrelot, C. 1993. ‘Hindu Nationalism: Strategic Syncretism in Ideology Building’, Economic and Political Weekly, (20–27 March): 517–24. ———. 1996. The Hindu Nationalist Movement and Indian Politics: 1925 to the 1990s. London: Hurst and Co. ———. 1998. ‘BJP and the Caste Barrier: Beyond the “Twice-Born”?’ in T.B. Hansen and C. Jaffrelot (eds), The BJP and the Compulsion of Politics, pp. 22–71. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Kanungo, P. 2002. RSS’s Tryst with Politics: From Hedgewar to Sudarshan. New Delhi: Manohar Books. Kawashima, Koji. 1998. Missionaries and a Hindu State: Travancore 1858–1936. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Khilnani, S. 1997. The Idea of India. London: Penguin Books. Kujur, A. 1989. The Oraon Habitat: A Study in Cultural Geography. Ranchi: Catholic Press. Mahto, S. 1971. Hundred Years of Christian Missions in Chotanagpur since 1845. Ranchi: Chotanagpur Publishing House. Mann, M. 2004. ‘Torchbearers upon the Path of Progress’: Britain’s Ideology of a “Moral and Material Progress” in India’, in H. Fischer-Tiné and M. Mann (eds), Colonialism as Civilizing Mission, pp. 1–26. London: Anthem Press. Mattam, M.A. 1991. Inculturation of the Liturgy in the Indian Context. Kottayam: Oriental Institute of Religious Studies. Meyer, B. 1996. ‘Modernity and Enchantment: The Image of the Devil in Popular African Christianity’, in P. van der Veer (ed.), Conversion to Modernities: The Globalization of Christianity, pp. 199–230. New York: Routledge. ———. 1999. Translating the Devil: Religion and Modernity among the Ewe in Ghana. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Mosse, D. 1994. ‘The Politics of Religious Synthesis’, in C. Stewart and R. Shaw (eds), Syncretism and Anti-syncretism, pp. 85–107. New York and London: Routledge Press. Neill, S. 1985. A History of Christianity in India 1707–1858. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Niyogi, B.S. 1956. Report of the Christian Missionary Activities Enquiry Committee, Madhya Pradesh, Volume I and II. Nagpur: Government Printing. Oddie, G.A. 1977. Religion in South Asia: Religious Conversion and Revival Movements in South Asia in Medieval and Modern Times. New Delhi: Manohar Books. Padel, F. 1995. The Sacrifice of Human Being: British Rule and the Konds of Orissa. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Panikkar, K.N. (ed.). 1999. The Concerned Indian’s Guide to Communalism. New Delhi: Penguin Books. Parry, J.P. 1994. Death in Benares. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pathy, J., S. Paul, M. Bhaskar and J. Panda. 1976. ‘Tribal Studies in India: An Appraisal’, The Eastern Anthropologist, 29(1): 399–417. Pati, B. 2003. Identity, Hegemony and Resistance: Towards a Social History of Conversions in Orissa, 1800–2000. New Delhi: Three Essays Collective. Pickett, J.W. 1933. Christian Mass Movements in India: A Study with Recommendations. Lucknow: Lucknow Publishing House. Prasad, A. 2003. Against Ecological Romanticism. New Delhi: Three Essays Collective.

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Rafael, V. 1988. Contracting Colonialism: Translation and Christian Conversion in Tagalog Society under Early Spanish Rule. London: Cornell University Press. Robinson, R. and S. Clarke (eds). 2003. Religious Conversion in India: Modes, Motivations, and Meanings. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Roy, S.C. 1912. The Mundas and Their Country. Calcutta: The City Book Society. ———. 1915. The Oraons of Chota Nagpur, Their History, Economic Life and Social Organisation. Calcutta: The Brahmo Mission Press. ———. 1985 (1928). Oraon Religion and Customs. New Delhi: Gyan Publishing House. Sahay, K.N. 1976. Under the Shadow of the Cross: A Study of the Nature and Process of Christianization among the Uraon of Central India. New Delhi: Vikas Publishing House. ———. 1992. ‘A Theoretical Model for the Study of Christianization Processes among the Tribals of Chotanagpur’, in B. Chaudhuri (ed.), Tribal Transformations in India, pp. 72–91. New Delhi: Inter-India Publications. Shourie, A. 1994. Missionaries in India. New Delhi: ASA Publications. Singh, K.S. 1993. The Scheduled Castes. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Skaria, A. 1997. ‘Shades of Wildness: Tribe, Caste and Gender in Western India’, Journal of Asian Studies, 56(3): 726–45. Stewart, C. and R. Shaw (eds). 1994. Syncretism/Anti-syncretism: The Politics of Religious Synthesis. London: Routledge. Stirrat, R.L. 1992. Power and Religiosity in a Post-colonial Setting: Sinhala Catholics in Contemporary Sri Lanka. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tete, Peter. 1984. A Missionary Social Worker in India: J.B. Hoffman. Rome: Universalita Gregoriana. Thapar, R. 1985. ‘Syndicated Moksha?’ Seminar, 313: 14–22. Tirkey, B. 1980. Oraon Symbols: Theologising in Oraon Context. New Delhi: Vidyajyoti. Turner, V. 1980. ‘The Social Skin’, in J. Cherfas and R. Lewin (eds), Not Work Alone: A Cross-Cultural View of Activities Superfluous to Survival. London: Temple Smith. Van der Veer, P. 1994. Religious Nationalism: Hindus and Muslims in India. Berkeley: University of California Press. Varshney, A. 2002. Ethnic Conflict and Civic Life: Hindus and Muslims in India. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Webster, J.B. 1976. The Christian Community and Change in 19th Century North India. New Delhi: Macmillan Co. Weiner, M. 1978. Sons of the Soil: Migration and Ethnic Conflict in India. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Williams, C. Peter. 1982. ‘Healing and Evangelism: The Place of Medicine in Later Victorian Protestant Missionary Thinking’, in W.J. Sheils (ed.), The Church and Healing, pp. 271–85. Oxford: Basil Blackwell.

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C H A P T E R 7 Legally Hindu: Dalit Lutheran Christians of Coastal Andhra Pradesh Ashok Kumar M. and Rowena Robinson1

INTRODUCTION This chapter explores the question of dual identity among Dalit Christians of Andhra, with a special focus on the Lutherans. It is probable that there is some commonality in terms of religious identity as well as social meanings attached to Dalit Christianity in general across different states of India (see also Lobo 1989; Mosse 1994 and Schmalz 2005). In recent times, one has been reading about the violence in Orissa against the Scheduled Caste Pana Christians and the expressions of hostility voiced by those who believe that the Panas practice Christianity in private but assume a Hindu label in order to obtain benefits available to Scheduled Castes. This chapter deals with the dual identity of Dalit Lutheran Christians at two different levels. Dual identity may be perceived both as a symbol of the

group’s subordination/marginality and also as a product of structurally imposed marginality. As a product, dual religious identity emerges as the outcome of the need to cope with concerns about identity and social marginality at large. This chapter is based on fieldwork done by the first author over a period of more than eight months between 2007 and 2008 in a Lutheran parish located in coastal Andhra in a village that is called here Dravidapuram. Some 90 to 95 per cent of the Dalits in this village profess Christianity. This is a village in the Guntur district of Andhra Pradesh with a relatively very large population of Dalits. One thousand, two hundred and ten villagers are Dalits and these constitute 40 per cent of the total village population. The Christians in the village are not officially recognized as such. One might commence with the narration of an incident that brings out succinctly the conundrum in the lives of Dalit Christians of Andhra Pradesh. The following illustration takes us to the core of the identity problem they continually struggle with. It is in June that children are admitted to schools in the state of Andhra Pradesh. Getting admission in the school is a process that sharply brings to the attention of the local people, including children, the Hindu label they must officially bear. A man will take his daughter to the primary school to get her admission there. To do so, he needs to take a day or so off from agricultural labour, his main source of livelihood. At the school, the teacher herself suggests that the parent register the child under another name. Her name is Mary and under that name she will not be eligible for the benefits due to Scheduled Castes, because she will automatically be considered a Christian. The teacher says: ‘Unless you change her name, she will not get a scholarship or other benefits from the government that she is otherwise entitled to.’ Thus, he has to think of another name, which may be Hindu or non-denominational, but not overtly Christian.2 The Lutherans understand that Indian law decrees that one cannot be Scheduled Caste (a status ascribed by birth) as well as profess Christianity. Their dismal economic condition forces them to declare themselves officially as Hindu, in order to be able to quality for the benefits available under the law to Scheduled Castes. However, they continue to practice Christianity in their day-to-day lives. With the consent of the child’s father, the teacher writes her name in the school register as ‘Raja Kumari’. And the child is forced to remember 150

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this new name (label) initially for the sake of attendance at school, without realizing the complex politics behind these strategies and how they may continue to affect her later in life. When she returns home in the evening, her father forgets the name given to her in the school. He enquires the name of his daughter and warns her to remember the name life-long, as it will continue to be her name throughout her education. Thus, this little girl will now be known as Raja Kumari by her peers and teachers in school; at home and in her village and community she is and will continue to be recognized as Mary. The official identity of the Dalit Christians in Andhra Pradesh, which is a Hindu one, is only a declared identity, not a professed or practiced one. In this illustration, an instance is taken from school-going children’s routines, because the school is a very significant social space for the villagers wherein Dalit Christian children are first socialized into the practice of assuming and answering to a Hindu name. The school is a social terrain on which the assumption of dual identity acquires a degree of concreteness. It is one of the first official spaces occupied by the Dalit Christian child. However, while it may be assumed that a new identity is forced on the child here; something different is taking place. Local-level functionaries of the state or district-managed school, the teachers, operate in an intriguing way. Here the upper caste Hindu teacher suggests that the child’s father give his daughter a Hindu name, in order that she then becomes eligible for state-administered benefits. This is not an isolated case; this happens routinely throughout the state. The state benefits do not accrue to Christians; state functionaries, regardless of caste or creed, openly advise and enable the poor Dalit Christians to declare themselves as Hindu Malas, thus fitting into a category officially recognized as a Scheduled Caste. In a case that is similar, the village sangham (body of church elders as described later) recently decided to construct a house for its pastor. The need for a house for the pastor was felt because as one respondent puts it: The Lutheran church building was constructed here in the early 1970s. Since then we have been planning to have a house for the pastor, but the plan could not materialize. In fact, it is a matter of shame that we do not have a separate house for our pastor despite having a relatively bigger caste group (sangham). Even small congregations in the neighbourhood have managed to do it. It is good news that we have started it now at last. Legally Hindu

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The activity of building the house started in 2007 and is still on. What is interesting is that the construction of the pastor’s house has been treated as a caste activity. Each household has contributed about Rs 110 for construction. Since the money was still insufficient, the sangham registered the house for funding as part of housing project activities under the state government’s INDIRAMMA (Integrated Novel Development in Rural Areas and Model Municipal Areas) initiative meant for the rural and urban poor. As a member of the clergy, the Lutheran pastor of the village could not avail of this scheme in his own name. To avoid any future complications, the house has been registered in the name of a childless widow in the village. Her name appears in the official records, but it is an open secret that the house will be occupied by the Lutheran pastor of the village. Here again, if in a somewhat different way, we encounter the Lutherans’ tactic to benefit from a government scheme, enabled by their unity under the sangham. Though the pastor is too poor to afford his own house, his position as a cleric rules him out of the categories of those for whom the government’s scheme is applicable. Thus, the sangham has employed this covert mechanism of providing for him. Before unraveling the different implications of the situations described earlier, let us contextualize our central concern by locating it within a historical account of how Christianity developed in Andhra Pradesh and spread, particularly, among Andhra Dalits.

HISTORY OF CHRISTIANITY IN ANDHRA: A BRIEF SKETCH In this sketch, Andhra does not include the present Telangana districts of Andhra Pradesh, which were under the Nizam state before independence. It only refers to Telugu-speaking country which was part of the Madras presidency under colonial rule. Though it is believed that there was a Christian presence in Andhra during the 1st century itself, there is no strong historical evidence in support of this.3 Historical evidence is available only from the 16th century. The Franciscans may have entered the Telugu-speaking land to evangelize people in the early 16th century. However, they did not seem to have made much headway. At the end of the 16th century, the Jesuits also came to the Telugu-speaking country (Kumar 1991: 16; Rao 2006: 51–53). They made unsuccessful 152

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attempts to establish Christianity in the capital cities (Chandragiria and Vellore) of the Raja of Vijayanagar (Thekkadeth 1982: 298). After the Jesuits, the Theatines and Augustinians entered Andhra to preach, after receiving the permission of the Portuguese king (Kumar 1991: 16). Historical evidence demonstrates that in the year 1640, a Theatine missionary, Father Manco visited Machilipatnam, a port town, and also built a church in Bheelimipatnam where 19 persons were baptized. There were around 43 Theatine missionaries who came to India from Europe between 1640 and 1649; the ones most prominent in Andhra were Burgmore, Galco and Manaldini. The evidence suggests that though Theatine missionaries and Augustinians worked for a long period, they were not successful in evangelizing the people of Andhra. In fact, Christianity could not establish itself in the Telugu-speaking land during the 17th century (Kumar 1991: 17–18). It was at this time when the Jesuit missionaries made a breakthrough by starting a mission in Chittoor district in the first decade of the 18th century. Soon, they spread out to other districts and established some 16 stations within a relatively short span of 30 years. Some thousands of caste Hindus were converted to Christianity (Kumar 1991: 18). Bartholomew Ziegenbalg was the first Protestant Danish missionary to Andhra in the early 1720s. In one of his visits, he stopped at Tirupathi, a temple town in Andhra, to preach the word of God. Of course, there was a resistance from the locals. Within a short period, his successor Benjamin Schultz started missionary work in Tirupathi after his arrival in 1726 (Kumar 1991: 19). Before the entry of Lutheranism, there were many missionaries working from different stations in Andhra.4 Power struggles among the Portuguese, French and Dutch in India could change the pattern or pace of missionary work. Due to such political instability, many mission stations were temporary in nature. By and large, there were no mass Christian conversion movements until the Lutherans started a mission station at Guntur town. Dolbeer (1959) claims that ‘up to 1842 and the entrance of the Lutherans into the Andhra Desa, very little Christian work has been accomplished in this tremendous area so close to Madras and so accessible from the sea’. The American Evangelical Lutheran Church started missionary work, establishing Guntur as its headquarters. The missionary chosen to initiate the task was Rev. Christian Frederick Heyer a German, who was 49 years old when he reached Guntur. He reached Guntur on 31 July 1842 and Legally Hindu

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started work immediately (Dolbeer 1959: 34). Within three months he managed to start schools for local children at three different places in the Guntur town (Kumar 1991). The official date of the establishment of the American Evangelical Lutheran Church in Guntur is recorded as 4 January 1843 (Kumar 1991: 23). The American Evangelical Lutheran Church was renamed the Andhra Evangelical Lutheran Church (AELC) in the year 1927. Since then, it has become a self-supporting, selfpropagating and self-governing body in the Telugu-speaking region. At present, AELC has more than 6 lakh followers in the coastal belt of Andhra Pradesh. Lutheran Christianity established itself in the coastal Andhra region with Guntur as its base for both evangelical operations and administrative purpose. At present, Lutheran Christianity is strongest among two competing ex-untouchable communities, the Malas and the Madigas. There is a clear-cut majority of Malas in the Lutheran church, whereas most of the Madigas preferred the Baptist mission. One of the reasons for the Malas being in a majority within the Lutheran church has to do with the geographical spread of Malas in the region. In 1883, groups we now call Dalits constituted about 10 per cent of the population of the Madras Presidency. In the Godavari–Krishna delta, however, the percentage was closer to 20 per cent. Of these, the majority were Malas. In the late 1880s and early 1890s, there was a great movement of the Malas towards Lutheran Christianity (Oddie 1975 and Nicholson 1926). The Baptists were based at Nellore and their presence in the Guntur district was minimal prior to the entry of the Lutherans. In Andhra, the ‘mass movements’ were more the work of Protestant missions, or at least they reaped the major harvest. Scholars such as Forrester (1977, 1980) suggest that the Protestants were more successful because the Catholic church usually ended up operating within caste and was more tolerant towards the caste system. Thus, for those attempting to flee the system, Protestantism appeared more attractive. Protestantism was harsher in handling caste practices in the church. The distinctiveness of mass movements lies in the scale and number of people changing their faith. As Forrester (1980) argues, the decision to adopt Christianity was not made by individuals but rather by caste elders. He further argues that material improvement was often crucial to the motives of mass movements, but at the same time dignity, self-respect, equal treatment and ability and freedom to choose their own destiny were powerful incentives attracting, especially, the outcastes. 154

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The movement towards Christianity did not stop with mass movements of Dalits in Andhra. Rather, Christianity continued to attract many other Shudra castes in the region. The Shudra movement got inspiration from the mass movements. As a result, there were drastic changes in social equations between castes and outcastes in this region (Frykenberg 1980; Oddie 1977; Pickett 1933: 294–312). The mass movements among untouchables of Andhra in the early 19th century strengthened Christianity, especially the Protestant missions. At present, the Lutheran church has established itself among two Dalit communities, which constitute the majority of the Dalit population in Andhra; they are Mala and Madiga communities. In the coastal belt, the majority of the Dalits of these two groups accepted Christianity. The Malas were initiated into the Lutheran church before other missionaries established their base in the coastal region. Once the Baptists came, their sphere of influence spread more among the Madigas, since the Lutherans were associated with the Malas and the two groups have clearly competitive and even hostile relations in the region.5 Conventionally it is believed that Christian converts in India received both material and symbolic benefits from the church. This may have had greater relevance during the 18th and 19th centuries. However, for the past four or five decades, the Lutherans have not received any financial help from the Lutheran church. Rather, the poor Dalits support the church and church activities financially. In 1927 the Lutheran church became a self-supporting body. Its main source of income is the weekly offerings of the parishioners and occasional gifts. Besides that, the church has some fixed assets in the region which yield a reasonable amount for the maintenance of church. Of course, the symbolic benefits of being Christian could not be denied, though these may not be uniform from one group to another in the region. The present Lutheran church does not have the financial resources even to provide education to its adherents. For Lutherans in rural Andhra, it is not common to come across a non-Dalit convert to Christianity. They think all the Christians are Dalits by default. The caste Hindus in the countryside do not differentiate between a converted Dalit Christian and a Dalit; in fact, for them, both are Dalits. One of the interesting features of the Lutheran church in Andhra Pradesh is that it is confined to the Dalit community. While there are a few Madiga families, the church is dominated by the Malas. Unlike Dalit Catholics, therefore, the Lutheran converts here do not face Legally Hindu

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caste-based discrimination inside the church due to the absence of upper caste converts. The AELC administration has been in the hands of the Dalits since its inception.

MERGER OF CASTE AND CONGREGATION Before conversion, the Malas were for the most part confined to receiving upper caste commands regarding their code of conduct. They remained largely ‘Other’ in the Hindu social world and marginal to its religious life. The core of the Hindu religious domain was not accessible to the Malas. Lutheranism has offered to the Malas an alternative social and spiritual space, within which they could carve themselves a distinct identity. Fieldwork in Dravidapuram shows that the scope of the Lutheran church is not confined to religious activities alone; rather, it encompasses the cultural and the socio-political in the lives of the people. The church itself stands as a parallel site for the construction of honour; parallel, that is, to the village temple (Appadurai and Breckenridge 1976; Bayly 1989; Robinson 1998). The ‘Church Street’ has become an important social space in the village and has eventually emerged as the Main Street at the heart of the Lutheran residential colony. Shops have opened around the church and it is a busy and well-recognized space. Within the church, circumscribed by caste, the question of discrimination does not arise. The Lutheran church has actually enabled the Dalits to voice an ideology that is anti-caste, while keeping their own practices and customs intact. The social practices of the Malas are considered inferior by the upper castes in the region. Among other things, their consumption of beef and practice of burying their dead marked them out as impure. These practices were easily embraced within the fold of Lutheranism, thereby giving the Malas a distinct but no longer demeaning identity. The sangham is the significant social institution, through which the unity of caste and church among the Malas is achieved. The sangham consists of both Hindu and Christian elders (three and nine respectively), but the influence of the Pedda Mala (who is Christian) and of the Christians, in general, is the greater. The Hindu elders have lost their influence in the sangham. For all practical purposes, today, the sangham implies the church elders. The sangham functions virtually as a caste 156

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panchayat and also as a church body. It can ex-communicate those who leave Lutheranism for another church. In fact, this has happened in Dravidapuram. The Bible Mission Church has been recently trying to proselytize in the area and has acquired land in the village to build a church. This issue raised the hackles of the sangham, which ordered the ex-communication of anyone who invited pastors of other denominations to come to the village and preach or conduct worship. The sangham uses the space of the church for its own political and caste activities, such as to conduct meetings with the leaders of different political parties. The church is also used to make announcements regarding upcoming caste meetings. Though the Lutheran church has hardly been able to provide any material benefits for the very poor Malas, it has certainly succeeded in bringing about their unity. It is through their unification, achieved through the device of the sangham, that the Malas have been able to gain whatever little benefit they have. It was through their unity that they have been able to initiate the project to build a house for their pastor. It was through their unity, in fact, that they were able to obtain a proper church building for themselves. The Lutheran church authorities did not have funds for a church, despite collections. In 1964, a landlord in the village, Mr Ventaka Ratnam, wanted to stand for panchayat elections. However, he faced the challenge of an opponent even more wealthy and powerful than him. He realized he stood little chance unless he got the support of the numerically significant Malas. He asked them for their support, with the promise of giving them what they asked. The Malas used the opportunity, facilitated by their unity as Lutherans, to ask for the construction of a church. The candidate promised to give them all the raw materials—sand, iron rods, bricks, cement and the like—required and these were made available a few days before the election. Needless to say, he won and the Malas were on their way to getting their church. Over the decades, the Malas have used their collective strength on other occasions; their awareness and unity as Lutherans has enabled them to gain some voice in an otherwise deeply hierarchical and oppressive rural society.

DUAL IDENTITY: SYMBOL AND OUTCOME OF MARGINALITY Dalit Lutherans, as a norm, assume Hindu identity for purposes of recognition and record by the state. This practice is assisted by the peculiar Legally Hindu

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fact that the Lutheran church does not keep any records of converts and those baptized into the church. Such records have not been maintained for several decades and it is impossible even to get records for earlier periods, which it appears may have been destroyed. Thus, generation after generation Lutherans assume the practice of bearing an official Hindu identity and a personal and social Christian one. Fieldwork in Dravidapuram revealed that a few days before a marriage is performed the bride and groom are baptized, each in his or her own church. Again, no records are maintained regarding the baptisms per se, but the marriage certificate becomes, in effect, the only record that the couple is Lutheran. Then, how are children named? To name a child, a prayer gathering takes place in the home, not in the church. This is usually done after the child completes six months of age. The pastor comes to the home for this ceremony and the message he gives emphasizes that it is one of the prime duties of the parents to bring up their children on the path of the Christian faith from their earliest days. After delivering the message, the pastor initiates the next part of the ceremony in which different objects are put within the child’s reach. The object touched by the child first is supposed to predict his or her interests. For instance, there are usually four objects placed near the child: the Bible, a pen, a book and a sweet. The Bible denotes that the child will be a good witness to Christ; the book and pen reveal interests in reading, writing and learning and the sweet is added, more in fun, to show the child’s interest in food! In a kind of de facto baptism, the naming itself is left in the hands of the pastor; the pastor utters a name and it is considered final. The child is, thereafter, known by this name within the community. The pastor feeds the child first, followed by family members. The first family member to feed the child is the maternal uncle. The maternal uncle is also supposed to bring the silver bowl, which marks this ceremony. He also brings some other gold ornaments for the child. For Dalit Christians, their declared Hindu identity is not a performed religious identity in any sense. It is assumed in order to adjust to stateframed rules regarding the Scheduled Castes. While it may be a tactic by a very poor group to obtain reserved seats in educational institutions and jobs as well as other associated benefits, it is also guided by a more fundamental imperative. For a Dalit group in Andhra Pradesh, it would be suicidal not to be able to have recourse to the legal provision for the protection of Scheduled Castes under the Scheduled Caste and Scheduled Tribe (Prevention of Atrocities) Act, 1989. 158

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What if the Dalits declared themselves officially to be Christian? For one, they would be removed from the only safety-net they, as an extremely poor group, have: the provisions of benefits and reservations available to Hindu (as well as Buddhist and Sikh) Dalits. The Lutheran church, as already stated, is not able to provide material support to its followers. Their adoption of an official Hindu identity is a symbol of their impoverished and marginal social and economic position as well as an outcome of it. The situation gives rise to several peculiarities. The Lutheran Christians may be permitted access to state benefits, but Christian institutions do not recognize them and they are often unable to obtain admission to subsidized education in Christian schools or entry and promotions in Christian-run establishments such as colleges or hospitals. Complicating the picture is the fact that the Dalits sometimes stress their Mala identity, even in opposition to others of similar status. When it comes to marriage, for instance, Malas are willing only to marry with other Malas, even if these are Hindu, but not with other Dalit groups. In politics, the Dalit identity is, of course, very important when it comes to garnering votes, especially in constituencies reserved for the Scheduled Castes. Dalit identity has permitted the Malas (as well as the Madigas in areas where they are in larger numbers) a degree of empowerment in the political sphere. Even if a Mala (or Madiga) does not contest elections, the votes of the Dalits are important and they cannot, as a group, be politically ignored. There are, of course, material benefits attached to assuming and maintaining a legal identity as Hindus. However, it would be naïve to look at the situation from this perspective. For the impoverished Lutherans, the reservation policy alone offers some hope for education and a slightly better life. Moreover, while the law assumes that Christianity is a religion based on equality and, thus, it does not recognize castes among Christians, the real-life situation differs considerably. The Malas and Madigas continue to be treated to the oppressions of the caste system by upper castes, both Hindu and Christian. A change in religion does not necessarily change their social situation. This is seen even more clearly when we look at the violence against Dalits in Andhra. Thus, an even more crucial necessity for the Lutherans or Baptists declaring themselves as Hindus arises from the powerlessness of the Dalits against domination and violence from the upper castes. Legally Hindu

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Caste is a grim reality of rural Andhra Pradesh; it is not absent even from the urban areas. Periodic and systematic efforts to maintain and underline their dominance are made by the upper castes. Caste violence is not uncommon in the coastal region, where this fieldwork has been based. The Hindu of 1 August 2007 records the judgment given in a case of the brutal killing of eight Dalits in 1991. These were Malas from the village of Tsundur in Guntur district, a village where the Malas referred are, of course, also Christian. In Tsundur in 1991, eight Dalits were said to have been killed by a mob of persons, mainly of the local dominant Reddy caste. The majority of Dalits in the village were of the Mala caste. The Malas refused to go for hearings far from their village and demanded that a special court be set up under the Scheduled Caste and Scheduled Tribe (Prevention of Atrocities) Act, 1989 in Tsundur itself. They also demanded the appointment of public prosecutors of their choice to argue the case in the special court. The government finally conceded the demands and the court was set up in Tsundur. At the end of the trial, on the 31st of July 2007, twenty-one persons were sentenced to life imprisonment and thirty-five others to a year of rigorous imprisonment and a penalty of Rs 2,000 each. This is not an isolated case of violence against Dalits. It is cited here to bring home the argument that the protection offered by the Scheduled Caste and Scheduled Tribe (Prevention of Atrocities) Act, 1989 is critical for the lives of Dalits in this as also in other regions. Even when such legal protections exist, violence and attempts to dominate and oppress the Dalits continue and are a part of everyday life. Yet, the Dalits of coastal Andhra do not remain passive recipients of domination. Their ability to politically mobilize for themselves is seen even in the report, where they are able to put sufficient pressure on the government to concede their demands for a special court. The Dalits from this region are also not averse to showing aggression against upper caste dominance. This aggression—in the form of burning paddy in the fields—is usually only a blustering attempt at damage-control, when Dalits have come under attack.6 Yet, there is a degree of consciousness and awareness of their oppression, a refusal to completely bow down and a cohesive caste structure that enables such counter-attacks. The church contributes a great deal to the consolidation of this caste identity. Indeed, the Dalit Christians in Andhra are leaders in the Dalit movement. Nevertheless, they are only able to openly resist the domination 160

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of the upper castes because they know they have the legal handle of the Atrocities Act on their side. The first move in the face of any attack is to file a case under the Act. Then, some form of revenge may be sought. The protection of the Act would be denied to the Malas, if they declared themselves as Christian. They can only have recourse to it if they fit the administrative category of the Scheduled Caste, employed for the purpose by the state. The Indian Constitution has provided positive discrimination mechanisms for the former untouchables who have been oppressed by the caste system and its legitimating ideologies in our society for centuries. The Constitutional Order of 1950 listed Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes using the list employed by the Government of India (Scheduled Castes) Order of 1936. The 1950 order specifies that no person professing a religion other than Hinduism may be deemed a member of a Scheduled Caste. The limitation has been understood in terms of the logic that religions such as Islam or Christianity claimed the principle of human equality and therefore there could strictly not be any ‘Scheduled Castes’ in these communities. The Order was amended in 1956 to include Sikh Dalits and again in 1990 to include Buddhist Dalits, despite the fact that these are also religions that espouse the idea of equality. The reasons for violent caste clashes between caste Hindus and Dalit Christians are mostly issues related to social status and caste superiority and respect. They may start off in small quarrels at a movie theatre or at an auto-rickshaw stand but then these often blow up into clashes between two caste groups. All over the country it is largely the case that the wrath of the upper caste Hindus is being targeted against not the lowest of the depressed groups but those among them that show signs of achieving or trying to achieve some measure of economic and social mobility (see also Lobo 2001). It is these groups that pose the strongest challenge to the domination of the upper castes. This is evidenced by coastal Andhra Pradesh. In the case of Tsundur, the church was important for mobilizing Dalits in the face of the atrocity as well as rehabilitating the families of victims. The interlock between Christianity and caste offers the Dalits (here, the Malas) of Andhra Pradesh some forms of empowerment and cohesion in the face of the domination or oppression by upper caste groups. This interlock, as said earlier, is rendered operational through the sangham structure. In the social context of the Lutherans, as uncovered Legally Hindu

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by fieldwork in Dravidapuram, the sangham is the body that looks after caste and customary practices as well as the church and the spiritual affairs of the community. In Dravidapuram, the sangham, thus, manages both religious and caste practices. A few elders of the community, who are called the sangha peddalu head this customary body. These elders are church elders, for all practical purposes. As there are very few Hindus in the village and they are relatively less educated and worse off than their Christian neighbours, they are hardly represented in the sangham. The few Hindus in the sangham have little voice, and the association is dominated by the Christian elders. In other words, the sangha peddalu and the church elders are the same persons. Hence, it is through the sangham that the interests of the church and those of the caste (Mala) are completely unified. While the purely economic position of the Malas has not improved a great deal—and they support the church from their meagre earnings— there is symbolic, social and political capital that Lutheranism offers. Moreover, their legal (and lived) identity as Dalits offers them some support because of the benefits of positive discrimination. Thus, it may be argued that the Lutherans declare themselves as Hindu not because of any interest in the ‘religious’ label but because of the crucial need to come under the ‘Dalit’ category. From the point of view of the Lutherans, it may well be that having to bear the Hindu label is an unintended consequence of the need to be recognized as Dalits. Indeed, their legal identity as Dalits corresponds far more closely to the lived reality of their social and economic position in relation to the upper castes in this region. It is, therefore, one that remains relatively unproblematic for them even though it necessitates various contrivances that require working out. The Dalit Christians of Andhra are closely involved with and, indeed, at the frontlines of the Dalit movement. Unlike other Christian converts from ex-untouchable groups, Dalit Christians of coastal Andhra never detached themselves from the larger Dalit movement in Andhra. In the case of other regions such as Maharashtra or parts of north India, Dalit Christians face a serious challenge from the neo-Buddhists. The Dalit movements in these areas are in the hands of the latter. The churches often do not encourage the Christians to associate with the Dalit movements, perhaps due the fear that they might turn to Buddhism because it is Buddhism that is perceived as the obvious choice for those associated 162

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with the Dalit movements in these regions. Thus, the interests of Dalit Christians do not get linked with the larger Dalit movements.7 In Andhra Pradesh, the trajectory of conversions and political movements has led to a different situation. In the coastal belt, Dalit and Christian are synonyms. Dalits prefer to avoid caste vocabulary in casual, day-to-day interaction and foreground instead their religious identity. However, the Christian Dalits remain the backbone of the Dalit movement in Andhra Pradesh and given that the presence of Buddhists in coastal Andhra is minimal, the movement here is practically associated with the Christians. The unity of church and caste has ensured that the Dalits have no problem in accepting Ambedkar as their leader along with their Lutheran faith and practice.8 In Dravidapuram itself the establishment of a statue of Ambedkar in 1997 was made possible with contributions from each household, apart from some donations by Dalit leaders and others in the area. Nowadays, wedding invitations in Dravidapuram sometimes carry the photograph of Ambedkar, along with that of Christ and other Christian symbols.

CONCLUSION The Lutherans in coastal Andhra are compelled to employ Hindu names for legal, public and administrative purposes. The Indian state and judiciary have taken the position that caste inequality is present only in Hinduism and so there can be no caste discrimination or untouchability in other religions. While this logic was diluted when the provisions for Scheduled Castes were extended to Sikhs and then Buddhists, there is also the legal shield that, for certain purposes, the law defines a Hindu as any person ‘who is not a Muslim, Christian, Parsi or Jew by religion’ but includes ‘any person who is Buddhist, Jain or Sikh by religion’. For the poor Lutheran converts of coastal Andhra, struggling against caste oppression, there is little option but to adjust to a legal Hindu identity if they wish to avail of the benefits and protections the law offers Dalits. The strategy may be perceived both as a symbol of the group’s subordination/marginality and also as a product of its structurally imposed marginality. As has been suggested by the chapter, for the Lutherans the concern is with Dalit identity; the fact that it also involves Legally Hindu

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identification as a Hindu remains a by-product. Thus, the official Hindu identity remains a declared and unprofessed one. On the other hand, the Dalit identity corresponds with the lived reality of the Christians and is one that is embraced and is socially, culturally and politically relevant for them. Paradoxically, it is as Christians that the Lutherans are denied legal identity as Dalits, but Christianity and the church strengthens their capacity to struggle for their rights once they take recourse to the tactic of assuming the legal identity of Hindus. There are few Buddhists in coastal Andhra Pradesh. The mass movements led to large-scale conversions among the Dalits to Christianity. The churches came under the control of the Dalits themselves. Where the Malas turned to Lutheranism and controlled the church, the Madigas turned to and took leadership of the Baptist church in the region. The alliance of church and community obviously strengthened the Dalit movement. The social—and denominational—division between the Malas and Madigas could have split up the Dalit movement. As shown, there are crucial areas and moments of difference. Even so, the cohesion provided the organization of the church strengthens the hands of the Dalits against the upper castes. Further, if Malas are dominant in one village, Madigas are in another. Hence, the areas of clash at the local level are lessened and, on the whole, the Dalit struggle does not appear to get fragmented. Further, the strong presence of the Dalits ensures that they remain politically significant and no political party can afford to completely ignore them. Since church and caste overlap, the Dalits do not face, unlike Dalit Christians in other parts of the country, marginalization within their adopted faith. Clearly, Christianity offered them a distinct space and symbolic resources through which they could consolidate their identity and gain a sense of worth that feeds into their struggles against caste oppression. Finally, it is of interest that in Andhra Pradesh other castes and communities are well aware of the gap between the legal and social identity of the Lutherans but choose to ignore or accept it. It is suggested here that one of the reasons for this is that, in Andhra Pradesh, it is principally through the lens of caste that groups are viewed. The social identity of Dalits remains critical. From the point of view of other castes, Dalits, regardless of what they may practice within their own community, will always be considered Dalit. Thus, their partaking of legal privileges or 164

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rights accruing to the Scheduled Castes is not a strong political issue. Moreover, as brought out in the chapter, the Dalits in Andhra have achieved, over the last decades, a fair degree of political clout. In coastal Andhra, this strength lies with the Christians. Thus, any move made now to remove them from the Scheduled Caste category is unlikely to succeed.

NOTES 1. This chapter is based on doctoral fieldwork done during 2007 and 2008 by Ashok Kumar M. Rowena Robinson has guided this research. 2. Thus, a boy is named Adam in the family. His school name might be Suresh Babu. Names used often for official purposes in the area are Narigiah, Varadaiah, Narasimha, Prasad and Rajesh. 3. It is said that Theophilus from a place called Devi, an island near Machilipatnam on the eastern coast of India, was the first Christian from Andhra to go to Constantinople and meet Emperor Constantine during 305–37. After that, apart from the travellers Marco Polo (1288) and Nicole de Conti (1420) no Christian missionary arrived in Andhra before the Portuguese traders. For details, see Rao (2006). 4. These included the Jesuit fathers in Punganur (1701), the missionaries of the London Missionary Society at Visakhapatnam (1805), Cuddapah (1822) and Chicacole (1839) and the American Baptist Mission at Nellore (1840). See Rao (2006) for details. 5. Malas are usually into agricultural labour and are not normally associated with any other specific village duty. The Madigas, on the other hand, have been, and still are, associated with leather-work. Though both groups are Dalits, they do not inter-marry and the Madigas are looked down upon by other Dalits because of the kind of work they traditionally do. Malas and Madigas have come into political confrontation several times. During the leadership of Chandrababu Naidu, a decision was made to classify Scheduled Castes into four groups, based on need. Reservation would be implemented in accordance with this need-based classification or, as it was termed, ‘rationalization’. Madigas were placed above the Malas in this classification and several groups emerged among the Malas, such as the Mala Maha Sabha, Andhra Pradesh Mala Mahanadu, the Mala Mahanadu and the Telangana Mala Mahanadu, in order to oppose the move. The group that mobilized the Madigas to put pressure on the government to formulate such a classification was the Madiga Reservation Porata Samiti, under the leadership of Manda Krishna. Ultimately, however, the Supreme Court declared the government order unconstitutional. 6. Burning paddy in the fields is a popular mode of revenge in rural Andhra, which may be adopted by any caste group against another. 7. In Maharashtra, the Mahars mostly follow Buddhism and prefer the Republican Party, while Christian (Christi) Mahars maintain a separate identity.

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8. Indeed, in the past communism was held in equal regard and was easily enmeshed with Lutheran practice. These days, however, the younger generation of Communists are considered as black sheep because they do not acknowledge the significance of Ambedkar and his writings.

REFERENCES Appadurai, Arjun and Carol A. Breckenridge. 1976. ‘The South Indian Temple: Authority, Honour and Redistribution’, Contributions to Indian Sociology, 10 (2): 187–211. Bayly, Susan. 1989. Saints, Goddesses and Kings: Muslims and Christians in South Indian Society, 1700–1900. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Dolbeer, Martin Luther, Jr. 1959. A History of Lutheranism in Andhra Desa. New York: Board of Foreign Missions; the United Lutheran Church in America. Forrester, Duncan B. 1977. ‘The Depressed Classes and Conversion to Christianity, 1860–1960’, in Duncan B. Forrester (ed.), Religion in South Asia: Religious Conversion and Revival Movements in South Asia in Medieval and Modern Times, pp. 35–66. New Delhi: Manohar Publications. ———. 1980. Caste and Christianity: Attitudes and Policies on Caste of Anglo-Saxon Protestant Missionaries in India. London: Curzon Press. Frykenberg, R.E. 1980. ‘On the Study of Conversion Movements: A Review Article and a Theoretical Note’, The Indian Economic and Social History Review, 17 (1): 121–38. Gaikward, Balasaheb. 1990. Christi Mahar. Kolhapur: Prachar Prakashan Publications. Kooiman, Dick. 1991. ‘Conversion from Slavery to Plantation Labour: Christians Mission in South India (19th Century)’, Social Scientist, 19, August–September (8/9): 57–71. Kumar, Sandeep D. 1991. ‘Christian Missions in Andhra: With a Special Reference to Guntur and Surrounding Areas in the 19th Century’, unpublished M.Phil. dissertation submitted in the Department of History, University of Hyderabad. Lobo, Lancy. 1989. ‘Conversion, Emigration and Social Mobility of an Ex-scheduled Caste from Central Gujarat’, Social Action, 39(October–December): 423–37. ———. 2001. ‘Visions, Illusions and Dilemmas of Dalit Christians in India’, in Ghanshyam Shah (ed.), Dalit Identity and Politics: Cultural Sub-ordination and the Dalit Challenge, Volume 2. New Delhi: Sage Publications. Mosse, David. 1994. ‘Idioms of Subordination and Styles of Protest among Christian and Hindu Harijan Castes in Tamil Nadu’, Contributions to Indian Sociology, 28(January): 67–106. Nicholson, Sydney. 1926. ‘Social Organization of the Malas—An Outcaste Indian People’, The Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland, 56: 91–103. Oddie, Geoffrey A. 1975. ‘Christian Conversion in the Telugu Country, 1860–1900: A Case Study of One Protestant Movement in the Godavary-Krishna Delta’, The Indian Economic and Social History Review, 12 (1): 61–79. ———. 1977. ‘Christian Conversion among Non-Brahmans in Andhra Pradesh, with Special Reference to Anglican Missions and the Dornakal Diocese, c. 1900–1936’,

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in Geoffrey A Oddie (ed.), Religion in South Asia: Religious Conversion and Revival Movements in South Asia in Medieval and Modern Times, pp. 67–99. New Delhi: Manohar Publications. Pickett, J.W. 1933. Christian Mass Movements in India: A Study with Recommendations. Lucknow: Lucknow Publishing House. Rao, Prasada. T.S.V. 2006. Christianity in India: A Historical Summary. Guntur: Shrushtee Graphics. Robinson, Rowena. 1998. Conversion, Continuity and Change: Lived Christianity in Southern Goa. New Delhi: Sage Publications. Schamlaz, Mathew. 2005. ‘Dalit Catholic Tactics of Marginality at a North Indian Mission’, History of religions, 44(3): 216–51. Thekkadeth, Joseph. 1982. History of Christianity in India (Volume II). Bangalore: Theological Publications in India.

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C H A P T E R 8 Contradiction and Change in the Mizo Church Lakshmi Bhatia

INTRODUCTION Nowhere in the north-east has the spread of Christianity been as rapid as in Mizoram, to the extent, that in the span of a century, Mizo society underwent not merely significant changes, but emerged as a fundamentally transformed society. Further, Mizoram distinguishes itself from its other north-eastern cousins by its high literacy rates (second only to Kerala, the most literate state in India) and also in the church being closely intertwined with the State, which is not the case in the other north-eastern states.1 In this essay, my aim is to understand Christianity in Mizoram both in its historicity and contemporaneity, and in a comparative perspective. Mizoram has been selected for separate analysis because Christianity

(mainly Protestantism) as it prevails in Mizoram, although it shares some similarities with the other north-eastern states of India, is markedly different. It is different in terms of the growth processes and also in its interconnections with the broader society and polity.

REVIVALS AND THE GROWTH OF CHRISTIANITY The advent of Christianity in Mizoram goes back to the year 1894, four years after British annexation of the region. This was broadly the pattern in the other north-eastern states too, with the exception of Nagaland.2 According to an arrangement, only one mission was permitted in each hill district with the aim of pacifying and civilizing the warlike tribes besides their evangelization and protection of the tea industry. Mission work in Mizoram was initiated by the London Baptist Mission but was soon taken over by the Welsh Presbyterian Mission in the then North Lushai Hills (north Mizoram), the Baptists returning later to the then South Lushai Hills (southern Mizoram). Besides, a separate mission, the Lakher Pioneer Mission, began to function in the south-eastern corner of the South Lushai Hills among the lesser known tribal community of the then Lakhers (presently known as Mara). The pattern of division of the churches corresponded to the administrative distinction made between the North Lushai Hills and the South Lushai Hills. Nevertheless, it took almost a decade for the Christianization process to gain momentum. The tribal communities in Mizoram, about fifteen in number, followed animism and had a completely subsistence economy. The coming of age of Christianity in Mizoram can be attributed to the revival movements that have occurred at different times in Mizo church history. The revival, harhna, can be described as a ‘vehement upsurge of public excitement into religious commitments, accompanied by diverse manifestations of emotional outbursts through songs, movements and actions’ (Lalsawma 1994). The first of these revivals took place in 1905. It was influenced by the Khasi revival in Meghalaya which, in turn, was an outcome of the 1904 Welsh revival in the Wales. The subsequent revivals occurred in 1913, 1919 and 1935 respectively. Each revival was centred around a particular theme and was followed by related activities. The theme of the first revival, for instance, was the coming of the Holy Spirit and the confession of sins. 170

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The Mizos, at this time, had no sense of sin, in the Christian understanding. They were initiated into the idea of sin in the first awakening itself. In this phase, the existing practices of head hunting, inter-tribal raids, animal sacrifices and varieties of feasts were presented to them as wrongs or sins and it was urged that the first step towards their atonement was their confession before the Holy Spirit. The confessions in large numbers by the Mizos led to a massive growth in Christianity. However, resistance in the form of the counter-movement of Puma Zai (also called Tlangnam Zai) followed soon after. Puma Zai, a community song in which an old Mizo tune was set to new words, accompanied by feasts and dancing by both men and women, became instantly popular. Later, in response to the resistance movement, Christianity in Mizoram adapted to the traditional Mizo way of life—of singing and dancing. The second revival that took place in 1913, with the theme of the second coming of Christ, started from eastern Mizoram. It went on for two years, during which phase Christianity witnessed a three-fold increase in its membership from a total of 1,800 members to 6,134. However, the growth of communicant membership was more in the northern Presbyterian church than the southern Baptist church. The main reason for this was that the latter adopted a cautious approach, while the Presbyterian church baptized people in large numbers. In the first decade of the growth of church, it was primarily the common people who embraced Christianity. The chiefs, during this period, attempted to prevent the spread of Christianity through popularizing Puma Zai. Some of the words of Puma Zai went thus: Lehkhabu keng vai lem chang, (Carrying book, imitating foreigners) Chanchin hril reng reng, Puma. (Always proclaiming something, Puma)

The counter-movement also spread the word that a change of religion would cause death. The second revival was preceded by famine (Mautam) which, though it gave a temporary setback to the process of Christianization, was significant for the long-term gains it achieved, as it provided an opportunity for Mizo Christians to help people and thus get them into the Christian fold. Natural events were thus instrumental in the spread of Christianity as they instilled a sense of confidence in times of uncertainty and despair. Contradiction and Change in the Mizo Church

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The subsequent revival in 1919 started simultaneously in north and south Mizoram and spread to the Mizo-inhabited parts of Tripura and Manipur too. Heralding a phase of growth and consolidation for Christianity, with several becoming soldiers of the Cross, Kraws-sipai, it took the form of a mass movement. Lasting for four years, its main theme was the Cross of Christ. Continuous singing and dancing marked the revival along with the introduction of the beating of the Mizo drum, khuang, in time with the singing of hymns, a practice that continues today. Thus, just as the Mizos were adapting their ways in accordance with the new socio-religious order, so was the church attempting to indigenize in order to be more acceptable to the tribal society. Growth of education corresponded to the growth of Christianity. It must, however, be noted that the Presbyterian church operating in north Mizoram was swifter and people were baptized by multitudes, as compared to the Baptist church in south Mizoram which adopted a cautious approach and several who could be baptized were, instead, held on probation. The 1919 revival too witnessed a counter-movement started by a former mission school teacher, Tlira. Tlira preached an ideology contrary to the Christian ideology by asserting that he represented the second coming of Jesus; that since each day is God’s day, there was no need to observe Sunday as the Lord’s Day, Pathiani. He also preached that those who accepted his teaching were the blessed ones. One of Tlira’s followers was later instrumental in starting the Salvation Army in Mizoram. During this period, hymn singing, lay preaching and use of drums rose in popularity. Simultaneously, the period also witnessed a spurt in missionary zeal as the church diversified its activities by starting missions among the Thadous in Manipur and in the Mizo-dominated areas of Tripura. Mission work was started among the Bawms and Bru of the Chittagong Hill Tracts (CHT), too. Another significant feature of the growth of Christianity during this phase was the introduction of the practice of ‘a handful of rice collection’, buhfai tham. This was a novel method of raising funds by women that later became a source of income for the church. In the subsequent decade, there was proliferation of other denominations such as the Roman Catholic Church and Salvation Army. The church did not make considerable progress in numbers but an important feature of this period was the beginning of a Girls’ Middle School in 1926. 172

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The fourth and the last revival occurred in 1935, with the theme of the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit was expressed in dancing and speaking and singing in different tongues. This revival came to be known as Harhna Sang, the High Revival and it spread like wild fire. Those who pleaded self-control and did not speak or dance in tongues were regarded as bereft of the Holy Spirit. It gave a huge impetus to the Christianization process in Mizoram and was also instrumental in the growth of the United Pentecostal Church (UPC), which became the fastest growing denomination due to its emotional appeal. Sects, such as Thiangzau Pawl, Khuangtua Pawl, Zakaia Pawl and Mizo Israel were also the outcome of the High Revival. The harhna (revivals) led to the massive spread of Christianity as they made skilful and effective use of Mizo culture for revival expressions. Besides, they also provided a new form of recreation that was spontaneous, affective and powerful (Lalsawma 1994). The counter-movements trace the difficult path of Christianization encapsulating the many modes of resistance to it. There was a reaction to the austerity preached by the church. These counter-movements were also efforts to re-conceptualize and reinvent the past, mainly by the chiefs, whose supremacy was under threat. As relations of power and authority underwent tremendous upheaval, religious expressions were the terrain on which the battles for supremacy were waged. Annexation and the changes in the economy of the region brought a greater sense of unease and confusion. The counter-movements could be seen as among the attempts to make sense of the new and perplexing world that the Mizos were confronted with, and as demonstrating that the project of modernity, initiated through the intervention of Christianity, involved not just promises but also paradoxes and contradictions. The efforts for purification, inherent in the process of modernity as Bruno Latour rightly emphasizes, were not acceptable to the locals if the so-called hybrid forms were not allowed to thrive (Latour 1993). The complexity of Christianity in the region can be attributed to such recurrent conflicts between the local and the global embedded both in doctrines and in concrete practices. The Mizos showed their agency and that they were possessors of their own history with their own capacity to transform. Even so, the products of religious expression were emergent from the way in which ‘strategies’ of missionaries and ‘tactics’ of the potential converts played out in the field (de Certeau 1988; Comaroff and Comaroff 1992; Keane 2007; Sahlins 1981). Contradiction and Change in the Mizo Church

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A SOCIETY IN TRANSITION The advent and development of Christianity in Mizoram saw the disappearance of certain institutions and practices and their place was taken over by new ones. Besides, some old institutions adapted to the new religious order and thus modified themselves in consonance with the changed order. The Bawi system (slavery) prevalent in traditional Mizo society was abolished and it was replaced by the Christian ethos of equality, brotherhood and mutual love and respect.3 The youth dormitory (zawlbuk) too began to wane and it was replaced by the Young Mizo Association (YMA) in 1935. The YMA is an extremely significant and much respected civil society organization in Mizoram till the present day. Christianity also heralded the gradual decline of chiefship in Mizo society, later abolished under a statute of law. The old nomadic lifestyle, the practice of head hunting, many of the beliefs and practices and death rituals no longer exist in the same way or to the same extent in the present society. Thus, Mizo society appears to have been cast in a new mould. The Christianization process led to the use of medicine replacing the animistic sacrifices performed on the advice of the village priest. The fear of the Ramhuais, the multitudes of spirits, was replaced by the idea of the love and care of Christ. Even so, we find the mergence of customs and beliefs at many levels. The life-cycle rituals at birth, marriage and death are church-oriented. Marriages take place in the church but bride price is still in existence and is calculated in accordance with the Mizo customary law. The mode of payment, however, can be in cash or kind. Men and women share easy camaraderie, though gender equality is still far from being a reality.4 Mizo society has undergone a process of Westernization in beliefs, knowledge, dress and habits. The church building, biak-in, is the most important building in the village and occupies a prominent location, which was earlier the privilege of the chief’s house and the zawlbuk. The church has emerged as a community, fostering ‘collective conscience’ and as an important centre of social reunions, reinforcing unity and integration of the Mizo society. Christmas and New Year are the most significant festivals in the Mizo calendar along with Chapcharkut, Pawlkut and Mimkut. Tlawmngaihna, the traditional Mizo code of conduct prescribing civility, brotherhood and selfless service has been further refined by the Christian ethos, which sharpens its hold on the 174

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socialization process. In the realm of economy, monetized exchanges have replaced the subsistence economy of the past and new professions, namely, teaching, nursing, medical profession, horticulture and agroprocessing, tailoring, bakery and carpentry, have emerged, largely due to the impact of Christianity which was a far more potent agent of social change than the British administration as it had direct contact with the village people. The growth of Christianity has been synonymous with education as education was delegated to the mission right from the start. The major reasons for the high literacy rate in the state are the introduction of a script for the Duhlian dialect of the Mizos, which became the lingua franca in Mizoram; the close relations between the mission and the British administration; the swift approach of proselytization by the Presbyterian church, the largest church in Mizoram; and the general enthusiasm of the Mizos to embrace newness, especially if it is perceived to be for their betterment. This flexibility of the Mizo psyche has been evident since the days of the harhna, the revivals. Just as Christianity made rapid strides in Mizoram, so did literacy and education. The Mizos kept up this enthusiasm in the post-independence period too when education passed into the hands of the government. In comparison, in the Naga Hills, the mission work started much earlier and the hills were annexed almost a quarter of a century prior to the Mizo Hills. Yet neither the growth of Christianity nor the spread of literacy was as rapid as in the latter. This could be attributed to several factors. Though a script was developed for the Nagas by the missionaries, they remained separate entities—Ao, Angami, Sema, Lotha, Chakhesang etc.—and a common Naga identity could not be easily established. It took a whole century for the missionaries to work with each tribal community and develop scripts for each and network them all as part of the Nagaland Baptist Church Council (NBCC). Prior to networking as NBCC, interestingly, there were as many Christian organizations among the Nagas as there were different Naga tribes. Besides, in the Naga Hills, the generally close relationship between the mission and British officials was conspicuous by its absence and the cautious approach adopted by the Baptist Mission as compared to the swifter one of the Presbyterian church in Mizoram hindered the spread of literacy. This explains, in part, the relatively gradual pace of the growth of Christianity and literacy among the Nagas in comparison to the Mizos. Contradiction and Change in the Mizo Church

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In sum, it can be stated that in Mizo society, Christianity has resulted in some beliefs, practices, institutions and customs being completely done away with; some have been modified while the others are a totally new phenomenon. Together, they have created a radically altered Mizo society. Today, we know the Mizos as a highly literate, Westernized and politically aware people.5

TRANSFORMATIONS IN POLITY AND CHRISTIANITY In this section, I trace the political developments in Mizoram from 1947 to the present times and try to assess the ways in which they have been shaped by Christianity, and also the ways in which the latter itself has undergone transformation with the emergence of new socio-political conditions. At the time of India’s independence, as the foreign missionaries and British officials receded from the scene, their place was taken over by the native Mizo elite who were the product of Christianity, modern education and political transformations occurring in the society. The process of the decline of the chiefs, Lal, who had for long dominated the polity and administration in the regime of the small ‘village republics’ in traditional Mizoram, proceeded simultaneously. Though the chiefs had been co-opted by the British in administrative matters, they were generally considered unsuitable to be a part of the new system of governance. Their decline culminated in the promulgation of the Lushai Hills (Acquisition of Chiefs Rights) Act, 1956 whereby 259 Mizo chiefs and 50 Mara chiefs were divested of their powers. As the gates of education, largely a product of Christianity, were thrown open to all, the commoner clans in Mizoram benefited as much as the others. These commoners grew in both social significance and political power, organizing themselves into a political party, the Mizo Commoners Union (later Mizo Union) in 1946, the first political party in Mizoram. This juncture marked the growth of the middle class in Mizoram, constituting the church leaders, the educated members of the government machinery, the political elite, school teachers and medical professionals, many of them occupying important positions in both the sacred and the secular realms. The ‘status dispersal’ of the past was substituted by ‘status crystallization’ with the same person being a church leader, political figure, teacher or medical professional, member of a voluntary organization and 176

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a Sunday School teacher all rolled into one. This trend continues till the present day and explains substantially how and why Christianity, as a way of life, overshadows the public and the private spheres of Mizo life and also why state and civil society, of which Christianity is an important component, are so closely intertwined and overlapping in Mizoram. Mark Juergensmeyer (2008) has pointed out that there may be two ways of thinking about religion, the Enlightenment view that makes a distinction between the religious and the secular and the non-Enlightenment view which is much broader and involves moral values and publicly articulated spiritual sensibility, laying the foundation of a just society. Christianity, as it is practised in Mizoram, comes closer to the second view. Talal Asad (2003) too makes a similar argument that the secular cannot be viewed as a successor to religion. Rather, it is a multi-layered category and can co-exist with religion. Later, in the course of political developments, Mizoram, which had been a part of Assam, was constituted into the Lushai Hills District in 1952 under the Assam government, with an Autonomous District Council under the Sixth Schedule of the Indian Constitution.6 All the significant posts in the District Council were occupied by the members of the Mizo Union as against the pro-chief, United Mizo Freedom Organisation (UMFO). Mizoram experiences Mautam, famine, every fifty years or so and Thingtam, lesser famine, around every twenty-five years. One such Mautam occurred in 1959, bringing in its wake misery and suffering. Thus was born the Mizo National Famine Front in 1959 with the ostensible aim of providing relief to the suffering. It soon reconstituted itself into a political party, the Mizo National Front (MNF) under the leadership of Laldenga, an accountant in the District Council, who perceived this as an opportune moment to plunge into politics. The MNF movement dominated the political scene in Mizoram for more than two decades and was to change the course of its history. There were, thus, two simultaneous currents in the Mizo politics of the time. The Mizo Union displayed disillusionment with the chiefship of the past, but the MNF could be said to glorify the past under the chiefs. Inspired by the Naga movement, which began in 1947 with the goal of attaining independence for the Nagas; the MNF movement, too, aimed for independence and sovereignty for the Mizos.7 To popularize the MNF movement, it emphasized on publicizing the assumed injustice to the Mizos by the Mizo Union and Assam government. Mizo Hills Contradiction and Change in the Mizo Church

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were held to be a distinct nation created, moulded and nurtured by God and nature. The newspaper Zalena (freedom) was the voice of the MNF movement and it was for the first time in Mizo history that Christianity was posited as a symbol of Mizo nationhood, perhaps as a rejection of the secular state.8 The Duhlian dialect of the Mizo was galvanized, too, for all the inhabitants of Mizoram and to reinforce solidarity among the Mizos. The already existing gulf between the Mizo and the non-Mizo was made to appear deeper and wider besides highlighting the failure of the Assam government in developmental work (Goswami 1979; Hluna 1985). Youth were mobilized and organized and a parallel government was launched much on the lines of the Naga movement. In 1967, the government under ‘Operation Security’ launched the Grouping of Villages Scheme. A population of around 50,000 spread in distant villages was re-grouped into eighteen grouping centres along the main road. When the MNF movement became more violent and the state more repressive, the leaders of the Presbyterian church of Mizoram decided to intervene to restore peace and goodwill between the MNF and the general public and between the security forces and Mizo public (Hluna 1985). It was decided to issue a public declaration and to form a ‘Citizens’ Committee’. The declaration expressed sympathy and solidarity with all those who had suffered, condemned the acts of violence as violation of both the norms of the church and those of civility and appealed to the security forces to be humane in ushering peace. Later, a Christian Peace Committee was also formed with members from both the Presbyterian and Baptist churches. Spearheaded by Zairema, a prominent church leader, the committee adopted the earlier stance of being unequivocally critical of the violence by MNF and of state repression. In its meeting with the President of MNF, Laldenga, the Peace Committee raised several issues of vital importance, such as the use of violence, imposition of restrictions on the church, persuading the church leaders to follow the hard-line approach of the MNF by boycotting the government and legitimizing the parallel government of the MNF with Mizoram projected as a Christian state. They also spoke of the intimidation of Mizo Union leaders, forcible collections and about ceasefire, peace talks and autonomous status for Mizoram. Laldenga not only adopted an ambivalent stand on some of the issues but also exhorted the church leaders to limit their activity to the spiritual sphere alone. Though the church attempted to bring in the 178

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voice of reason, reconciliation and moderation to the hard-line approach of the MNF and to clear the misconception of the security agencies of viewing the MNF movement as a mere law and order problem, it was viewed with scepticism by both and ultimately met with failure. In the later years of the movement, the church attempted vigorously to continue the peace process. The creation of Bangladesh in 1971 and the cessation of the entity of East Pakistan, where Laldenga had been in hiding for a long time, altered the future of the MNF movement with the change in political equations. In 1972, Mizoram was granted the status of a Union Territory. In the changed circumstances, Laldenga thought it worthwhile to negotiate with the government for a peaceful settlement. Peace talks were initiated in 1976 but they collapsed in 1982. At this juncture, the church intervened once again for the resumption of talks. The state placed its confidence in the church to persuade the underground activists to eschew the path of violence and come to the negotiating table. A church leaders’ committee was formed in 1983 which met Laldenga in London, where he was living in exile and appealed to him on behalf of all the churches in Mizoram. Although the church leaders had no concrete proposals for the resolution of the problem, yet they were instrumental in pacification, and instilling a sense of mutual trust crucial for the peace talks. The peace talks received a jolt after the assassination of the then Prime Minister of India, Indira Gandhi, in 1984 but eventually the Peace Accord was signed on 30 June 1986, celebrated in the present times as Remna Ni. In the subsequent year, Mizoram was accorded the status of a full-fledged state. In the years after the attainment of statehood, the church in Mizoram has adapted to the changed conditions and has continued to engage with the key issues of the times along with its spiritual role. In 1994, for instance, there was a proposal to revoke the Inner Line Permit (a regulation that restricts the entry of outsiders, presently in force in the states of Arunachal Pradesh, Mizoram and Nagaland). The church once again under the leadership of the veteran church leader, Zairema, appealed to the then Prime Minister of India, articulating the voice of the Mizo people that apprehended such a move as an onslaught on their distinct ethnic identity and as an effort towards assimilation. The same fears were expressed by the political leadership too. In recent times, the church has campaigned against social vices like drug addiction and corruption plaguing the society. Contradiction and Change in the Mizo Church

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The church has supported the cause of restoration of democracy in the neighbouring country of Myanmar too. Currently, the Mizoram Presbyterian church is opposing the state family planning policies. Backed by Biblical references, the Synod (apex body of Presbyterian church) has, recently, passed a resolution to preach against birth-control, arguing that Mizoram is sparsely populated.9 This can be understood as a strategy to counter the influx of outsiders, likely to be heightened by the ‘Go West’ model of development with the implementation of the Look-East Policy and a lurking fear of being decimated to a minority in their own land. Apart from concrete instances in and around the state, the Mizos have also taken cues from the recent ethnic clashes in Urumqui in the north-western Chinese province of Xinjiang, one of the triggering factors for which was the declining population of the native Uighur Muslim community in the face of the immigrant Han Chinese from other provinces benefitting more from the development projects as compared to the natives. This is despite the fact that the ‘one child family norm’ of the state is not applicable to the Uighurs. Besides, the attempts of the Mizo church, in this regard, also exemplify the interesting ways in which the global and the local interact.

CONCLUDING COMMENTS As is evident from the foregoing account, Christianity in Mizoram has displayed considerable resilience and flexibility from its initial stages to the present day. In its initial stages, the church attempted to re-invent itself by co-opting native terms and practices. It employed the Mizo language for the spread of Christianity and developed a script for it. Later, in the times of political turmoil, the political elite popularized Christianity as a symbol of Mizo nationhood along with language, land and shared history, which is reflective of the general trend of elite-led mobilization that uses, articulates and transmits primordial identities either to gain access to power or to stay in power (Phadnis 1989). During this phase, the church on its part demonstrated sympathy with some of the aspirations of the people but did not take a virulently anti-government stand or encourage the use of violence. It engaged itself with the key social and political issues and attempted to employ its influence to bring a note of moderation and reconciliation during the turbulent times of the MNF movement. 180

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Manifestly, if Christianity led to the spread of literacy and education, latently, it was instrumental in the creation of a self-confident, self-assured, educated, Westernized and politically aware middle class in Mizoram that spearheaded the political movement, possesses cultural capital and is the creator, articulator and transmitter of a distinct ethnic identity of the Mizos. The process of the emergence and consolidation of the middle class, characterized as it was by inherent tensions and dilemmas, resulted in the creation of a forward-looking, yet substantially inwardlooking, ambivalent middle class.10 These trends continue to mark the Mizo society and polity in the present times too, complicated as they are by significant issues of development, insider/outsider issues, educated unemployment and ‘easy money’ culture. What one sees are the contradictory outcomes of policies and aims of the church in Mizoram. Today, the entire North-Eastern region inclusive of Mizoram is seeing itself as part of a shift from the margins to assuming a place of centrality, as the gateway to the South-East Asian societies. This is being set in motion with the operationalization of the Look-East Policy and the North East Vision 2020 (Government of India 2008). The church may see itself as protecting the community and its own spiritual values. However, the whole historical trajectory of the spread of Christianity in Mizoram has set in place particular structures and given rise to ideas that the church itself may today wish to remain distant from. It is without doubt that the church has been instrumental in the creation and maintenance of an educated, aware middle class. It has been this class that has provided the leadership for Mizoram’s political movement. This class possesses the cultural, educational and social capital necessary to maintain and transmit a distinct ethnic identity to the Mizos. When employed by the dominant middle class as part of the repertoire of resistance, Christianity becomes a symbol of Mizo nationhood, and a weapon against the state. Moreover, it can find itself attached to the self-seeking pursuits of the middle-class intellectual elites. Under such circumstances, the church finds itself located on troubled terrain. Again, key policies on development may be part of the church’s manifest agenda, but its position on ‘birth control’ for instance—while crucially protecting Mizo interests against outsiders—might also serve to weaken wider economic options becoming available through new government initiatives. Given the large presence of educated, unemployed young people in Mizoram, already experiencing alienation from the church, that is not an unproblematic position. Contradiction and Change in the Mizo Church

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NOTES 1. According to the Census of India, 2001, the comparative literacy rates for other North-Eastern states are Nagaland (67%), Meghalaya (63%), Manipur (68.8%), Assam (64%), Tripura (60.4%), Arunachal Pradesh (55%) and Sikkim (69%). 2. In Nagaland (then Naga Hills under the Assam government), missionary work had begun almost eighteen years prior to the British annexation. Besides, the generally close relationship between the missionaries and the British officials was missing in Nagaland in contrast to the other North-Eastern states. 3. Indrani Chatterjee (2006), in her account of slavery in the Lushai Hills, has contended that in South Asia, there was no uniform pattern of slavery and therefore we need to contextualize each instance of slavery chronologically, geographically and historically. 4. Gender stereotypes are strengthened by the instruments of the state apparatus such as education. For a detailed discussion on the subject, see Kewalram (2007). In the church too, though women play a key role in the handful of rice collection, buhfai tham, and also in other church matters, like the Sunday School and Kristian Nu Pawl (Christian Women’s Association), yet they cannot become pastors or other church leaders. 5. Similar have been the observations of Webb Keane (2007). On the basis of his ethnographic research in Anakalang, a district in Western Sumba, Indonesia, Keane asserts that the old and new in post-colonial Indonesia were juxtaposed in terms of substitution, superimposition, renaming and rejection. 6. The present states of Nagaland, Meghalaya, Mizoram and Arunachal Pradesh, with the exception of Tripura and Manipur were part of Assam prior to 1963, when Nagaland attained statehood. Meghalaya attained statehood in 1972, Mizoram and Arunachal Pradesh became Union Territories in 1972 and separate states in 1987. 7. There are striking similarities between the Naga movement and Mizo movement. Both the Naga and Mizo hills were placed under the category of ‘Excluded Areas’ in accordance with the Government of India Act, 1935. The Naga movement began in 1947 and the Mizo movement began in 1960 under the charismatic leadership of A.Z. Phizo and Laldenga respectively. The Naga National Council (NNC), formed in 1947, was soon divided into two factions, the moderate Sema faction and the radical Phizoites. This in 1960 took the shape of two separate political parties, the Naga Nationalist Council (NNC) and moderate Council of Naga People (CNP) formed of the Semas in the initial stages. The Mizo politics too encountered two diverse currents, the moderate voice expressed by the Mizo Union that favoured solutions within the ambit of the Indian Constitution and the MNF that emphasized the separateness of the people and believed in radical methods to achieve independence. Both the Naga and Mizo movements organized the youth and also galvanized Christianity as a symbol of nationhood. However, the Naga movement has encountered more factionalism as compared to the Mizo movement. In the later years, NNC split into NNC and NSCN and in 1988, the NSCN was further bifurcated into NSCN(I-M) and NSCN(K). This factionalism is one of the reasons why an amicable solution still eludes the Naga problem.

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8. In recent scholarship, it is being argued that religious language and metaphor are increasingly used to criticize and counter the modern nation-state being projected as a secular institution. Further, religion is being pressed into service in autonomy and separatist movements especially in places where it is difficult to define or accept in unambiguous terms the idea of a nation-state as in Palestine, Sri Lanka and Iraq (Juergensmeyer 2008). To this list, one may add some of the states in India’s north-east. Here too, religion along with other cultural markers is used especially by inhabitants of the trans-border hills, which have been treated as a ‘barbarian periphery’, in order to usher in a shadow state, characteristic of marginal people (Scott forthcoming). 9. See, for instance, the Times of India, dated 17 July 2009. 10. The most recent example of this ambivalence is the euphoria expressed by the Mizoram Chief Minister to ‘capitalize’ on the offers of funds, both national and international in the context of India’s Look-East Policy. On the other hand, the Presbyterian church in Mizoram is set to preach against birth-control policies, so that the fruits of development are reaped by the native Mizo population and not the teeming outsiders (See, for instance, the Hindu, dated 26 June 2009 and the Times of India dated 17 July 2009).

REFERENCES Asad, Talal. 2003. Formations of the Secular: Christianity, Islam, Modernity. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Chatterjee, Indrani. 2006. ‘Slavery in the Lushai Hills’, in I. Chatterjee and Richard M. Eaton (eds), Slavery in South Asian History, pp. 287–315. Indianapolis: Bloomington. Comaroff, John and Jean Comaroff. 1992. Ethnography and the Historical Imagination. Oxford: Westview Press. de Certeau, Michel. 1988. The Practice of Everyday Life, trans. Steven Rendall. Berkeley: University of California Press. Goswami, B.B. 1979. The Mizo Unrest. Jaipur: Aalekh. Government of India. 2008. North East Vision: 2020. New Delhi: Ministry of the Development of North Eastern Region (MDoNER). Hluna, J.V. 1985. Church and Political Upheaval in Mizoram. Aizawl: Mizo History Association. Juergensmeyer, Mark. 2008. Global Rebellion: Religious Challenge to the Secular State. Berkeley: University of California Press. Keane, Webb. 2007. Christian Moderns: Freedom and Fetish in the Mission Encounter. Berkeley: University of California Press. Kewalram, Lakshmi B. 2007. ‘Reinforcement of Gender Stereotypes through Modern Education: The Case of Mizoram’, in Sumi Krishna (ed.), Women’s Livelihood Rights: Recasting Citizenship for Development, pp. 209–25. New Delhi: Sage Publications. Lalsawma. 1994. Revivals: The Mizo Way. Aizawl: Missionveng Thlang.

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Latour, Bruno. 1993. We have Never been Modern, trans. Catherine Porter. Massachusetts: Harvard University Press. Phadnis, U. 1989. Ethnicity and Nation Building in South Asia. New Delhi: Sage Publications. Sahay, Lakshmi. 2005. ‘Education and Society: A Sociological Study in Chhimtuipui District of Mizoram’, PhD. thesis, Department of Sociology, University of Delhi. Sahlins, Marshall. 1981. Historical Metaphors and Mythical Realities. Michigan: University of Michigan. Scott, James. Forthcoming. The State and People who Move or why Civilisations can’t Climb Hills.

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C H A P T E R 9 The Broken Mirror: John Masih’s Journey from Isai to Dalit Mathew N. Schmalz

TALL TALES The true saint is detached from all ambition but still lives in the world. John Masih, aphorism number eight.

In the north Indian village of Shantinagar, they often tell a story about John Masih. John was a Catholic convert from the untouchable Chamar caste of tanners and, in his early teens, was studying at the local mission’s Hindi medium school.1 Discipline was strict and students were limited to one and a half meals a day because funds were low. But John Masih felt that this was nothing more than stinginess since the mission had its own wheat fields and water buffaloes. The lack of curds John found particularly difficult to bear since at home he was accustomed to ample breakfasts,

generously supplemented by a variety of dairy products. One morning John Masih decided to slip into the priests’ refectory and take a reasonable amount of curd from a full clay container. Several hours later, the priest prefect of the school called the students to the courtyard. In his hands, the priest held the half-empty container. John Masih stepped forward and took responsibility for taking the curds. The priest then raised the clay container and dumped the remaining curds on John Masih’s head. For those in Shantinagar who tell this story, John Masih’s behaviour was close to heroic. Taking the curds was certainly a justifiable appropriation—certainly not stealing in the conventional sense. But even more important was John’s refusal to accept the deferential posture imposed upon him; he accepted responsibility, but did so proudly without shame. For this reason, the story of John Masih and the curds came to have a totemic or even mythological significance as an act of resistance against an all-too-comfortable clerical class. Back in 1996, I asked John Masih about the curd incident. John smiled and broke into laughter. He admitted taking the curds. He also confirmed that the priest dumped the left-over curds on his head. But John told me in no uncertain terms that he did not take responsibility for his actions—he just stood there silently. When John Masih related his version of the story to me, he was becoming a rather vociferous critic of institutional Catholicism. Obviously, the point about confronting the priest would have fit quite well with the role he had cultivated for himself. So, when John Masih characterized the ‘denouement’ of the curd incident as a ‘tall-tale’, it had the uncomfortable implication that many stories I had heard contained more wishful thinking than confirmable detail. While scholarship supposedly deals with fact rather than fancy, academic discourse can often embrace a tall-tale of heroism when it serves a higher purpose. This can especially be the case when talking about marginalized or oppressed groups that have suffered under any number of pejorative tall-tales. Although this tall-tale tendency is reflected in the story of John Masih and the curds, it can also be seen in more politically sensitive scholarship that seeks to present exemplary models of Dalit resistance. Ironically, academic approaches defined by un-nuanced ideological commitments can deprive Dalits of agency as much as they seek to celebrate it: rough edges of life become smooth and complexities of human motivation are caricatured. When John Masih dissented from the conventional characterization of the curd incident he was asserting his agency to frame his own story. Accordingly, this chapter will focus 186

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on John Masih’s words and life much as he related them to me over a period encompassing the years 1994 through 2001. The term ‘Dalit’ (crushed) is often a quite self-conscious description that highlights oppression and alterity. As such, it adds yet another dimension to the already complex dynamic of Christianity and caste that has long been a subject of scholarly investigation (Bayly 1989; Forrester 1980; Frykenberg 1985; Kanjumala 1984; Webster 1994). But contemporary academic taste often turns away from the broad diachronic sweep and instead prefers the fine detail of synchronic study and thick description. Such scholarly dispositions obviously militate against making generalizing claims about Dalits and Christianity, not mention about any other aspect of untouchable life over time. Nonetheless, there are resources for developing more abstract reflections derived from ethnographic case studies that rely upon specificity and detail. For the purposes of understanding John Masih, the work of the late Michel de Certeau is particularly relevant. In his L’invention du quotidian I: Arts de faire (1990), Certeau foregrounds the category of ‘space’ (espace), understood as territory shaped and defined by relations of power. Space is temporary and mobile, actualized by the powers deployed within it. When space becomes practiced, or permanent, it becomes ‘place’ (lieu). With the distinction between space and place in hand, Certeau examines how ordinary people use what is given to them to create spaces for their own agency. For example, he analyses how consumers and pedestrians respectively use the ‘places’ of shopping malls and cities in ways never envisioned by architects or urban planners (Certeau 1990: 42–43, 172–73). Space and place as physical entities also have ideological substructures that support them. For the oppressed, life is often a constant struggle either to find a stable ‘place’ of autonomy or to undo the ideological and physical foundations of the ‘places’ that constrain them. Certeau’s understandings of space and place not only diagram the context of ordinary practical activity, but also chart the trajectories of human aspirations for freedom. In this chapter, we will consider how John Masih presents his life as a travel story: a journey of identity and self-definition from Chamar, to Isai, and finally, to Dalit. In one of the aphorisms that he wrote in his notebook, John observed that the truly religious person eschews any worldly ambition. But religion, even in its most other-worldly forms, inevitably reflects the jagged contours of human life as it is lived. The rough outlines of John’s religious vision reflect and embody his struggle to undo The Broken Mirror

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the place of untouchability. In this effort, he moves through a succession of spaces in which he progressively assumes or deploys new identities for himself. We begin our discussion with how John embraces Catholicism and transforms himself from a sinner into a healer. As we will eventually see, in becoming ‘Isai’ John finds that he has entered yet another place of constraint. In response, he finally accepts the term ‘Dalit’ as a way of cultivating a stable place for resistance and agency.

BECOMING ISAI The wounded tiger seeks vengeance; the wounded Christian prays and asks for forgiveness. John Masih, aphorism number four.

John Masih’s story is best prefaced by reference to the history of the Shantinagar mission, near the village were John was born in a Bhojpurispeaking area of north India. The Shantinagar mission was established in the 1940s by Canadian Capuchins who hoped to minister to members of the local Chamar caste of tanners. Chamars were untouchable and remained confined to colonies outside of villages where they had no choice but to drink river water lest they contaminate communal wells. Because no Brahmin priest would perform religious functions for them, Chamars developed their own parallel religious system. Often the headman (chaudari) of the caste brotherhood (biadri) would officiate at weddings and funerals. Some Chamars would practice exorcism (ojaiti) since only a Chamar exorcist could combat the afflicting ghost (bhut) of a dead untouchable.2 In addition to practicing their traditional occupations, most Chamars were manual labourers who worked the field at the behest of the landowning castes. Chamar women also served as midwives. Back then, John recalls that his grandparents, indeed all Chamars, were illiterate, having only an ‘iron rod’ for a pen and a ‘stone for a writing tablet’. Accordingly, what emerges from John Masih’s characterization is an image of untouchable life as a ‘place’ of almost total oppression, with seemingly few opportunities for resistance, let alone advancement. Initial conversions among the Chamar caste were few but they grew along with the mission. By 1960, the mission had a staff of three priests, and a group of nuns who ran a dispensary and Hindi-medium 188

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school. The mission eventually passed into the hands of a religious order manned exclusively by Indian priests and brothers. In the mid to late 1960s, successive waves of famines and floods left many homeless and reduced all to a diet below subsistence. In response, mission distributed bulgar, milk and butter to needy families and sometimes gave away water buffaloes to help Chamar families achieve self-sufficiency. The mission also experimented with vocational programmes like providing rickshaws as a means for local Chamaras to secure cash income. The mission’s most expansive project involved ‘food for work programmes’ that employed hundreds to build houses and to drill tube wells. All of this was financed by generous grants from the American based Catholic Relief Services. John’s family converted to Catholicism during those heady days of aid. Needless to say, there are few subjects in Indian society more heated than conversion: there have been commissions established to investigate it, polemics published to denounce it and laws passed to prohibit it.3 Sensitive to charges of being ‘a rice Christian’, John would maintain that neither he nor his family received employment or financial help from the Shantinagar mission. John would often add that mission’s relief work aided the landowners most of all since the roads and wells built by the mission strengthened the infrastructure and thus reinforced local relations of power. But regardless of whom the aid most benefited, John’s family and many Catholics felt they had attained a different kind of place in which they could experience a relative autonomy in their distance from their identity as Chamars. The priests and nuns at the mission understood matters differently. Believing that they had inadvertently created a dynamic of dependence, they curtailed the most aggressive forms of aid in the 1980s. This presented Catholics with two basic choices: to return to their former place as untouchable Chamars, or to strike out on their own and endeavour to create a new place for themselves that did not rely exclusively on the patronage of the Catholic church. While many converts left the mission, John and his family stayed because they valued the educational opportunities that the Shantinagar mission provided. As he was proud to note, John was part of the first literate generation of untouchables in the area. From an academic perspective, conversion for John appears much like of a conversion to modernity in that literacy instantiated a potentiality for a new kind of agency (on this theme, see van der Veer 1996). But in order to realize the potential of this agency, John had to first rehabilitate his own identity as a quite public sinner. He thus became a The Broken Mirror

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healer and practiced a form of charismatic Catholicism that allowed him to use the power of words to effect the transformation of self. But John’s transformation of self was not a simple change in public persona. Instead, it was an appropriation of an inspired and authoritative identity that could be deployed against the oppressive place of life as a Chamar.

The Sinner In his youth at the boarding school, John distinguished himself as a fine student who had talent for written and spoken Hindi. With these skills, John expected that he would find gainful employment or perhaps admission to a university. But the local mission sponsored no programmes for higher education and instead offered vocational training. But John did not want to labour with his hands like other members of his family; he apprenticed himself to a local doctor. Soon he had his own medical practice on the side and had business cards printed in Hindi and English with the title ‘Doctor John Masih’. Such a venture is often derisively referred to as ‘jhola chhap daktari’, meaning that the person was a doctor only by virtue of having the ‘stamp’ (chhap) ‘doctor’ (daktar) on his ‘carry-bag’ (jhola). John would always insist that he was an apprentice to a real doctor and so he was not exactly practicing ‘quackery’ (daktari). But whatever was the case, it certainly was clear that the title ‘doctor’ provided more opportunity than the term ‘Chamar’. John married and by the late 1980s had two children. While his medical practice was providing some stability, his family had become embroiled in a land dispute with their neighbour, Ghura Ram. Ghura Ram was the first untouchable to be elected as headman (pradhan) of the village.4 Ghura Ram was also a prominent Communist leader and Catholic catechist. John’s family was attempting to stop Ghura Ram’s efforts to a have a road made to the nearby river because it cut across their land. They also criticized Ghura Ram for using government money to build a hand pump on his own property as an attempt to control access to drinking water. On a night in July of 1990, Ghura Ram had pulled his rope bed out of his two-room home to enjoy the cool air blowing from the nearby river. While Ghura Ram was asleep, some person or persons poured acid over his face and chest. The attack left Ghura Ram blind and disfigured. 190

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John immediately fell under suspicion and was detained by the police for a time but was eventually released. No one was ever charged with the attack against Ghura Ram and John left Shantinagar for three years.

The Healer During his time away from Shantinagar, John travelled to Delhi where he worked odd jobs. He also became involved with an evangelical Protestant group that sponsored Bible seminars at Dhera Dun. Back in Shantinagar, John was never known to be particularly religious. He rarely would call himself ‘Catholic’ (katholik)—a very specific term that really did not have any meaning in his or any of the surrounding villages. Instead, he used the word ‘Isai’, a term that means ‘Christian’ but was, for lack of any other point of reference, associated with the institutions and practices of the Catholic church. But John did not associate his Isai identity with the conventional markers of Catholicism, such as partaking in the Eucharist or saying the rosary. And so, when he came back from his time away as a fervently religious Isai, it provoked surprised gossip in his home village. Upon his return, John had acquired what could most accurately, if not elegantly, be called a textualized identity focused on the Bible. Since he did not have steady work, John would often sit outside his house on a rope bed, studying three editions of the Bible, two in Hindi and one in English. He did not know English but hoped to learn at least the vocabulary by comparing Biblical passages. John also inscribed Biblical passages in bright pink Nagri letters on the walls of his family’s mud and thatch home. Over the door, he wrote: ‘Jesus (Yisu) said: I am the way, the truth and the life’ ( John 14: 6). Flanking the door, on the left and right, respectively, were: ‘I am the bread of life’ ( John 6: 35) and ‘I am the light of the world’ ( John 8: 12). On the inside of a wall that bounded part of the reception area for guests, John had written: ‘If you love one another then all will know that you are my disciples’ ( John 13: 34). The symbolism of all this Biblical textuality seemed clear enough initially. The passages around the door seemed to be a composition declaring the unique status of Jesus as Son of God with ‘bread’ (roti) and ‘light’ ( jyoti) used as complementary images associated with domesticity or hospitality. In a similar vein, the message inscribed on the inside room The Broken Mirror

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for receiving guests appeared to be an obvious admonition to be kind and compassionate in word and deed. When I mentioned my initial interpretations to John, he laughed and said, ‘Well, you’re basically right about the passage on the inside but it’s more a message to my family since we fight all the time.’ In terms of the passages surrounding the door, he explained that he did not have anything specifically in mind other than that a guest would have to see at least one Bible quote when entering the house. While I was thinking of the home as itself as a kind of three-dimensional text, John understood it differently. The passages were important, but not how they fit together. In fact, the use of words itself was distinctive since other homes in the area would use non-linguistic symbols like the cross or rangoli designs. John was utilizing the tactical power of words: his house attracted attention but displaced it by confounding conventional categories. Those who arrived or looked at it did not know what to expect and this gave John the opportunity to assert his identity on his own terms. Passers-by who inquired about the Biblical passages would also comment on John’s rather checkered past. In response, John would often say that if he once was a ‘tiger seeking vengeance’, he was now ‘a Christian seeking forgiveness’. He had changed fundamentally, for God was ‘like a potter’ (kumhar jaise) who moulds and reshapes ‘human clay’ (manusik mitti). In drawing upon this Christian image, he might also have effectively drawn upon another, that of Christ as the ‘Word of God’ ( John 1: 1). After all, what John was trying to do was to use the creative power of words to ‘incarnate’ a new identity that brought salvation from the word ‘Chamar’. The Biblical passages on the walls were authoritative statements because they came from the Bible, an authoritative text. They also had authority because they were words used with conscious intent and intelligence, even if their meaning remained rather opaque. In John’s village, someone who could skillfully deploy words and language was considered to be someone who had power. The power could be defensive or subversive since a properly placed word could quickly shift the balance of power in a discussion. But the power could also be creative since words could quite literally bring things to life, as is believed to happen in repeating mantras, in pronouncing words of consecration in the Eucharist, or even in writing and reading the imagery of poetic phrases and couplets. While John did not write poetry, he did have a large collection of aphorisms that 192

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he composed. Many of the aphorisms had clear Christian meanings: ‘if you become trapped “in a cobweb” (makadi ke jal mein) call out to The Lord with patience and he will save you’; ‘the Christian is that “gem” (hira) whose value endures after death’. Other aphorisms had more general application, such as: ‘There’s poison in the sting of a scorpion and deception in the mind of a “fool” (murkh).’ What unified all of these disparate aphorisms was their focus on general notions of selfhood or identity. Indeed, the sequentially numbered aphorisms constituted a record of John’s own spiritual epiphanies; they were flashes of selfknowledge arranged in a staccato testimony of insight. These aphorisms were not just tools for memory and meditation; they were weapons for controversy and contestation. This became quite clear one day when I was sitting with John on his rope bed and a couple of acquaintances came over to pass the time. While we were talking, a young woman passed by as she went to the hand pump at Ghura Ram’s house, down the road. The eyes of everyone followed. Wanting to preempt any unpleasantness, John threw out one of his aphorisms: ‘A woman is that “mud” (kichar) from which a lotus blooms.’ While it’s not exactly clear that John’s comment was less offensive than what otherwise would have been said, it was clear that he was able to shift the conversation to his terms. He explained that a woman’s real beauty is not in her physical appearance but in her capacity to give birth. When one of his acquaintances replied by reminding John that he was less circumspect in his youth, he nodded in assent: ‘The “licentious” (vyabhichar) woman sins only a little, while the licentious man sins fourfold.’ But he concluded with a moralistic flourish about the power of purity of heart: ‘The soul eats up the sins of the body like a worm devouring the crop.’5 As Certeau observes, saying, ‘modify an equilibrium by taking it by surprise’ (1990: 79). The power of aphorisms lies not just in their ability to intensify a point but also in their readiness to be deployed suddenly—like a switchblade or hand grenade. John Masih’s aphorisms were tools to leverage discussion to his side and create a context for his own creativity agency. They were not only evidence of a change in self, but also provided the opportunity for the self to change. John’s belief in the transformative power of words naturally led him to the Catholic charismatic movement.6 The beginnings of the Catholic charismatic movement are associated with Minoo Engineer, a Parsi convert to Catholicism, who along with two Jesuit priests had become The Broken Mirror

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acquainted with charismatic Catholicism in America and brought it to India by establishing prayer meetings in the Bombay area in the 1970s (Burgess 2001: 85–86). Charismatic Catholicism focuses on ‘charismatic’ gifts such as prophecy, speaking in tongues (glossolalia) and healing. After he returned to Shantinagar, John would travel to a monthly charismatic prayer meeting at a Catholic ashram in a nearby city. Most of the prayer meetings would be dedicated to sermons on Biblical passages and the repetition of stock phrases like ‘Jesus’s name brings liberation’. Meetings would conclude in a crescendo of glossolalia, laying on of hands and testimonies about healing. At his first meeting, John went up to the podium to publicly confess how he had ‘fallen in with a bad crowd’ in his youth but had now accepted the forgiving love of Jesus Christ. While he mentioned nothing about the acid attack against Ghura Ram, people who knew about the incident thought that John had experienced a miraculous change of heart. John became known as ‘Paul’ in recognition of this apparent conversion, not unlike Saul’s transformation into Paul the apostle.7 Soon John became a regular participant at healing services at the ashram, not as a supplicant, but as a healer. By affirming the authoritative power of words, charismatic Catholicism empowered John to actualize spaces in which he practiced a radical change in self. The very fact that John was once known as a sinner gave even greater power and comprehensibility to his participation in the movement since the charismatic religiosity posits the reality of total personal transformation.8 Charismatic Catholicism also enabled a flexible individual agency. John wanted to leave his village and charismatic Catholicism provided a ready vehicle for that journey since it authorized individual ‘inspired selves’ (on this theme, see Coleman 2000) who possessed, in the form of the Bible, a mobile form of authority. But the most crucial aspect of charismatic Catholicism was its denial of untouchability. When John moved through the audience at prayer meetings, he laid hands on all who came within his reach. Once ‘something’ that defiled, John now became ‘someone’ who healed.

The Entrepreneur John often linked his abilities as a healer to his asceticism. As his involvement with the charismatic movement deepened, he became more 194

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steadfast in his opposition to intoxicants of any kind. He never drank liquor and he refused to let his wife serve tea to guests. Instead, he directed her to offer cooling foods like curds with sugar and milk. More humourously, John would often chide me for my copious consumption of paan and would remark that my heart would become stained just as my teeth had. If someone in the village requested healing, John would fast for several days before beginning the healing process. Reading the Bible over a kneeling supplicant, John would invoke the power of Jesus. He would then place his hands on the supplicant’s head and slip into a prayer of tongues. At larger healing ceremonies, John would also work in tandem with other healers, laying hands upon his charismatic colleagues to augment their power. John also began to write longer commentaries that he intended to deliver as sermons. Unlike his aphorisms, which were loosely based on his readings of the Bible, these fuller writings drew their inspiration from the nirguni poet ascetics Kabir and Ravidas. The nirgun tradition embraces a vision of a formless God (Lorenzen 1996; Schomer and McLeod 1996)—a potent image for untouchables who often dream of a ‘formless’ condition beyond the oppressively defined ‘forms’ of their subordinate social place. To follow Certeau’s line of analysis, one could also say that the nirgun tradition undermines the ideological foundations of place by ridiculing the claims of social and religious hierarchy. Certainly, this was the intent behind John’s use of nirguni couplets that he would speak aloud or comment upon in his notebook. For example, to emphasize that it was character, not status, that made a ‘holy man’, John would often quote from Kabir: ‘Reading sacred texts does not a Pandit make. Reading a single phrase of love, now that really does a Pandit make.’9 On one level, John was emphasizing the irreducible status of the individual, apart from connections of caste or family. On another level, he was attempting to combine the Christian authority of his status as a healer with a more indigenous, and thus more comprehensible, form of authority. In these ways, John was attempting to shed his past and also carve out a distinctive identity as a kind of Isai poet-saint. John’s favourite image was that of the philosopher’s stone (paras) that turns iron into gold. He would often tell the story of Ravidas, who was given a philosopher’s stone by Lord Shiva. Ravidas placed the philosopher’s stone in an iron box but the box did not change to gold because the stone was wrapped in a cloth. Shiva had hoped that Ravidas would become rich and so was disappointed when he returned later The Broken Mirror

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to take back the stone and found it still in the box unused. The riches that God has given us, John would argue, we must use and not keep to ourselves. John’s gloss on the story was somewhat unusual. The most common rendition has a rich man, probably a Brahman, giving Ravidas a philosopher’s stone as a test. That Ravidas did not use the philosopher’s stone (he hung it in his kitchen) was a sign of his true asceticism and detachment. By changing the story, John was articulating a different understanding of the role of the renouncer. To be sure, in writing his own aphorisms and commentaries, John was claiming authority by imitating the nirguni saints whose couplets he read. But there was a different sense of social engagement in John’s retelling of the story of Ravidas and the philosopher’s stone. It certainly was not the kind of social engagement examined by Ravindra Khare (1984), who documented how the Chamars of Lucknow embrace an ideal of inner worldly asceticism combined with social activism. Instead, in John’s retelling of the story of the philosopher’s stone, we can see an engagement based upon an entrepreneurial attitude concerned with sharing and gathering ‘riches’.10 If this entrepreneurial attitude had once been latent, it soon became overt when John began to accept donations for his healing ministrations. John had almost literally begun to turn iron into gold and, with that, the mobile spaces of charismatic religiosity seemed to have the potential to be transformed into a more stable place in which John could maintain his identity as an Isai healer. Words had become John’s philosopher’s stone. John asserted this new-found confidence and identity in dramatic fashion when he confronted a local political leader named Kuber Srivastav who was addressing a meeting of constituents at Ghura Ram’s nearby home town. Speaking specifically to Dalits, Srivastav argued that participation in the democratic process would bring eventual success and that Naxalites and erstwhile revolutionaries still advocating violent struggle should accept Mahatma Gandhi’s admonition ‘to turn the other cheek’ when struck by an enemy. At this, John entered the courtyard and moved close to Srivastav who was sitting on a rope bed. John asked, ‘Who really said that, I mean where did Gandhi-ji get that from? It’s Jesus’ teaching, not Gandhi’s.’ Srivastav responded, ‘Well, all that I’m saying is that people here learned that from Gandhi-ji.’ John continued by commenting sarcastically: ‘Well, it was Gandhi-ji who also called us “God’s children” (Harijan).’ 196

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Srivastav countered, ‘What’s wrong with that?’ John replied, ‘If we’re “children of God” then Brahmins must be as well. Try calling a Brahmin “a child of God” and he’ll hit you with a sandal.’ Srivastav grew agitated, ‘Gandhi-ji certainly didn’t intend it as an insult— if you want to change the name then go to the legislature and change it.’ The voice of John Masíh grew louder, ‘Yes, maybe we should change it and maybe we should stop producing certificates so that we get special reservations for Scheduled Castes. We should just enter the job competition as ourselves.’ ‘Well, you’re wrong about that, Brother,’ Srivastav said off-hand, seemingly wanting out of a conversation that was rapidly becoming more contentious. John pressed home his point, ‘Wrong? Look—there are hundreds of men from Scheduled Castes who got jobs they weren’t qualified for. Now the ones who actually are qualified walk around with a “reservation” brand on their foreheads.’ John Masíh then threw up his hands, ‘Reservations just make “big people” (bade log) like you happy and don’t do anything for us.’ John then turned his back on Srivastav and walked away. Caste is based on many things. But in John’s experience, words and language were the crucial markers of his untouchable status. There were words like ‘Chamar’ and ‘Achut’; there was deferential language that had to be used, not to mention the demeaning language that had to be accepted. By becoming Isai, and by deploying inspired forms of speech as a healer and entrepreneur, John sought to change the entire linguistic context that circumscribed his place as a Chamar. Of course, in turning his back on Srivastav, John was symbolically turning his back on everything associated with untouchability—not just the stereotypes but also the panoply of governmental benefits designated for Scheduled Castes. In walking away from Srivastav, John was walking towards what he most surely believed was an open-ended future and an as yet unspecified place where the word ‘Chamar’ would have no meaning.

BECOMING DALIT An animal is someone who lives in society but doesn’t have social consciousness. John Masih, aphorism number twelve. The Broken Mirror

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When considering his future, John would often quote a saying attributed to Abdur Rahim Khan: ‘Rahim sits quietly and watches the days go by. When the right day comes, everything will happen in no time at all.’ That ‘right day’ (nike din) seemed to come when John was invited to become part of the diocesan charismatic prayer group and take up residence at the Catholic ashram to which he had been travelling regularly. While John could not bring his family with him, the change offered stability by providing official sanction of his healing ministrations and also by giving him a modest salary. The most conspicuous markers of Catholicism in north India are its institutions: hospitals, schools and missions. To use Certeau’s language, Catholicism is about place: controlled or practiced spaces that allow autonomy and thus the opportunity for strategic planning. Up to this point, John had been operating tactically to create new spaces of identity. While these spaces showed promise, none offered permanence and the opportunity to chart out a more sustained and consistent course of action. By taking refuge within Catholicism’s place, John felt as though he had finally come to that point where could extend his own agency strategically and create that future beyond the strictures of caste and his own past. John soon found out that the price of the place in Catholicism was his own autonomy. In response, John cultivated new identities of resistance, initially by refusing to accept clerical authority and then by actively opposing aspects of Catholicism in north India. In the end, John abandons his Isai identity to self-consciously become Dalit. This Dalit identity then becomes a way of finally accepting ‘place’ and, by that act, transforming it.

The Refuser It was rather ironic that John became a catechist in residence at a Catholic ashram since the ashram was dedicated to an inculturated form of Catholicism adapted to Hindu sensibilities. In keeping with the ‘inculturated’ ambience, morning prayer was marked by arati to an image of Jesus and many of the residents at the ashram would pray and meditate in common yogic postures. The mass was celebrated according to an experimental Indian rite, marked by offerings of flowers and incense 198

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in addition to arati. The ashram was also known for a special programme called the ‘Indian Christian experience’ that educated aspiring members of religious orders about Indian religiosity. John, however, was involved in none of this. Instead, he was engaged in village outreach, preaching the Gospel in Bhojpuri and laying hands on those who needed healing. During his first few weeks in residence at the ashram, John made known that he did not approve of much of what was going on. He first focused on the regime of daily prayer. He thought that learning about yoga simply for ‘knowledge’s sake’ (jankari ke liye) was fine, but the idea of actually practicing it disturbed him. The points he made were these: first, the boundary between Catholic Christian and Hindu was being blurred; second, yoga assumed a particular view of the world and the universe that Catholic Christianity did not share. While one might do yoga for exercise, to use it in a religious way was something quite different. John had not read the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali and he did not know about philosophical schools like Samnkaya. But what he did understand was that you could not easily extract yoga from its metaphysical context. As time passed, the priest-guru of the ashram wanted to establish a greater inculturated Indian Catholic discipline and asked all residents at the ashram to perform some sort of manual labour which would get them closer to nature and thus to their true selves. The priest told John that he should clear some of the jungle surrounding the ashram—not only something that would be useful to the community but something that would bring John greater perspective on his own family legacy of manual labour. At this, John drew the line and argued that this was essentially a demand that untouchables return to their place as servants and labourers. It is tempting to characterize this whole episode in terms of ideologically charged caricatures: there’s the haughty priest or the disobedient untouchable. But it would be more accurate to say that the conflict between the guru-priest of the ashram and John was an expression of opposing spatial logics. The Catholic ashram movement was one of the centrepieces of the inculturation movement that sought to shed Christianity’s colonial past. Far from being an act of subversion, appropriating Hindu symbols for Catholic use was an effort to close the space between Indian and Catholic Christian identity.11 In his extensive writings that inspired the inculturation movement, D.S. Amalorpavadass (1967, 1978) argued that if India were ever to accept Christ, then The Broken Mirror

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Catholicism must open itself to Hindu wisdom. The irony of Indian Catholic inculturation, particularly the Catholic ashram movement, is that it became more celebrated in self-styled progressive Western theological circles. For example, foreigners like Bede Griffiths and Henri Le Saux, who lived in India, saw the ashram movement as not only a way to reclaim the heritage of the Desert Fathers, but also to challenge Western materialism.12 Manual labour was thus considered to be an important ‘counter-witness’ against Western reliance on technology. The spatial logic of the ashram thus worked to achieve two different but related ends: to collapse the boundary between Catholic and Indian identity and to reverse the subordinate hierarchical position of the East in relation to the West. John’s spatial logic worked differently. One would think that as someone on ‘the margins’ himself John would have embraced an inculturated form of Catholicism. After all, if a Catholic church became more similar to a Hindu temple, then this was a temple he could finally enter. Moreover, as an Indian himself, he would have appreciated the effort to make Catholic Christianity more Indian. Following this line of thought, it stands to reason that John would have agreed with arguments that challenged the long-standing devaluation of the ‘wisdom of the East’. But if the ‘East’ is a category which now seems almost laughably over-generalized, so too perhaps is the category ‘Indian’. Indian culture and society are diverse and specifying what is Indian versus non-Indian is to venture into a communalistic minefield ready to detonate at the first misstep. In spite of the openness of the ashram, John still felt spatially marginalized since his own experience, as an untouchable Chamar, was not seen as central in the inculturation movement. Certainly, Kabir and Ravidas were as Indian as Patanjali or Shankara. But one did not hear their names mentioned at the ashram, either in morning meditation or in the Indian Christian experience. In any case, John wanted a form of religiosity that created distance from untouchability, something that would ‘marginalize his own marginality’, to coin a rather awkward phrase. Catholicism in its difference, in its otherness, indeed in its foreign-ness, theoretically provided that different register of value. As far as the Indian spirituality sessions were concerned, they were designed for English-speaking retreatants from urban environments. But John was neither an English speaker nor someone who grew up in a cosmopolitan urban setting. It was therefore not surprising that the 200

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encouragement to labour with his hands would resonate with him much more negatively than intended.13 John’s feeling of marginality deepened when he found his prophecies and visions disregarded. The ashram served as a base for the diocesan charismatic team that would travel to mission stations in the countryside. During public prayer services at these mission stations, John would spend most of his time sequestered in a prayer room along with other members of the team. Individual members of the team would experience visions and discuss them with the group in order to discern their meaning. Visions specifically related to the prayer service, like healings being accomplished or afflictions needing attention, would be proclaimed to the audience as evidence of the presence of the Holy Spirit. During one prayer service, John said he saw a vision of a ‘line’ (rakha) resembling a ‘rope’ (rassa). He asked the other members of the team what the meaning of the vision was. As John related to me, all the other members of the team agreed that it was a vision not of divine origin. Indeed, some asserted that the vision indicated that there were forces or powers arrayed against the prayer service to prevent it from succeeding. John was therefore not permitted to announce his vision to the assembled audience from the stage. At another prayer service, this time at the diocesan cathedral, John was not allowed to give sermons he had written, ostensibly because he had refused to perform manual labour at the mission. John continued to have visions, particularly prophetic dreams. In one dream, he saw about ten people trying to murder someone. The police came but at first did not see him. He was then discovered, detained and then interrogated by a familiar personage who was dressed as a police inspector: the guru-priest of the ashram. It was then that John realized that he was the intended victim of the murder plot. John told me that he kept this and other visions to himself because no one would believe him. In this way, he likened himself to a number of Hebrew Bible prophets whose dreams were ignored by those in authority. In any case, it was clear to John that he could no longer stay at the ashram since he understood the dream to indicate that his work was in danger of being ‘killed’. Since John’s presence at the ashram had become untenable, he relocated to a nearby ‘bungalow’ (bangala) that had a priest in residence who ran social programmes. John nominally remained a catechist but did not involve himself in any of the official forms of social outreach. Instead, he continued a healing ministry in the area and also began to The Broken Mirror

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dabble in medicine again by filling prescriptions for people in the area. Whenever the priest asked John to do something in particular, John would often refuse outright or simply retire to his room to read the Bible. When given the opportunity, he would speak against central elements of Catholic doctrine. For example, John found Marian devotion particularly offensive and often stated explicitly that calling Mary ‘the Queen of Heaven’ was an ‘insult’ (gali). Indeed, John said that this was akin to calling prostitutes or mistresses ‘queen’, if one was elevating a human being to somehow be God’s consort.14 John also understood using the term Bhagwan as obscene when used to refer to the Christian God, given the meaning of ‘bhag’ (vulva). Later on, John went further and refused to acknowledge priestly spiritual authority. At Mass, John would sometimes read the Bible or the newspaper instead of listening to the homily. He would also make a point of leaving right before the Eucharistic liturgy. It was the word of God that mattered, not the sacramental authority of what John understood to be a clerical ‘caste’ (jati) that arrogated to itself far too much power. In leaving his village and coming to the ashram, John hoped he had found a place of freedom. But instead, he found a place of constraint. Charismatic Catholicism, whether in India or the West, has always had a rather ambivalent status. On one hand, charismatic renewal extended the sacramental dynamic of Catholicism to include the laity. But, for this very same reason, it had the potential to subvert the hierarchical structure of the church. As someone who himself wanted to challenge hierarchy, charismatic Catholicism fit John’s sensibilities. But he could no longer remain a Catholic if he took that anti-hierarchical position so far as to become an independent actor; doing that would eventually destroy foundation upon which the place of the hierarchical church depended. While John had brought an unmistakably Protestant dynamic into Catholicism, there was no Protestant denomination that had the institutional presence of Catholicism. And so, John struck out on his own once again, hoping that a combination of charismatic healing and medicine, quackery or otherwise, would provide him enough income. When I left John in 1996, he had moved from the Christian bungalow to a room rented in the home of a young widow. From there, he hoped he would be able to practice his entrepreneurial combination of healing practices and send money back to his family who still lived near the Shantinagar mission. 202

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The Activist For a couple years, John wrote me periodically. His letters would begin with the phrase ‘Jai Masih’ and in the margins he would write the tetragrammaton, YHWH, transliterated into the Nagri script, as a kind of personal mantra. While he did not provide many details, he did seem to be managing a living and was still in residence in the room he rented from the young widow. The letters then stopped. In the winter of 2000–01, I returned to the Shantinagar mission. I was surprised to find that John had recently returned to the area only to have been thrown out by his extended family. He now lived with his wife and children in a one-room mud hut near the Catholic mission. He was about twenty pounds thinner than when I last saw him and walked with a noticeable stoop. He also had a tattoo on his arm in Hindi: ‘Asha Rani’ or ‘The Queen of Hope’. When I asked John how he had come back home, he initially avoided the question. He did say that he had become a low-level activist for a local political party that was organizing Dalits. John also told me that he had begun writing about the struggle of Dalits and that he had largely abandoned his commentaries on the Bible as well as those on Kabir and Ravidas. He said he had finally developed his ‘social’ (samajik) consciousness and understood, at last, that he was indeed a ‘Dalit’. It was in reference to his understanding of the term Dalit that brought us to the Asha Rani tattoo on his arm. Asha Rani was the widow who had rented him a room so that he could practice his healing ministries apart from the supervision of the Catholic church. She knew him as an Isai by the name of Paul, the name he used as a charismatic healer. According to John, Asha Rani somehow found out that ‘Paul the Isai’ was actually ‘John the Chamar’. She then turned him out of her home. After John arrived back in Shantinagar, he had Asha Rani’s name tattooed on his arm. Tattoos are fairly common among both men and women in the Shantinagar area. Most tattoos are symbols to protect from the evil eye; tattoos with names are often signs of religious devotion or romantic love. Sometimes a tattoo of a wife’s name is considered mandatory if a married man is leaving the village for a long period of time, since the tattoo would indicate a permanent connection that could not be broken, even at a distance. But John explained that the tattoo had nothing to do with the standard customs. Instead, he had Asha Rani’s name tattooed The Broken Mirror

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on his arm as a reminder that he was a Dalit, for it was she who proved to him that he could not escape his oppression, no matter how hard he tried or how far he travelled. If once John had believed he had the power to use words to reshape his identity, he now learned that words had an even greater power to shape him. His decision to become a Dalit activist was thus an admission that he could not leave the ‘place’ that had been inscribed for him. And so, instead of rejecting the place or trying to escape it, he imbued it with new meaning and possibility. Being a Dalit simultaneously meant being a ‘refuser’ who resisted the pressures of hierarchical and also meant working as an ‘activist’ who organized others into a permanent and stable political force. In this sense, becoming Dalit modulated the dynamic of subversive space and stable place. Of course, it was an open question whether by becoming a Dalit activist John was simply replicating the same pattern he experienced as a charismatic healer and entrepreneur who was once a public sinner. An answer to that question most certainly depends upon whether people considered the story of Asha Rani to be a credible narrative or simply a self-serving tall-tale. All I know is that I cannot answer that question as seven years have passed since I last saw or heard from John.

THE BROKEN MIRROR The realm of dreams (sapan-lok) is the theatre of the soul, where it acts out many roles. John Masih, aphorism number nine.

Back when his future seemed full of possibility, John used to invite me to question and answer sessions with his friends from the village. We would sit on two rope beds outside John’s home. John would be a gracious but always abstemious host, always refusing the proffered paan and cigarettes. The discussion would range broadly and include everything from America’s view of Kashmir to marriage practices and music preferences the West. All of John’s friends were members of the Chamar caste from the village. One was a manual labourer, another worked as an electrician and yet another was in college. John’s closest friends were two brothers who came from a family that lived in a large 204

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home of brick and concrete down by the river. Through the reservation system the family’s sons had obtained jobs in the railway and the family certainly had the most liquid capital of any household in the area. One day the discussion turned to the relationship between caste and racism. I outlined the two basic scholarly responses to this issue: first, that caste was a distinctly Indian phenomenon that embodied an innate hierarchical sensibility; second, that inequality is basically the same everywhere but that caste has often been presented in its idealized form while racism has not.15 The discussion went back and forth over which approach seemed most true to experience. The most trenchant points were made by the brothers in the railway family. In certain contexts, like admittance to temples, they were discriminated against. In other contexts, however, their economic power did translate into higher social status. While this did not definitively answer the racism question, it did suggest that caste had a relative significance or influence depending on context and a host of other variables like class. Untouchability experience could simply not be reduced to a discrete set of qualities or sociological descriptors. These caveats notwithstanding, we can still perhaps use John’s journey to lead us to broader reflections on Dalit religion on the margins. The crucial variable in John’s own experience could be called ‘gravity’, especially in its relationship to space and place. Understood as a spatial concept in physics, gravity is weight, force or attraction. Understood in more sociological terms, gravity is a way of talking about power that emphasizes territory and relationality. A community can have gravity by virtue of its size or economic power. An individual can possess gravity as well, usually by channeling or partaking in some larger force. John deployed his Isai identity in this way against his Chamar stigma. Of course, John eventually found that Catholicism’s gravity also had an oppressive weight. But John could never establish a gravity of his own, whether in terms of religious authority, or through political and economic power. Although becoming a Dalit activist provided another form of spatial counterbalancing of his Dalit, Isai and Chamar identities, the gravity it provided was also derivative. John’s use of words served him well on the margins because it allowed him to create temporary spaces of separation that highlighted his own identity and agency. But the tactically subversive agency of space was not easily contained or domesticated in the more stable context of place. And so, what helped him in one context led to failure in another. By extension, we could perhaps say that Dalit religion is sensitive to the The Broken Mirror

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spatial possibilities of being on the margins. Groups and individuals, who do not have gravity, operate tactically in subversive spaces to experience, albeit temporarily, a measure of freedom and autonomy. In this sense, religion on the margins becomes a contextually deployed expression of resistance. But the underlying desire usually is not to remain in motion on the margins, but instead come to the centre and have stability. The crucial issue for John, and perhaps for many Dalits on the ‘margins’, is what has to be sacrificed in order to gain the safety of place. On the day of our last meeting in 2001, John told me that he was writing a poem in Hindi, but it was unfinished. I asked him to read it to me: How can one continue the struggle when one cries over his life that lies before him, like a broken mirror … Oh, but I’m a tiger in cage…

Even in its brevity, the partial poem is replete with words evocative of Dalits and their condition: ‘struggle’ (sangharsh), ‘cage’ (pinjara) and ‘tiger’ (sher). But the image of the ‘broken mirror’ (tuta darpan) perhaps says the most about John, not to mention Dalit religion on the margins. In nirguni poetry, the mirror is often a sign of vanity, as it is in Kabir’s famous song ‘What face do you see in the mirror (darapana)?’ In one sense, John uses the mirror to represent his reflecting on his shattered pride. In another sense, he also seems to be mourning his lost dreams. Dreams were one of John’s favourite subjects; he was generally familiar not only with Sigmund Freud’s theories on the subconscious but also Upanishadic understandings of the reality of dreams in relation to waking life. It is almost as though John’s dreams were reflected in the mirror, or seen through ‘the looking-glass’ to use a familiar Western image. In the unfinished poem, the life that is seen in the mirror is the vision to be achieved by the ‘struggle’. There are also other resonances to the symbol of the mirror. A mirror reflects back the image of the one who gazes in it. A clear mirror is smooth and presumably reflects the image as it is. But if words are held up to a mirror, they appear in reverse. With his use of language, John was attempting to reverse the linguistic valences of the category Chamar by replacing it successively with the terms Isai and Dalit. In doing so, he hoped that a new image would appear in the mirror, a smooth image of his new self. What appears instead is a fractured picture. 206

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Some might say that the brokenness of John’s life should not be a cause for sympathy let alone sustained academic reflection. But such a perspective would limit scholarly discussion of Dalit experience only to that which can be seen clearly in the mirror. If John’s self is only seen through a broken mirror, we have to admit that any ethnographic investigation inevitably reflects back not a seamless picture of facts on the ground but an often distorted and quite partial image. To return again to John’s fascination with dreams, he would often talk about the dream realm and its intersections with waking life. In ethnography, as in many other areas of human endeavour, the boundary between dream and reality, between the tall-tale and history, is often shifting and hard to locate.16 For this reason, the broken mirror is as much a representation of our own fractured attempts to understand Dalit religion and culture as it is of the shattered remains of John Masih’s journey from Isai to Dalit.

NOTES 1. Shantinagar is a pseudonym as is the name ‘John Masih’. Lack of clarity about precise locations is also intended to protect anonymity. While this piece is the only full discussion of John Masih I have published, his experiences do figure into the following articles and chapters: (Schmalz 1999, 2001a and forthcoming a). 2. For a very dated but still quite helpful overview of Chamar life a couple of decades before this period, see Briggs (1995); see also Pickett (1933). 3. For commissions, see Government of Madhya Bharat (1956); for studies that address the issue of legislation, see Julian Saldanha (1983), Sahay (1986); for polemics see Goel (1989), Shourie (1994). 4. For a full discussion of Ghura Ram, including his nirguni Christian bhajans, see Schmalz (1999). 5. In this context, John means that the pure soul digests and transforms the sins of the body. 6. For a discussion of charismatic Catholicism at the Shantinagar mission, see Schmalz (2001b). 7. John was actually given a different name to symbolize his conversion. Since the name was well known, I have chosen the name ‘Paul’ to retain the sense of transformation but also preserve his anonymity. 8. On personal conversion and the Catholic charismatic movement in India, see Schmalz (2002; forthcoming b). 9. John recited this couplet in modern Bhojpuri and, perhaps for this reason, I could not find it in accepted compilations of Kabir. Then again, it is common in this part of north India for well-known couplets to be attributed to Kabir. For resources I consulted in addition to the standard works, see Srivastav (1970) and Gautam (1990).

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10. For an interpretation of charismatic religiosity that posits a strong relationship to entrepreneurship, see Csordas (1992); see also Coleman (2000). 11. For an example of a ‘suspicious’ interpretation of the Catholic ashram movement, see Goel (1988). 12. For a fuller discussion of these issues, see Schmalz (2001a). 13. I also talk about John Masih’s reaction in Schmalz (2001a). 14. As a point of similarity to clarify the point, in John Masih’s part of north India, the term ‘raja’ (king) is slang for a man who visits prostitutes. 15. At the time I mentioned this, I associated the first approach with Louis Dumont (1970) and the second with Gerald Berreman (1979). 16. For a fuller discussion of this theme, see Schmalz (2001c).

REFERENCES Amalorpavadass, D.S. 1967. Destinée de l’Église dans l’Inde d’aujourd’hui [The Destiny of the Church in Contemporary India]. Paris: Fayard-Man. ———. 1978. Gospel and Culture. Bangalore: National Biblical, Catechetical and Liturgical Centre. Bayly, Susan. 1989. Saints, Goddesses and Kings: Muslims and Christians in South Indian Society, 1700–1900. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Berreman, Gerald. 1979. Caste and Other Inequities: Essays on Inequality. Meerut: Folklore Institute. Briggs, George. 1995 [1920]. The Chamars. Delhi: D.K. Agencies. Burgess, Stanley M. 2001. ‘Pentecostalism in India: An Overview’, Asian Journal of Pentecostal Studies, 4 (1): 85–95. Coleman, Simon. 2000. The Globalisation of Charismatic Christianity: Spreading the Gospel of Prosperity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Csordas, Thomas J. 1992. ‘Religion and the World System: The Pentecostal Ethic and the Spirit of Monopoly Capital’, Dialectical Anthropology, 17 (1): 135–56. de Certeau, Michel. 1990. L’invention du quotidian I: Arts de faire. Paris: Éditions Gallimard. Dumont, Louis. 1970. Homo Hierarchicus. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Forrester, Duncan B. 1980. Caste and Christianity. London: Curzon Press. Frykenberg, Robert. 1985. ‘Caste, Morality and Western Religion under the Raj’, Modern Asian Studies, 19(2): 321–52. Gautam, Brahmaji. 1990. Kabir Pratik-Kosh [A Concordance of Kabir’s Symbolism]. Dilli: Hindi Pustak Bhavan. Goel, Sita Ram. 1988. Catholic Ashrams. New Delhi: Voice of India. ———. 1989. A History of Hindu-Christian Encounters. New Delhi: Voice of India. Kanjumala, A. 1984. ‘Christianization as a Legitimate Alternative to Sanskritization’, Indian Missiological Review, 6 (October): 307–21. Khare, Ravindra Sahai. 1984. The Untouchable as Himself: Ideology, Identity, and Pragmatism Among Lucknow Chamars. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Lorenzen, David. 1996. Praises to a Formless God: Nirguni Texts from North India. Albany: SUNY Press. Pickett, J. Waskom. 1933. Christian Mass Movements in India. New York: Abington Press. Sahay, K.N. 1986. Christianity and Culture Change in India. New Delhi: Inter-India Publications. Saldanha, Julian, S.J. 1983. ‘Legal Barriers to Conversion’, Indian Missiological Review, 5 (January): 16–22. Schmalz, Mathew N. 1999. ‘Images of the Body in the Life and Death of a North Indian Catholic Catechist’, History of Religions, 39(3): 177–201. ———. 2001a. ‘Ad Experimentum: Theology, Anthropology and the Paradoxes of Indian Catholic Inculturation’, in Michael Barnes (ed.), Theology and the Social Sciences, pp. 161–80. Michael Barnes, Maryknoll NY: Orbis Books. ———. 2001b. ‘Dalit Christian Pentecostalism in a North Indian Village’, Dalit International Newsletter, 7(October): 7–9. ———. 2001c. ‘American Catholic, Indian Catholics: Reflections on Religious Identity, Ethnography and the History of Religions’, Method & Theory in the Study of Religion, 13(January): 91–97. ———. 2002. ‘Charismatic Transgressions: The Life and Work of an Indian Catholic Healer’, in Corinne Dempsey and Selva J. Raj (eds), Popular Christianity in India: Riting between the Lines, pp. 163–87. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. ———. Forthcoming a. ‘Boundaries and Appropriations in North Indian Charismatic Catholicism’, in Mathew N. Schmalz and Peter Gottschalk (eds), Engaging South Asian Religions: Boundaries, Appropriations and Resistances. Albany: SUNY Press. ———. forthcoming b. ‘A Catholic Charismatic Healer at Play in North India’, in Corinne G. Dempsey and Selva J. Raj (eds), Sacred Play: Ritual Levity and Humor in South Asian Religions. Albany: SUNY Press. Schomer, Karine and W.H. McLeod (eds). 1996. The Sants. Delhi: Motilal Banarasidas. Shourie, Arun. 1994. Missionaries in India. New Delhi: ASA Publications. Srivastav, Parsanath. 1970. Kabir Vani Sangraha [A Collection of Kabir’s Aphorisms]. Allahabad: Lok Bharati Prakashan. van der Veer, Peter. 1996. Conversion to Modernities: The Globalization of Christianity. New York: Routledge. Webster, John C.B. 1994. The Dalit Christians: A History. Delhi: ISPCK.

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C H A P T E R 10 Christianization, Hinduization and Indigenous Revivalism among the Tribals of Gujarat Lancy Lobo

INTRODUCTION The chapter discusses the ‘de-tribalization’ or ‘assimilation’ of the tribes of Gujarat—either by incorporation into Christianity or absorption into Hinduism—against the backdrop of the increasing politicization of the whole issue of conversion. Tribals of Gujarat have the following faithbased typologies: those holding on to traditional belief systems, those converted to Christian denominations and those Hinduized and following a number of sects both classical and modern. The tribals in Gujarat are not only on the margins of faith, but are also marginalized in terms of their identity and in terms of the economy and the polity. This chapter explores the margins of faith without ignoring the economy, politics and identity as they are part of the tribal dynamics.

What the chapter brings out is that all the three streams of faith are present today among the tribals of Gujarat. For reasons that shall be explored through the chapter, Hinduization is on the rise at present. Christianization too has come to stay, though the space for mainline denominations is contracting and perhaps only the evangelical form will persist. One has to watch how far the attempts at the revival of indigenous tradition will gain strength. The margins of faith turn out to be the centre of contestation: on this terrain, conflicts among faiths and between denominations are also bitter battles about development, the identity of the nation and the nature of the state. In the anthropological literature, the big question related to the tribes has been: Are they backward Hindus or are they aborigines and are they distinctive in their religion, culture and identity? The term ‘tribe’ began to be used towards the end of the 18th century. European administrators and missionaries used the terms ‘tribe’ and ‘aborigine’, which were translated into the Indian words, ‘janjati’ (forest-dwellers) and ‘adivasi’ (original inhabitants). There was no specific pre-colonial Indian word for ‘tribe’. According to Shah (2003), the available evidence suggested that tribal groups had existed as part of the Indian civilization for centuries, but there was no way of deciding that they were the aborigines of India. G. S. Ghurye, referred to the tribes in the title of his well-known book on the subject in 1943 as the ‘aborigines, so-called’. Even if tribes cannot be proven to be aboriginal, their culture, rituals and belief systems may not be ‘Hindu’.

TRIBALS OF GUJARAT The Adivasis are spread in the eastern districts of the state of Gujarat and this Adivasi belt ranges from southern Rajasthan in the north to Madhya Pradesh in the east and to Maharashtra in the south. The Adivasis of Gujarat account for 15 per cent of the total population. They are spread in the eastern parts of the districts of Sabarkantha, Panchmahal, Vadodara, Bharuch, Narmada, Surat, Navsari, Valsad and Dangs. Thirtytwo talukas of these districts have an Adivasi population of over 50 per cent. The government has classified them as Adivasi talukas for the sake of developmental programmes. 212

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About a hundred years ago the Bhils of Gujarat were called the tribals of the hills. Gujarat had two major substratum of population known as Bhils and Kolis. The Kolis (today classified among Other Backward Classes or the OBCs) were 20 per cent of the population. The Kolis were known as the tribals of the plains. Even today Kolis in Kutchch are classified as tribals. Most of the Kolis claim to be Kshatriyas. They have named groups in different sub-regions of Gujarat. The Bhils too have been differentiated into numerous (29) named tribes. Some of the major names are Gamit, Chaudhari, Vasava, Kokna, Warli, and a few have retained the name of Bhil, for example, in Dangs or use the suffix ‘Bhil’ like Dungri Bhil. Many of these tribes are endogamous. A few tribes like those with the title Kotwalia or Kolgas have been given the status of ‘Primitive Tribes’. Primitive Tribes are tribes who are very backward and get more assistance from the state for their development. In the post-independence period, the Bhil physical and social geography has been decimated by the linguistic division of the states. Some Bhils were parcelled off as part of Rajasthan, some merged with Gujarat and others became a part of Madhya Pradesh. In Gujarat, the state ignores the Adivasis’ own language and dialects and they have to do their schooling in the state language, Gujarati. They are at a disadvantage in speaking and writing in Gujarati in comparison with the mainstream non-Adivasis. They may be easily identified as Adivasis from their accents and pronunciation. The Adivasis are now stratified, partly on account of the numerous interventions of the government, non-government agencies, missionaries and Adivasi organizations. Divisions like Mota (big) Chaudharis and Nana (small) Chaudharis; Bhagats and non-Bhagats have emerged within a tribe. There are differences of language among them. There is little horizontal solidarity within a tribe leave alone across tribes.

CHRISTIAN MISSIONARY INTERVENTION IN GUJARAT The First Phase (1880–1950) Of the two major streams of Christianity, it was the Protestant that came first to the Adivasis of Gujarat. The Christianization process among the Christianization, Hinduization and Indigenous Revivalism

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Bhils of Gujarat is about 120 years old. The Church Missionary Society (CMS), an Anglican body based in London, was the first to begin such work, starting in 1880 at Kherwara in Mewar. In the following years, mission stations were opened at Lusadia and Biladia in Idar State, and Kotra in Mewar. In 1887, it was Charles Stewart Thompson of the CMS who pioneered the Christianization process in Sabarkantha district in Lusadia, Biladia, Ghoradar, Sarasu, Kotra and Baulia. Thompson provided medical services to the Bhils, supervised schools and published a simple catechism and prayer book in Bhil dialect. The Chappania Famine (1899–1900) hit the Bhils very hard. ‘The loss of life from starvation and disease was terrible, and was made worse by looting, for many were killed in defending their homes, and the survivors were left without food or the means wherewith to buy it.’ The commanding officer of the Bhil Corps wrote, ‘Every palm tree has been cut down, pounded between stones, and eaten and now only the black rocks and sun-baked mud are left. All cattle are dead or eaten, and water is dried up in nearly all the wells.’ Thompson who threw himself into relief works for the Bhils died of the cholera that followed. The successors of Thompson continued the work and reaped fruits in the form of conversion of a number of Bhagats (cited by Lobo 1991: 43). The Jungle Tribes Mission of the Irish Presbyterian (IP) Church began work in the eastern Panchmahals in 1892, and had its chief bases at Dahod, Jhalod and Sunth. The Church of the Brethren (CB), an American Mission, established its first base in south Gujarat at Valsad in 1895, and moved inland to the Adivasi areas over the next decade, with bases at places such as Rajpipla, Jhagadia, Sagbara, Vuli and Umalla (Rajpipla State), Vyara (Baroda State), Dahanu and Vada (Thana district) and Ahwa (the Dangs). A church came into existence in Dangs in 1904, which later became part of the Church of North India. The missionaries established a network of schools. There were secondary schools at their mission centres, often with boarding facilities for pupils who came from a distance. Primary schools were set up in villages, which were staffed by Indian Christians from outside the area. For example, by 1925, the CB mission had organized 114 such schools in southern Gujarat and adjoining areas of Maharashtra. The schools provided a focal point for mission activities in an area, as described by a missionary writing in 1920 (Hardiman 2002: 179). 214

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These missionaries thought they had a civilizing mission in regard to the ‘primitive’ Adivasis. By the process of Christianization, the Adivasis would be changed and transformed (Dube 1992). The Christianization process can be defined as A socio-religious process by which a large number of people from backward tribes first reject, at least in theory their traditional supernatural system, ritual practices, way of life and ethic, and then accept Jesus Christ and other supernatural beings, a system of symbols, a complex of rituals and sacraments performed by specially trained leaders, a new ethic and way of life which in turn, create a new sense of community or church. (Kanjamala 1981: 333)

In general, as Kanjamala (1981) points out, this process is made more effective through education and other socio-economic advantages, which enhance the appeal of Christianity. The first phase of Christian mission could be termed as the colonial and racial encounter. Missionaries, mostly white, were moved by ‘[a] belief that their own path to salvation through dedicated social work would pave the way for the saving of “heathen” souls’ (Hardiman 2002: 178). They did a lot of saving lives during drought and famine, from death and disease. They saved more lives than perhaps souls! It was largely children from orphanages, the destitute or the dying that accepted Christianity. These orphans eventually formed small Christian communities. The missionaries mostly did relief work and charity, not without an attitude of paternalism.

The Second Phase (1950–80) This phase could be termed as the developmental phase. The second phase (post-independence) is largely a story of the activities of the Catholic missionaries among the Adivasis of Gujarat. The Catholic mission in Sabarkantha began working with Garasia Bhils. 1965 to 1969 were years of scarcity and drought, threatening Bhils with starvation and death. In Bhiloda, Meghraj and Vijayanagar massive relief works were undertaken with the help of CRS, OXFAM, Misereor, USAID and Campania. Food for Work programmes under the United States Agency for International Christianization, Hinduization and Indigenous Revivalism

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Development (USAID) alone included the construction of 2,750 wells, 1,896 houses and bunding work of 279 miles for soil and water conservation. These relief activities have given periodic employment to 79,203 people and were a bulwark against famine in the years 1965–69 (Garriz 1984). The drought of 1965 also gave the Catholic missionaries an opening in south Gujarat, which brought in food-for-work projects from CRS, OXFAM, Misereor and Caritas. Struck by people’s misery, the missionaries plunged themselves into relief and developmental activities. There were glowing examples of missionaries who disregarded their own health for the sake of the Adivasis. Adivasi missions also spread in other districts of south and central Gujarat, started by different congregations of Catholic missionaries, male as well as female. The main activities were limited to education, health and welfare. At this time, […] different Congregations of Sisters were working among the adivasis. Almost each mission station had a contingent of Sisters. Some Congregations busied themselves with traditional activities such as dispensing medicine, education and religious instruction, especially to women. The role of the Sisters in teaching the adivasi women came about because they were culturally more accessible to female than to male missionaries. Some Congregations of Sisters have undertaken non-traditional activities such as developmental works, conscientization, bringing about social awareness and mobilization of women, adult literacy for women, teaching adivasi women alternative means of earning a livelihood and so on. (Lobo 1991: 47)

The second phase is distinctly marked by a shift from charities and relief to transmitting skills to Adivasis for income generation. The emphasis was more on service delivery. Stress on education and health delivery marked this phase. From a relief mode the missionaries were making a shift to service/welfare mode, and a few even looking for the rights mode, namely, raising social awareness, fighting for justice the liberation theology style. The Catholic missionaries took a gradualist approach to religious conversion. Contrary to the view that they were conversion oriented, most missionaries were development oriented. Conversions if any were a matter of a slow process after due reflection and deliberation by the Adivasi. Conversion was by and large not tied 216

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to or linked to development, relief or material interests. Developmental projects, education, health were open to all Adivasis. Certainly there were some conversions but one cannot speak of mass conversions. The language of conversion changed to that of development.

The Third Phase (1980–present): Evangelical Missions A number of modern Pentecostal Protestant sects such as Friends Missionary Prayer Band (FMPB), Alleluias, Pavitra Atmas (Holy Spirit) and Gospel Church Unionists have been sweeping the Adivasi areas with their brand of evangelism. A large number of these new brands of missionaries were from south India. They did not believe in the gradualist approach of the Catholic missionaries but […] asked for a leap of faith, preaching that the poor could overcome their many problems through faith in Christ alone. They told the adivasis that their old deities could no longer protect them, and that only prayer to Jesus could. Some of these missionaries claimed even to be able to cure the deaf, the dumb and the crippled through prayer alone, and they discouraged adivasis from going to doctors. This struck a chord with many adivasis, leading to a series of mass baptisms in the Dangs and surrounding areas. ( Joshi 1999: 2670)

These new Christian sects tapped a crucial vein in the corpus of popular ideas, namely, those that related to afflictions, sickness, misfortunes and calamities and a way to overcome them. Sectarianism supplied an oversimplified picture of a complex situation. For instance, it acknowledged that misfortune was brought about by a host of evil forces or agents who were employed by Satan and were to be conquered by the power of the Holy Spirit. The gift of healing involved the ability to diagnose the cause of affliction and to prescribe suitable remedies such as fasting, prayer, imbibing such substances as blessed oil, maintaining the Bible as a talisman, recitation of protective spells and so on. In their charismatic and prayer sessions, the Pentecostalists used the traditional Adivasi idiom of trembling as if in a trance, and whipping up frenzy. Some of these sects forbade their followers to consult a physician or doctor and encouraged them to rely solely on healing by the Holy Spirit. Christianization, Hinduization and Indigenous Revivalism

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Why did people join these churches? Meeting some Pentecostals in the field, such as Limjibhai Gamit of Chikalpada, one gets the following responses. I joined the church because of calamities, difficulties in life … pain in the stomach which no medicine could cure but the pastor prayed over and it was healed. Generally the women attend the church more or they go first and then men follow. Quite often the men drink alcohol and after attending the church they get weaned off from drinks. Enjoy freedom and peace in life and also prosperity. Once the drinks are given up then discipline came in, regular work in the fields began. The most inspiring word of God is that Jesus came down to earth and died for us all and saved us from our sins and liberated us and made us children of God. Those who believe in His words will be saved. Our old gods and deities did not give us hope or understanding or life. Once we heard the word of Jesus then we knew there was our hope and life. By and large for weddings and funerals Christians attend functions of non-Christian relatives, but not other religious festivals.

Thakorbhai of Chikhalpada has this to say: ‘I joined the church to free myself from drinking and the evils that followed: loss of time, no discipline, loss of earnings, poor cultivation.’ A member of the Church of North India who was earlier a member of FMPB, Kiran Gamit, has the following response: [The] Bible says that we were lost, wandering but the Lord has selected us, forgiven us from our sins and has redeemed us. 25 years ago I was an idol worshipper and lost but today believing in Jesus I have given up gods of the past. One must worship only one Lord. Those who believe in Jesus are a new creation. Old is given up. New mentality is put on. If there is no change in my behaviour before and after conversion it is no use to become a Christian. If my behaviour is not a witness to good behaviour then it gives false impression to others. Only by believing in the Lord Jesus our behaviour will change for the better. Freedom from vices is good. But only freeing oneself from vices will not take us to Jesus, or there is no such guarantee that we will be having eternal life. There is some separation or distance building due to faith but socially we all belong to the same Gamit tribe. We attend life cycle events among the non-Christian Gamits too. There is no general feeling that Christians are superior to non-Christian tribals. If we do not sit with non-Christians we will not be following Jesus’ teaching. Why some tribals have not become Christians? Well, according

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to the Bible it is God choosing us and not us [choosing Him]. [He says] I have chosen you. It is God alone who can bring us to him. We can only preach. The change is wrought by God alone. God alone can and does work miracles. Economic upgradation is important but more important is the spiritual. Life (eternal) is very important. If economic development is the key thing then what is the difference between us and others?

The paths to the church are diverse. A moment of crisis may precipitate the search for divine intervention, but even in such cases, the initial contact still has to be established. This may be by word of mouth, by seeing the effects of joining the church in someone else’s life (effects such as greater discipline, better earnings, regular work), or through members of one’s own family. There may not be any ‘dramatic’ character to these forms of conversion, but clearly there are significant changes in lifestyle that follow. There does appear to be an impact on relations with nonChristian tribal fellows, with some degree of separation and distance entering. Sectarian evangelism affects Catholic missions in a significant way. On the one hand, the former are gaining recruits and, on the other, they are ‘stealing sheep’ from the Catholic missionaries. The latter are not dramatic in their operations or liturgy but they also try to pay attention to the all-round development of the Adivasis, by introducing them to activities and modes of behaviour that are rational, with a more liberal interpretation of the scriptures. Catholic missionaries do show a respect for the indigenous culture. Their celebration, worship and places of worship show ample evidence of Adivasi-ized Catholicism. A shift has taken place from colonial Christianity to indigenous modes. Some of the evangelical sects who believe in a literal interpretation of the Bible have a strong tendency to dub any other religion or culture as idolatrous, pagan, evil and satanic. A group that is going through a period of confusion, material, social and cognitive, might be open to accepting a packaged system of beliefs that is simple, clear and absolute. Sects could appear to them as an answer to confusion and anxiety as they reinforce fellowship, belonging and spontaneity in worship. The continuous social, political and economic marginalization of the Adivasis is not dissociated from their availability for the religious packages of instant hope offered by different sects. The state and its agencies have failed to reach out to Adivasis and they have been left out of any programmes for the betterment of their living conditions. Christianization, Hinduization and Indigenous Revivalism

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The policies of the state have made the Adivasis, who have lived for generations in the Dangs, aliens to their own habitat. They have been labelled as encroachers on the forestland. Their lands have been appropriated for wildlife sanctuaries (Purna Game Sanctuary in Dangs and another one near Dediapada of Narmada district). They have to migrate for most of the year to the plains and cities in search of employment as casual labour. In such miserable conditions evangelical sects come and preach a kind of short-cut to resolving miseries. ‘Pray to Jesus, He will solve your problems.’ These sects, by and large, do not attend to key issues of the Adivasis like rights to land and forest or to unemployment, but preach salvation.

SANSKRITIZATION OR HINDUIZATION OF TRIBALS Hinduization, or what may also be called Sanskritization, as a process has been prevalent among the tribals over a very long period of time (Srinivas 1956). It involved the lower castes and tribes emulating the behaviour and lifestyle of those above them. This emulation may be understood as ‘imitation’ or a form of resistance from below; it must certainly have emerged as tribals and non-tribals came in touch with each other. Diffusion of Hindu cultural traits among the tribals began with traders, businessmen, moneylenders and priests. It may also be regarded as a strategy to enable some minimal level of communication among these different and socially graded groups, through the process of, at least, surface similarity. At different points of time, there have also been more deliberate attempts by individuals and groups to promote the process of the assimilation of the Adivasis to Hindu culture and religion. Gandhians, such as A.V. Thakkar and Jugat Ram Dave, and organizations like Bhil Seva Mandal, Rani Paraj Seva Mandal, Sad Guru Seva Sangh and Adivasi Seva Samiti worked among the Adivasis. The Hinduization process gained momentum after independence with the coming of roads, transport and better communication facilities. The penetration of the market into tribal areas, the transfer of resources from tribal areas, the developmental projects of the government and the influence of modern institutions all contributed to the increasing spread of cultural traits. 220

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Part of the argument is that the Hinduization of Adivasis may not be understood as a completely benign and apolitical process. Certainly, it was enabled by particular practices of the state. In each of the decennial censuses, the column for religion was increasingly filled up as Hindu. For instance, Gamits were prefixed—as Hindu Gamits or Chaudhris as Hindu Chaudhris. During admission to schools, a Hindu identity was reinforced by being noted in the school records. Different Hindu sects have contributed to the Hinduization of the Adivasis. The Bhagat or the Bhakti movement and later a host of other movements quickened the process of Hinduization. The upwardly mobile Adivasis took to Hindu sects more than the others. A large number of Hindu sects are operating among the tribals of Gujarat today. Table 10.1 gives an idea of sects prevalent in south Gujarat in the first half of the 20th century. The Hindu Right has its primary enemy in the Muslims of India, but has also now identified Christians as foreigners and antinational. They pose a threat to the Hindu majority, and are also castigated for coercing the ‘backward’ and innocent Adivasis into converting. While cultural supremacy and the desire for a Hindu nation are part of this agenda, Froerer (in this volume) also suggests that there are electoral motives behind the sudden interest of Hindu Right-wing organizations in the welfare of the Adivasis. Further, I have argued elsewhere (Lobo 1991: 46) that the work of the missionaries among the deprived Adivasis was ‘an eyesore for the non-adivasi vested interests such as shopkeepers, moneylenders and landlords’. Adivasis were being empowered and might no longer submit to the exploitation of these groups. Hindu groups have the power of the various levels of the Gujarat state behind them: they are able to harass the missionaries or register false cases against them. The Hindu Rightist organizations are able to mobilize the police, the government bureaucracy and politicians against the missionaries (Lobo 1991: 46).

COMMUNALIZATION AND HINDUTVIZATION OF TRIBALS Hinduization has been speeded up by Hindutvization, which specifically targets Muslims and Christians as the ‘Other’, the enemy. The Sangh Parivar surveyed, selected and targeted villages, planted its men, recruited local people and began its anti-missionary campaigns. They also built Christianization, Hinduization and Indigenous Revivalism

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Viswanath Movement

Swaminarayan

Source: Lal (1977).

1930

Sanatan

1950

Kaladia Panth

Sati Pati

1940

1925

Satkaival

1929

Leader/s

Ahmedabad

Kheda

Centre of origin Khandesh

Many tribal peoples

Dhodia, Chaudhry, Gamit

Recruited groups Chodra

Viswanath

Padekola

Tadvis

Vidyanand Nasik, Chandod, Dhodia Akhandnad Narmada Fakirbhai Valsad taluka Vallabhabhai Narayan Swaroopdasji Dhodia

Gulia Maharaj Dhulia Ramdas, Keshri Singh

Kuberswami (a) Tapossi Raghu Ram (b) Tentisbhai Moksha Margis or Vallabh Ram, Syrya Vallabha Swami Son Ramuji

Name of the movement Devi

Year 1921

No meat or wine

Greeting Aap ki jai, no wine or meat

Sex only with legal partners, no meat and wine

Guru Kanthis

Satsang

Bhajan

Satsang

Amas— Poonam gatherings

Satsang, Tilak Guru Mantra

Prescriptions External marks Stop drinking wine, toddy tapping Stop wine and toddy, Guru mantra regular bath

Vyara, Valod, 206 rules Mahuva Gomdeshwar Nandod Orthodox Hindu customs, no wine, meat

Valsad taluka

Surat—Mahuva, Valod; Valsad– Dharampur, Chikhli, Pardi, Bansda, Navsari Songadh, Vyara, Mandvi-Surat district, Dangs–Bharuch district Pardi, Valsad

Vyara, Valod, Mandvi, Bardoli

Area of spread Surat, Valsad

TABLE 10.1: Sectarian Movements in the South Gujarat Tribal Belt During 1920–50

their institutions for children. With a view to speedy Hindutvization the Hindu Nationalists1 used Advani’s ‘rathyatra’,2 and collection of bricks from Adivasis for the construction of a Ram temple in Ayodhya. Communal conflicts were first recorded in Dediapada and Sagbara talukas of Bharuch district in 1990 as a result of Hindutvization (Lobo 2000: 40–42). The Hindutvization process in Dediapada and Sagbara was initiated in the following manner. Events such as mini ‘rathyatras’ and Ramjyoth (Ram flame) were organized, spaced out over a year and a half, in these areas. A collection of Rs 125 per household was made from houses along the highway by saying, ‘If you do not contribute you prove that you are from the Muslim womb!’ Provocative speeches were made en route of the mini rathyatras. Organizers of these yatras were non-tribals. In Devmogra, a pilgrim centre for Adivasis, a Muslim dargah was vandalized. In November 1990 some villages were singled out and Muslim traders and shopkeepers were told to quit the village. The Muslims sent their women and children to a big village called Akkalkuva, which had a large population of Muslims. Subsequently some houses of Muslims in nearly fifteen villages of Sagbara taluka were destroyed. The sitting Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) Member of the Legislative Assembly (MLA) of the area and members of the Vishva Hindu Parishad (VHP) and RSS were identified as being a part of this violence. The complicity of the Mamlatdar and police was well-established. The fall-out of the disturbances was that the Adivasis found they acquired ‘loot’ from the raided houses and experienced anti-normative behaviour such as stopping passing vehicles or breaking their windscreens as powerful. ‘Ame shakti Batavi’ (we showed our strength).

ATTACKS ON ADIVASI CHRISTIANS IN SOUTH GUJARAT 1997–99 During 1997–99 the organizations of the Sangh Parivar perpetrated a series of attacks on Adivasi Christians of south Gujarat A list of these crimes, such as burning of churches, prayer halls, beating up Adivasi Christians, performing forcible shuddhikaran (purification) ceremony and other forms of harassments have been documented (Lobo 2002b: 182 ff). Of the fifty-one documented attacks, forty-one took place in Christianization, Hinduization and Indigenous Revivalism

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the Dangs, nine in Surat and one in Valsad district of south Gujarat. In the Dangs, there were twenty-four instances of the burning of churches and prayer halls, eight instances of beatings and four of various other kinds of harassment. Of nine instances in Surat district, four had to do with burning churches, two with beatings and three with other forms of harassments. At this time of great conflict and spreading violence, Atal Behari Vajpayee, the then prime minister and leader of the BJP came out to say that a ‘national debate on conversions’ was the need of the hour. The south Gujarat Adivasi area had rarely seen such levels of disturbance and violence. According to people in the area, ‘Baharthi loko aveene dhamal kare chhe. ame to shantithi raheta hat’ (outsiders have come and created disturbances when we were living in peace). It must be noted that these atrocities were preceded by the increasing activities of the Sangh Parivar in the Adivasi areas. The Parivar began by propagating Hindutva through various existing Hindu sects in the area. It established branches of the Bajrang Dal (BD) and VHP. Attempts were made to visit each village and make non-Christian Adivasis members of the BD. Deeksha (ordination) was given to persons joining the BD in which ‘trishuls’ (tridents) and saffron headbands were distributed. Non-Christian sarpanchs of the villages, economically better-off persons and unemployed youth of villages were enrolled as members. The organizations published and widely distributed a calendar depicting the Hindu god Hanuman. Idols of Hindu gods and goddesses were distributed by the BD and VHP during Navaratri and Ganapati festivals. The Dangs alone saw the construction of forty-one Hindu shrines during that period, most of which were dedicated to Hanuman. The Hindu organizations distributed anti-Christian pamphlets and spread their anti-Christian rhetoric through local newspapers. The Sangh Parivar showed open hostility against Christians after the instatement of a BJP government at the centre. Anti-Christian meetings were organized. Personal and local conflicts in the villages were converted into Hindu– Christian communal conflicts by these outfits. Meetings of the Hindus were held specifically on the days of Christian festivals. Hindus were persuaded to vote for the BJP during the state elections (Lobo 1999). The Indian National Congress (INC) party had had a stronghold among the Adivasis for decades. Under the Congress, however, the Adivasis only experienced further economic marginalization. This opened 224

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up the political space to be exploited by the BJP, and enabled them to get a foothold among the Adivasis. The Hindutva mobilization of the tribals in the late 1980s through modes and means explained earlier and the violence afflicted on Adivasi Christians helped the BJP wrest a few seats in Adivasi areas of south Gujarat in the elections of 1997.

POST-GODHRA RIOTS (2002) Post-Godhra riots had an echo in the Adivasi belt of north-eastern Gujarat. A chronology of events (27 February–5 May 2002) in the tribal areas is gathered from the headlines from the Times of India and the Indian Express. The chronology shows that it took a few days for things to flare up in tribal areas. The rioting limited itself to arson and loot and the rape, murder and burning of people alive that one saw in other parts of Gujarat largely did not occur here. In non-tribal areas both aspects of the community, namely, production and reproduction, were made the target of attack while in tribal areas only the former, that is, economic interests. Devy referring to Baroda district tribals concludes, ‘The tribals were made to fight a proxy war on behalf of the baniyas’ (2002: 41). But then Hindutvization has also contributed to creating a mind-set that Muslims are dispensable. The tribal, in many ways, feels closer today to Hindus than to Muslims. After succeeding in creating a divide between tribals and Christians in parts of south Gujarat, Hindu Right organizations began to engage themselves in doing the same with the Adivasis and Muslims in the Adivasi belt of Vadodara, Panchmahals, Dahod and Sabarkantha for political gains. These areas of the state, which had until recently remained devoid of any major communal tension, suddenly seem to have been caught in an inferno. Adivasis moved around with bows and arrows and bill hooks (‘dharias’) on the streets. People went on a looting spree of houses, shops and vehicles moving in the area. They went screaming in large numbers to loot a premise and then set it on fire. Having accomplished this mission they would disappear into the surrounding forests or fields. Trees were cut and placed as road-blocks on the road: the intention in most cases seemed to have been that of looting. That a free hand was given to the armed tribal mobs indulging in arson and Christianization, Hinduization and Indigenous Revivalism

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looting in the very presence of the police lends credence to the belief that the Hindu nationalist dispensation in Gujarat had launched a well-planned operation. The tribals were incited by outsiders. It is said that liquor was freely distributed among the Adivasis and in an inebriated state of mind they were warned of an impending attack by Muslims and how they should prepare for retaliation. The miscreants also highlighted the adverse economic prospects they would face once the Muslims returned. In many places tribal people were instigated to loot. The people in this area are extremely poor. This district had also suffered drought conditions. In the tribal areas of Panchmahal and Sabarkantha, there has been a history of economic exploitation between Bohra Muslim traders and tribal people. This has been further exploited by the Hindutva brigade, who linked it to contemporary communal issues. Evidence suggests that the politicians and Hindutva ideologues had the implicit backing of the state and government bureaucracy. The local-level leadership were either complicit with the attackers or, in some cases, even active in the attacks. For the most part, they did nothing to prevent the violence. Further, the tribals were given assurances that the BJP government would see to it that no harm would ever visit them.

REVIVAL OF INDIGENOUS IDENTITY After fifty years of independence a small creamy layer has surfaced among tribals that dabbles in politics and corners reservations and developmental schemes. The leaders from this creamy layer have been co-opted by nontribals and are highly Hinduized; they have, by and large, ignored their own people. Adivasi self-assertion is not new in Gujarat. There have been leaders from among the masses who have risen from time to time during the last fifteen years (Lobo 1994: 82–83). This kind of leadership was feared by non-tribals and by leaders from the tribal creamy layer. A series of such leaders have been murdered, it appears by vested interests. Chhotubhai Vasava was one such leader who continued the line of indigenous assertion for tribal identity and nationalism. He was antiCongress and opposed outside exploiters. He was an MLA of the Janata Party for a long time. However, even a leader of Chhotubhai Vasava’s stature was co-opted by the BJP a few years ago. After withstanding 226

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all manner of harassment and atrocities on him by the state, he finally succumbed to the wiles of the BJP and thereby lost his credibility. After a lull of two years, Amarsingh Vasava has picked up from where Chhotubhai left off. Amarsingh, with his Jai Adivasi Samiti, has yet again resurrected hope for the ailing indigenous leadership and for a movement that they may call their own. Today, the Jai Adivasi slogan can be heard in many places and people utter it with pride when they meet each other, in many districts. The erasing of an ethnic identity through forcible assimilation has nearly always resulted in a backlash or revival or reassertion of identity by different groups. For some two decades now the tribals of Gujarat have begun to assert their tribalness in some parts of Gujarat. In many places the greeting Jai Adivasi (Hail Adivasi) has become popular. Revival of cultural traits, artifacts and aesthetics has been on the rise. I attended a rally of thousands of tribals gathered at their holiest shrine of Dev Mogra in Narmada district where the following content analysis of the speeches gives an idea of this revival (Lobo 2000). We are all moolnivasis (original inhabitants) of this land and that is why we are called adivasis. Indian civilization is the oldest in the world but ours is older still. We belong to Bharat not Hindustan. We should call ourselves moolnivasis, adivasi, Bharatvasis. We have been ousted from the fertile plains and pushed to the hills and today we are even chased out of these hills. Our land, forests, water and quarries are exploited and on our poverty the non-tribals stand tall. Our land is taken away for industry; dams are built mostly in tribal areas leading to submergence of hundreds of villages, thereby forcing us to migrate to hostile plains. Our forests are classified as reserved and protected and we can’t touch even a branch for fuel without permission. We have no place to live peacefully. Fifty years have passed since Independence but we have not yet tasted the fruits of that Independence. We still do not have educational facilities. We have not had a revolution of intellect and thought. Not many of our adivasis have become doctors, lawyers, bureaucrats, businessmen. It is only because of missionaries that we have got some education. It is they who found diamonds in the dirt. We are fragmented today by the different religious sects that seek our membership. We have our own religion. We are fragmented by different political parties. We need to become one. Religion is a private matter. We need to come together as adivasis and not as Hindu or Christian or Muslim Christianization, Hinduization and Indigenous Revivalism

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tribals. We should do away with the division between Mota Chaudhry and Nana Chaudhry, Dhanka Tadvi and Teteria Tadvi, Dungaria and Kathalia Vasava and re-establish our original identity as Bhils and remove the high and low differences that have crept among us of late. It is only through unity that we can break our shackles. If we stand united, those who exploit us will come begging to us. Otherwise we have to go to them as beggars as is now the case. We are still gulam (slaves). We are reduced to the status of casual labourers who have to migrate and look for work in far away plains or cities. We are still made to walk like goats, looking down all the time and have never been able to look up and stand tall. We have in us inner resources to stand up like lions and catch the snakes by their heads. We only need to get organised. The BJP government in Gujarat has minimised our reservations and lifted the eight-kilometre regulation for purchase of land. This has facilitated the alienation of tribal land in Gujarat. The Hindutva forces have misled us. They have not just thrived on our poverty but also sought their own development on the destruction of our resources land, water and forests. The biggest conspiracy of Hindutva is to hide our real identity by calling us vanvasis (People of the jungle). Those who live in the jungle are vanvasis, they say. They have made us carry bricks for Ramshilapujan, taken contributions from us, asked us to put tilak (red mark on forehead), play the garbha (folk dance) celebrate Diwali (festival of lights) and Ganesh festival which are not ours. But, most importantly, they do not pay attention to our real problems of education, unemployment, human rights, culture, transfer of resources, our very existence. Ayodhya is not our problem nor is Ram. The BJP has trapped us like fish in the net by misleading us on Ayodhya. We must great each other not with ‘Ram, Ram’ or ‘Good Morning’ but with ‘Jai Adivasi’. We have lived here for centuries before non-tribals came here. If non-tribals want to interact with us they should attend to our most important problems and not just sell us their religion. We have our own religion. We worship nature, fields, grain, elders and ancestors and have our own deities. Ram is not ours, Sita is not ours. But our shrines are taken away and Hinduized. Ambaji and Shamalaji in the north were our shrines years ago but they are gone. Today we have only one shrine of Ya Mogi, which too is in the process of being taken over by Hindutvavaadis. We have symbolically gathered here at the feet of Ya Mogi, our mother, to begin our revolution: to assert our identity and our rights. This is not a political rally. This is a Jai adivasi rally. All, whatever be their political or religious affiliation, must come together

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as adivasis. We have 75 lakh adivasis in nine districts making a total of 15 per cent of the 50 million population of Gujarat. We have 30 tribal MLAs. Whenever our interests are in danger we must fight as adivasis.

Referring to a tribe called Dubla, which word means weak/poor, the speaker continued: We are not Dubla but takatwala (strong). The outsiders cannot keep us as bonded or casual labourers forever. We are not goats but lions. We can become doctors, lawyers, officers. We have among us people of courage who can stand up to anyone. It is time to stand up and unite. Anyone who attempts to fragment and divide the adivasis should be defeated. We should identify our enemies and friends. We adivasis have inner resources. But like rainwater, we have let it flow down the drain allowing non-tribals to dominate us. We need to build check-dams and conserve our resources.

The process of Sanskritization has been reversed in the case of Dev Mogra shrine and a pucca (permanent) shrine has been built by tribals in the last three years. Today, this shrine has become a symbol of tribal identity and nationalism.

DISCUSSION AND CONCLUDING REMARKS We have traced the different phases of change among the tribes of Gujarat in this chapter. What has prevailed in the case of Gujarat tribals is the assimilation paradigm. Through Sanskritization and later through the speedy assimilation of tribals through Hindutva, they have been assimilated more and more into Hinduism. The idea that they are ‘backward Hindus’ (Ghurye 1943) has been at work in the minds of those who sought to bring them into the fold of Hinduism. The process of Hindutvization created the conditions under which the tribals could be recruited to loot and attack Muslims during the post-Godhra phase of violence in Gujarat. The attempted Hinduization of the Gujarati tribals is, thus, not merely a religious issue. It appears to have links with the changing political equations in the region. Traditionally, the tribal belt in Gujarat was associated with the Indian National Congress (INC); it was wrested away from the INC after anti-Christian violence and disturbances Christianization, Hinduization and Indigenous Revivalism

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initiated by organizations associated with the Hindu Right. The tribals are alienated and marginalized: in terms of livelihood sources, in terms of the degradation of their life-support systems (land, water and forests) and in terms of the resource transfer from tribal areas leading to large-scale migration for employment. At this particular juncture, both evangelical Christian missionaries and Hindu Right activists are seeking to co-opt the tribals. What the chapter has shown is that though the tribals live at the margins of Gujarati society—in their own words, they have been pushed to the hills—acute battles are taking place to gain control over them, their resources and their cultural and political identity. The state authorities, political parties and a whole host of intermediaries—such as shopkeepers, tradesmen and the like—are part of this process. The missionaries, the rise of modern institutions in independent India and now the Hindu Right organizations (Hindu nationalists) have been prime movers of change among the tribals. Just as the resources of the tribal lands are crucial to feed the development and modernist projects of the capitalist state, so the religio-cultural identity of the tribals is decisive for shaping the latter’s future political fortunes. In the battle, the evangelical Christians are hardly distinguished by the Hindu Right and other outsiders from the mainline Christian churches, which have been working among the tribals since at least the 1950s. Catholic Christian tribals Sumanbhai, Gamanbhai and Avindrabhai Kokni from Bardipada said the following in a group discussion held recently (April 2008): Hindutvavadis always quarrel with our missionaries accusing them that they destroy our culture and so on. Actually it is the Hindutvadis who destroy our culture and religion. Today the Catholic mission safeguards our culture much better. In belief we are Christians and in community we are adivasis. In Dangs there was trouble against the Christians. Yes, where there were few Christians in a village, the outsiders came and created trouble by co-opting a few non-Christian locals … through money, alcohol, rumours, speeches and so on.

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at work within the Catholic church itself that might keep elite thinking and control effectively in place (see Mosse, in this volume). Turning to the newer Christian cults, one finds a somewhat different stance. Pentecostal Kiran Gamit has this to say: No culture is fixed or frozen. It keeps changing. So how can anyone blame us Christians alone for changing tribal culture as if it is a big sin? Culture is important for our children. In our business of protecting our culture we should not fall behind in worshiping the Lord Jesus. But by worshiping the Lord Jesus alone we shall be able to retain our culture. We must be equally careful to give the same attention to protecting our culture to worshiping the Lord Jesus. Old gods and deities are part of social baggage. But I do not feel bad for having given up such deities. Change is the law of life, culture and identity. We must change. (based on author’s interview with Gamit)

The new Pentecostals are less equivocal about altering culture, and this attitude much more directly separates the Adivasis from the Christians. They are more visibly and vocally different. When, as Froerer also shows in her chapter in this volume, the community is attacked from outside, the fine distinctions between mainline Catholics and new Christians will not be marked. All become enemies for the Hindutva activists. Further, the work of education and health-provision by the Christians is also considered dangerous by the Hindu Right organizations, which see these as insidious ways whereby the Christians gain the loyalty of the ‘innocent’ and ‘backward’ tribes. Moreover, there are suggestions in the material that Christian education might be partly responsible for giving voice to Adivasi independence and indigenous revival movements. Such movements certainly do not have the backing either of elite Adivasis or of those who espouse the Hindutva ideology. There is a great deal of jostling for ideological space occurring in tribal society. The trajectory of economic development in Gujarat has, however, left the tribals on the periphery; even association with the BJP—the ruling party in the state—does not assure them a better deal economically or a stronger voice politically. In the gap between the state and the tribes, various institutions and groups have stepped in, including missionaries of the mainline churches, evangelical missionaries and missionaries of Hinduism. This is not to suggest that religion is merely a panacea for deprived groups. Along with the more obvious provision of services, Christianization, Hinduization and Indigenous Revivalism

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religion offers a new worldview that can raise Adivasi self-esteem and be, in different ways, socially and culturally empowering. Perhaps the best example of this is when the Adivasi turns missionary and declares a new faith around the notion of the moolnivasi, coalescing in the one call the multiple but crucially integrated claims of identity, livelihood and political rights.

NOTES 1. The Hindu nationalist organizations are collectively known as the Sangh Parivar led by the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS, ‘National Volunteer Corps’) and include the Shiv Sena (‘The Army of Shiva’), the Bajrang Dal and the Vishva Hindu Parishad (VHP, ‘World Hindu Council’). In national politics, they are led by the Bharatiya Janata Party. The Sangh Parivar claimed that Babri Mosque was built over a temple in Ayodhya (which supposedly marked the birthplace of the Hindu hero-god Rama, hence the name Ram Janmabhomi) destroyed by Babar and launched a campaign to tear down the mosque and build a temple in its place. Hindutva seeks to realize the goal of making India a Hindu nation: Muslims and other minorities are considered ‘foreign’ elements and become easy targets of attack. 2. L. K. Advani, leader of the Bharatiya Janata Party, went about on a chariot mobilizing Hindus and tribals towards Hinduness. The focal point was to rebuild the Ram temple by destroying the Babri Mosque in Ayodhya.

REFERENCES Devy, Ganesh. 2002. ‘Tribal Voice and Violence’, Seminar, 513, May: 39–48. Dube, S. 1992. ‘Issues of Christianity in Colonial Chhattisgarh’, Sociological Bulletin, 41(1 and 2): 97–118. Garriz, Manuel del Rio. 1984. ‘Twenty Years of Growth’ (1953–73) in the Ahmedabad Missionary, quotes from a Technical report submitted to USAID by a USAID ground water resources expert in 1971, No. 555. Ghurye, G.S. 1943. The Aborigines-So Called- and their Future. Poona: Gokhale Institute of Politics and Economics. Hardiman, David. 2002. ‘Christianity and the Adivasis of Gujarat’, in Ghanshyam Shah, Mario Rutten and Hein Streefkerk (eds), Development and Deprivation in Gujarat, pp. 175–95. New Delhi: Sage Publications. Joshi, S. 1999. ‘Tribals, Missionaries and Sadhus: Understanding the Violence in the Dangs’, Economic and Political Weekly, 34(37): 2667–75. Kanjamala, A. 1981. A Religion and Modernization: A Case Study of Northern Orissa. Indore: Satprakashan.

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Lal, R.B. 1977. Socio-Religion Movements among Tribals of South Gujarat, Mimeo. Ahmedabad: Tribal Research and Training Institute. Lobo, Lancy. 1991. ‘Christianisation Process among the Tribals of Gujarat: An Overview’, Indian Missiological Review, 13(3): 39–57. ———. 1994. ‘Suppression of Valia Tribals’, Economic and Political Weekly, 29(3): 82–83. ———. 1999. ‘Religious Movements among Tribals of South Gujarat’, in Ambrose Pinto (ed.), Festschrift in Honour of Dr. Walter Fernandes, pp. 51–70. Delhi: Indian Social Institute. ———. 2000. ‘We Belong to Bharat, not Hindustan’, Communalism Combat, January– February, pp. 40–42. ———. 2002a. ‘Adivasis, Hindutva and Post-Godhra Riots in Gujarat’, Economic and Political Weekly, November 30: 4844–48. ———. 2002b. Globalization, Hindu Nationalism and Christians in India. New Delhi: Rawat Publications. Shah, A.M. 2003, ‘The Tribes—So Called—of Gujarat’, Economic and Political Weekly, 38(2): 95–97. Srinivas, M.N. 1956. ‘Sanskritisation and Westernisation’, in A. Aiyappan and L.K. Balaratnam (eds), Society in India, pp. 73–115. Madras: Social Sciences Association.

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C H A P T E R 11 The Catholic Church and Dalit Christian Activism in Contemporary Tamil Nadu1 David Mosse

INTRODUCTION Today the Christian churches in Tamil Nadu publicly express a preference for Dalits, for Dalit perspectives, and Dalit theology. But Christian institutions have also long provided a context for the reproduction of caste inequality and discrimination. This chapter takes a look at the relationship between Christianity and caste society in the context of contemporary Dalit activism in Tamil Nadu. It examines some of the many strands of social critique and conservatism among Christian clergy, and the implications for Christian Dalits and wider Dalit politics in the state. My focus will be on Roman Catholics who comprise by far the largest and oldest group of Tamil Christians.

MISSIONARY AND PRIESTLY MOBILIZATION OF DALITS The fact that a majority of Christians in the southernmost state are Dalits (50 to 90 per cent depending upon the district) reflects something of the opportunities that Christian affiliation historically offered members of low castes in Tamil society, although there is no single or simple conversion story. Different sections of the Dalit population in the region converted in different centuries and in different ways.2 Exactly how essentially conservative missionary agencies (Catholic and Protestant) brought about large-scale conversions of oppressed low castes, especially from the 1870s, remains a matter of intense and unresolved historical debate. But there is some consensus that regardless of the particular doctrines of the various denominations, for the Dalits themselves becoming Christian, it had something to do with the rejection of social inferiority and the affirmation of a positive social and religious identity. Upper-caste attacks and sanctions against converts suggest that Christian conversion was indeed taken as a mark of independence and upward social mobility. The motives and intentions of the converts were certainly always mixed, as were those of the missionaries, a few of whom were radicalized into social work and advocacy by a people’s movement of which their missions had become a part; but for most, institutionalizing the mission (into parishes, schools, hospitals) did not involve a socially radical agenda. Certainly, the post-independence consolidation of church structures, and the reassertion of patterns of rural dominance, meant that Christian conversion failed to provide rural Dalits with any sustainable route to social advancement. In independent India, because they were excluded from the list of Hindu ‘Scheduled Castes’ (SCs), Christian Dalits lacked the state protection and privileges accorded to other Dalits. They were ineligible for reservations (in education, employment or local government) and have no recourse to protection from the law under the Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes (Prevention of Atrocities) Act 1989. Certainly, Dalit Christians are in no position to compete for resources or reservations within the broad category of Backward Castes in which they are placed along with regionally dominant caste groupings. In effect, Dalit Christians are left in the patronage of the churches; and yet it is here, their leaders maintain, that Dalit Christians experience the most intense and intimate discrimination. 236

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Even though the aspiration for equality and self-respect form part of the missionized history of Dalits, these Christian communities cannot be regarded as produced by or sustaining a social movement against caste. In some places the Catholic church and its ritual order provided new opportunities and education, but this was often used for status striving within caste hierarchies rather than their rejection (Mosse 1994). The forging of ‘Dalit Christian’ as a critical identity, and conversion as a broadly political act, are rather emergent phenomena which have to be explained in the context of the social activism that arose in the church in the 1970s–90s, when for the first time the Catholic clergy began to make caste the subject of theological reflection and social action. The generation of Catholic priests who are now prominent in the various movements, campaigns, legal cells or commissions for Dalit rights found inspiration from the egalitarian anti-caste ideologies of the Communist movement, from Dr B.R. Ambedkar, and especially from the Dravidian rationalist E.V. Ramaswami (‘Periyar’). But it was their formation in seminaries in the 1970s and early 1980s and their reading of liberation theology that especially led these priests to rethink their ministry in Tamil parishes which had inherited a deep social conservatism from 400 years of Jesuit ‘cultural accommodation’ (Mosse 1994, 1997, forthcoming). Initially caste and class approaches to mobilizing the poor and oppressed alternated and competed with one another, even within the work of individual activists, but a Dalit-focused caste-based approach to social activism gradually became the predominant form among activists within the priesthood, beginning with Jesuits of the Madurai Province, whose anti-caste ‘social action ministry’ inverted the social ‘accommodations’ of their 17th-century founder Roberto de Nobili. Indeed, from 1987 the Jesuit ‘option for the poor’ had been firmly recast as a ‘Dalit option’: ‘[to] reach out in a special way to the most marginalized and discriminated in Tamilnad society, namely Dalits’ ( JMP 2002: 64, 66). Jesuit regional centres began to foster and coordinate the work of grassroots Dalit organizations providing legal services, support for Dalit victims of violence, legal awareness, documentation and media support, for clergy, Dalit NGOs and the youth cadres. The International Dr Ambedkar Centenary Movement provided further means for Jesuits to advance their ‘Dalit option’ not only in villages, but also in Catholic institutions, and more widely through national and international campaigns on Dalit human rights. The Catholic Church and Dalit Christian Activism

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THE ORIGINS OF DALIT CHRISTIAN ACTIVISM While in the 1980s the mostly upper-caste Catholic activists grappled with the class-or-caste dilemma in addressing liberation theology to injustices in Tamil society, the small minority of priests who were themselves Dalits had a different perspective. For them, caste was an immediate and experiential phenomenon, and this meant it had as much to do with discrimination within the church. The church was a ‘Dalit Church’, they argued, but ruled by non-Dalits; and they demanded religious equality as Christians, concretized socio-politically through proportionate access to resources and appointments (Fr Anthony Raj SJ, interview, 16 November 2004). It was this internal critique that consolidated the analysis of inequality and oppression around caste rather than class. There were several aspects to the message from Dalit priests, angry at their experience of the church. First, while accepting that caste was rooted in Brahminical values, Dalit Christian leaders began documenting instances and patterns of discrimination which showed that caste was by no means an exclusively Hindu institution. It had a demonstrable capacity to take Christian ritual form. A 1989 survey of ‘Social Discrimination against Dalit Christians in Tamil Nadu’ by Dalit leader Fr Anthony Raj confirmed the findings of research I had done earlier in the 1980s, showing how caste hierarchy was reproduced in Christian village communities in the organization of service (around agriculture, the life-crisis rites of death etc.) and of public space (in churches, schools or processions of the saints) which imposed exclusions or ignominious service on Dalits Christians (Mosse 1986, 1994, 1996, 1997). As well as being excluded from upper-caste churches, or having separate chapels, seating (or arrangements for receiving communion), cemeteries and funeral biers, Christian Dalits were denied offices in the churches, and institutionally excluded from church leadership and governance. They did not regard discrimination by ‘caste Christians’ (in public or private domains) as significantly different from that by ‘caste Hindus’ (Raj 1992: 202). Indeed, Dalit Christians considered they experience discrimination more intensely than non-Christian Dalits in that (a) they were ‘twice discriminated’, in society and in the church, and (b) they were excluded from the state protection and privileges accorded to other Dalits. Dalit leaders maintained that not only had the church failed to compensate for the social oppression of its Dalit members, but also it 238

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was ‘within’ the church itself that Dalits experienced the most intimate (if disguised) discrimination. From his survey, Fr Anthony Raj concluded that priests lent tacit support to the exclusions imposed by upper-caste parishioners; indeed these priests (especially the younger ones), and even more so nuns, were themselves discriminatory in relations with Dalits, in speech, commensality and social etiquette and in the appointment of catechists or teachers (Raj 1992; Thangaraj 2003: 20). It was the clergy— not society—who my Christian Dalit interlocutors held responsible for reinforcing caste in the church, enacting a ‘self-deification before the voiceless’ (Raj 1992: 345). Prejudice against Dalits was believed to be systematic within Catholic institutions. In schools there was bias against Dalits in reference letters, in admissions, in the exercise of discipline, in the negative stereotyping of Dalit students as lazy and lacking potential or indirectly in the prohibitive costs (lost wages, limited scholarships) and restrictive entry requirements that contributed to high dropout rates among poor Dalits (Raj 1992: 347, 349–51). Meanwhile non-Dalits dominated the senior and prestigious positions in Catholic institutions. Dalit Christian priests who raised these issues were angrily critical of a church system producing instance upon instance of normalized caste prejudice. Above all, however, it was reflection upon their own experience and position in the church that fuelled Dalit priests’ activism. In the 1980s Dalit priests were a small minority. A largely Dalit church had very few Dalit priests and (until 1991) not a single Dalit bishop. ‘Is God casteist?’ one critic rhetorically asks, ‘Does He also practice untouchability?’ (Arulraja in Thangaraj, 2003: 57). Even a decade later, Dalits accounted for as few as 4 per cent of priestly and religious vocations in Tamil Nadu (Report of the TNBC Commission for SC/ST/BC 1998–99 cited in Thangaraj 2003: 57) and very few reached positions of leadership. And despite its ‘Dalit option’, only 18 of the 300 odd Jesuit priests were Dalits (Thangaraj 2003). The small Dalit representation in the clergy becomes minute when viewed in relation to the large Dalit majority among Christians. Explaining this situation, Dalit priests I spoke with regard the mostly non-Dalit Vocation Promoters as especially responsible, but more generally dominant castes (Udaiyars, Vellalars, Nadars, Vanniyars etc.) promote their own into the priesthood and religious orders to the exclusion of Dalits in the same villages. Dalit priests interviewed disclosed personal experiences of discrimination that marked their own route through school, college, seminary or The Catholic Church and Dalit Christian Activism

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formation houses. In seminaries, their common experience was of institutions ruled by upper castes where, without patronage and protection from co-caste supporters among teachers and senior priests, they (as Dalit students) were exposed to criticism, disciplinary action or dismissal for small failings that their non-Dalit peers could cover-up with the collusion of their co-caste seniors. They explained how anxiety of exposure or prejudice made them cautious and self-contained, vigilant in observing rules, guarded in behaviour and the expression of opinion in relation to teachers, and withdrawn from peers (lest closeness revealed their identity). Some faced the internal struggle that went along with successful concealment of their Dalit identity. Fr X__ spoke to me about the guilt in being mistaken as upper caste by his speech, manner and academic achievement; but also of how his ‘passing’ made him aware of the dress, speech and body language that revealed other students as Dalits, and that in making these judgements he was himself perpetuating the self-fulfilling negative stereotypes of others. Some Dalits appealed to their bishops to send them to more distant seminaries in metropolitan centres (Chennai, Bangalore or Pune) where social divisions among students would be linguistic—Tamil, Telegu, Malayali—rather than caste based. Urban-raised Dalit priests were astonished to witness discrimination against their own caste when they began their appointments in rural parishes, and uncertain how to act. Some who identified themselves as and with Dalits described social distance or marginality within dioceses in which opportunities, promotions and careers were shaped by the power of caste networks. In the early 1990s, Dalit priests particularly from the religious societies (Jesuits) began mutual support networks to create a space for Dalits to speak more assertively and ‘in our own language’ (Fr P___). The intensely personal and emotional nature of these experiences makes all Dalit priests I spoke with clear on the point that, as Fr T__, a Jesuit Dalit leader put it to me, ‘[O]nly a Dalit can understand a Dalit; for you [a non-Dalit] atrocity is only an observation, for me it is my existence.’ But there is something more than an incapacity of uppercaste priests to understand. When I put it to Fr T___ that many priests had indicated to me that the social life of the priesthood—friendship, support networks or patronage within parish and diocese—are strongly built around caste; that priests associate with and support their own, he replied, ‘You are stating the obvious,’ going on to say that naturally priests 240

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will associate with and seek benefits for their own caste, naturally they will use and exploit Dalits. In fact, it was not uncommon for Dalit priests to objectify the experience of discrimination as an essential quality; that is, to describe the affinities and prejudices of caste as ‘natural’ or as ‘in the genes’, or as ‘an inner compulsion’, a ‘deep stream’ which shapes thoughts and influences actions overlain by a surface stream of Christian ethics, and anti-caste ideology. There is a public morality of unity and brotherhood from the pulpit, ‘but your private morality is determined by your social origins, by your prescriptive role … you are socializing the faithful into a life of hypocrisy’ (interview, Fr T__, 16 November 2004). The practice of caste in the church is characterized by its ‘public denial’, which makes it hard for social researchers to investigate caste within Catholic institutions. Even in his church-commissioned study in 2001, Thangaraj (2003) had serious problems getting responses: letters were unanswered, questionnaires not returned and enquiries were subverted by unusable inaccurate estimates from priests and heads of institutions (rectors of seminaries, heads of congregations, even bishops). They refused the questions, reprimanded the questioner for the un-Christian fostering of caste-consciousness, denied knowledge or records of caste in parishes, institutions, or in relation to admissions or appointments, while ‘[i]n reality’, Raj claims, ‘the religious authorities use every conceivable method to identify a candidate’s caste’ (1992: 383).

DALIT CHRISTIAN ACTIVISM So, by the late 1980s activist Dalit priests were able to draw on, and themselves fostered, a groundswell of resentment among Dalit Christians. They not only laid claim to the church’s social agenda, but also turned it into a mass movement. Returning from doctoral studies in the United States, Fr Anthony Raj was the first to give public expression to Dalit Christian anger. Outspoken, eloquent and powerful, at Jesuit and diocesan mass conventions he laid out the contradictions of ‘a Church with outcasts’. Dalit seminarians and novices facing their own crises of identity recall being ‘empowered’ by a Dalit standing before the intellectual might of 400 Jesuits declaring that continuation of discrimination would see the formation of a breakaway Dalit church (Fr S___). And he offered a model of Dalit leadership that extended beyond the church. The Catholic Church and Dalit Christian Activism

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Fr Anthony Raj, along with other Dalit Jesuits and a group of Dalitled NGOs (or Social Action Groups), promoted the formation of a state-level Dalit Christian Movement in 1985, later renamed the Dalit Christian Liberation Movement (DCLM), to politicize the issue of caste discrimination in the Catholic church.3 The DCLM undertook a campaign to educate Dalits about discrimination in the church, to mobilize around issues of appointments, admissions and dismissals, representation in church governance, anti-untouchability action while using statistics to prove that ‘the Tamil Church is a Dalit Church’. Young priests also found inspiration from the Dalit Panther leader R. Thirumaavalavan whose slogans on ‘disobedience’ or ‘hit back’ put their feelings into words (Gorringe 2005). The movement consolidated its militancy through mass action—public meetings, dharnas, black flag demonstrations—which brought thousands of Dalits into confrontation with church authorities. Dalit Jesuit priests led protests at bishops’ houses, Superiors’ meetings and at the Jesuit Province Congregations (in 1989), and on one occasion threatened to hold the participants of the Tamil Nadu Bishops’ Council (TNBC) and the Tamil Nadu Conference of the Religious of India (TNCRI) in the meeting venue until their demands were met. Support for the movement grew among Catholic Dalits, and it received the tacit backing of certain liberal bishops. It drew together evidence and popular sentiment to articulate a broad critique in which Dalit intellectuals rejected church patronage and the politics of the gift and sought liberation and humanization through protest (Raj 1992: 399). Dalit priests stood up to bishops. They refused to kneel and receive their blessing, saying, ‘We don’t want your blessing, we want our rights’ (Fr Paul Mike, personal communication). In reaction, bishops wrote to the Vatican (and to the office of the Jesuit General) and in other ways sought to discredit these ‘Marxist or communist’ priests leading a movement against the church; or turned to upper-caste police, officials and politicians to contain DCLM protests. ‘Dalit Christian’ identity emerged, then, not as a religious protest against Hindu caste society, but as a clergy-led popular protest against institutionalized caste discrimination within the churches. And it was this target (and the embarrassment it involved) that made the Dalit Christian activism a forceful influence within the Catholic church. 242

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CHURCH RESPONSES TO DALIT CHRISTIAN ACTIVISM How did the Tamil Catholic Church respond to this movement from within? It is fair to say that in the early 1990s the sudden appearance of a Dalit movement of protest took church authorities by surprise. It ‘opened [the lid] and laid bare the contradictions in us’, as the Jesuit Provincial at the time put it. The ‘genie of caste’ was out of the bottle ( JMP 2002: 65). Up until then, the Catholic bishops had responded to the post-Vatican II’s emphases on social justice and the need to bring the church into line with the anti-caste stance of the modern Indian state in a limited fashion, for example, by ruling in 1981 to abolish caste-based rites and festival celebrations that subordinated Dalits, and by lending support to a series of (unsuccessful) representations (in 1950, 1977, 1981, 1989) to presidents and prime ministers to include Christian Dalits in the Scheduled Caste list. In the latter case, the dilemma was that in demanding for Christian Dalits the same compensatory privileges as Hindus, the bishops either had to accept that Christianity perpetuates caste or deny Dalit Christians state support. In any case Christian leaders had always prioritized protection of the privileges of minority status (autonomy for schools/colleges etc.). Indeed, those who represented Christians at the 1947 Constitution Assembly took it as a matter of principle that Christians would not accept special privileges of caste, and that the church would see to it that the Christian principle of equality was realized in community. 4 This mistook both the nature of caste and the capacity of the churches to eradicate it. The DCLM activism and its unequivocal statement that the church perpetuated caste was a challenge both to the concealment of caste in public and the evasion of Dalit rights through the pursuit of minority rights. It was, in Pandian’s phrase, an ‘insurrection of the prohibited language of caste’ (2002: 1739). Now, this Dalit movement had arisen among Jesuits, and Jesuit leaders were under pressure to respond. The Jesuits broadly wanted to support the people’s movement but were caught between it and their institutional approach to social transformation (JMP 2002: 65). As a result Jesuits effectively appointed themselves as mediators between the bishops and the DCLM (and the wider Dalit movements). They brought pro-Dalit institutional change on admissions, pastoral and social initiatives, and reorganized their ministries ‘with the Dalit Commission (1990) as the link and monitoring unit’ ( JMP 2002). The Catholic Church and Dalit Christian Activism

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Then the Catholic bishops of Tamil Nadu announced 1990 to 2000 as the ‘decade of Dalit development’ and drew up a ‘10-point programme’. This was aimed at eliminating discrimination against Dalits in worship and cemeteries, promoting their vocations, encouraging Dalit leadership in church organizations, giving preference to Dalits in scholarships, admissions to training institutes, focused social services (etc.) and supporting their claims from the state (Thangaraj 2003: 6–7). The programme was overseen and monitored by dioscesan ‘Dalit Commissions’. Despite a steadily growing emphasis on Dalit perspectives in the Catholic church in the 1990s many Dalit priests I interviewed (as well as village Christians) remained sceptical about the effectiveness and motivation of the church’s pro-Dalit moves. For one thing, local elements in the non-Dalit church were accused of working against the Dalit movement by withdrawing patronage to parishioners (or priests) who were DCLM members, including the denial of loan recommendations or delay in meeting sacramental needs (baptism, marriage, even Mass). At the same time, resistance to Dalit demands consolidated the networks of non-Dalit Catholic castes into associations in alliance with non-Christians to make representation, press counter demands or to lobby over matters such as bishops’ appointments ( JMP 2002: 65; Fr Jabamalairaja, Dr Mary John, personal communications). Second, the official measures—the 10-point programme and Dalit Commissions—were widely regarded as devices of appeasement and co-option aiming to ‘break the movement’, divide Dalit leaders and redirect Dalit demands through controllable diocesan institutions into which Jesuits need not ‘poke their noses’ (cf. Arulraja 1996). Certainly, throughout the 1990s there was tension between the DCLM rights activists and the church’s Dalit Commissions, and a general weakening of the former such that diocesan structures and programmes rather than a Dalit social movement had become the drivers of change. DCLM leaders meanwhile questioned the effectiveness of these pro-Dalit initiatives, eventually negotiating an independent evaluation of them. This study by the Madras Institute of Development Studies (MIDS) while incomplete did little to applaud the efforts of the church in addressing caste discrimination, whether in terms of Dalit appointments, admissions to schools and colleges (or dropouts), or the promotion of vocations or church governance (Thangaraj 2003). It did 244

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however demonstrate growing conflict around caste exclusions, and a mass awareness (in part generated by DCLM) of nepotism and bias that put the spotlight on transactions within Catholic institutions to a degree unknown before. Even in remote Catholic villages such as Alapuram,5 Dalit youth would mobilize petitions and protests, not as formerly to claim the honour of carrying the statues of the saints at festivals, but to contest appointments, promotions, pay, fees or scholarship allocations at church schools; to agitate against discriminatory entrance qualifications, the allocation of low marks, the unfair disciplining or dismissal of Dalit students (allegedly to maintain position in results leagues), or conversely to defend a Dalit teacher against organized upper-caste action. It was clear that—as public service institutions—Catholic schools and technical colleges transacted symbols of caste honour and prestige much as temples or churches did in the past. The MIDS study’s conclusions on institutionalized caste discrimination were not welcome news for the bishops, especially given the rising profile of caste questions. In November 1999 an open memorandum had been issued by the DCLM president to Pope John Paul II on the occasion of his visit to India, noting that: [S]ince the powers, authority, official posts, organizations and financial resources are all in the absolute hold of the caste-Priests, Nuns, Bishops and religious, the Dalit Christians are not able to get an equal share for them in education, employment opportunities, welfare and development schemes available in the Church.6

And in November 2003, during their visit to Rome, the Tamil Nadu bishops received from the Pope a letter specifically drawing their attention to ‘the unjust system of caste division which denies the human dignity of entire groups of people’, saying that they must ‘continue to make certain that special attention is given to those belonging to the lowest castes, especially the Dalits’ (letter from the Vatican, 17 November 2003). The evaluation study was never published, but following a closed-door review of the findings, in 2004 the bishops issued a statement, to acknowledge continued caste discrimination, to re-assert the opposition of Christianity to casteism, and to set out an ‘action plan for the integrated development of Dalit Catholics in Tamil Nadu’. This re-stated the 10-point programme which now included teaching against untouchability in prayer and catechism texts, making reservations in admissions The Catholic Church and Dalit Christian Activism

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and appointments compulsory and proportionate to the Dalit population in a diocese, and empowering Catholic Dalit commissions to collect data relevant for monitoring. If by the end of 2004, Christian Dalit activism had lost much of its militancy, and if its goals remained largely unrealized, the issue of discrimination against Dalits had nonetheless become a prominent part—if not the top item—of the agenda of the Catholic church in Tamil Nadu, which could no longer avoid thinking of itself as a Dalit church. As significantly, the open announcement of a ‘Dalit option’ allowed Christian Dalits, seminarians, novices and others to articulate caste identities that a decade back it would always have been strategic to conceal (although open acknowledgement of caste brought other problems such as the disparaging of individual achievements under the rubric of the ‘Dalit quota’).

HINDUTVA AND THE DALITIZATION OF THE CHURCH The story of the ‘Dalitization’ of the Catholic church as a consequence of internal protest remains incomplete without an account of the wider context of Indian religious politics, and especially the threat to the church presented by the rise of the Hindutva agenda in national politics in the 1990s. Now, the move of the pro-Hindutva Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) to national office in 1998 coincided with the rise of anti-Christian rhetoric of a kind which had until then been reserved for the Muslim minority. The Sangh Parivar (the ‘family’ of Hindu organizations) began to insist that Christianity was a serious threat to national integrity. Indeed the Vishva Hindu Parishad (VHP) General Secretary Giriraj Kishore stated that, ‘Today the Christians constitute a greater threat than the collective threat from separatist Muslim elements.’7 There was a concerted campaign against Christians and the spread of anti-Christian polemic in the media and literature (Geol 1994; Shourie 1994) and in political speeches calling for a ban on conversion, the expulsion of all missionaries, for a ‘national debate’ on conversion and the demand that Indian churches sever all foreign links. This was accompanied by reports of violence against Christians by people associated with the Sangh Parivar: the murder of missionaries (most notably the arson attack on the Australian medic 246

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Rev Staines and his two sons in Orissa), the rape of nuns, attacks on Christian social workers, the destruction of churches and statues, the desecration of graves, threats and false cases. A Catholic compilation recorded 130 atrocities against Christians in 1998, and 177 in 2000 mostly in Adivasi or Dalit areas of Orissa, Bihar, UP and especially in BJP-governed Gujarat.8 In Tamil Nadu, direct intimidation of Christians and priests was rare (but not absent). More important here was a gradual erosion of the autonomy and privilege accorded to Catholic schools, colleges and medical and social missions as minority institutions by Jayalalitha’s All India Anna Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (AIADMK) government (2001–06) linked to the BJP in power in Delhi (until the 2004 elections). This, for example, curtailed their freedom to admit or appoint their own people (Christians), and subjected Catholic institutions to close surveillance, to scrutiny of FCRA (foreign contributions) accounts and to harassment by bureaucratic lethargy. Of the intrusive administrative orders and legislation, by far the most significant was the anti-conversion legislation prepared in October 2002—a measure against minorities that went further than the pro-Hindutva BJP itself. The Tamil Nadu Prohibition of Forcible Conversion of Religion Bill (2002) imposed 3–4 years prison sentences and fines on those who ‘convert or attempt to convert … by use of force or by allurement or by any fraudulent means’.9 The main threat to the churches lay in the ambiguity of the language of ‘allurement’ or ‘force’. The former included any temptation as gift, gratification or material benefit; and the latter, threat of any kind including ‘divine displeasure or social excommunication’. This provided an opportunity for agents of the state seriously to constrain the work of the church, priests argued, to intimidate and suppress through selective use and motivated prosecution; or had the effect of licensing Hindu attacks on Christians by caste Hindus who made themselves custodians of the new law (Sudhakar 2003). Now the reasons behind the Hindutva campaign against Christians are complex and shaped by a longer historical engagement of Hindu nationalists and Christian missionaries over two centuries that cannot be discussed here (Sarkar 1999; Suresh and Gopalakrishnan 2003; also Pandian 2002). The AIADMK government’s decision to draw up the legislation was itself shaped by a complex political strategy, fuelled by growing political isolation and the need to consolidate support from The Catholic Church and Dalit Christian Activism

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Hindu Backward Castes and strengthen links with the BJP government in Delhi. Suffice it to say that the issue had little to do with Hindu– Christian communal tension. Nonetheless, the government legitimized the legislation by making a link between highly evangelistic churches such as the Seventh Day Adventists (whose programme for growth, ‘Go one million’, received widespread critical publicity) and some high-profile mass conversions by Dalits to Buddhism, Islam and Christianity that were explicitly protests against continuing caste exclusion. In this way the anti-conversion legislation won strong support from pro-Hindutva leaders (of the Hindu Munnani, RSS, VHP, BJP and of mutts and temples), while curtailing (anti-Hindutva) Dalit social protest in the interest of the AIADMK’s core Backward Caste supporters who backed the law.10 At the same time, the law in some measure reflected the national Hindutva battle for Dalit constituencies—the hope, encouraged by widespread Dalit participation in Hindutva rallies or Vinayaka processions (Fuller 2001)— that Dalit groups could be enrolled as ‘Hindus’, and the containment of destabilizing Christian social activism by equating it with proselytism, foreigners, threats to national security and the corruption of Indian values, a reference to anything from ‘Western’ school uniforms to Valentine’s Day cards (cf. Suresh and Gopalakrishnan 2003; Zavros 2001). For my present purposes it is the ‘consequences’ rather than the causes of the anti-conversion Bill that are of interest. The Bill was widely condemned by human rights groups, Dalit movements and opposition parties, as well as by Christians, on several grounds. The Bill unfairly attributed all Christian clergy with the motivation of inducing conversion, while belittling converts by treating them as the passive respondents to the inducements of others. Because the law stipulated that a conversion ceremony could only take place with the permission of (intimation to) the District Magistrate, it involved intrusion of the state into the personal domain, removing the right to privacy, and involved ‘passing judgement on people’s subjective reasons for choosing to change their religion’ (Suresh and Gopalakrishnan 2003). Most importantly, by criminalizing conversion, the law contravened the ‘freedom of religion’ (‘the right freely to profess, practise and propagate religion’) guaranteed under the Constitution. Significantly, it was not Christian leaders but Dalit organizations and politicians that led the resistance to the legislation. True, on 24 October 2002 the churches closed their educational institutions and joined 248

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50,000 people on a one-day fast in Chennai, which included Christian revivalists, Muslims, Dalits and opposition parties; and the bishops went to meet the chief minister under the banner of the Tamil Nadu United Minorities Forum. But the institutional response of the established churches on the issue of conversion was muted, decidedly defensive and socially conservative (and mindful of the need to protect their minority privileges). But while the mainline churches were insisting that they neither practised not encouraged conversion, Dalit activists were organizing mass conversions as an act of radical social change. Dalit leaders Udjit Raj, R. Thirumaavalavan and Dr Krishnaswamy, among others, declared that they would lead the mass conversion of some 25,000 Dalits to non-casteist faiths in defiance of the law, beginning with a ceremony in Chennai on 6 December, Dr Ambedkar’s death anniversary. This was the culmination of agitation against the legislation by Dalit rights activists, NGOs, Dalit panchayat presidents and Dalit parties (Liberation Panthers [DPI] and Puthiya Tamizhagam) that built on a movement launched by some sixteen Dalit organizations invoking Ambedkar’s call to ‘quit Hinduism’, as well as the ideas of Kancha Ilaiah (author of Why I am not a Hindu, 1996) who insisted that Dalits have never been Hindus (for example, Thirumaavalavan 2003: 144). In the event a few hundred (some claim 500) converted amid police pickets and the arrest of ten of the organizers. It was expected that other conversions would follow in rural areas.11 Perhaps unsurprisingly, the effect of the anti-conversion legislation was not to diminish but to ‘enhance’ the significance of conversion, or its threat, as an idiom of Dalit political protest. The controversy was evidently not a matter of Hindu–Christian (or even Hindu–Muslim) communal conflict. It was not even a matter of religious demography: census data show that the tiny Christian minority had been declining as a proportion of the national population with every census (2.8 per cent in 1951, 2.3 per cent in 1991). Moreover, where ‘conversions’ were occurring they were mostly from one Christian denomination to another. Religious conversion was rather a matter of Tamil caste politics in the context of Hindutva, which emphasized Dalit political support for the church as an expression of wider Dalit opposition to Hindu nationalism. These events demonstrated how much the Christian churches— vulnerable to intimidation by a Hindutva-sympathetic government— depended politically on the Dalit movements. The mass mobilization The Catholic Church and Dalit Christian Activism

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against the anti-conversion law and the public stand taken by leaders like the Dalit Panther’s Thirumaavalavan indicated that the principal source of protection that the church had was the Dalit movement (even though Dalit political party support for the churches was largely tactical and temporary). Dalit Christian activists maintain that it is this political reality that today sustains the pro-Dalit reorganization of the Catholic church in Tamil Nadu. In other words, radicalizing its message and making itself ‘more Dalit’ allows the church to claim a mass support base, which enhances its political significance and appears to offer a safeguard against the incursions of a pro-Hindutva state. As one Dalit Catholic put it, with the full sense of the historical irony, church leaders ‘are using the Dalit community as their saviour’. In reality, however, this is a simplification. For one thing there were many more factors encouraging a Dalit turn in the established churches. First were the effects of Dalit activism (of DCLM and other Catholic and Protestant study-action programmes) that brought increased awareness of the plight of Dalits, the rise of ‘atrocities’ at the hands of upper castes and discrimination in the church. Second, church leaders had become alarmed by the threat of Dalit exit from the church; not so much through (rare) conversion to Islam or Hinduism in protest, but through a readiness to adopt Hindu identities in order to access state benefits as Scheduled Castes. Finally, in the 1990s Catholic clergy confronted a stark paradox which they sought to resolve: their premier educational institutions were serving the children of the very middle-class Hindus who were attacking them, while excluding Dalit Christians. Dalit Catholics from the rural majority, however, do not, in my experience, today regard the church as a solution to their social and political disadvantage, even while they actively press for opportunities and patronage on equal terms. Indeed those Dalit Christians I spoke with in Alapuram village echo the DCLM criticism: ‘Earlier, we converted to Christianity for independence’, says Manuel (a Pallar man), ‘but religion only increases caste. Now if Dalits get anything [from the Church] it is only by fighting for it; or coming like a beggar … [the Church] gets [money/resources] in the name of Dalits but gives to upper castes … only now are we thinking about this.’ The same views are expressed by non-Christian Dalit leaders who mobilize support in the area. But this does not at all mean that Dalit Catholics consider leaving the church or joining the Hindu mainstream. 250

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Quite apart from religious commitment and the access that the church offers Dalits to economic and religious (material and symbolic) resources, there are sound political reasons for this. According to Fr Manu Alphonse, Christians are a tiny, but powerful minority, wielding strength, not as a political force but through control of educational institutions, through a disproportionate influence in the bureaucracy, and, importantly, through international connections, all of which enable the church to protect its self-projection as a ‘big power’ (personal communication). For Dalit Christians the church (Catholic or Protestant) remains a better option than the wider caste society.

CHRISTIAN DALIT ACTIVISM AND TAMIL DALIT MOVEMENTS Dalit Christian activism may have its origins in internal protest, and may have been institutionalized within the Tamil church in the context of Hindu nationalism, but it has also had a significant influence on wider Dalit movements in Tamil Nadu, both in terms of leadership support and generating cultural or symbolic resources. In the early 1990s, Fr Anthony Raj, the DCLM firebrand, already known for his activism during caste clashes in Villipuram in the early 1980s, was a focal point for emerging Dalit leaders from the different caste constituencies—Pallar, Paraiyar and Arunthathiyar—whose movements originated from the context of violent caste conflicts and massacres of Dalits. For three years (1992–95) Fr Antonyraj lead the Dalit Integration Federation attempting to bring different Dalit movements together onto a common platform to shore up ‘the moral authority to fight against caste’ (interview, 18 November 2004), although by 1993 it was clear that given the exigencies of constituency building and the logic of electoral politics, the Dalit movements would politicize in ways that entrenched divisions along the lines of narrow caste (jati) identities—initially that between Pallar and Paraiyar castes; between Dr Krishnaswami’s Puthiya Tamizhagam party and R. Tirumaavalavan’s Liberation Panthers (Viduthulai Ciraithukkal). These and other more militant Dalit leaders such as John Pandian (Pallar), with less ideologically or politically honed messages, built regional and jati-based followings entering into short-lived tactical political alliances. The Catholic Church and Dalit Christian Activism

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In the early 1990s, these new Dalit leaders made use of the institutional momentum and resources generated by the DCLM in order to access financial and logistical support as well as intellectual leadership from Jesuit centres, and from Protestant seminaries (for example, the Tamil Nadu Theological Seminary) and Dalit Christian-led NGOs. These same institutions now offer ‘indirect’ support to Dalit leaders through free training for their youth cadres, Dalit night schools in remote villages and legal support or relief (channelled through leaders) when agitation leads to violent conflict and loss. The shift to electoral politics, with its calculated compromises with non-Dalit leadership of the major parties and the corrupting chemistry of money and local dispute settlement, and persisting caste-fragmented constituencies, left Dalit Jesuits like Fr Anthony Raj disappointed. Above all, he now laments the lack of a ‘proper intellectual formation for the cadres’, the absence of setting agenda or a Dalit manifesto and the weakness of ideological commitment in the contemporary Dalit movements (interview, 19 November 2004). Finding a contrast with the black power and anti-apartheid movements, this Jesuit priest does not cease to see the struggle for Dalit liberation in terms of a ‘religious’ formation, which like his own has to be founded upon intellectual discipline and personal and ideological commitment. Indeed, saddened by the divide between the personal, the intellectual and the political, Fr Anthony Raj gradually withdrew from the Dalit movements to focus on skill formation and vocation training through his Dr Ambedkar Cultural Academy (DACA) in Madurai. Such ideological ‘formation’ of Dalit cadres is a Jesuit ideal, the counterpart of the reality of untutored Dalit youth forming shallow emotional bonds with Dalit leaders in the manner of film-star fan clubs. Christian centres try to facilitate such broadening of the Dalit agenda beyond the electoral politics of caste, for example, supporting the stand of Dalit leaders such as Chandra Bose against ‘globalization’ manifest as state-backed privatization of land and water commons, of health, education, agricultural technology and government jobs, all of which enhance the control of non-Dalits while undermining the constitutional rights of Dalits and their gains through reservations;12 hence the present demand to extend Scheduled Caste reservations to fast-growing privatesector employment. At the same time these same Christian centres (for example, the Jesuit Institute for Development Education, Action and 252

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Studies [IDEAS] in Madurai) have also re-focused on caste by targeting their support to the mobilization of groups that are subordinated within Dalit politics, specifically the socially weaker Arunthathiyar caste. Not only did the political organization of this caste (under different leaders) occur after the emergence of powerful Pallar–Paraiyar caste constituencies in the 1990s, but it was also partly in opposition to these other Dalit castes and oriented, among other things, towards lobbying for a proportional share of educational, job and political reservations. By making a focus on Arunthathiyars (and other minority Dalit castes) a matter of policy, non-Dalit Jesuits face reprimands from Dalit Jesuits for fostering division and fragmentation. While some argue that the affirmation of separate identities among Dalit castes can be supportive of collective assertion of common concerns, it is recognized that narrowing constituencies on the basis of relative social disadvantage is ultimately politically self-defeating. Indeed, understanding that political success depends upon wider support and viable alliances (with non-Dalits or Muslims) requiring the expression of broader identities, caste-based Dalit movements and parties have begun to adopt the more inclusive epithets of Tamil nationalism with names such as Puthiya Tamizhagam (new Tamil country), Adi Tamizhar Peravai (‘original’ Tamil front), Adi Tamizhagar Viduthalai Iyakkyam (‘original’ Tamil liberation movement), which express anti-Brahminism while emphasizing claims to rights as ‘sons of the soil’.

RELIGIOUS AND CULTURAL RESOURCES FOR DALIT LIBERATION As well as broadening its agenda or specifying its focus, Christian centres have developed religious or symbolic resources for the movement for Dalit liberation. This cultural work represents both an attack on the ideology of Brahminism and the validation of an ‘outcaste culture’. Fr Anthony Raj, for example, maintains that Dalit Christian protest begins with separation and denial. He insists that being a Dalit ‘presumes a protest culture … it has to start with a process of inversion … whatever the dominant castes consider as respectful and sacrosanct the Dalits should learn to disrespect and desacralise’ (1992: 399). He regards Dalit liberation as a dual process, first of negating or ‘decoding’ existing cultural values as a The Catholic Church and Dalit Christian Activism

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means to remove fear, pain and enslavement from hearts and minds; and second, of affirming liberative values and identities. For Anthony Raj, and for other Christian Dalit thinkers I have interviewed, since ultimately caste is a mental state, liberation is a matter of self-understanding, accomplished by processes of re-mythologizing and symbolic reversal which simultaneously negate and affirm. One might say with Pandian (2002) that the Christian context is rich in opportunities to ‘transcode’ caste into something else. In this regard, Christian centres have taken an active part in articulating, honouring and theologizing an ‘outcaste culture’, through the reinterpretation of Dalit practice, through cultural performance, and the production of a positive mythology and new Dalit theology. Arun (2004) and Karunambaram (2002), for example, have examined the way in which parai drumming (parai is a type of drum), has been recoded and re-mythologized from an inauspicious, ignominious activity definitive of servitude to a core symbol of caste honour and status. Theologian-composer James Theophilius Appavoo or ‘Parattai’ (at the Tamil Nadu Theological Seminary) who ran stories in the magazine Tamukku (drum) to redefine positively markers of untouchability, also brought parai drumming into Christian liturgy (Sherinian 2002: 237); in Clarke’s writing, the drum becomes ‘a theological interpretant through which alternatives of the Divine can be experienced and reflected upon…’ (1999: 169). Here, Dalit theologians such as Clarke or Appavoo challenge the Sanskrit and Brahminical cultural forms through which the churches adapted to India. The rise of Hindutva has thus only further marginalized the work of ‘Sanskritizing’ theologians, architects, artists and the 1970s ashram movement. Framing an outcaste culture also has more direct and militant connotations. For example, when beef eating (along with drumming) is promoted in Jesuit schools in Chengalpattu as a matter of pride and identity for Paraiyar youth, and when the consumption of beef in villages also involves carrying the flesh on a wooden pole through upper-caste streets followed by public cooking and eating on Sundays, beef eating by Christian Dalits becomes a provocative, conflict-generating, dramatic act of protest and the denial of shame (Arun 2004). Likewise, when Dalits in the Jesuit-supported Dr Ambedkar Movement in Chengalpattu forcefully reclaim panchama land (land allocated to Dalits by the British), build huts, erect an Ambedkar statue and cook beef, it as an assertion 254

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of victory and identity. And beef was also a weapon in asserting claims over water resources when Dalits cooked beef and washed their hands by the village tank or threw beef into it, thereby ‘polluting’ the water for upper castes (Arun 2004). Jesuit activists engage Dalit youth with cultural redefinitions in workshops, rallies and awareness-raising sessions, and by inviting them to participate in Dalit cultural festivals, which Arun (2004) suggests are processes of ‘resocialization’ in which individuals learn through practise to modify the distinctions and schemes that produced their disempowerment, and in which conflict, even violence, may be sought out as the necessary means to disrupt old meanings, just as education is necessary to produce new ones. Of course, cultural identities and meaning cannot be redefined at will. Establishing Dalit cultural festivals, the formation of professional troupes, associations for the promotion of Dalit art and the like, all open up new possibilities of meaning; but such redefinition of identity is unlikely to be meaningful to all Dalits, and more particularly is dependent upon the unlikely recognition of dominant castes.

FROM CHRISTIAN DALIT MOVEMENTS TO INTERNATIONAL HUMAN RIGHTS CAMPAIGNS Today, the interface between Christian activism and Dalit politics in Tamil Nadu is clearly complex. Many Christian priests see quite definite limits to their role in the wider political field. Some argue that their focus has to be on Dalit Christians. But if they are now a diminishing influence within the Dalit party politics of Tamil Nadu, Christian Dalits have found other avenues for activism outside the church, first, through development NGOs, and second, most recently through national and international policy campaigns. In the late 1980s, while I was still Oxfam’s representative in south India, Dalit Christian-led local NGOs, supported by Protestant (and later Catholic) European Church donor agencies—HEKS, Bread for the World, EZE, ECCO, Caritas—were the first to turn the prevailing Marxian (or Freireian) class perspective on poverty into an explicitly caste- and Dalit-focused analysis. By the mid 1990s new Christian-led NGOs emerged around the Dalit self-respect agenda (others changed their names to reflect the shift). By the time of my return visit in 2004, The Catholic Church and Dalit Christian Activism

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a significant part of the NGO sector (including the NGOs that inherited Oxfam’s programme) had constituted itself around the theme of Dalit rights, and in doing so activists were attempting to transform a vertical structure of donor-funded NGOs supporting village cankam (groups) clients (a mechanism of aid delivery) into a horizontal structure of networked NGOs supporting grassroots Dalit ‘movements’. The aim was that these movements should in principle take over their (the NGOs’) function, allowing a collective response to the local rights abuses and injustice (NESA 2003).13 Being still donor-supported, this is a change fraught with difficulty and contradiction. Within this Dalit ‘NGO movement’ some began to address the overly masculine nature of Christian Dalit activism. The issue was not that women were passive or invisible. On the contrary, women were often present in larger numbers than men in mass protests, or rallies and marches; and within the Catholic church it was women, experiencing the discrimination in religious practice most keenly, who provided the foundation of the mass support of the DCLM. But women remained absent from leadership. NGO initiatives like the Kulavai network (from the Tamil Nadu Theological Seminary) have taken up issues of land (registering new titles in women’s names), micro-credit, sexual exploitation, untouchability, illicit liquor and violence in villages in south-eastern Tamil Nadu. Here again divisions of caste cross-cut gender. Amidst gender conflicts, for instance over land titling, those who work in the movement describe a reassertion of caste divisions. Field-level women coordinators mobilize women of their own caste (Pallar or Paraiyar), and beef/non-beef eating reappears as a marker of social distinction during meetings and cultural events.14 Apparently, the issue is less prominent with the younger and more junior ‘organizers’, but then their commitment to the ‘movement’ is more limited and the turnover is higher. Dalit networks are increasingly national and international in their reach. Beyond parties, movements or development NGOs, they now take the looser form of a ‘campaign’. It is here that Dalit Christians have again taken the lead. Prompted by the 50th anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights which in 1948 spawned various UN commissions and several human rights organizations (among them Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch), in 1998 a group of mostly Christian Dalit activists launched the National Campaign for Dalit Human Rights (NCDHR) as a step to a wider international campaign 256

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to have discrimination on the basis of caste recognized as a separate agenda alongside the violation of human rights based on race, gender, place of birth, child labour and the like. The initial campaign brought a resolution from the Committee for Elimination of Racial Discrimination (CERD) to include discrimination on the basis of ‘work and descent’ (that is, caste) along with race. Now, with the claim that nearly 260 million people experience caste discrimination as Dalits, the NCDHR and affiliated Dalit solidarity groups (in Europe) are pressing for a separate UN agenda on caste. Of course this—as well as the significant role of Dalits in the World Social Forum—is a separate subject for discussion. My point here is to indicate the leadership taken by Christian Dalits, decreasingly prominent in Dalit movements and political parties in the state, but who have access to the United Nations through mobilizing support from, among others, the international churches (for example, the World Council of Churches, the Lutheran World Council), and who have provided a means for Dalit leaders such as Tirumavalvan to enter this stage and to internationalize Dalit politics (Vincent Manoharan, interview, October 2004).

CONCLUSIONS Let me summarize the complex and shifting interface between Christianity and Dalit activism in Tamil Nadu in terms of three key points. First, many Dalit Christian communities emerged from missionary pasts involving mass conversions in which Dalits sought to reject their subordinate ‘untouchable’ identity. But the way in which Christian Dalits were reinserted into caste-based relations of subordination, and the manner in which they re-deployed Christian symbols and practices in various strategies of social mobility to assert status within existing ranked relationships, show that Christianity for Dalits cannot be taken as representing a sustained movement against caste. The emergence of ‘Dalit Christian’ as a political identity is a contemporary phenomenon that demonstrates that the church, far from doing away with caste, in many ways entrenched it. Second, the emergence of this Dalit Christian identity has not occurred as a result of the revival of a Christian critique of caste society, although Catholic social activism motivated by liberation theology has generated The Catholic Church and Dalit Christian Activism

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caste/class mobilization. Rather, the roots of contemporary popular Dalit Christian activism are to be found in a critique of caste within the church led by Jesuit Dalit priests. These priests documented patterns of institutionalized caste discrimination in the Catholic church, and reflected upon their own experience as Dalit Christians. Out of this reflection comes an image of caste taking variable external form—religious, institutional, interpersonal—that is constantly denied in Christian ethics, and socially concealed by the upper castes dominant in the church, but which is perceived as a ‘deep stream’, a semi-biological residuum. It gives shape to alliances, networks of support in the priesthood, the church hierarchy and the orders in a variety of Catholic institutions in powerful (but hidden) ways. The goal and effect of Dalit activism in the 1990s—through the DCLM—was to ‘out’ caste, to force recognition from the bishops of the persistence of caste-based relations within the church. Here the Dalit Christian movement did within the microcosm of the church what Periyar and Ambedkar did in wider (colonial) society, namely ‘recover[ed] a space for the language of caste in the public sphere’ (Pandian 2002: 1737). This meant resisting church attempts to conceal, privatize or shut out caste, in a ‘teleology [that] sets caste as the “other”’—not of the modern (as Pandian describes it)—but of Christianity. Pursuing the parallel with Pandian’s analysis, the unmarked Christian is ‘stealthily upper caste in … orientation’ (Pandian 2002: 1738); and as he goes on to say of the subaltern recovery of the language of caste, it is ‘by critiquing/rejecting the civilisational claims of modernity that the lower castes, at one level, could claim a space for their politics’ (Pandian 2002: 1739). In parallel and to similar ends, Dalit Christians have had to reject the liberation claims of the church. Third, while immediately successful in raising the Dalit issue within the Catholic church and bringing about certain institutional changes, Dalit Christian activists doubted the effectiveness and the motives behind this ‘Dalitization’. Not only was this perceived as a matter of appeasement and co-option of a social movement, but it was regarded as inspired by the specific political conditions of Hindutva which brought (perhaps temporary) an alliance between Dalit leaders and the church. The church, exposed to a pro-Hindutva state, found its best protection in claiming a wider Dalit constituency of support. Meanwhile, Dalit leaders supported the church—especially against the anti-conversion legislation—as part of 258

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a wider opposition to Hindu nationalism. In any event, the conversion issue had little to do with Hindu–Christian communal tension, but rather was an expression of caste politics in the state. But mutual manipulation aside, it would be a mistake to disregard the significance of Christians in Dalit activism in Tamil Nadu, in promoting movements, leaders and agendas, and in generating the necessary symbolic resources for Dalit activism. It is true that Christians have only a minor public role in Dalit movements now that they have become explicitly political parties in their mode of operation (Gorringe 2005). And some Jesuit leaders have become disillusioned by the evident failure of the growing sphere of Dalit politics to engender ideological formation among its mass youth following. But then Christians, exploiting the influence and reach of the international church, have also forged new arenas for Dalit activism among NGOs, policy lobbying and international campaigning. The church’s alignment to the culture and critique of Dalits is certainly not without contradictions which continue to generate internal divisions. The very concept of ‘Dalit’ stands opposed to the Indian upper-caste modern civil society that Christian educational institutions have contributed in making, and which ‘has and continues to resist the articulation of lower caste politics’ (Pandian 2002: 1740).

NOTES 1. A longer version of this chapter appears as ‘Christian Dalit Activism in Contemporary Tamil Nadu’, in D. Gellner (ed.), Ethnic Activism and Civil Society in South Asia. New Delhi: SAGE. I am especially grateful for support during fieldwork in Tamil Nadu in 2004 and 2009 from researchers at IDEAS and the Dalit Resource Centre (TTS) in Madurai. Special thanks to Dr Anthony Raj SJ, Fr A. Selvaraj SJ, Fr Aloysius Iruthayam SJ, Fr Manuel Alphonse SJ, Dr Joe Arun SJ and Fr Anthony Packianathan. Research and writing of this chapter was generously supported with grants from The Leverhulme Trust and from the Arts and Humanities Research Council/Economic and Social Research Council joint Small Grants (Religion and Society) Scheme (Grant No. AH/F007523/1). 2. There is a very extensive literature covering these conversions in Tamil Nadu, see in particular Bugge (1994), Cederlöf (1997, 2003), Forrester (1980), Frykenberg (1976, 1980), Grafe (1990), Kooiman (1989), Manickam (1977), Oddie (1991), Webster (2000) and Wingate (1997).

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3. There were parallel and earlier moves in the Protestant church including the formation of an all-India forum, the Christian Dalit Liberation Movement (CDLM), although there was little collaboration between this and the Catholic DCLM. 4. James Massey notes that the three Christian leaders consulted, H.C. Mookerjee, Amrit Kaur and Jerome D’Sousa, were respectively of high caste, royal and Jesuit by background (Massey 1990 in Wingate, 1999: 21). 5. Alapuram is a village in which I have undertaken fieldwork at various times, 1982–84, 1993–95, 2004, 2009. 6. Letter to Apostolic Pro-Nuncio. Sub: ‘Request for an appointment with our Holy Father Pope John Paul 11 for our delegation during his visit to India in November 1999 to make a representation on Dalit Christians’ problems’. 7. Quoted in ‘Hindutva and our Response—an Outline’, paper submitted to the Tamil Nadu Bishops Council, Rev Fr A, Xavier Arul Raj, Advocate and Secretary, Legal Cell, TNBC. 8. ‘Incidents of Atrocities [against] Christians: A brief’, ‘Atrocities against Christians: 2000’, reports supplied by the Secretary of the Legal Cell of the Tamil Nadu Bishops’ Conference. 9. Tamil Nadu Ordinance No. 9 of 2002 (http://www.tn.gov.in/acts-rules/ord9-2002. htm). 10. Suresh and Gopalakrishnan (2003); The Hindu, 5 January 2003, ‘Conversion Law Causes Caste Polarisation’. 11. ‘Conversion to Counter Ordinance’, The Hindu, 23 October 2002; ‘Dalits Warn of a Mega Conversion Drive’, Times of India Times News Network (Rajesh Chandramouli), 25 October 2002, http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/articleshow/26292215.cms (15 March 2005); ‘India Conversion Goes Ahead’ (Jill McGivering) BBC Friday, 6 December 2002, http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/2549817.stm; ‘Insights from the Ringside: The Chennai Dalit Mass Conversions of Dec 6th, 2002’ (Dr Joseph D’Souza, President, All India Christian Council) http://across.co.nz/Dalit6-12-02.htm (15 March 2005). 12. Chandra Bose (Interview, Madurai, 23 November 2004); The Hindu (24 May 2002); Adhiyaman 2003. 13. Including contesting Dalit exclusion from post-tsunami relief in coastal Tamil Nadu. 14. Margaret Kalaselvi, personal communication, December 2004.

REFERENCES Athiyaman. 2003. ‘Interview with Mr Athiyaman’, Thamukku, 5: 15 (January–February): 1–2. Arulraja, M.R. 1996. Jesus the Dalit. Hyderabad: Volunteer Centre. Arun, C.J. 2004. ‘From Outcaste to Caste: The Use of Symbols and Myths in the Construction of Identity; A Study of Conflict between the Paraiyars and the Vanniyars in Tamil Nadu, South India’, Ph.D. thesis, University of Oxford. Bugge, H. 1994. Mission and Tamil Society: Social and Religious Change in South India (1840–1900). Richmond: Curzon Press.

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Cederlöf, G. 1997. Bonds Lost: Subordination, Conflict and Mobilisation in Rural South India c. 1900–1970. Delhi: Manohar. ———. 2003. ‘Social Mobilization among People Competing at the Bottom Level of Society: The Presence of Missions in Rural South India, ca. 1900–1950’, in R.E. Frykenberg (ed.), Christians and Missionaries in India: Cross-cultural Communication since 1500, pp. 336–56. London: RoutledgeCurzon. Clarke, S. 1999. Dalits and Christianity: Subaltern Religion and Liberation Theology in India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Forrester, D.B. 1980. Caste and Christianity: Attitudes and Policies on Caste of Anglo-Saxon Protestant Missionaries in India. London: Curzon Press. Frykenberg, R.E. 1976. ‘The Impact of Conversion and Social Reform upon Society in South India during the Late Company Period: Questions concerning HinduChristian Encounters, with special Reference to Tinnevelly’, in C.H. Phillips and N.D. Wainwright (eds), Indian Society and the Beginnings of Modernization C 1830–1850, pp. 187–243. London: School of African and Oriental Studies. ———. 1980. ‘On the Study of Conversion Movements: A Review Article and a Theoretical Note’, The Indian Economic and Social History Review, 17: 121–38. Fuller, C.J. 2001. ‘The “Vinayaka Chaturthi” Festival and Hindutva in Tamil Nadu’, Economic and Political Weekly, 36(19): 1607–16. Geol, S.M. 1994. Jesus Christ an Artifice of Aggression. New Delhi: Voice of India. Gorringe, H. 2005. Untouchable Citizens: Dalit Movements and Democratisation in Tamil Nadu. Delhi: Sage Publications. Grafe, H. 1990. History of Christianity in India. Vol. 4, Pt. 2, The History of Christianity in Tamilnadu from 1800 to 1975. Bangalore: Church History Association of India. Ilaiah, Kancha. 1996. Why I am not a Hindu: A Sudra Critique of Hindutva Philosophy, Culture and Political Economy. Calcutta: Samya. Ilangovan, R. 2002. ‘Outsourcing will add to Dalit Depravation’, The Hindu, 24 May. Available online at http://www.hindu.com/thehindu/2002/05/24/ stories/2002052402670500.htm (accessed on 4 May 2010). JMP ( Jesuit Madurai Province). 2002. Golden Jubilee 1952–2002 Souvenir. Dindigul: Provincial Superior. Karunambaram, Charles. 2002. ‘Tuning the War Drum: The Reconstruction of “Parai” towards Dalit Empowerment in Tamil Nadu’, Ph.D. thesis, College of Mass Commnication, University of the Philippines. Kooiman, D. 1989. Conversion and Social Equality in India: The London Missionary Society in South Travancore in the 19th century. New Delhi: Manohar. Manickam, S. 1977. The Social Setting of Christian Conversion in South India: The Impact of the Wesleyan Methodist Missionaries on the Trichy—Tanjore Diocese with Special Reference to the Harijan Communities of the Mass Movement Area 1820–1947. Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag. Massey, J. 1990. ‘Mandal Commission Report: A achristian Perspective’, Religion and Society, 37 (4): 40–49. Mosse, D. 1986. ‘Caste, Christianity and Hinduism: A Study of Social Organisation and Religion in Rural Ramnad’, D.Phil. thesis, Oxford University. ———. 1994. ‘Idioms of Subordination and Styles of Protest among Christian and Hindu Harijan Castes in Tamil Nadu’, Contributions to Indian Sociology, 28(1): 67–106.

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Mosse, D. 1996. ‘South Indian Christians, Purity/Impurity, and the Caste System: Death Ritual in a Tamil Roman Catholic Community’, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 2(3): 461–83. ———. 1997. ‘Honour, Caste and Conflict: The Ethnohistory of a Catholic Festival in Rural Tamil Nadu (1730–1990)’, in J. Assayag and G. Tarabout (eds), Alterite et identite: Islam et Christiamisme en Inde (Collection Purusartha no. 19), pp. 71–120. Paris: Editions de L’Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales. ———. forthcoming. The Saint in the Banyan Tree: Popular Christianity and Caste Society in South India. NESA (New Entity for Social Action). 2003. Affirming Identities, Asserting Rights: Report of the Strategic Planning Workshop, Bangalore, October 27–31, 2003. Bangalore: NESA. Oddie, G.A. 1991. Hindu and Christian in South-east India. London: Curzon Press. Pandian, M.S.S. 2002. ‘One Step Outside Modernity: Caste, Identity Politics and Public Sphere’, Economic and Political Weekly, 4 May, 37(18): 1735–41. Raj, Anthony. 1992. Discrimination against Dalit Christians in Tamil Nadu. Madurai: IDEAS Centre. Sarkar, S. 1999. ‘Conversions and Politics of Hindu Right’, Economic and Political Weekly, 26 June–2 July, 34(26): 1691–700. Sherinian, Zoe C. 2002. ‘Dalit Theology in Tamil Christian Folk Music: A Transformative Liturgy by James Theophilius Appavoo’, in S.J. Raj and C.G. Dempsey (eds), Popular Christianity in India: Riting between the Lines, pp. 233–54. New York: SUNY Press. Shourie, A. 1994. Missionaries in India: Continuities, Changes, Dilemmas. New Delhi: ASA Publications. Sudhakar, P. 2003. ‘Conversion Law Causes Caste Polarisation’, The Hindu, 5 January. Available online at http://www.hindu.com/thehindu/2003/01/05/stories/ 2003010504750100.htm (accessed on 4 May 2010). Suresh, V. and S. Gopalakrishnan. 2003. ‘Convert, and Be Damned!’ Combat Law, Special Issue 7 (also available on http://indiatogether.org/combatlaw/issue7/damned.htm, accessed on 15 March 2005). Thangaraj, M. 2003. Evaluation of the Ten Point Programme for the Development of Dalit Christians in Tamil Nadu. Chennai: Madras Institute of Development Studies. Thirumaavalavan, R. 2003. Talisman: Extreme Emotions of Dalit Liberation, trans. Meena Kandasamy. Kolkata: Samya. Webster, J.C.B. 2000. The Dalit Christian: A History. Delhi: ISPCK. Wingate, A. 1999. The Church and Conversion: A Study of Recent Conversions to and from Christianity in the Tamil Area of South India. Delhi: ISPCK. Zavros, J. 2001 ‘Conversion and the Assertive Margins: An Analysis of Hindu Nationalist Discourse and the Recent Attacks on Indian Christians’, South Asia, 34(2): 73–89.

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C H A P T E R 12 Identity, Conversion and Violence: Dalits, Adivasis and the 2007–08 Riots in Orissa Chad M. Bauman

INTRODUCTION In the annual Hindu festival of Raksha Bandhan, sisters express devotion to their brothers by fasting and offering prayers on their behalf, and symbolize their concern by tying rakhi around their brothers’ wrists. The ‘sisters’ and ‘brothers’ in the ritual need not be related by blood, and there is a long history of sisters ‘adopting’ cousins and other unrelated males, even non-Hindus, during the festival. In 2008, I returned to Raipur, Chhattisgarh, where I had previously conducted research, to visit some old friends. My trip coincided with Raksha Bandhan, and on a warm, windless Saturday in August, I visited

a Hindu friend of mine who had recently been married. There, in their home in a quiet neighbourhood on the edge of town, my friend’s new wife tied rakhi around my wrist in a moving display of hospitality and amity. At the same time, in another part of town, members of the Dharma Sena (Army of Faith, or Righteousness), a local Hindu nationalist organization, were assaulting a group of Christians at a prayer meeting. After physically abusing the Christians, the assailants forcibly tied rakhi around their wrists in a proprietary gesture intended to claim them as members of the Hindu fold. There is today in India, as these two stories should illustrate, a battle for the right to define what it means to be ‘Hindu’. On one side stand those whose Hinduism is tolerant, friendly and hospitable to strangers and minorities; on the other side stand those whose Hinduism is intolerant, suspicious and aggressively chauvinistic. If this chapter focuses on the violent, aggressive side of Hinduism, it is only because of its subject matter. The chapter should not, however, be taken as an argument that Hinduism is (and is essentially) a violent and aggressive religion. We would do well to keep in mind the diverse range of Hindu opinions and behaviour, the ‘clash within’ Hinduism, as Martha Nussbaum (2007) has termed it, as we move on to a description and analysis of the recent Hindu–Christian1 violence in Orissa. The chapter is divided into two parts. The first supplies an overview, necessarily brief, of the violence itself. The second enumerates a number of significant factors involved in this particular clash (or rather, series of clashes) and then attempts to analyse those factors by situating them within a broader context of Hindu–Christian conflict in contemporary India. Throughout the chapter I argue that the Orissa violence was exacerbated by the involvement of those who intentionally politicized and communalized local tensions, in part by portraying communal identities at both the local and national level as if they were singular, rigid and mutually exclusive.

THE 2007–08 ORISSA RIOTS Anti-Christian violence has been on the rise in India since the end of the 1990s (Froerer 2007: 2; S. Sarkar 1999: 1691). At Christmas, in 1998, 264

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for example, mobs attacked Christian Adivasis in Dangs, Gujarat, burning dozens of houses and places of worship, while threatening bodily harm (Gonsalves 1999). And a year later, the Australian missionary, Graham Staines, and his two young boys were famously immolated in their vehicle in Orissa. In the last days of December, 2007, Dalit Christians in Brahmanigaon, Kandhamal district, Orissa, were constructing a Christmas pandal, a long, cloth-draped scaffolding surmounting a main street in town. The construction of the pandal was sponsored by the Dr Ambedkar Banika Sangh of Brahmanigaon, a Christian organization which had dutifully sought and received permission from authorities for its construction. Nevertheless, there were signs of potential trouble. The Kui Samaj, a Kandha tribal organization which had strained relations with the Dalit and largely Christian Pana community in Kandhamal, had called for a statewide bandh, or strike, on December 24th and 25th to press a variety of its political demands, despite (or perhaps because of ) the fact that many Hindus celebrated Christmas along with Christians. And on December 23rd, as Narendra Modi was celebrating his re-election as chief minister in Gujarat, Christian women and youth in Brahmanigaon were warned by some Hindus not to put up their Christmas decorations. Though the pandal had been constructed in the same spot for a number of years, this year some local Hindus demanded it be removed because it was located in the same area where Hindus had recently celebrated Durga Puja. Because of this, several delegations of Christians visited police officers in the days before the violence began, requesting extra protection. On the morning of December 24th, a Christian delegation asked police to officially open the local haat, or market, in Brahmanigaon, despite the Kui Samaj’s call for a bandh. (Christians needed the market to make lastminute Christmas preparations.) The Assistant Sub-Inspector of Police arrived and opened the market at 7:00 am. Around an hour or two later a large group of Hindus arrived, led, Christian eyewitnesses assert, by Bikram Raut, a local Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) leader, and attempted to forcefully close the market. Police intervened and kept it open. Later, Raut’s group began to rough up Christians in the market, and according to one Christian eyewitness who spoke to Tehelka magazine’s reporters, Christians responded by looting Hindu merchants (Bibhuti Pati 2008). Scuffles broke out between Hindu and Christian merchants, effectively closing the market. Identity, Conversion and Violence

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Around 10:00 am, a crowd of perhaps 500, led again by Bikram Raut, arrived and ransacked the Christmas pandal, setting it ablaze in the presence of the police, who intentionally or out of helplessness did not intervene. The crowd attacked Christians and destroyed their shops. Shots were fired, and at least one young Christian was seriously wounded. In fear, Christians fled to the jungle, abandoning their plans for Christmas Eve services. Then, at around 10:45 am, while travelling to Brahmanigaon where he was reportedly planning to conduct a yagna (a Hindu fire ritual), the car of Lakshmanananda Saraswati, an elderly sadhu and regionally famous anti-conversion activist, was forced to stop on a narrow road when a bus travelling ahead of it broke down with mechanical problems. Hearing Christmas music coming from loudspeakers of the nearby Dasingbadi Church, Saraswati sent his bodyguards to ask that it be turned down. Local Christians asserted that the guards roughed up some Christians and vandalized church equipment. Saraswati contended that a group of Christians came, unprovoked, injured him and his driver, and damaged his car. Those who saw him afterwards say that Saraswati appeared not to have been seriously hurt. Yet pictures of him after the incident, lying on a hospital cot and looking somewhat under the weather, circulated widely in news reports and through the Internet. Reports of the incident reached Brahmanigaon around 2:00 pm (long after the morning clashes there), and when they became more widely known, the RSS, Vishva Hindu Parishad (VHP) and Bajrang Dal, with the support of the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), called in protest for a four-hour bandh on Christmas day. While it is clear that news of the incident involving Saraswati exacerbated the tensions and might well have been the main cause for their dissemination beyond Brahmanigaon and Dasingbadi, it is also equally clear that the anti-Christian attack in Brahmanigaon preceded it. No matter what the provocation, for the next three days violent clashes continued and spread throughout the region. Logs downed across roads by miscreants prevented an effective police response, forcing the government to impose curfews and call upon the Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF) for help. And then, on the 27th, a large Christian mob in Brahmanigaon entered a Hindu quarter of the city and set nearly a hundred Hindu homes alight. Similarly, in nearby Gadapur, Christians 266

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burned down around twenty additional Hindu homes. But by the end of the day the rioting had stopped. Assessing the effects of the violence in Kandhamal district is difficult, given the inaccessibility of the terrain and the widely varying reports of damage to institutions, homes and bodies. The riots took place over four days and roughly across 600 square miles, and affected at least six district blocks. According to the All-India Christian Council’s (AICC) reports, corroborated by those of the National Commission for Minorities (NCM), rioters destroyed ninety-five churches and 730 houses (around 120 of them Hindu) in the clashes. In addition, rioters destroyed or looted several convents, mission schools and parish houses in the district, and vandalized or desecrated a great deal of Christian property (All-India Christian Council 2008). There were six people seriously wounded, multiple reports of women molested or raped, and four people confirmed dead, with rumours of other deaths, murders and cover-ups. Of the four confirmed dead by early reports, at least three were Christian. One of them, 50-year-old Bhogra Naik, had been rather gruesomely dismembered. The identity of a fourth, killed in the firefight at the Brahmanigaon police station, remains uncertain. The fifth victim was Khageswar Mallick. VHP sources claim Mallick, an older tribal man, was stoned to death by Christian women. But Christian eyewitnesses say he either fell from or was burned on a church tower he had mounted to destroy. One question which remains unanswered is the extent to which Naxalites were involved in or manipulated the discord and confusion for their own purposes. State police officials alleged a Naxalite hand in the violence, as did Sangh leaders. The BJP’s Kamal Sandesh urged, ‘It is incumbent upon the central government and 24x7 channels to open their eyes and ears towards the nexus between the anti-nationals [the Naxalites], the missionaries and their activities in this part of India’ (R.P. Tripathy 2008: 20). Some Christian leaders also publicly alleged that the Christian retaliation was instigated by Naxalites (implying that it was therefore not entirely the fault of Christians). They rejected the notion, however, that there was any stable or organized Naxalite–Christian cooperation. It is difficult to determine whether Naxalite involvement in the Kandhamal riots was real and significant, or whether Hindu, Christian and state government leaders wishing to deflect blame simply scapegoated the Maoist insurgents. Though it would surprise no one if the Naxalites Identity, Conversion and Violence

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were found to have exploited the unrest to achieve some of their own goals, it should be stressed that they had not before this point been as active in Kandhamal as they had in other parts of the state. In addition to the damage to property and body, the violent clashes provoked a refugee crisis. By the end of February, there were approximately 3,000 refugees, Christian and Hindu, in five relief camps. That number would have been much higher if more men had entered the refugee camps. But many of them remained in the forests, fearing that they would be harassed or arrested for their involvement (real or fabricated) in the violence. Life within the camps was not easy, particularly for the pregnant or elderly, a few of whom died there. The government reportedly provided very little food, clothing or shelter, and evening temperatures occasionally dropped into the low fifties. Adding to the problems of victims was the fact that the reconstruction efforts became politicized in a number of ways. Until the Supreme Court of India reversed the decision, for example, the Orissa state government prohibited NGOs from providing relief in the region. In addition, the Orissa state government’s promised compensation— Rs 40,000 for homes (eventually raised to Rs 50,000) and 200,000 for institutions—was not only lower than expected and less than that given in similar circumstances in other states, but also failed to provide reconstruction compensation for destroyed places of worship, which had been repeatedly targeted by vandals. The 2007 Hindu–Christian riots in Orissa were, at the time, the most damaging and widespread in India’s independent history. But they seem insignificant in comparison to the violence unleashed upon the same region just eight months later. Once again, Swami Lakshmanananda Saraswati was involved in the ‘triggering event’ (Tambiah 1997: 56), but this time only posthumously, and as a victim of violence. On Saturday, the 23rd of August, 2008, as Saraswati and a crowd of his followers were celebrating the birth of Krishna (Krishna Jayanti) at his ashram and orphanage in Jalespata, a gang of armed and masked vigilantes broke through the gates, forced their way into Saraswati’s room and gunned him down along with four of his followers. Police investigators announced relatively early in their investigation that a note found on the scene indicated the involvement of Naxalites, who continued publicly over the next days and weeks to claim responsibility for the murder, which they portrayed as punishment for his ‘persecution’ 268

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of minorities. Nevertheless, most of Saraswati’s supporters and nearly all regional and national leaders of Sangh Parivar organizations rejected the claim as a ruse, asserted the attackers were Christians, and began venting their anger on the Christian community. Orissa State Secretary of the VHP Gouri Prasad Rath said, ‘Christians have killed Swamiji. We will give a befitting reply’ (Times News Network 2008). And as Saraswati’s followers carried his body from Jalespata to his main ashram in Chakapada the next day, mourners began attacking Christian homes and institutions. The first reported death occurred on the next day, Monday the 25th, in the middle of a VHP-initiated general strike during which a rioting mob burned a woman (who appears to have been Hindu) alive, because she worked in a Christian orphanage. On that same day, a Christian nun, Meena Barwa, was raped by a group of male rioters. The assault, the most widely publicized of this second round of riots, which garnered international attention, was exacerbated by insensitive handling by the local police. The rape resulted in a criminal case brought against multiple alleged assailants, the proceedings of which at the time this chapter went to press (August 2009) continued to be covered extensively by Indian and even international media. On the very next day, Tuesday, August 26th, police imposed a curfew on violence-affected villages, and again called for help from the CRPF. On Wednesday local police threatened rioters with a shoot-onsight order. But law and order had already effectively broken down in the region, and this time the violence was more widespread, more longlasting, and more gruesomely effective. Copycat riots erupted even in other states, most notably in Karnataka and Kerala. For the next three weeks, state authorities repeatedly claimed that the conflict was over, only to be proven wrong by subsequent events. Then, on September 19th, Congress Party officials ruling at the centre threatened to dissolve the Bharatiya Janata Party–Biju Janata Dal (BJP–BJD) government in Orissa, invoking a little-known article (355) of the constitution which gives the centre power to impose direct rule in states incapable of maintaining law and order. Opposition parties quickly claimed, however, that the threat was merely a political move intended to embarrass the BJP and its BJD allies, and the article was never invoked. Reports of vandalism, mutilation, murder, gang rape and, occasionally, of Christian retaliation continued to leak out of the region in a steady Identity, Conversion and Violence

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stream well into February and March of 2010. Again the Naxalites got involved in the violence, claiming (as indicated earlier) responsibility for Saraswati’s murder and then publicizing a hit-list of local Hindu nationalists they deemed responsible for the continuing violence. In at least two cases the Naxalites appear to have followed through on their threats, assassinating Dhanu Pradhan and Prabhat Panigrahi, local RSS leaders, in November 2008 and March 2009, respectively (Indo-Asian News Service 2008; Pattnaik 2009). At the height of the violence, there were over 20,000 refugees, mostly Christian, in relief camps. Perhaps a number just as large were avoiding the violence by living in the forests. By November, the AICC was claiming over a hundred deaths. An opposition party report put the total much higher. But in May of 2009, government officials were reporting only forty-two confirmed dead, including the Hindus allegedly killed by Naxalites after the main riots (Express News Service 2009). Rioters attacked hundred of villages, injured thousands, destroyed over 4,000 homes and at least a hundred churches, along with dozens of other Christian institutions. By December, news sources reported 10,000 people accused in over 700 cases lodged against those who participated in the violence. Over 500 had been arrested, though few of the rioters had been convicted (Agencies 2008). A full year after the beginning of the conflict, in August of 2009, thousands of Christians had yet to return to their homes, fearing violence or forced conversions. Many of those who did return followed a growing trend in the region by placing a saffron flag on their homes for protection (Pattnaik 2009; Press Trust of India 2009).

FACTORS IN THE VIOLENCE In The Production of Hindu-Muslim Violence in Contemporary India, Paul Brass has argued against the academic inclination to seek the ‘causes’ of riots. Causal explanations of riots are always overly simplistic, Brass argues, and also do not take into account the fact that all kinds of violent actions take place ‘under the cover of the discourse of communalism, actions that cannot be explained or justified in terms of that discourse, but can easily be fit into more parsimonious explanations of individual pursuit of political advantage, profit, and vendetta’ (2003: 17). Even more 270

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problematically, Brass argues, the search for causes often exonerates those bearing some responsibility by displacing blame on others; all those not explicitly named can consider themselves innocent, and the ‘principal perpetrators go scot-free’ (p. 16). Because of this, rather than search for causes, Brass suggests, analysts should focus instead on the forms of violence, and on the specific question of who is served by communal conflict. I am in general agreement with Brass on this matter, though I consider it rather difficult to disentangle interests, causes and contextual factors, even at the group level (let alone the individual). There is no doubt that the group which benefited most obviously from the riots in Kandhamal was the BJP, which while losing ground nationally and in the state during the 2009 elections still gained seats in some of the districts most affected by the riots (Express News Service 2009). It was clearly in the interest, then, of the Sangh Parivar to allow, stoke and even participate in the conflict. But if we ask why riot violence translated into greater political power, we must refer back again to contextual factors. In this section, I attempt to enumerate the most significant of those factors in the Kandhamal violence. They are: (a) Kandha–Pana tensions, (b) the Sangh Parivar’s communalization of the conflict and (c) the ‘calculus of conversion’.

Kandha–Pana Tensions Though not responsible for igniting the Kandhamal riots, tensions between two local groups, the Kandhas (or ‘Kondhs’) and Panas (or ‘Panos’), clearly provided fuel for the fire. Both communities speak Kui, but in the official parlance of the Indian government the Kandhas are a Scheduled Tribe (ST) and the Panas are a Scheduled Caste (SC). The reason this matters is that a high percentage of Panas have converted to Christianity, and whereas ST converts to Christianity retain their benefits under India’s system of reservations (in universities, government posts, the legislatures, etc.), SC converts to Christianity do not. Beginning in the 1950s, large numbers of both Panas and Kandhas began converting to Christianity. Today around 70 per cent of the Panas are Christian, though the proportion is much lower for Kandhas. In the same period, sections of the Kandha community became increasingly Hinduized. As they did, they more and more enthusiastically embraced Identity, Conversion and Violence

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a Hindu identity, such that by 1994 they were denying Panas, as a Dalit caste, entry to the Shiva temple in Phulbani (Bibhuti Pati 2008). Today, the Kandhas constitute roughly 52 per cent of the population in Kandhamal district, and the Panas 17 per cent. Of the entire district population, around 18 per cent are Christian. In the decades leading up to the 2007 riots, economic disparities had also driven a wedge between the two communities. The Pana community had become noticeably more educated and wealthier, and many Kandhas and Hindus in the region attributed Pana success to the community’s Christianization. This bred resentment, particularly among the Kandhas, who alleged that the Panas were taking advantage of Kandhas’ illiteracy and impoverishment to exploit the Kandhas and appropriate their lands. Some Kandhas also accuse certain Pana Christians of superficially reconverting to Hinduism to claim SC status, or of fraudulently claiming Kandha ST status in order to not lose the advantage of reservations. The evidence suggests that these economic considerations influenced the Kandhamal clashes in a number of significant ways. For example, in Brahmanigaon the sahi (quarter) in which wealthier, shopowning Pana Christians lived bore the brunt of the attacks while a sahi of poorer Christians remained largely untouched. Nevertheless, the more salient issue at the time was that a significant proportion of the Pana community supported a petition organized by the Phulbani Kui Jankalyan Sangh (PKJS) to have the SC Pana community classified as an ST community. The petition, if successful, would have allowed the Pana Christian community to claim eligibility for educational, vocational and political posts reserved for STs and non-convert SCs. The PKJS argued in a petition to the Orissa High Court that the Pana community deserved ST status because a 2002 Presidential Order had said that the Kui community should be considered an ST, and therefore the Panas, as a Kui-speaking community, were historically undifferentiated from the Kandhas. The High Court issued an order on 12 July 2007, directing the government of India to investigate the matter, but the issue remained unresolved as the year 2007 drew to a close. Many in the Kandha community perceived the PKJS petition as a cynical effort to increase the community’s economic position, and they therefore resisted it. In September of 2007, the secretary of the pro-Kandha Kui Samaj Coordination Committee (KSCC) said that the Kandha community was ‘vehemently opposed to’ the petition and 272

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insisted, somewhat presciently, that if the ‘Government accepted Pana harijans as tribals than it would lead to violent clashes between the two communities in Kandhamal district’ (Staff Reporter 2007). To protest the Pana Petition, the KSCC organized the aforementioned bandh for 24–25 December 2007. The KSCC chairman, Lambodar Kanhar, claimed that the bandh was not intended to interfere with Christmas celebrations, but rather to correspond with a planned tenth anniversary celebration of the BJD being held on the 26th in Bhubaneshwar. Whatever the KSCC’s intention, the hundreds of trees they felled on roads in and out of Kandhamal not only obstructed traffic towards the anniversary celebration in Bhubaneshwar, but also prevented government security forces from gaining access to the riotstricken areas. Paul Brass (1997: 16) argues that communal violence in India generally involves ‘conversion specialists’ who ‘convert’ otherwise insignificant, local or limited conflicts into larger communal ones. As will be discussed in the next section, Sangh Parivar leaders played this role conspicuously in the Kandhamal riots. The Kandhas, however, appear to have gone along with this ‘conversion’ to achieve their own ends. In the midst of the violence Kanhar, the KSCC Chairman, asserted that he desired to protect the Kandhas from both ‘Christianity and the Sangh outfits’. Yet in the same interview he exposed the extent to which he had allowed his community’s ethnic conflict with the Panas to become a communal one: ‘How can we get along with Christians? It’s like cat and mouse. We don’t like the ways of even those who are Christians among the Kandhas’ (Anand 2008). As Kanhar’s views demonstrate, the Kandhamal violence was premised on the illusion of stable, definite identities: Hindu versus Christian, Kandha Adivasi versus Pana Dalit. And yet one of the truly striking features of the Kandhamal violence is that these supposedly stable identities were in fact very much in flux. Christian Pana Dalits, for example, were agitating for recognition as Adivasis. At the same time, there were, according to Biswamoy Pati, some Panas who went to church and followed Christian precepts, but who refused baptism and suppressed their Christian identity to preserve their reservation privileges (2003: 21). Pana Christian identity was, therefore, quite unstable; in certain circumstances and for specific reasons, Pana Christians might be compelled to declare themselves Adivasi, or to deny their devotion to Christ. Identity, Conversion and Violence

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Likewise is with Kandha identity. The Adivasi Kandhas had become thoroughly Hinduized in the previous fifty years. And there were moments when they emphasized this Hindu identity as if they had always been Hindu, such as when they refused to let the Pana Dalits enter Shibamandira (Biswamoy Pati 2003: xiii). At other times, however, when seeking concessions from the dominant Hindu community, the Kandhas would emphasize their Adivasi identity, or at least threaten to do so. Kandha ethnic and religious identity was therefore in flux as was that of the Panas. And it must also be kept in mind that a significant portion of the Kandha community was Christian. And yet, the Kandhamal riots pitted a supposedly monolithic Hindu Kandha Adivasi bloc against a supposedly homogenous Christian Pana Dalit bloc, as if these identities were inescapable, essential and timeless. It is the ‘illusion’ of fixed and singular identities, Amartya Sen argues in Identity and Violence, which leads to a sense of the inevitability of conflict between different communities (2006: 2–4). Contributing to this sense of inevitability, according to Sen, is the high profile work of scholars like Samuel Huntington, whose ‘Clash of Civilizations’ theory has become in many ways the dominant worldview of social scientists and foreign policy makers around the world (Huntington 1996; Sen 2006: 4, 10). There are too many problems with this theory to enumerate in the space available here, but the most salient is that it assumes homogeneity and consensus within the ‘civilizations’ it describes, despite the fact that, for example, Muslim civilization, as Huntington describes it, stretches from North Africa to Indonesia. It is a seductive theory, but deeply flawed. The assumption of fixed and singular identities plays into the hands of those who espouse an ideology of Hindutva and seek to divide and exclude. For them, the accusation that Christianity is a ‘foreign’ religion (and therefore inherently subversive) is linked to the assertion that the Hindu religion is indigenously and eternally Indian, that it is static and unified, despite the fact that any careful historiography suggests that this assertion is also problematic (Kesavan 2001: 45; Needham and Sunder Rajan 2007; T. Sarkar 2002: 122–23; van der Veer 1994: 1). There is always, Sen asserts, some element of choice involved in individual and communal identity (pp. xiii, 4). The choices are not limitless, of course, but choice remains, particularly in the relative weight that a person or a community gives to various elements of its identity (pp. 5, 34). At any given point, a person or a community can choose to 274

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emphasize its religious, ethnic, political, linguistic or economic identity. Yet in the Orissa riots, both the Kandhas and the Panas emphasized a single element of their identities (religion) to the exclusion of others which may have drawn attention to their commonalities rather than their difference. Nevertheless, their inability to find common ground may be in part the fault of Sangh Parivar organizations, whose involvement in this conflict contributed to the ‘conversion’ of ethnic tensions into communal violence.

The Sangh Parivar The allegations of Sangh responsibility for the Kandhamal riots arise primarily from the conviction, widely held but not convincingly proven, that both rounds of riots were pre-planned, perfectly timed and meticulously organized. In a press conference after the December riots, NCM fact-finding team members pointed to the large number of felled trees and said, ‘This is an indication of organization on a massive scale. Besides, how could there be simultaneous attacks across the districts soon after Swami Lakshmananda [sic] of the VHP was attacked?’ (Special Correspondent 2008). Many Christians and opposition political leaders also suspected the BJD party of complicity in the Sangh’s alleged plans. And the NCM called for close scrutiny of possible Sangh–BJD collusion. In addition, a thorough fact-finding report drafted by the AICC a week after the end of the conflict found ‘that the VHP … instigated the attacks and carefully targeted Christians’ throughout the district. It specifically mentioned Bikram Raut, the RSS leader from Brahmanigaon mentioned earlier, and named Chitta Bindhani and Bhagaban Panda (both Orissa VHP leaders) as co-masterminds of the ‘operation’. It also accused the KSCC of making an alliance with the VHP to achieve their common anti-Christian agenda. And finally, the report asserted that the rioters wore yellow ribbon on their heads and vermilion on their foreheads, marks of identity associated with the RSS and VHP (All-India Christian Council 2008). None of this, however, is damning evidence. Proof of pre-planning and organization, itself conjectural, would, if true, not necessarily point to pre-planning and organization by the Sangh. No clear, incontrovertible evidence of pre-planning and organization exists, and the AICC report, Identity, Conversion and Violence

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while careful and thorough, does not give evidence or justification for its claim that Panda and Bindhani masterminded the riots. Moreover, the fact that Sangh leaders, such as Bikram Raut, were present, or even in some cases leading groups of rioters does not, again, necessarily implicate the Sangh, at an institutional level, in the organization of the violence (though it does indicate that Sangh leaders did not uniformly remain aloof from the attacks or attempt to quell them). Similarly, the incompetent government response does not implicate the BJD party in being anything other than incompetent, and in responding insufficiently, which while unfortunate is not at all surprising given the challenges of resources, communication and transportation in Kandhamal, and Orissa more generally. The point of this discussion is not to exonerate the Sangh, or even to suggest that its partisans were not involved in significant ways both before and during Kandhamal attacks. Rather, the point is to make it clear that the evidence of systematic involvement in its instigation is, at this point, largely circumstantial. Nevertheless, it is clear that the Sangh response to the alleged attack on Saraswati, particularly that of the VHP, contributed to the production and spread of violence by drawing upon and fueling a sense of indignation among Saraswati’s followers and supporters. Sangh sources insisted that the December attack on Saraswati had provoked the anti-Christian riots, which were therefore justified as retaliatory, and this genealogy of the clashes was perpetuated by many news sources. Sangh sources also exaggerated the nature of that December attack, asserting, for example, that a member of Saraswati’s entourage, or even Saraswati, had been killed (Sharma 2007; Vishva Hindu Parishad 2008). Saraswati himself, who had long established ties to the Sangh, participated in this exaggeration. In an interview with the RSS’s Organiser after the Daringibadi attack, he said: They attacked us suddenly, abused us for our Paravartan [home-coming, reconversion] mission and dragged us out to kill. Our driver and angrakshak [bodyguard] were roughly beaten up. It was a pre-meditated plan to kill us. The area is dominated by converted Christians and minority Hindus suffer a lot. We were going to perform a religious satsang there. The attackers told us that their government is ruling at Delhi and they can do everything. (D. Tripathy 2008)

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Similarly, calling upon the putatively affronted honour of Hindus nationwide (and thereby widening the call for a response), the prominent Shankaracharya of Puri, Swami Nishchalananda Saraswati, to whom Christians had appealed fruitlessly for help in quelling the violence, said ‘this pre-planned and well organized attack on Swami Laxmanananda was a gruesome attempt to murder him in cold blood. It is a shame for us’ (D. Tripathy 2008). Sangh groups also mounted a counter-propaganda campaign against what it viewed as the anti-Sangh bias of the independent, Englishlanguage press, what a writer in the BJP journal, Kamal Sandesh called the ‘24x7 secular media’ (R.P. Tripathy 2008: 20). And a VHP press release went even further, deliberately, it seems, promulgating misinformation. The press release claimed that during the riots ‘not a single Christian was attacked’. Moreover, the press release alleged that ‘Christians themselves burnt’ their own houses, knowing the national government would give them relief funds, and hoping by provoking sympathy to get ‘foreign aid’ from Christian organizations. Turning the allegation of Sangh pre-planning on its head, the report alleged that ‘…the poor innocent Christians of such remote areas could not have done such things in a planned way without the support of [some] big foreign funding organization. There is hidden hand of world vision, YMCA, NISWASS2 etc., and church organization behind such incidents’ (Vishva Hindu Parishad 2008). In short, as in other anti-minority riots in which they have been involved (cf. Brass 1997: 6), Sangh sources portrayed the attacks on Christians as a ‘natural’ (if officially regrettable) response to Christian aggression, and accounted for the spread and scope of the violence by depicting it as the result of years of offensive evangelistic efforts by Christian ‘missionaries’. The BJP’s Kamal Sandesh, for example, suggested that: Communal tension in Kandhamal district had nothing to do with Christmas celebrations. A conversion convention was organized by the missionaries and it was opposed by the local people. Ignoring the warnings, missionaries and their supporters erected boards and arches in front of Hindu houses. People removed boards and banners in front of their houses and protested to the people who erected it. This action of the tribal Hindus infuriated the Christians and first of all the Christians attacked Hindus and stoned their houses. (R.P. Tripathy 2008)

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Though claims of a ‘conversion convention’ are a rhetorical exaggeration, conversions and rumours of conversions certainly were involved in the clashes, or at least in the underlying grievances which fueled them. The Sangh Parivar is surely not solely responsible for the existence of Kandha–Pana tensions. Nor are they entirely to blame for the communalization of these tensions. The fact that Pana Christians attacked Saraswati’s (very Hindu) entourage at the beginning of the December riots, for example, gave Sangh leaders a convenient excuse to paint the ensuing violence in the broad strokes of communalism. But Sangh leaders did play the role of ‘conversion specialists’ in two significant ways. First, as elsewhere in India (cf. Basu et al. 1993: 67; Froerer 2007: 12; Kanungo 2006: 149–52), Sangh leaders like Saraswati had long attempted, through a large network or rural schools, to Hinduize and Sanskritize the Adivasi Kandhas and thereby to win them to the Hindutva cause. This contributed to the creation of an environment in which Kandhas and Panas viewed themselves first and foremost as Hindus and Christians. Second, in a process Tambiah (1997: 81) has called ‘transvaluation’, Sangh leaders exacerbated the violence, once it began, by exaggerating the aggression of Christians and by rhetorically linking the Kandhamal violence, through insinuation and sometimes outright fabrication, to broader Hindu anxieties about minorities and the integrity of the nation. The most important of those anxieties, perhaps, had to do with conversion and the growth of Christianity. It is to that issue, therefore, that we now turn.

The Calculus of Conversion As indicated earlier, many in the region explained the anti-Christian attacks as a natural response to the ‘conversion activities’ of ‘missionaries’. This explanation (and implicit justification) is a common one in India, and is regularly applied to incidents of anti-Christian violence. Three interrelated claims generally accompany such an explanation, and did so in the context of the Kandhamal riots as well: (a) that the Christian community is growing at an exponential rate, (b) that ‘conversion activities’ are funded primarily by foreigners (that is, Europeans and Americans) and (c) that these foreign funds are used directly (for example, 278

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through bribes) and indirectly (for example, through the provision of social services) to lure naïve and impoverished Hindus to Christianity. The first of those claims, that the Christian community is growing at an exponential rate in Kandhamal, is supported to some degree by the Indian government’s census figures. The Christian community in Kandhamal grew nearly 56 per cent in the decade between 1991 and 2001, according to 2001 census data. This is a significant increase, given that the Indian population only grew at a rate of around 22 per cent in the same period. It is therefore not at all surprising that conversion became such a significant issue in the context of the Kandhamal conflict, especially since sociologists have shown that violence against minorities correlates more strongly with the growth of a community than with its actual numbers. The 2001 census reported that Christians constituted 18.2 per cent of Kandhamal’s population, while Hindus constituted 81.4 per cent. In the wake of the Kandhamal clashes, Ram Madhav (2008), national spokesperson of the RSS, exaggerated the size of the Christian community, alleging that Christians made up 27 per cent of the district’s population. By exaggerating the size of the Christian community and the speed of its growth, Madhav and other Sangh leaders turned conversion into an effective ‘conflict symbol’ (Horowitz 2001: 217) and thereby portrayed the violence in Kandhamal as the work of a dominant Christian community which preyed upon a helpless Hindu minority. In so doing, they also exploited and perpetuated long-standing Hindu anxieties about the survival of Hinduism itself (Mukherji 1909; Robinson and Clarke 2003: 17; Sikand 2003: 98). ‘We are very much worried about the life and property of the minority Hindu community of Daringibadi block of Kandhamal district,’ a VHP press release reported (Vishva Hindu Parishad 2008). The second and third claims, that ‘conversion activities’ are funded primarily by foreigners and that these foreign funds are used to lure naïve and impoverished Hindus to Christianity, are so closely related that they must be discussed together. Sangh groups have repeatedly called upon the government to document and publicize the amount and specific use of foreign money received annually by Christian NGOs. In the wake of the 1998 anti-Christian violence in Dangs, Gujarat, for example, BJP Prime Minister L.K. Advani called for a ‘public debate’ on conversion, and controversially released information about the foreign Identity, Conversion and Violence

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funding of Christian institutions (Kesavan 2001: 82, 113). Similarly, in response to the Kandhamal clashes, a VHP press release called upon the Indian government to ‘check foreign funding to the NGOs and Church establishments and frame laws to scrutinize the activities of these organizations’ (Vishva Hindu Parishad 2008). Clearly these calls are partisan, but some Christians have also called for greater transparency in the funding of Indian organizations, believing that if such information included more detail regarding the uses to which the funds were put, and if information on Christian institutions were accompanied by information on foreign funding for Hindu organizations such as the VHP or RSS, which may now equal that given to Christian organizations (cf. Kurien 2007: 144), a more balanced and fruitful public debate on the issue might ensue. In a televised debate aired on CNN-IBN’s Face the Nation after the first round of riots in Kandhamal, Ram Madhav said, ‘There is absolute freedom for Christians to propagate their religion. But when you indulge in fraudulent conversions, there is a localized reaction’ (CNN-IBN 2008). In the same debate, Madhav referred to a Christian Science Monitor (CSM) article, which, he said, argued that ‘… Christian missionaries’ conversion zeal is responsible for all the violence’ against Christians in India. The article, by Scott Baldauf, describes a ‘new breed’ of independent missionaries in India which puts ‘an emphasis on speed’ and which is ‘returning to practices of proselytizing that were long ago abandoned by the mainline missionaries because they were seen as offensive’ (Baldauf 2008). Baldauf ’s assertions appear to be corroborated by the evidence; even a cursory review of isolated incidents of violence against Christians indicates that ‘independent’ pastors and non-denominational Christian organizations bear the brunt of every day incidents of anti-Christian attacks, in part because their greater aggressiveness and criticism of Hindu beliefs and practices offends Hindu sensibilities, and in part because they are more publicly seeking converts. And yet in the context of anti-Christian riots, the distinction between more culturally sensitive, introverted, mainline Protestant and Catholic Christian organizations and this ‘new breed’ of aggressive evangelists breaks down, largely because the well-established Protestant and Catholic organizations have easily identifiable and targetable institutional centres. The CSM article indicates that most of the well-established denominations in India, as well as most Western groups that support missionaries 280

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in India, object to the methods of this ‘new breed’ of missionary. For example, in a different article, Rev. Enos das Pradhan, General Secretary of the Church of North India, said that ‘an upsurge in evangelization by missionaries from overseas and from southern India’ had ‘further inflamed tensions in Orissa’ (Greenaway 2008). Not surprisingly, Madhav ignored this part of the story, because it undermines his depiction of Christians in India as uniformly dedicated to aggressively tearing down the edifice of Hinduism. The rhetoric of ‘fraudulent conversion’, as Madhav, Reddy and others use it, implies not merely that evangelists are being offensive, but that they are physically or through financial inducement or promise forcing Hindus to convert. Few would go as far as Tripathy, who alleges that ‘Conversions of poor tribal villagers are being conducted at gunpoint’ (R.P. Tripathy 2008: 20). However, many Hindus believe a Sangh leader like Madhav when he writes, ‘90 per cent of conversions [in] India are through fraud means or allurement…’ (CNN-IBN 2008). Even before independence, it was common for opponents of Christianity in India to claim that converts to the faith had been lured away, either by the possibility of association (through religion) with the aphrodisiacal power of the colonizer, or by the promise of economic benefit. That claim crystallized in the 1956 report of the Madhya Pradesh government-sponsored Christian Missionary Activities Inquiry Committee, or the Niyogi Committee Report, as it came popularly to be known. The report, which ran to a thousand pages, quickly became a touchstone for the anti-conversion movement, and remains so today. Arun Shourie’s description and criticism of missionary methods in his popular Missionaries in India (Delhi: Rupa & Co., 1994), for example, is based almost entirely on the Niyogi Committee Report. And the report’s language, which repeatedly invokes the variously articulated triple spectre of conversion by ‘force, fraud, and inducement’, has had a significant influence on the way that the issue of Christian conversion in India has been framed ever since. In a substantial number of the incidents of anti-Christian violence in 2007, and certainly during and after the Kandhamal riots, the alleged involvement of Christians in ‘forcible’ and ‘fraudulent’ conversions was provided as both explanation and justification for violence. The Niyogi Report led, indirectly, to the creation of acts regulating conversion in Madhya Pradesh (1968) and Orissa (1967) that established Identity, Conversion and Violence

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the grounds on which to prosecute those who would use underhanded methods or bribes to lure someone to convert (Bauman 2008a: 248–53, 2008b; Jaffrelot 2007: 234; Kim 2003: 61–72). Despite the existence of this ‘Freedom of Religion’ act in Orissa, however, inquirers from the NCM found after the first round of riots in Kandhamal that no officials in the region were aware of cases in which it had been used to prosecute missionaries (National Commission for Minorities 2008). There is therefore little evidence that missionaries of any stripe, even the ‘new missionaries’, are employing obvious, direct and explicit means of inducement as a regular part of their evangelistic strategy (which is not the same as saying that no one ever does). That said, when Madhav and others speak of ‘fraudulent’ conversion, they often refer to more subtle forms of allurement, such as the hope (even if ill-founded) that conversion to Christianity will lead to better economic and employment prospects, better educational prospects for one’s children or easier and cheaper access to health care. The rhetoric of fraudulent conversion or conversion through allurement involves several assumptions. The first assumption is that conversion to Christianity brings with it economic benefits. It cannot be denied that many, perhaps even a majority of Indian converts to Christianity in the last two centuries have experienced some material benefit from their movement into the Christian community. There are the obvious examples: offering food to the impoverished famine-victims by Christians with an implicit expectation of conversion, the mission hospital which dispensed medicines to Christians only, or at a reduced rate, the outlaw who received legal help from missionaries in exchange for his conversion (Bauman 2008a: 71–99). For the sake of balance, however, it is equally important to make it clear that such practices were rejected long ago by nearly all Christian missionaries, foreign and domestic, and that the vast majority of India’s Christians today find such obvious allurements to the faith repulsive and illegitimate. Despite this, Arun Shourie and other opponents of Christianity in India cite the Niyogi Report, published in 1956, as if it contained an accurate description of Christian evangelistic methods today. It simply does not. The Niyogi Report was outdated even in 1956, and the use of it to describe contemporary Christian activities in India is therefore doubly anachronistic. 282

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But what about more subtle forms of allurement? Is it allurement if a sick woman is cured by Christian doctors who also pray over her and thereby suggest that it was the power of Christ that cured her, rather than sound scientific medical methods? Is it allurement if an impoverished farmer notices that his Christian neighbours have formed economic cooperatives and are prospering more than he and his Hindu neighbours are, and he for this reason decides to convert? Is it allurement if, as David Martin (2002) and Peter Berger (2008) have suggested is the case with Pentecostalism around the world, converts to Christianity are instilled with a modernized form of the ‘Protestant Ethic’ and through ‘hard work, soberness, frugality, and a generally disciplined lifestyle [can] over a generation or so … escape from grinding poverty’ (Berger 2008)? Is it allurement if conversion to Christianity frees former Hindus from traditional prohibitions on certain kinds of work, and thereby allows them to find more lucrative employment? The second assumption implied in the rhetoric of ‘force, fraud, and inducement’ is that there are never advantages in remaining or becoming Hindu. In fact, there are a good number of advantages for Hindus who remain Hindu. It is difficult psychologically, for example, to break with one’s family, particularly with one’s parents, and doing so in India often incurs a kind of debilitating social ostracism. There are also the less obvious, but no less real advantages of remaining part of the numerically, politically and economically dominant community of the land. In addition, there is also the fact that for many centuries, Adivasi groups which have become Sanskritized or—to state it more provocatively—converted to Hinduism (Hardiman 2003; Robinson and Clarke 2003: 10–11) through a slow process of assimilation, have by that method become integrated into the more economically developed and powerful Hindu community and thereby gained access to its wealth and social power (Biswamoy Pati 2003: 11–16). And finally, of course, there is the reservation system, which as Mukul Kesavan argues, induces Dalits to remain Hindu because their conversion to Christianity would entail the loss of access to reserved seats in political, educational and vocational bodies (2001: 70–72). The third assumption implied by the rhetoric of ‘force, fraud, and inducement’, is that people choose their religion based on material calculations alone. The assumption is particularly prominent, as Viswanathan (2007: 337) has pointed out, when the people in question Identity, Conversion and Violence

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are poor Dalits and Adivasis who are presumed to be crass, gullible and unintelligent. There are many theories of conversion, but various forms of the ‘interest’ theory still dominate sociological analyses of religious change. Developed by Marxist theorists, the interest theory suggests that people’s material interests influence their religious behaviour (and therefore their religious affiliation). In my view, the interest theory is flawed for two reasons: (a) because it implies, problematically, that human behaviour is determined at all times by a rational calculation of ends and means, and (b) because it suffers from a too narrow conception of interest (that is, as material concern). My own view, as I have indicated elsewhere (Bauman 2008a: 94–98), is that while conversion may often be prompted by the pursuit of interests, such interests are more often intuited than rationally articulated, felt more than consciously considered. Moreover, I agree with Max Weber’s critique of Marx’s conception of interest. While Weber accepted the notion that rational action (which, for him, constituted only one kind of action) was guided by interests, he argued that ideals and values could also be interests, and could therefore sometimes influence human behaviour. For Dalit and tribal Christians, it may be that conversion to Christianity represents, as Viswanathan (1996, 1998) has suggested, a rejection of their social and economic marginalization, dissent from the hegemonic socioreligious order (Burridge 1978: 16–17), or what another scholar has more recently called a ‘community-initiated bailing out’ (Clarke 2003b: 336). But conversion also involves assent to an alternative social ideal.3 In India, as elsewhere, conversion is often less about the acceptance of a new cosmology or theological dogma than about the acceptance of a new social vision, an alternate identity (Downs 2003: 386; Keyes 1993; Merrill 1993). This social vision includes ‘material’ concerns, of course, for what vision of the good life does not include comfort, security and a modicum of prosperity (cf. Mahapatra 1986; Robinson 2003: 303)? But it also entails a revalourized humanity and a new way of living perceived to be more appropriate, given the circumstances (Clarke 1997: 2, 7; Geetha and Rajadurai 1999: 83; Sebastian 2002: 202). The current debate on allurement in India therefore essentially misses the point. All conversions involve self-interest, as do all nonconversions. The Hindu who remains Hindu is acting in her own perceived best interest just as much as the one who converts to Christianity, whether her self-interest is of a material or ideal kind, and whether she 284

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can clearly articulate her interests or not. And so there is inducement and allurement in every direction, and of every kind. A more fruitful debate, therefore, would revolve around what kind of inducement is acceptable and what kind is not.

CONCLUSION The anti-Christian violence in Kandhamal, as elsewhere in India, is premised on and justified by the claim that Christians are enticing poor and uneducated Dalits and Adivasis to the faith by material ‘allurements’, and that the conversion of these communities constitutes their denationalization, and therefore represents a threat to the putatively Hindu nation of India. Two basic—and, I would argue, faulty—assumptions are embedded in this premise. The first is that identities are determined, most importantly and to the exclusion of other possibilities, by religion. It is for this reason that those who believe India is essentially Hindu conceive of conversion as an act of treason. But as I have argued earlier, religion is always only one element in a person’s or a community’s identity. Moreover, it is a mistake to view religions as discrete entities hermetically sealed one from another; it is clear from the available sociological and anthropological evidence that this is simply not the case. All religions are, at all times, amalgamations. They are works in progress, syntheses drawn from multiple sites of meaning and practice, old and new, orthogenous and heterogenous. Andrew Walls is therefore correct to describe conversion as a ‘turning’, rather than a break or rupture (Walls 1997: 28, see also, Clarke 2003c: 215; Dube and Dube 2003: 250). And if this is so, then the notion that Christianization entails denationalization (and therefore constitutes a threat to Hinduism or the Indian nation) becomes untenable, useful only as a piece of cynical propaganda. The second assumption embedded in the standard justification for anti-Christian violence is that religious change comes about only through material inducement. This assumption manifests itself particularly in the context of Dalit or tribal conversion. As I have indicated earlier, self-interest is very much involved in religious conversion. But there are a number of very good reasons why those worried only about their own material self-interest might remain or become Hindu. Moreover, a Identity, Conversion and Violence

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definition of self-interest which involves only material considerations is inadequately expansive. The desire for dignity and respect, and the need to make sense of the world and one’s place in it are all interests, interests which cannot be easily disentangled from ‘purely’ material concerns. It is important to underline the fact that many factors contributed to and exacerbated the violence in Kandhamal. The anti-Christian rhetoric, which I have analysed and criticized here is but one part of the story. Moreover, it must be recognized that this rhetoric is very often perpetuated for cynical and ideological reasons, not merely out of ignorance. Further research is necessary to analyse the continued viability of this ideology, that is, the reasons why it remains palatable and appealing to a sizeable (and arguably growing) population of Hindus in India and abroad.

NOTES 1. It should be clear from the foregoing discussion that I use ‘Hindu–Christian violence’ as a shorthand here, and do not wish to imply that all Hindus and all Christians are engaged in a kind of communal or ‘civilizational’ clash. 2. The National Institute of Social Work and Social Sciences, founded in 1971 by Radhakant Nayak, Congress MP in Orissa. 3. I am indebted to Dr Richard Fox Young for the coupling of assent and dissent. Similarly, Clarke (2003a: 287) speaks of conversion involving a ‘moving away’ and an ‘embrace’.

REFERENCES Agencies. 2 December 2008. ‘Kandhamal Violence: 10,000 People Named in 746 cases’, Indian Express (Online). Available online at http://www.indianexpress.com/news/ Kandhamal-violence-10-000-people-named-in-7/393233/ (accessed on 21 July 2008). All-India Christian Council. 2008. ‘Research and Fact Finding Report based on Visits to Kandhamal, Orissa in the Aftermath of Anti-Christian Attacks (published 7 January)’. Available online at http://indianchristians.in/news/content/view/1826/45/ (accessed on 21 July 2009). Anand, S. 19 January 2008. ‘Next Stop Orissa’, Tehelka (Online). Available online at http://www.tehelka.com/story_main37.asp?filename=Ne190108next_stop.asp (accessed on 26 June 2008). Baldauf, S. 1 April 2008. ‘A new Breed of Missionary: A Drive for Conversions, not Development, is Stirring Violent Animosity in India’, Christian Science Monitor

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(Online). Available online at http://www.csmonitor.com/2005/0401/p01s04-wosc. html (accessed on 26 June 2008). Basu, T., P. Datta, S. Sarkar, T. Sarkar and S. Sen. 1993. Khaki Shorts and Saffron Flags. Hyderabad: Orient Longman. Bauman, C. 2008a. Christian Identity and Dalit Religion in Hindu India, 1868–1947. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans Publishers. ———. 2008b. ‘Postcolonial Anxiety and Anti-conversion Sentiment in the Report of the Christian Missionary Activities Enquiry Committee’, International Journal of Hindu Studies, 12(2): 181–213. Berger, P. September–October 2008. ‘You can Do It! Two Cheers for the Prosperity Gospel’, Books and Culture. Available online at http://www.christianitytoday.com/ bc/2008/005/10.14.html (accessed on 28 September 2008). Brass, P.R. 1997. Theft of an Idol. Princeton: Princeton University Press. ———. 2003. The Production of Hindu-Muslim Violence in Contemporary India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Burridge, K. 1978. ‘Introduction: Missionary Occasions’, in J.A. Boutilier, D.T. Hughes and S.W. Tiffany (eds), Mission, Church, and Sect in Oceania, pp. 1–34. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Clarke, S. 1997. Dalits and Christianity: Subaltern Religion and Liberation Theology. Delhi: Oxford University Press. ———. 2003a. ‘Conversion to Christianity’, in R. Robinson and S. Clarke (eds), Religious Conversion in India, pp. 285–90. Delhi: Oxford University Press. ———. 2003b. ‘Conversion to Christianity in Tamil Nadu: Conscious and Constitutive Community Mobilization towards a Different Symbolic World Vision’, in R. Robinson and S. Clarke (eds), Religious Conversion in India, pp. 323–50. Delhi: Oxford University Press. ———. 2003c. ‘Transformations of Caste and Tribe’, in R. Robinson and S. Clarke (eds), Religious Conversion in India, pp. 217–22. Delhi: Oxford University Press. CNN-IBN. 2 January 2008. ‘QOTD: Violence and Conversion in the Name of God’, CNN-IBN (Online). Available online at http://www.ibnlive.com/news/qotd-violenceand-conversion-in-the-name-of-god/55440-3.html (accessed on 28 June 2008). Downs, F.S. 2003. ‘Christian Conversion Movements in North East India’, in R. Robinson and S. Clarke (eds), Religious Conversion in India, pp. 381–400. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Dube, S. and I.B.D. Dube. 2003. ‘Spectres of Conversion: Transformations of Caste and Sect in India’, in R. Robinson and S. Clarke (eds), Religious Conversion in India, pp. 222–54. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Express News Service. 18 May 2009. ‘Kandhamal Painted in Saffron’, Express Buzz. Available online at http://christianpersecutionindia.blogspot.com/2009/05/ Kandhamal-painted-in-saffron.html (accessed on 21 July 2009). Froerer, P. 2007. Religious Division and Social Conflict: The Emergence of Hindu Nationalism in Rural India. New Delhi: Social Science Press. Geetha, V. and S.V. Rajadurai. 1999. Towards a Non-Brahmin Millenium: From Iyothee Thass to Periyar. Calcutta: Samya. Gonsalves, F. 1999. ‘Grisly Christmas for Christians in Gujarat’, Communalism Combat, January, 11–14.

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Greenaway, K. 7 March 2008. ‘India: Orissa Religious Violence Spotlights Caste Tensions and Evangelists’, Episcopal Life (Online). Available online at http://www.ecusa. anglican.org/81808_95518_ENG_HTM.htm (accessed on 30 June 2008). Hardiman, D. 2003. ‘Assertion, Conversion, and Indian Nationalism’, in R. Robinson and S. Clarke (eds), Religious Conversion in India, pp. 255–84. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Horowitz, D. 2001. The Deadly Ethnic Riot. Berkeley: University of California Press. Huntington, S.P. 1996. The Clash of Civilizations? The Debate. New York: Foreign Affairs. Indo-Asian News Service. 6 November 2008. ‘Tension in Orissa’s Kandhamal District after Sangh Parivar Activists’s Murder’, Times of India (Online). Available online at http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/India/Tension-in-Orissas-Kandhamaldistrict-after-Sangh-parivar-activists-murder/articleshow/3681193.cms (accessed on 21 July 2009). Jaffrelot, C. (ed.). 2007. Hindu Nationalism: A Reader. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Kanungo, P. 2006. RSS’s Tryst with Politics: From Hedgewar to Sudarshan. New Delhi: Manohar. Kesavan, M. 2001. Secular Common Sense. New Delhi: Penguin. Keyes, C.F. 1993. ‘Why the Thai are not Christians: Buddhist and Christian Conversion in Thailand’, in R.W. Hefner (ed.), Conversion to Christianity: Historical and Anthropological Perspectives on a Great Transformation, pp. 259–84. Berkeley: University of California Press. Kim, S.C.H. 2003. In Search of Identity: Debates on Religious Conversion in India. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kurien, P. 2007. A Place at the Multicultural Table: The Development of an American Hinduism. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. Madhav, R. 8 January 2008. ‘Local Factors Led to Kandhamal Violence’, Rediff News (Online). Available online at http://www.rediff.com/news/2008/jan/08guest.htm (accessed on 26 June 2008). Mahapatra, S. 1986. Modernization and Ritual: Identity and Change in Santal Society. Calcutta: Oxford University Press. Martin, D. 2002. Pentecostalism: The World their Parish. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Merrill, W.L. 1993. ‘Conversion and Colonialism in Northern Mexico: The Tarahumara Response to the Jesuit Mission Program, 1601–1767’, in R.W. Hefner (ed.), Conversion to Christianity: Historical and Anthropological Perspectives on a Great Transformation, pp. 129–64. Berkeley: University of California Press. Mukherji, U.N. 1909. Hindus—A Dying Race (serialized), Bengalee, June. National Commission for Minorities. 2008. ‘Report of the NCM visit to Orissa, 6–8 January 2008’. Available online at http://ncm.in/pdf/Orissa%20report.pdf (accessed on 7 October 2008). Needham, A.D. and R. Sunder Rajan (eds). 2007. The Crisis of Secularism in India. Durham: Duke University Press. Nussbaum, M. 2007. The Clash Within. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Pati, Biswamoy. 2003. Identity, Hegemony, Resistance. Delhi: Three Essays Collective.

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Pati, Bibhuti. 7 October 2008. ‘Reaping the Whirlwind’, Tehelka (Online). Available online at http://www.tehelka.com/story_main37.asp?filename=Ws230208Reaping. asp (accessed on 6 June 2008). Pattnaik, S. 30 September 2009. ‘Saffron of Reconversion Rises in Kandhamal’, Hindustan Times (Online). Available online at http://www.hindustantimes.com/ StoryPage/StoryPage.aspx?sectionName=&id=1a43d964-c0d5-4052-a1e6-f5c077 cfe0b0&&Headline=Kandhamal%3a+Flags+of+fear+and+protest (accessed on 30 September 2008). Press Trust of India. 10 April 2009. ‘Saffron Flags Protect Christian Homes in Kandhamal’, Times of India (Online). Available online at http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/India/ File-Saffron-flags-protect-Christian-houses-in-Kandhamal/articleshow/4384049.cms (accessed on 21 July 2009). Robinson, R. 2003. ‘Sixteenth Century Conversions to Christianity in Goa’, in R. Robinson and S. Clarke (eds), Religious Conversion in India, pp. 291–322. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Robinson, R. and S. Clarke (eds). 2003. Religious Conversion in India. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Sarkar, S. 26 June 1999. ‘Conversion and Politics of Hindu Right’, Economic and Political Weekly, 1691–700. Sarkar, T. 2002. ‘Missionaries, Converts, and the State in Colonial India’, Studies in History (n.s.), 18(1): 121–33. Sebastian, J.J. 2002. ‘A Strange Mission among Strangers: The Joy of Conversion’, in A. Schultze, R.V. Sinner and W. Stierle (eds), Vom geheimnis des unterschieds: Die wahrnehmung des fremden in ökumene-missions- und religionswissenschaft, pp. 200–10. Münster: LIT. Sen, A. 2006. Identity and Violence: The Illusion of Destiny. New York City: W. W. Norton. Sharma, A. 26 December 2007. ‘Hindu Hard-liners Attack Churches in India during Christmas’, The Seattle Times (Online). Available online at http://seattletimes. nwsource.com/html/nationworld/2004092817_webindiachurchattack26.html (accessed on 30 June 2008). Sikand, Y. 2003. ‘Arya Shuddhi and Muslim Tabligh: Muslim Reactions to Arya Samaj Proselytization (1923–30)’, in R. Robinson and S. Clarke (eds), Religious Conversion in India, pp. 98–118. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Special Correspondent. 22 September 2008. ‘Attack on Christian Institutions was Pre-planned’, The Hindu (Online). Available online at http://www.hinduonnet. com/2008/01/18/stories/2008011857421200.htm (accessed on 26 June 2008). Staff Reporter. 22 September 2007. ‘Communal Trouble Brewing up in Kandhamal Dist.’, The Hindu (Online). Available online at http://www.thehindu.com/2007/09/22/ stories/2007092252750300.htm (accessed on 26 June 2008). Tambiah, S.J. 1997. Leveling Crowds: Ethnonationalist Conflicts and Collective Violence in South Asia. Berkeley: University of California Press. Times News Network. 25 August 2008. ‘Leader’s deatD: VHP Calls for Orissa Bandh’, Times of India (Online). Available online at http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/ articleshow/3519025.cms (accessed on 30 September 2008).

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Tripathy, D. 6 January 2008. ‘Christmas Day Terror: Hindus Protest Attack on Swami Laxmanananda’, The Organiser (Online). Available online at http://www.organiser. org/dynamic/modules.php?name=Content&pa=showpage&pid=217&page=14 (accessed on 12 June 2008). Tripathy, R.P. 1–15 February 2008. ‘Pseudo-seculars Deliberately Trying to Shun Facts’, Kamal Sandesh, 20–22. van der Veer, P. 1994. Religious Nationalism: Hindus and Muslims in India. Berkeley: University of California Press. Vishva Hindu Parishad. 2008. ‘Christian Atrocities in Kandhamal, Orissa (press release, 14 January)’. Available online at http://www.sanghparivar.org/blog/indiaputr/Christianaggression-in-Kandhamal-Orissa-vhp-press-release (accessed on 11 June 2008). Viswanathan, G. 1996. ‘Religious Conversion and the Politics of Dissent’, in P. van der Veer (ed.), Conversion to Modernities: The Globalization of Christianity, pp. 89–114. New York: Routledge. ———. 1998. Outside the Fold: Conversion, Modernity, and Belief. Princeton: Princeton University Press. ———. 2007. ‘Literacy and Conversion in the Discourse of Hindu Nationalism’, in A.D. Needham and R.S. Rajan (eds), The Crisis of Secularism in India, pp. 333–55. Durham: Duke University Press. Walls, A.F. 1997. The Missionary Movement in Christian History: Studies in the Transmission of Faith. Maryknoll: Orbis.

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About the Editors and Contributors Rowena Robinson is currently Professor at the Centre for the Study of Social Systems, Jawaharlal Nehru University and has taught at the Department of Humanities and Social Sciences, Indian Institute of Technology Bombay, India for over ten years. She is the author of Conversion, Continuity and Change: Lived Christianity in southern Goa (1998), Christians of India (2003) and Tremors of Violence: Muslim Survivors of Ethnic Strife in Western India (2005). She has edited Themes in the Sociology of Religion (2004) and is co-editor (with Sathianathan Clarke) of Religious Conversion in India: Modes, Motivations and Meanings (2003). Joseph Marianus Kujur had his MA in Anthropology from Pune University. He has worked on the theme of religious conversion and tribal identity for his doctorate from the Department of Sociology, Delhi School of Economics, Delhi University. He was on the staff of JnanaDeepa Vidyapeeth, Pune, for a few years teaching ‘Tribal Thought’ and ‘Anthropology’ to the students of Philosophy. He also taught ‘Tribal Religions’ at the Regional Theological Centres in Ranchi and Patna. For the last five years he headed the Department of Tribal & Dalit Studies at Indian Social Institute, New Delhi. He has to his credit five co-edited books and more than thirty research papers in national and international journals and edited volumes. At present he is a Visiting Researcher at the Center for Latin American Studies (CLAS), Georgetown University, Washington D.C. and is engaged in a comparative study of the identity formation of the two groups of indigenous peoples in the post-colonial period—one in India and the other in Bolivia.

Chad M. Bauman is Assistant Professor of Religion at Butler University, in Indianapolis, Indiana. He conducts research on Hindu–Christian interactions in the colonial and post-colonial periods. His book, Christian Identity and Dalit Religion in Hindu India, 1868–1947 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008) was named Best Book in Hindu-Christian Studies, 2006–2008, by the Society for Hindu-Christian Studies. Lakshmi Bhatia is an Associate Professor at the Department of Sociology, Aditi Mahavidyalaya, University of Delhi. With a doctoral degree in Sociology from the Delhi School of Economics, for the past few years she has been associated with the Indian Institute of Advanced Study, Shimla as a Teacher-Associate. Dr Bhatia is the author of a book titled, Schooling and Society in Changing Mizoram (under the Series on Societies in Transition in North-East India, Routledge India, forthcoming). Her areas of interest are cultural politics, sociology of education, gender and peace studies especially with reference to the much neglected North-East India. She is currently engaged in the study of the middle class in India’s North-East. Peggy Froerer is a Lecturer in anthropology at Brunel University. Her current interests include ethnicity and nationalism, education and schooling, childhood and learning, and illness and healing. Her first monograph, Religious Division and Social Conflict: The Emergence of Hindu Nationalism in a Central Indian Tribal Community, was published by Social Science Press (New Delhi) and Berghahn (London). She is currently working on her second monograph on childhood, education and social mobility in central India. Jose Kalapura, currently Professor of History, St. Xavier’s College, Patna, was formerly Director of Xavier Institute of Social Research (XISR), a centre for research, development, training and action, at Patna. After his doctoral studies in New Delhi’s Jawaharlal Nehru University, he undertook several research programmes at XISR some of which were published as Bihar Human Rights Documentary Study Series (six books) and Bihar Subaltern Study Series (four books). He has twelve books to his credit (edited or compiled or authored collaboratively) and has over fifty-five research articles published in books or journals. He has designed

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two Certificate Courses (one for Patna University and another for Nalanda Open University, NOU), both at Patna. His general interest in social sciences aside, his specialization has been in History especially History of the Christian communities in India. He has written three text-books on Christianity for NOU. Currently he is the Executive Editor of the bi-annual journal, Indian Church History Review, published by the Church History Association of India. He was twice awarded (in 2005 and 2007) the I. G. Khan Memorial Prize for the Best Paper in History of Science by the Indian History Congress. Lancy Lobo is the Director, Centre for Culture and Development, Vadodara. Earlier, he also served as Director, Centre for Social Studies, Surat. He has conducted extensive studies on Dalits, tribes, OBCs and minorities in rural and urban Gujarat. He has authored six books and contributed several articles to professional journals. He was an International Fellow at the Woodstock Theological Centre, Georgetown University, Washington, D.C. during 1999–2000 during which he worked on Globalisation, Hindu Nationalism and Christians in India. He is now working on degradation of forests and its impact on tribals of Gujarat. Ashok Kumar M. is Doctoral student in Sociology, Department of Humanities and Social Sciences, IIT Bombay. His area of interest is Sociology of Religion, Caste and Christianity in India. S.M. Michael is Professor in Cultural Anthropology at the Department of Sociology, University of Mumbai. He was the previous Director of Institute of Indian Culture, Mumbai. He is also the author of several books and articles. His edited book Dalits in Modern India: Vision and Values was a best seller of Sage Publications for the year 2000. David Mosse is Professor of Social Anthropology at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS), University of London. He is the author of The Rule of Water: Statecraft, Ecology and Collective Action in South India (2003), and Cultivating Development: An Ethnography of Aid Policy and Practice (2005). His recent edited collections include The Aid Effect: Giving and Governing in International Development (with D. Lewis, 2005), Development Brokers and Translators: The Ethnography of Aid and Agencies (with D. Lewis, 2006).



About the Editors and Contributors   293

Mathew N. Schmalz received his Ph.D. in history of religions from the University of Chicago. He is an associate professor of religious studies at the College of the Holy Cross, where he also serves as Director of the College Honors Program. His research focuses on religion and politics in South Asia and Global Catholicism. With Peter Gottschalk, he is coeditor of Engaging South Asian Religions: Boundaries, Appropriations and Resistances (State University of New York Press, forthcoming). Also with Peter Gottschalk, he has developed the ethnographic teaching website ‘Arampur: A Virtual Indian Village on the World Wide Web’ (http:// virtualvillage.wesleyan.edu/). John C.B. Webster serves as a Trustee of the Union Theological Seminary in New York City. He taught History at Baring Union Christian College and Guru Nanak Dev University, Punjab, and at the United Theological College, Bangalore.  He has written extensively on Dalit Christians, his best known works being Religion and Dalit Liberation: An Examination of Perspectives (2nd ed., 2002), and The Dalit Christians: A History (3rd ed., 2009).

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Index Adivasi church, 10, 32–35 Adivasi dance akhra, in, 43 Adivasi-ization of Roman rite, in Chotanagpur church, 35–37 Adivasis christian attack in South Gujarat on, 223– 25 christian missionization and (see Christian missionization and adivasis) Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) and, 128–31 All India Anna Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (AIADMK), 247 All-India Christian Council’s (AICC) report on Orissa riots, 267 Andhra Pradesh christianity history in Andhra Evangelical Lutheran Church (AELC) mission, 154 Bartholomew Ziegenbalg, first missionary, 153 Lutheran christianty, establishment of, 154 mass movements in, 154–55 mission by Lutherans, 153 Anglican(s) interests in christianity, 99

missionaries purchasing of sites, to settle chamar, 101 Annual sacrifice rejection by christians, 30 Archbishop Arokiasamy report, 59 backward hindus. See Dalits Bajrang Dal (BD), 224 Baptisma rite of, 37–42 baptismal chhathi ritual of, 42 Baptists interests in Christianity, 99 Bawi system, 174 Bhangi movement, 99 Bhatian village church, 108–10 Bihar dalit christians of, 6 Bihar Dalit Catholic Sabha, 68 Catholic Bishops’ Conference of India (CBCI), 33 Catholic chamar, 6 Chamar, 2 Chappania famine, in Gujarat, 214 chhathi church permission to perform at home, 41

objects used in, 41 preparation for, 38 strict rubrication of, ritual performance, 38 Chhat puja, 81 Chotanagpur Roman Catholic Mission (1868), 31 Christian dalit activism and dalit movements, in Tamil Nadu, 251–53 Christianity acceptance of adivasi religion by, 42 accused of, promoting superimposing belief, 29 Ambedkar criticism, to Gandhi, 66 attitudes towards traditional culture, 30 base of, 99 dalit encounter with, 52 dalit life, in attitudes, values and worldviews, 82–83 belief and practices, 79–82 definition of, 76 education impact on Jotirao Phule, 64 mission, Ambedkar perception on, 67 population in Punjab and United provinces, 100 Christian missionization and adivasis, 122–24 Christians of Scheduled Caste Origin (CSCO), 54 Chuhra movement, 99 Churche(s) tribal and dalit, influence of outside forces, 7 Church Missionary Society (CMS), 214 Church of North India (CNI), 101 Civilizing mission towards western India adivasis, 127–28 Committee for Elimination of Racial Discrimination (CERD), 257 communalization tribals, of, 221–223 conflict tribal areas, in, 9

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Dalit(s) condition after independence, 51 encounter to casteism, 3 with christanity (see Christanity, dalit encounter with) religious conversion, in 19th century, 5 Dalit avataris roots of, 110 Dalit christian(s) Bihar, in, 77–79 change and continuity among, 52–53 conditions of, 1–2 construction of identity and space of, 83–85 discrimination against by fellow christians, 61–62 by hindus, 57 by hindu dalits, 57 inter caste discrimination, 57–61 state and legal discrimination, 54–57 diversity of (see Diversity, of dalit Christian) eastern India, in, 76–77 external interaction after conversion, into christians, 78 inter caste relationship with other groups, 53–54 interrogation of upper caste, 68–70 movement in Andhra Pradesh, 163 movements and secular visionaries, 64–68 north India, in, 100 origin of, 54 reports of discrimination against, 62–63 Dalit Christian Liberation Movement (DCLM), 242, 243 Dalit Lutheran Christian caste and congregation, merger of, 156–57 construction of church, 151 contribution of household for, 152 dual identity, 157–63 school going children routine, 151

Dalit Vankar community, in Gujarat practicing of child marriage, 53 Diversity dalit christian, of, 113–15 Dravidapuram village, Andhra Pradesh population of dalits, 150 Dr Ambedkar Centenary Movement, 237 Ecclesiastical model, 69 Evangelical church of god, Bhaitan basti, 105–8 feast celebration by christians, 10 Gakhlan village building of church by protestants, 103 Gossner Evangelical Lutheran Mission (GEL), 31 Ghura master, 6 Grami Missa composition of, 34 Gujarat christian missionary movement in first phase (1880–1950), 213–15 second phase (1950–80), 215–17 third phase (1980–present), 217–20 indigenous identity, revival of, 226–29 post-godhra riots (2002), 225–26 tribals, of, 212–13 Hail adivasi, 227 Hindu(s) discrimination to dalits, 2 hinduization tribals, of, 220–21 hindutvization tribals, of, 221–223 Holy trinity church, 101–3 pastorate committee of, 102 home-comings movement by Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), 8 illiteracy among dalit christians, 52

inculturation, 10 manifestation of, 131 Indianization liturgy, of, 35 Indian National Congress (INC) hold on adivasis, 224 Integrated Novel Development in Rural Areas and Model Municipal Areas (INDIRAMMA), 152 John Masih as activist, 203–4 as entrepreneur, 194–97 as healer, 191–94 as refuser, 198–202 behaviour of, 186 converter of untouchable chamar caste, 185 curd incident, 186 family conversion to Catholicism, 189 Shantinagar mission of, 188–89 Jungle Tribes Mission, 214 Kaka Kalelkar Commission Report (1955), 62 Karam feast and Oraon Christians, 43–47 Kavi ashrams, 69 Khadi ashrams, 69 Kolis. See Other Backward Classes (OBCs) Kumara Pillai Commission Report (1965), 63 liminal world tribals, of, 88 Liturgical Commission, 34 Local church and oraon Christians, 124–27 Lushai Hills (Acquisition of Chiefs Rights) Act (1956), 176 Madigas, 62 Mahagyaniji meaning of, 111

Index

297

Malas, 62 achievement through sangham, 156–57 before conversion into christianity, 156 majority in Lutheran church, 154 social practices of, 156 stressing of identity by dalit, 159 Mandal Commission Report (1991), 63 marriage preparation course by brides and grooms before marriage, 136 Marwa Benja, 88 material diabolization christians, of, 135 Ministry of Tribal Affairs data on Central India tribals, 31 Mission Compound system, 84 Mizo National Front (MNF), 177–79 Mizoram, christianity in, 169 decline of chiefs, 176 literacy rate, 175 origin of christianization, in 1894, 16 politics, transformation in, 176–80 revival and growth of harhna, revival of, 170 khasi revival, in Meghalaya, 170 revival in 1919, 172 revival in 1935, 173 transition of society, 174–76 mystico-monastic model, 69 Nagaland Baptist Church Council (NBCC), 175 National Campaign for Dalit Human Rights (NCDHR), 256 National Commission for Minorities (NCM), 267 National Convention of All India Catholic Union (AICU) in 1989, 54 National Convention of Christian Leaders on the Plight of Christians of Scheduled Caste origin in 1978 (NBCLC), 54 National Convention of the Christians of Scheduled Caste, 62

298

Margins of Faith

Operation Security, in Mizoram, 178 Oraon christians consideration by local priest, 132 Karam feast (see Karam feast and Oraon christians) and local church (see Local church and oraon christians) and local priest strategy against, 135 material prosperity of, 139 public acknowledgement and recognition, enhancement of, 139 Oraons festival, 8 adoption by Christians, 10, 42–43 original sin, 42 Orissa riots 2007–08, in, 264–70 factors in, 278–85 Kandha-Pana tension, 271–75 Sangh Parivar, allegation of, 275–78 Other Backward Classes (OBCs), 213 Our Lady of Assumption Church, 103–5 Phasali Christian, 2 political development Mizoram, in, 177 primitive tribes meaning of, 213 Puma Zai movement, in Mizoram, 171 Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) and adivasis (see Adivasis and Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS)) and BJP strategy to use hindus tribals for political gain, 20 strategies for adivasi communities, 140 Sanskritization tribals, of, 220–21 Scheduled Castes (SCs), 3 empowerment of President under article 341(1), 55 Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes (Prevention of Atrocities) Act 1989, 3 Seventh Day Adventist Church (SDA) origin of, 32

shrine(s) building by dalit christians, 70 Social Discrimination against Dalit Christians in Tamil Nadu survey (1989), 238 Society for the Propagation of Faith (SPG), 31 Tamil Nadu christian churches in, 235 christian dalit activism, 255–57 and dalit movements in, 251–53 dalit Christian activism church response towards, 243–46 origin of, 238–42 hindutva and dalitization, of church, 246–51 missionary and priestly mobilization, of dalits, 236–37 Tamil Nadu Bishops’ Council (TNBC), 242 tattooing arms practice among adivasi women, 138 tribal christian(s), 86–89 communities in Jharkhand, 85 construction of identity of, 89 eastern India, in, 76–77 new community vs. old community adaptation of local culture, 32–33 adivasi church, 32–35 adivasi-ization of Roman rite, in Chotanagpur church (see Adivasi-ization

of Roman rite, in Chotanagpur church) negotiation process, in church, 37 tribal church marginalization of, 30 tribal communities Mizoram, in, 170 tribal ethnographies, 1 tribes domain of, converted, 1 Turkman gate, 101–3 United States Agency for International Development (USAID) food programmes in Bhils district (Gujarat), 215–16 untouchability crimes against dalit christians, 56 untouchable group(s), 4, 5 Ambedkar advise to, 65 upper-caste sanskritic christianity, 70 violence against scheduled caste pana christians, in Orissa, 149 Vishva Hindu Parishad (VHP), 223 Welsh Presbyterian Mission, in Mizoram, 170 Young Mizo Association (YMA), 174

Index

299