The Making of a Village: The Dynamics of Adivasi Rural Life in India 2020010362, 2020010363, 9780367374037, 9780429353598

Citation preview

The Making of a Village

The Making of a Village examines the social and cultural life of indigenous peoples in India. It unfolds intimate aspects of Adivasi history such as the birth of a village, its demographic formation, forging of social relations, in- and outmigration, and the dialectics of the village as a socio-physical space during precolonial and colonial periods. Drawing on oral, archival and empirical data from eastern India, it highlights the interconnected themes of inflection of identity; the change of the Adivasis from historic agents to colonial subjects and their arcadia to a servile landscape; and the indigenous notion of state. It also initiates a dialogue between the past and present to bring into sharp relief ideas of village community, indigeneity, migration, governance, colonialism, agency, subjecthood, rural change, environment and ecology. Redefining the study of rural sociology in South Asia, this volume will be of great interest to scholars and researchers of modern Indian history, politics, development studies, sociology, social and cultural anthropology, Adivasi and indigenous studies, and South Asian studies. Asoka Kumar Sen taught history from 1965 to 2002 at Tata College, Chaibasa, West Singhbhum, Jharkhand, and retired as a professor. He is presently an independent researcher of Adivasi history and editor of the Journal of Adivasi and Indigenous Studies. He was awarded a brief fellowship at the Department of Sociology, Delhi School of Economics, New Delhi, India. He also worked as a researcher for the University of Sussex, UK, on the British Academy project entitled ‘The East India Company and the Natural World: Environment, Innovation and Ideas at the Core of the British Empire’. His published works include The Educated Middle Class and Indian Nationalism (1988), Bengali Intelligentsia and Popular Uprisings 1855–73 (1992), Wilkinson’s Rules, Context, Content and Ramifications (edited, 1999), Representing Tribe: The Ho of Singhbhum during Colonial Rule (2011), From Village Elder to British Judge: Custom, Customary Law and Tribal Society (2012) and Indigeneity, Landscape and History: Adivasi Self-fashioning in India (2018).

The Making of a Village The Dynamics of Adivasi Rural Life in India

Asoka Kumar Sen

First published 2021 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2021 Asoka Kumar Sen The right of Asoka Kumar Sen to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Sen, Asoka Kumar, author. Title: The making of a village : the dynamics of Adivasi rural life in India / Asoka Kumar Sen. Description: Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY : Routledge, 2020. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2020010362 (print) | LCCN 2020010363 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Indigenous peoples--India--Social conditions. | Indigenous peoples--India--Ethnic identity. | Indigenous peoples--India--Politics and government. | Village communities--India--History. | Ho (Indic people) | India--Rural conditions. Classification: LCC DS432.A2 S456 2020 (print) | LCC DS432.A2 (ebook) | DDC 305.5/6880954--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020010362 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020010363 ISBN: 978-0-367-37403-7 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-429-35359-8 (ebk) Typeset in Sabon by Taylor & Francis Books

To the loved ones who started a quest for excellence in my life: My grandfather Jotindralal Sen Gupta, who died when my father was barely three years of age, for his will to excel that lives on in every one of us who have followed; my grandmother Bijan Basini Sen, for bequeathing her love for knowledge and for helping me imbibe a culture of discipline through her constant cajoling and admonitions during my adolescence; and my father Sunil Kumar Sen, professionally a lawyer and temperamentally a researcher, for kindling a passion for academic research and inspiring me to devote my work to the soil on which I was born; I remain eternally grateful.

Contents

Preface and acknowledgements Abbreviations Maps

viii x xi

1

Introduction

1

2

Telling the story: text and beyond text

12

3

The birth of a village

28

4

Weaving the demographic pattern

45

5

The story of in- and out-migration

72

6

Governance of a village

98

7

The changing rural landscape

164

8

Concluding remarks

187

Bibliography Index

192 208

Preface and acknowledgements

I started writing this book in 2014 as a tribute to my father on the centenary year of his birth. But the idea for the book had taken root long before that, when between 1994 and 1998 I was rummaging through the archival materials preserved at the District Record Room, Chaibasa. I was able to collect rich and intimate details of Adivasi (indigenous) village life relating to pre-colonial and colonial temporalities. This wealth of information, forming the staple of this book, enabled me to also interact with contemporary life. I am aware that producing an exclusive Adivasi village history does not have a strong and long lineage in India. Village studies continue to be dominated by the sociologists and anthropologists who are seldom diachronic in their approaches. The sparseness of literate historical evidence has made reconstruction of Adivasi village history all the more challenging for scholars. The problem augments because mainstream scholars continue to trivialise oral tradition because of their penchant for more robust and tangible literate evidence. This endeavour therefore continues to involve treading a strange and virtually unchartered course. What has led me to this adventure should therefore be the inevitable question. The principal motivation has been to tread a new furrow in Adivasi history, digressing from the more popular trend of engaging with the Adivasi movements and subalternity. Researching village history appeared to me to be a challenging and groundbreaking engagement also because of the very strong need for an elaborate and comprehensive account of the normal and silent flow of Adivasi life around villages. I was able to pursue the project mainly because of my privileged access to the wealth of Village Papers. In Representing Tribe (2011), I had prepared the blueprint for reconstructing Adivasi history. I followed up by writing some trailer pieces: ‘Collective memory and reconstruction of Ho history’ (2008) and ‘Redefined archaeology and reconstruction of the ethno-history of the Hos of pre-colonial Singhbhum’ (2012), as well as ‘From itinerancy to settled village life’ and ‘Norms and mode of self-governance’, which formed two chapters of my recent book, Indigeneity, Landscape and History: Adivasi Self-fashioning in India (2018). These anticipated some of the ideas and information that I have developed in my present study.

Preface and acknowledgements

ix

The writing of the book assumed a fresh spurt after Padmanabh Samarendra provided me with many useful sociological and anthropological village-centric writings. These no doubt enabled me to address the broad trends in empirical studies. I became engaged in several fruitful discussions with him, alongside his words of encouragement for me to complete my work. I have a deep sense of gratitude to some of my young colleagues and friends: Sujit Kumar, Sanjay Nath, Anjana Singh, Utkarsh Mishra and Jogesh Kumar for providing several useful reading materials, and Sanjay, Anjana and Utkarsh for their ideas and help in preparing the manuscript for publication. The browsing of more than 700 village papers at the Chaibasa Record Room was facilitated mainly by two people. While Dr. Meena Kumari, the then Archives Officer, saw to it that my days in the Record Room were hassle-free, Lakhindar Das, the Record Keeper, taught me Kaithi and made archival papers available to me. The time I spent there was academically very enriching and formed emotionally cherishing years of my life. Lakhindar continued his drinking habits, which unfortunately caused his premature demise. Had he been with us today, the very sight of his name in this book would have prompted him to pose as its co-author in the same way as he had done in the case of an earlier small essay. I am grateful to the anonymous reviewer for the creative comments that helped to reinforce my arguments, illuminating some grey areas of the earlier draft and making the study more contemporary. Aakash Chakrabarty and his team deserve my heartfelt thanks for their constant efforts in seeing my book through publication a second time. The writing of this book began and was mostly done in Chaibasa, my home town. In fact, whatever I have done during my entire academic career would have been impossible but for the physical and emotional support of my family. Bela Sen and Padmaja looked after my wellbeing, often allowing me the privilege of shirking my normal family responsibilities. Much of the initial mental work and some portions of the writing were done at the Wembley, London home of my younger daughter Ishita and son-in-law Sourabh, and at the Cleveland, US home of Purba, my elder daughter, and Rishi, my son-in-law, who provided me with all the comforts to continue my studies. The books that Purba and Rishi had gifted me during my last visits to them in New York were very helpful, as was their constant vigil and care, alongside that of Dr. Padmaraj Samarendra, which freed me from much of my health concerns. The happiness and wonder that this work may bring to Purba, Ishita, Rishi, Sourabh and my grandchildren Soumya, Aadya and Siddharth will be a befitting reward for the labour and strain associated with this book-making.

Abbreviations

CN CSVEP CSVN CSVNE CSVNERR CT DCOS DRRC FL FN FS GD LRAR MT RB SN TSKP TSVN VN

Collection No. Craven Settlement Village Enquiry Paper Craven Settlement Village Note Craven Settlement Village Note and Enquiry Craven Settlement Village Note and Enquiry of Record of Rights Chakradharpur Thana Deputy Commissioner’s Office Singhbhum District Record Room Chaibasa Fly Leaf File No. File Serial General Department Land Revenue Administration Report, Singhbhum Manoharpur Thana Revenue Branch Serial No. Tuckey Settlement Khuntkatti Papers Tuckey Settlement Village Note Vasta (Bag) No.

S

E

Map 1 Districts of Jharkhand Source: Based on a map from probharat.com

State Boundary

Simdega

GUMLA

Gumla

LOHARDAGA

Lohardaga

SIMDEGA

District Headquarters

State Capital

Chatra

CHATRA

BIHAR

Latehar LATEHAR

Daltonganij

PALAMU

CHHATTISHGARH

W

N

Garhwa

GARHWA

UTTAR PRADESH

Giridih

GIRIDIH

SERAIKELA KHARSAWAN

ORISSA

WEST SINGHBHUM

Chaibasa

EAST SINGHBHUM

Pakur PAKUR

Map Not To Scale

DUMKA

Dumka

GODDA

WEST BENGAL

Dhanbad Dhanbad

DEVGHAR

Devghar

Jamshedpur

Seraikela

RANCHI KHUNTI

Khunti

Bokaro BOKARO RAMGARH Ranchi

Ramgarh

HAZARIBAG

Hazaribag

KODERMA

Koderma

Godda SAHIBGANJ

Sahibganj

Maps

Map 2 Kolhan Source: Based on a map which appeared in D.N. Majumdar, 1950. The Affairs of a Tribe. Lucknow: Universal Publishers.

1

Introduction

Village studies: an overview Tracing the historical journey of a village from inception to maturity is at once fascinating and epistemically rewarding. Experiences of this journey can be better appreciated in the light of the homologies and differences between historical and other genres of writings, broadly characterised as village studies. For the sake of convenience, this is elaborated in this chapter under three categories: writings by colonial ethnographers-administrators, the sociological and anthropological writings produced immediately after Indian independence and later, and finally, the village-centric ethnographic works by a wide spectrum of scholars. Village studies in India were initiated and made a major advance during the colonial period, pioneered by the likes of Henry Maine (1876), B.H. Baden-Powell (1972) and W.W. Hunter (1975).1 The studies by colonial administrator-ethnographers did not have their own autonomy, as they were written as an appendage to the main task of preparing land revenue and Census reports. Despite this, they provided rich basic data on village life that underlined the salience of the village as an area of study. But these studies generally suffered from critical gaps in knowledge. First, intimate details about village life were missing. Second, this created the slanted notion of Indian villages as archaic, economically self-reliant, politico-administratively autonomous, unchanging ‘little republics’ (ibid.),2 characterised by a homogenous village community and village unity (Breman 1997: 15–16; Gupta 2005: 752). Third, the lack of development of rural India, an unfortunate legacy of colonial rule, remained generally out of focus in colonial ethnographies. Post-colonial village studies largely attempted to broaden our understanding of village life in general and made the prevailing aspirations and tribulations of rural life more legible. I will first deal with the quest of village India by the sociologists and anthropologists, which began during the 1950s and continued until recent times. Prominent among this work are the studies by Marriott (1955), Srinivas (1955, 1975), Majumdar (1955), Dube (1959, 1963), Bailey (1960), Cohn (1990), Breman, Kloos and Saith (1997), Madan (2010), Shah (2002), Gupta (2005),

2

Introduction

Singh (2009), Shah (2010), Mines and Yazgi (2011) and Hebbar (2011). One group of the empiricists relied on participant-observation methodology which provided them with an intimate, ‘field’ view (Srinivas 1975: 1387) of contemporary village life that was missing from colonial ethnography (BadenPowell 1972: 34). Digressing from the dominant empirical and presentist trend, some scholars attempted a longue durée approach through a study of historical accounts such as Ain-i-Akbari, colonial village and settlement records, village handbooks, and memories of village elders to set their works within a larger temporal scale (Marriott 1955: 24; Srinivas 1955: 20–1, 44; Dube 1959: 15; Cohn 1990: 343–421; Madan 2010: 5; Shah 2002). The early writings were obviously undertaken as part of India’s quest for a ‘new self-identity of a nation state’. As such, appraisal of village life served as a ‘“natural” entry point to the understanding of the traditional Indian society’ (Jodhka 2000: 1). This was attempted by exploring extensive contemporary knowledge of village life (Dube 1959: 13; Srinivas 1955: 3; Marriott 1955: VII, XV). But scholars were involved in a debate over methodology. Some of them deliberated over whether a single village could serve as ‘typical or representative of rural India as a whole’ (Dube 1959: 6; see also Marriott 1955: 171; Srinivas 1955: 2). This raised a microcosm/macrocosm or universal/parochial debate in academic circles, originating from the question of whether an Indian village is ‘a microcosm reflecting the macrocosm of Indian civilisation’ (Dumont and Pocock 1957: 25). However, scholars sought to resolve the conflict either by emphasising ‘regional or all-India uniformities’ that made villages ‘part of a wider social system and organized political society’ (Dube 1959: 5; see also Srinivas 1955: 2)3 or clustering together different single empirical studies to offer a holistic view of Indian villages, as was the case in the edited volumes of Srinivas and Marriott. The other method involved conducting a provincial or regional study on such issues as land control and social structure, as was done in the old Banaras province. Proponents of this approach believed that this would provide ‘the holistic study of the little community with the totality of Indian civilization of which it forms a part’ (Breman 1997: 46). The majority of these works concentrated on caste4 as the substantive agent of Indian country life (Inden 1990: 156–8). This indirectly reinforced the notion of caste/village correspondence (Dumont and Pocock 1957: 29), or rather the basic Hindu-centrism of village India. Some of the edited volumes however chose to engage either with mixedcaste ‘tribe’ villages or purely ‘tribal’ villages.5 Yet purely tribe-centric studies were also conducted, such as the study by Bailey (1960) on political activity and political change in nine Adivasi hamlets in the Baderi village of highland Orissa; the study by Shah (2010) on indigenous politics, environmentalism and insurgency in the context of a village in the Bero region of Jharkhand; and Hebbar’s enquiry into ‘the contemporariness of tribal life and struggle over issues of ecology, culture, politics and science’ in the context of the Ho tribe of West Singhbhum in Jharkhand (2011: 1–8). These investigations laid bare the binaries of mainstream caste-centric and the sub-stream Adivasi-centric rural India.

Introduction 3 While the above attempt to decolonise village episteme formed one aspect of scholarly intervention, the other major aspect involved critically comprehending the colonial legacy of non-development, exploitation and material marginalisation. This knowledge was essential for facilitating the journey of the newly created nation state towards development and progress and offsetting the unwelcome legacy of colonialism. As a sequel, forming an understanding of the problem of stagnation of the agrarian sector and the emergence of new aspirations among the peasantry of Third World countries came into focus (Jodhka 2000: 2). In this vein, post-independence works on Indian villages concentrated on development and change in rural life (Madan 2010: 2; Jodhka, 2000: 2; see also Dube 1959: Chapter I; Breman 1997: 13). One redeeming feature of post-colonial ethnography was the focus on Adivasi villages in India. This welcome global spurt among political scientists, historians, sociologists and anthropologists fostered diachronic and synchronic understanding of rural life. Within the binaries of mainstream/sub-stream, colonisation/decolonisation and dominant/margin, scholars problematised such issues as identity, governmentality, Adivasi contestation against land alienation and displacement in villages, and denial of rights. Undeniably, academic sensitivity is the by-product of an aspirational and articulate Adivasi world. I will elaborate below on the broad ideological and epistemic content of these village studies, followed by my critique of a slanted and narrow academic vision of Adivasi rural life. The dominant theme of ethnographic studies has been the notion of identity of the communities variously named as tribe, aboriginal, Adivasi and Scheduled tribe in India. Initially, there was a nomenclatural contest between the terms tribe and Adivasi. But scholars gradually rationalised the use of Adivasi as a representational category, although dissent against this term continued.6 The other controversy surfaced in the 1990s with the declaration of the UN Charter on human rights. Activists and intellectuals debated whether it would be more appropriate to substitute the term Adivasi with indigene/indigenous to assimilate them into a global indigenous movement. Arjun Appadorai argued that the use of indigene would liberate the community from the constrictions of the nation state. But against this, Kaushik Ghosh preferred the use of Adivasi, underlining the ‘national’ contexts of ‘indigenousness’ (2006: 501). Scholars also debated the precise parameters of identity. While some scholars hinted at fuzziness, by underlining the contested and ubiquitous nature of the concept of indigenous identity (Uddin, Gerharz, and Chakkarath: 2017: 1–25), others underlined territory, or rather the culturalisation of landscape (Ricca 2018: 2; Sen 2018: 52) and ‘popular self-government’ (Sundar 2009: 191; Carrin 2013: 114; Kumar 2017: 96; Sen 2020: 27–45), as the basis of identity. While concentrating on ideology and function, the study of governmentality put the focus on the failure of colonial and post-colonial states to humanely address the Adivasis. Academics and activists arrived at the conclusion that village-centric Adivasi communities have in the process been reduced to a marginalised and vulnerable category.7 They inhabited ‘an area of unfathomable

4

Introduction

poverty and underdevelopment’ (Singh 2015: 1) and suffered ‘everyday tyranny of the state’ (Bhukya 2010: xii; see also Ghosh 2006: 504; Nilsen 2018; Sen 2018: 50–1). This contributed to the recent focus on the cause, nature and manifestations of Adivasi marginalisation and backwardness (Bates 1995; Bhukya 2010; Nilsen 2018). Finally, historical and ethnographic studies created an overarching narrative of Adivasi contestation against the wrong perpetrated by colonial and postcolonial states. The major change that occurred was a movement away from producing a narrative of militancy (Guha 1983; Singh 1966) to a post-colonial focus on peaceful and legal modes of protest against the pervasive lacunae in post-independence development policy. Popular themes were land alienation and displacement due to industrialisation and urbanisation (Bates 1995: 15–16; Areeparampil 1996: 1524–5; Stuligross 2008: 87), construction of large dams and denial of traditional forest rights causing pervasive Adivasi assertion of a customary right over jal-jungle-jameen (water, forest, land) (Areeparampil 1992: 143–86; Linkenbach 2005: 152–3; Vasan 2005: 4447–50; Ghosh 2006: 501–34; Aufschnaiter 2008; Sundar 2008: 7–8; Baviskar 2009: 160–222; Kennedy and King 2009; 1–61; Chandra 2013: 53–5; Guzy 2014: 149–59; Padel 2014: 74–7; Pattnaik 2014: 114; Krishnan and Naga 2017: 1–17; Ricca 2018: 2–25; Sen 2018: 187–203; Prabhat Khabar, 24 January, 2020; Singh, Unpublished). At the same time, scholars suggested ways the wrong could be mitigated. This included ‘reinvigorating’ customs and traditional institutions (Kumar 2017: 95–116); intensifying citizenship struggle (Sundar 2011: 419–32; Carrin 2013: 106–20; Nilsen 2016: 31–45) and strengthening the global movement for human rights (Bowen 2000: 12; Karlsson 2003: 403–16). Studies also unravelled the Adivasi perception of the way in which they should redeem the wrong (Singh 2019: 28– 33; Singh, unpublished). We cannot obfuscate the reality of historic and contemporary Adivasi subalternity and marginalisation, and also their articulation. Yet, we should not take a blinkered attitude to the slanted and narrow canvas of the above accounts, as these in a way ‘deny the ethnic groups an autonomous ontological status’ by invariably constructing ‘their otherness from the mainstream social groups’ (Sen 2018: 6). This representation has virtually set up a ‘politics of representation’ across the world (Cooper 1994: 1526). How this was enacted is relevant to this context. First, the dichotomy was underlined between pre-state Adivasi groups and mainstream peoples belonging to a state system, followed by a focus on state laws, institutions and mechanism of governance (colonial and post-colonial) and Adivasi adjustment or maladjustment with an exogenous order. This created the other binary between the national mainstream and Adivasis. This invariably produced a critical discourse on such issues as subjecthood, denial of legal and human rights and the status of the ethnic groups as real or putative citizens referred to above. Shifting the trajectory from colonial or nation state to international arena became the third form of dichotomy. Here the focus is on whether their context should be post-national or global; whether they should be

Introduction 5 enfranchised by international law; whether their struggles should be interpreted through extraneous theories (Ghosh 2006: 501; Aufschnaiter 2008: 23–46; Kennedy and King 2009: 1); and whether the indigenous local practice should be studied in terms of its ‘entanglement’ with global and national issues (SchulteDroesch 2014: 155–80). One may accuse me of trivialising the issue if I rigidly stick to a narrow and localised context. I am aware that this wider understanding has made our engagement with Adivasi rural life more intense, critical and cohesive. I am also aware that Adivasi rural life took a major and convulsive turn after the advent of British rule. But I cannot ignore some serious issues that this misplaced focus creates. First, it abjectly erases the Adivasis’ creative pre-colonial past (Sen 2008: 88), resulting in ‘cultural ossification of indigeneity itself’ (Ricca 2018: 5–6). Second, it lends weight to the misconception that the Adivasis had been a prehistoric group of people and that colonial rule inaugurated their move into a historical phase (Sen 2008: 88; Ricca 2018: 2–5). Last, indigenous discourse is reduced into a narrow politico-military-administrative account, dominated by the themes of denial, disaffection and turmoil. Consequently, we lose sight of their pre-colonial legacies and peacetime past, when as historic agents they internalised critical historical influences to found and reinvent their self and existence. This narrow perspective fails to underline Adivasiness or ‘indigeneity’ as a robust ‘ubiquitous expression of the “cultural nature” of human beings, and their creative tendency to “produce culture”’ (Ricca 2018: 2). Fortunately, against this linear grain, a section of ethnography extrudes an antithetical, inclusive and inward-looking vision of Adivasi rusticity. This narrates the organisation and flow of the daily life in Adivasi villages which Paul Thompson underlined (1978) and a recent study prepared the rough blueprint (Sen 2011: 44–5). Fortunately, some studies have initiated the process of reassembling Adivasi village life by pursuing diverse themes. The ‘counter-cultural narratives’ of the idea of state and culture in upland north-east India is one such approach (Guite 2018). Another is the study of the popular religion of the Sahariyas, a primitive tribal group of south-eastern Rajasthan, unfolding an evocative and alternate narrative of ‘life that pulsates and vibrates below the apparent carapace of backwardness and deprivation’ (Singh 2015: 1) and the very process of change through selective acculturation and syncretism (SchulteDroesch 2014: 155–80; Carrin 2017: 1–3). Furthermore, this approach has proliferated into studies on the search for and consolidation of linguistic identity of the Santals (Choksi 2017: 1–24) and the Oraons (Singh 2017: 54–62; Singh 2018: 37–50); inspired philosophical enquiries focusing on the distinctive Adivasi worldview and religious identity (Munda and Manki 2009; P. Sen 2003a, 2003b, 2006: 310–20; 2007: 48–59) and has explored the ‘precision and craftsmanship in domestic architecture and mural art’ through a study of architecture of Santal dwellings (Bharat, 2019; see 3–4). Yet others have added a new dimension to indigenous identity discourse by concentrating on Adivasi appropriation and reinvention of their cultural forms and colonial-day heroes (Rycroft 2014: 51–71; Nath and Kumari 2019: 1–25).

6

Introduction

While working closely with the above enumeration of Indian rural life, The Making of a Village: The Dynamics of Adivasi Rural Life in India seeks in many different ways to chart a new course. First, unlike the above dominant caste and cursorily tribe-centric approach of the sociological-anthropological village studies, Adivasi rural life, drawn in the context of the Ho (the reason for this choice is elaborated on below), forms the focal theme of the present work. This replicates the methodology of understanding a single ethnic community, which is the approach adopted by Bailey, Shah and Hebbar. But there is one major difference. Keeping the focus on the Ho, the other strategy has been to incorporate information about other different Adivasi groups in Jharkhand and India as well as beyond to produce a holistic view of the Adivasi/indigenous rural way of life. This turns this study into a much broader narrative than the above single-demographic rural accounts. Second, the digression from empirical works is more fundamental. These studies distinctively focus on a village, to indulge in an analogy with human life, when it has already become a person, advanced in age and with a distinct socio-administrative personality. This sadly omits the story of how the village was conceived and parented; how its areas were demarcated and populated; how its lands were distributed among the people; and how the village acquired a name and the nitty-gritty of its governance determined. This omission raises the vital question: Can rural life be conceived without an understanding of the origin and the teething experiences of the early years? This book seeks to find an answer by narrating the entire dynamics of village making by focusing on its conception, birth and coming of age that approximate it to a living entity. This microscopic understanding of Adivasi rural life may enable us to probe the mentality and ability to form a distinct lifeway at a phase when they were the autonomous agents of history. Third, the demands of the above set the work on a long temporal scale spanning pre-colonial and colonial eras. But the account tends to be temporally open-ended when it identifies historical traces vital for comprehending the dynamics of the post-independence Adivasi rural world. Why should the timeframe be so crucial as an interpretive tool? The answer is that the short timescale of empirical works8 fails to cover the entire history of origin and growth of villages, instead focusing on the flow of rural life. This extended temporal framework enables the work to explore the context, content and nature of rural dynamics, the quintessential task of a student of history, which the methodology of the ethnographers fails to comprehend. Furthermore, the present study seeks to offer new dynamics other than the demographic dynamics stated above. It attempts to go beyond the purely anthropocentric reading of the empiricists and ethnographers that merely comprehends the transformation of a village into the human habitat and a socio-cultural institution within a broader politico/cultural system. Admittedly, social science has to be basically anthropocentric, yet the question that emerges is: Could we not take a look also at the dynamics of the village as a physical rather than merely social space? This poses the counter-question of what does this change involve? The

Introduction 7 book therefore engages with the entire process of the conversion of natural terrain into a cultural terrain with the trees yielding ground to huts and houses; animals and birds inhabiting the jungles abandoning their preserves for human beings; natural flora gradually replacing agrarian products; rivers and springs ceasing to be the principal aquatic sources of villagers, and anthropomorphic governance reversing the dictate of nature. This portrayal can begin only with the advent of humans in a forested tract, laying the foundations of a settled village. The work therefore humbly attempts to initiate a dialogue between geography as the maker of history, as was the earlier historical practice, and the environmentalist approach of human modifications of nature. To initiate a dialogue, the present study follows the hybrid historical and empirical methodologies. First, rare and rich recorded oral village data has been deployed as the staple data,9 largely because the source is capable, as we have witnessed in Europe, of illuminating the village and region and altering ‘our perception’ of the past (Goubert 1971: 119) and present. Thus, the work largely relies on the conventional historical methodology of collating and examining recorded data. But I also claim to juxtapose the empirical approach. While the sociologists and anthropologists collect information through fieldwork, my method has been empiricism of a different veneer, which I would like to call historical empiricism. Deploying empiricism for studying the pre-colonial and colonial periods may seem strange and preposterous and evoke the question of what does this strange coinage mean? It obviously cannot involve aspects such as physically visiting the sites and engaging in participation and observation as ethnographers do. It also cannot involve using electronic gadgets and conducting interviews on which the empiricists generally rely. But it treads a different path of examining the place and people by historically visiting more than 700, out of a total of 911, villages in Kolhan, contained in vastas or bags kept in the District Record Room, Chaibasa, between 1992 and 1994. Almost daily visits to this wide spectrum of historical sites and the physical and mental exhaustion this entailed created the feeling of physically traversing these villages not only temporally but also spatially. Since these papers contained the mind and voice of the villagers as retrieved by the colonial officials through interviews, this has become an intimate and emic account, something which the fieldwork methodology aimed to create. Despite this approximation, I should emphasise a marked difference from the synchronic methodology. While sociologists and anthropologists often concentrate on a particular village, I have approached villages more as a cluster, rather than fixing my gaze on a single village, to ‘widen the focus’ (Breman, Kloos and Saith 1997: 5). Dumont and Pocock advised a sociologist to ‘keep his attention upon a constant interaction between a general idea (Indian society) and the local (village) working out of that idea’ (1957: 25). On the one hand, this dialogue contributes to a closer and more critical understanding of the nitty-gritty of the Adivasi rural mode of life. On the other hand, it helps avoid the microcosm/macrocosm debate concerning the sociologists and anthropologists, besides providing a more holistic but intimate, critical and historical vision of Adivasi village life.

8

Introduction

Chapter structure The main text is constituted by the remaining seven chapters. Of these, Chapter 2 performs the epistemic engineering by critically reviewing the strategic sources that enable the reconstruction of this Adivasi rural history. This initiates a dialogue between oral and literate sources,10 two different texts, leading finally to a conflation of two modes of telling stories of village life. The story of how the village originated and was progressively made is told in the remaining six chapters. This begins with Chapter 3 narrating the birth of a village after the advent of the village founder/founders in a jungle-clad region, the selection and demarcation of the village site, followed by the allocation of village spaces to set up village hearth and home. It unfolds that every village has a genesis, the defining event that also determined the identity of the villagers, either as khuntkatti or kayemi – original settlers and latecomers – besides providing the charter of land rights. This also historically anchors the claim of the Adivasis as the indigenous people in India. Chapter 4 sets up the formation of a village population, rather village community, with the progressive incorporation of various demographic groups. Migration of people, in and out, was a feature of rural life in the Adivasi/indigenous world. While one process related how a village was populated through in-migration, the other process involved out-migration to near and distant villages as well as the tea gardens of Assam and collieries of Bihar and Bengal, compelled by population spurt, extreme poverty and other typical reasons such as epidemics and fear of tigers. These details are the focus of Chapter 5. The book continues in Chapter 6 by exploring how the sacred and profane modes of social governance of village space, demography and resources developed and were progressively modified. Chapter 7 moves away from anthropocentrism to configure the gradual modification of the landscape, from a natural to cultural domain. The story ends with the summing up of the total process of village making during pre-colonial and colonial times, in which the indigenes and other communities, and also the colonial rulers, played key roles.

Village making and related stories As stated above, this historic event of village making has been studied in the context of the Hos of Kolhan-Porahat. One of the four major Adivasi groups of Jharkhand, they were originally a sub-ethnic group belonging to the Munda mainstock living in the Chotanagpur plateau region. In groups, the Mundas left their homeland after the tenth century AD in search of new lands and entered Singhbhum.11 From their early settlements in northern Singhbhum, they gradually expanded across its southern parts. These itinerant groups, which initially pursued foraging, hunting and rudimentary agriculture and lived in temporary villages, later settled permanent villages as the nucleus of their collective life (Tickell 1840: 694–709, 783–808; Sahu 1985: 10–14). In this way, the breakaway groups of Mundas assumed a distinct Ho identity and became a force to reckon with in regional geo-polity.

Introduction 9 Carving out the homeland and building their autonomous rural domain occurred during the pre-colonial period, particularly by weaving a demographic pattern and a distinct mechanism of governance. While this marked a material kind of change, a moral change recurrently took place that attributed a symbolic meaning to landscape. This recalled a time when the Hos were capable of self-willed and designed action that paved the way for the making of their arcadia or hallowed landscape. No doubt, these were historical landmarks of the Hos, and moreover the Adivasis in general, issues that unfortunately remained out of focus (Singh 1978; Sahu 1985). The failure may be attributed to ignorance about the significance of pre-colonial times or to the incapability to retrieve strategic historical materials. Furthermore, it may also be due to scholars’ inability to locate a relevant theme, a rather vital entry point into precolonial history. My argument is that this lends itself to misconceptions such as Adivasi historilessness and British catalysm cited above. The principal purpose of this seminal account is therefore to remove the above epistemic lacunae by using village making as a potent gateway into the creative historic phase of an ethnic community. Additionally, this may help sensitise the Adivasi communities and academics towards their pre-colonial phase of autonomous existence, and the acme they achieved. This changed role of history may set our muse in action, in the same way as a recent study claims to activate anthropology (Cornwall 2018: 3–20). This study of village making has been a continuous and exhaustive process that also encompasses the colonial phase. The onset of British dominance in many different ways ideologically and structurally reinvented the idea of a village. While this transformed the Hos from historic agents to colonial subjects, the simultaneous change of the rural landscape from that of an arcadia to a servile domain (Damodaran 2002) also occurred. The second purpose of the book is to form a critical understanding of the ideology and function of an avowed ‘paternalist’ state that subalternised Adivasis and their villages in the name of civilising and developing the ‘barbarous’ and backward ethnic people. The juxtaposition of pre-colonial and colonial-day narratives may help correct the historiographic and ethnographic lopsidedness of Hos’ portrayal, and the Adivasis in general, as the eternal and irreversible subaltern other, and focusing simply on their ferment and resistance. Furthermore, this conflation may inspire a more critical evaluation of the lingering presence of colonial practices in some of the policies in independent India when they attained citizenship and its necessary fallout. The third purpose is to focus on the unassailable linkage between rusticity and indigeneity,12 the dominant refrain of contemporary identarian discourse at a global level. This point needs further elaboration before the purpose it serves is enumerated below. Leroy Vail observes that ‘Africans are inherently rural people or are in close harmony with Nature’ (1991: 16). Likewise, in the context of Latin America the comment is ‘it is obvious that rural life and values are central to the region’ (Socolow 1996: 3). Even after the inauguration of contrary trends of urbanisation and industrialisation, villages remained the principal

10

Introduction

habitat of the Adivasis in India. To present the statistics from Jharkhand, the district of Hazaribagh in the 1870s had an urban population of merely 3.74%.13 In 1911, Ranchi district had only three towns, while the rest of the population inhabited its 3,925 villages (Hallett 1917: 57). Likewise, the majority of the population in Palamau district dwelled in 3,599 villages (Bridge 1996: para 1). One should therefore address why countryside dominated Adivasi life and why it continues to do so even today. People in Africa chose to live in villages ‘because housing and living expenses are far lower in the rural areas than they are in the urban areas’ (Vail 1991: 16). But in the case of Latin America, it was the impact of agriculture and pastoral pursuits on country life. To quote: seasons of agricultural production, for example, tied people to the land in ways that conditioned their ability to act. Put another way, a peasant was highly unlikely to leave his plot of land, to travel to the city, or perhaps to join a revolt when his crop was due to be harvested. (Socolow 1996: 3) However, in the case of the Adivasis in Jharkhand, and indeed India more broadly, the reasons were more deep rooted, determined by their material as well as moral concerns, closely associated with the very process of village making and the gradual stabilisation of rural culture. The final purpose of the book is to form an early acquaintance with the indigenous idea of the state as anchored by the village and how this was formed. Generally, state formation among the Adivasis is ascribed to the extraneous impact commonly called Rajputisation (Sinha 1962: 35–80). However, while focusing on the state formation among the Mundas, K. Suresh Singh considers it as an intrinsic process, growing out of a ‘Munda culturematrix’ (1971: 170). British ethnography informed that the indigenous idea of the state was embodied by the institution of village republics, which was a ‘constitution of confederate village communities under hereditary head men’ (Dalton 1973: 178). Under this, the village formed the basic unit, over which supra-village bodies differentially structured what was known as the pir-parha institution. This was principally a socio-cultural and political institution, rather than simply a politico-administrative body, representing a communally occupied territory and run by their sacred and secular notions of governance. One can form an idea of the socio-cultural-political matrix that fostered the growth of the political system from this historical reading. This is close to the political scientist’s enumeration of the state as constituted by such elements as territory, people, notion of authority (sovereignty) and system of governance. This work engages with the idea of the state,14 while addressing the topics of territory and people in Chapters 4 and 5 and legitimisation and governmentality in Chapter 6. Following this introductory note, the book moves on to the second chapter, which closely and critically examines the historical materials and the very logistics of reconstructing village life.

Introduction

11

Notes 1 Bracketed publication years for Powell and Hunter’s books represent the later editions used in this study. 2 For an overview of colonial representations of the Indian village, see also Breman (1997: 16), Madan (2010: 4) and Gupta (2005: 751). 3 Elsewhere, Srinivas observes ‘It is of course absurd to try and generalize on rural India from the study of a single village but if it is remembered that, in spite of its bewildering diversity, there are certain broad regional and even national similarities in India, even that study can be productive of knowledge and insights which could be translated into hypotheses and leads in future research. It also gives some idea of the quality of village life’ (1975: 1392–93). 4 See the volumes edited by Dube (1959), Marriott (1955) and Madan (2010). 5 See Mandelbaum’s essay in Marriott (1955: 223–54) and the essays by Carstairs, Mandelbaum, Bailey and Dubey in Srinivas (1955: 62–69, 93–95, 110–31, 180–92). 6 For an evocative discussion of the shift, see Rycroft and Dasgupta (2011: 1–9; Sen 2018: 3–11). 7 Significantly, the Subaltern group popularised the term in the context of Dalits, ‘tribals’ and women. 8 It will be relevant to point out that some empirical scholars shifted ‘from synchronic and static structural and functional models of society and culture to diachronic and processual ones’ (Mines and Yazgi 2011: 5). 9 Likewise, village land records provide ‘basic materials’ for writing Shah’s book (2002: 3). 10 This is the technique followed by Shah (2002: 4–6). 11 Erstwhile Singhbhum district has been bifurcated into West, East Singhbhum and Seraikela-Kharsawan districts. 12 For elaboration, see Sen (2018: 53, Chapter 5). 13 The remaining population lived in 6668 villages (Hunter, Vol. XVI, 1976: 85–86). 14 For details see Sen (2018: 76–95).

2

Telling the story Text and beyond text1

Introduction Bernard S. Cohn famously said, ‘There is not one past of the village, but many’ (1990: 89). This suggests that irrespective of its developmental level, every village has a story. Often a village may have multiple stories to create the semblance of distinct archaeological layers. This also implies that as distinguished from ‘general history’, there is the genre of ‘local history’ of which rural history forms a part (Goubert 1971: 113). The engagement with this branch of history may enable a village to extract ‘meaning’ out of ‘its own changing character’ (Thompson 1978: 1). But a scholar has to confront the debate about the very meaning of village history itself at official and social levels. The official text may define it merely in terms of the succession of village heads, and in rare cases that of a significant event like the anti-British ethnic upsurge in the village.2 So officially, village history tends more or less to be politico-administrative in nature with British rule as its decisive milestone. The past as retold by villagers, either through their stories or songs, however, takes us beyond the official text. Content-wise this is a more comprehensive undertaking that encompasses the entire span of events leading to the conception, birth and gradual making of a village. This encompasses a greater temporal expanse too, covering pre-colonial and colonial temporalities, with clear hints for grappling with post-independence rural dynamics. The present work, incorporating both these sources, tends therefore to be inter-textual, a juxtaposition. However, oral sources are used as a staple data source, inspired by scholars who have fruitfully done the same before me. Regarding the efficacy of this source, Thompson observes: ‘oral history certainly can be a means for transforming both the content and purpose of history’ (1978: 2). We have the instances of Rosaldo drawing on Beita (gossip) and tadek (stories) (1980: 15–17); Rappaport on tales and stories narrated by old men (1994: 1–23); Skaria deploying a rich stock of vadilcha goth (stories) (1999: 1); Prakash invoking true stories (1990: 34–81) and Samaddar relying on ‘oral accounts of the survivors’ and folklore (1998: 13–15). The vital questions are how and from where may these popular stories be retrieved? Unfortunately, the task is not easy. As we browse oral sources,

Telling the story

13

except for the Santal oral tradition as recorded during the colonial period in Horkoren Mare Hapramko Reak Katha, we seldom come across a solid depiction of Adivasi rural life in their folklore. This may create the impression that either there is no Adivasi village history or that the rural past is irretrievable. The palpable aversion shown by conventional historians to oral sources and the preferential treatment accorded to literary sources (Guha 2003: 8–9) add to our agony. This led to the deployment of colonial archival records as the staple data source for writing Adivasi history and the simultaneous neglect of strategic recorded oral sources (Sen 2008: 87–88). Understandably, Adivasi village history became the sad victim of this politics of knowledge-making. These historiographical problems are elaborated on in the following three sections of the present chapter. The first section dwells on the fragmentary nature of official text as contained in colonial ethnography. The second unfolds epistemological problems when collective memory is deployed as a major historical tool. The third explores and examines the prospect of writing village history by conflating memorised and literate sources.

Colonial ethnography and the state of lack3 The ethnographic sources are the correspondences, land revenue and census reports, gazetteers, memoirs etc. Basically serving British imperialistic ideology, these followed a specific technique of obtaining and preserving information. In the initial phase, military generals relied on information about the nature of terrain and the people to be conquered. The native sepoys and local chiefs were largely the informants. The field observation and experiences of the officials formed the other source. The technique of collecting information by local bureaucrats makes an interesting reading in this context. Obtaining direct knowledge, through bonhomie with the ‘natives’ while on station, was the technique of Lt. S.R. Tickell, the first Assistant Political Agent of Kolhan. On the contrary, while on tour, the likes of E.T. Dalton, the Commissioner of Chotanagpur, made it a point to collect information locally. Furthermore, the district collectorate in the Nilgiri region depended on subordinate officials who relied on data from local informants. Therefore, native informants remained an uninterrupted and basic source of all sorts of information that finally produced British ethnography. The point needs further elaboration. The sixteen-volume A Statistical Account of Bengal (1877) by W.W. Hunter was a compendium of district-wise accounts of the land and people in Bengal. It contained empirically derived information from different government departments, and also the responses of the local informants to the ‘five series of questions’ officially distributed among them. Likewise, The Tribes and Castes of Bengal in two volumes (1891), The People of India (1915), The Census of India (1901) by H.H. Risley and The Annals of Rural Bengal by W. W. Hunter (1975) were the product of personal experiences during field investigations, and also the data supplied by native informants.

14

Telling the story

Though the above generic accounts provide some basic information on village life, I will dwell in particular on the land administration reports by Craven (1898) and Tuckey (1920) as strategic sources for appropriating village history. Under the leadership of these Settlement Officers after whom these accounts have been famously named, a team of subordinate officials participated in the process of obtaining data. They made village-wise enquiries during which villagers responded to the questions asked. More importantly, during land-related disputes, principally centring round the issue of khuntkatti, evidence provided before the local courts by the revenue officials eminently formed the wealth of village-centric information. To what extent can this knowledge-base sustain rural studies? This directs us to the discussion on the cause and content of lack. Colonial knowledgemaking had, besides the above procedure of obtaining data, a distinct method of preservation and destruction of data. This formed the epistemic base of colonial rule, which helped the British to administer India and promote research on the colonial period. But this cannot hide its basic flaws. First, the purpose of knowledge creation during British rule was largely obtaining administratively useful information about land and people. The government papers, manuscript and printed, therefore largely offered the ‘bureaucratic and political perspectives’ (Thompson 2005: xiv). These also considerably promoted a ‘pattern of exclusion’. Accordingly, the intimate details that actually constituted popular life, and Adivasi rural life in particular, were not considered useful for recording. The accounts also focused on the colonial period while making only cursory remarks about the long stretch of the pre-colonial past. This adversely impacted reconstruction of rural history, largely because the advent of rusticity in India, particularly among the Adivasis, was an event of pre-colonial origin. So complete or partial erasure of the pre-colonial past denies us basic information about how and when itinerant indigenous groups converted to settled village life. Second, the logistics of knowledge-making, as a recent essay has elaborated, was largely not conducive to reconstructing Adivasi village history. The process of obtaining local data began after the directive issued by the centre reached the village, being routed through province, division and district. This began the concurrent process of creating an archaeology of village, district, divisional, provincial and central-level knowledge. Of this, greater value was attached to the upper layers, while the details of the lower were trivialised. To elaborate, villages lost their details in the district reports, and lower units became progressively emasculated in the higher ones that ultimately produced pan-Indian information during British rule; during the post-colonial period this formed the mainstream knowledge (Sen 2008: 88–98). This was heightened by the abject flaw in the maintenance and preservation of official records. The documents were classified as A, B, C, of which A was for permanent preservation; B for 12 years, while the latter was destroyed after two years. Therefore, the lives of the reports depended on whether the papers belonged to or were proximal to the centre (A, B). C-class papers, generally belonging to the district and village, did

Telling the story

15

not merit durability because of their peripheral location. Colossal decimation of ground-level knowledge recorded on the covers of the Fly Leaf clearly underlines the severe limitation of the official text on rural life (Sen 2003: 81–9). I would like to provide precise instances to underline the nature of the flaws associated with the available data and the hindrances these created. First, generally these were laconic and cryptic. To substantiate, early correspondences trace out differential growth of rusticity in Kolhan. One such informs that its northern part had several large agriculturally developed villages organised under a traditional mechanism of village governance, while the southern region passed through a proto-agro-rural phase.4 The correspondence of T. Wilkinson, Political Agent of the South West Frontier Agency, to his deputy, Lt. S.R. Tickell, alludes to a customary mechanism of governance, witchcraft and formation of the colonial structure of rural administration. However, such correspondence is sparse and fragmentary, obfuscating how an itinerant ethnic group embraced and reinforced a settled agro-rural life. Tickell’s famous memoir and Dalton’s Descriptive Ethnology of Bengal also come under this category. The first provides an ethnographic account of the Ho rural life, giving us an idea about the conversion of a group of Mundas into a full ethnic community (1840: 803). It also makes a cursory mention of the Saraks and Bhuiyans, harbingers of rusticity in Singhbhum, but remains silent about the pre-Ho phase of rural history. In a much broader setting, Dalton (1973) provides merely an ethnographic account of indigenous life, which misses historic details besides being repetitive. Almost in a similar vein, The Annals of Rural Bengal by Hunter (1975) draws a generic vision of rural Bengal with a focus on the Santal, but fails to portray a diachronic and intimate picture of rural life. Bradley-Birt’s Chota Nagpore makes a significant digression by including a chapter, ‘Life in a Santal Village’ (1903: 111–36). Information on the village portraying the patterns of habitation, organisation of the daily chores of life, system of sacred and profane governance, tale of creation myth, marriage custom, festivals and national hunt no doubt illuminate village life. But generally shorn of historical details, these ethnographic accounts prove inadequate as a source. This makes a close engagement with collective memory absolutely necessary.

Collective memory: problems The village stories had been told by villagers and recorded by British-day officials during the land revenue survey and settlement (1913–18) in Kolhan under A.D. Tuckey. Classified under Kursinama or Khuntkatti Papers, these are preserved in the District Record Room, Chaibasa. This book, for obvious reasons, draws considerable primary data from these sources. In writing his famous book The Edwardians, Paul Thompson underlined ‘the extraordinary potential of talking to older people about their own experience of the past’ (2005: xiv). Luckily for him, ‘millions of Edwardians’ were around for interaction. I am not obviously so fated because my informants are long dead. But my need seems to have been considerably anticipated by colonial bureaucrats whose interviews

16

Telling the story

with villagers substantially retrieved and recorded the popular memory of the Village Papers mentioned above. But while using this data, I cannot gloss over some basic lacunae in collective memory. The use of this source has become debatable, ever since the likes of Maurice Halbwachs introduced it to the academic domain (1992). The main objection centres round the fact that though ‘it is a collective phenomenon, it only manifests itself in the actions and statements of the individuals’ (Kansteiner 2002: 180). However, in defence of its collective character, Halbwachs5 argues that ‘it is in society that people normally acquire their memories. It is also in society that they recall, reorganize, and localize their memories’ (1992: 38). Some scholars proposed alternative expressions like ‘social memory’, ‘collective remembrance’, ‘public memory’ and ‘cultural memory’ (ibid.: 181–2; Assmann and Czaplicka 1995: 128–9). Furthermore, conventional historians critique oral sources for their unstable, achronological, fragmentary, narrow spatial coverage and cultural bias (Vansina 1985: 94–102, 120; Graham 1987: 14–17; Prins 1991: 114–15).6 These add a certain ‘indeterminacy’ and ‘open-endedness’, which mainstream historians generally do not consider conducive for writing a stable and uniform history. The question is the extent to which these caveats are relevant for Village Papers. Absence of memory and lack of temporal depth The loss or absence of oral information about the history of a village is one major problem. During khuntkatti enquiry, an investigating officer remarked: ‘The origin of the village has been lost in antiquity and no one can say who is the original founder’.7 In another case, the witnesses deposed that ‘they do not know about the originator as this is an old village’.8 These quotes imply that ‘old’ or ‘many years’, i.e. ancientness or antiquity, is the principal cause of absence of memory. Another reason seems to be the inability to transmit memory due to a snag in the transmission channel caused by the premature death of a parent. One witness testified: ‘My father died while I was young and so I did not hear anything about the old stories of the village from him’.9 In another case, amnesia was due to the absence of a village old man/men. A villager remarked: ‘There was no old man who knew the original history of the village’.10 And then: ‘There are no old men in the village who might have related the old history of the village’.11 Lack of temporal depth in Adivasi collective memory is another constraint. This time-depth could be less than a century; to be more precise, 80 years or three or four generations (Vansina 1985: 99; Assmann and Czaplicka 1995: 125–33). The present study shows that villagers hardly remembered beyond two/three generations, i.e. between 50 and 75 years.12 Therefore, D.M. Panna, the Assistant Settlement Officer, remarked: ‘They do not know their ancestors beyond their grandfather or great grandfather’.13 This was more or less true for literate social groups too. But the latter enjoyed the advantage

Telling the story

17

of objectifying culture in the form of texts, images, rites, buildings, monuments, cities or even landscapes (Assmann and Czaplicka 1995: 128), a facility which oral societies lacked. Moreover, when their memory was stretched, as often happened during khuntkatti enquiry, there was fumble and falter. In one case, the Munda, an old man, could not properly trace back his descent even up to his grandfather. Due to the pressure of the situation, ‘when first asked who his grandfather was he mentioned the name of his uncle’.14 Due to amnesia, a family/killi generally remembered the village they had immediately migrated from and not the names of villages their predecessors had lived in previously. In Kursi village, people remembered that Dobro, the original clearer and founder, came from Sikursai.15 Likewise, both the marang (senior) and huring (junior) killis recalled that the Hembroms of Dirigo and Bara Raikhaman had come from Raikhaman and Nakhasai, respectively.16 In all these cases, people did not recall (or maybe they were not asked to do so during khuntkatti inquiry) where their predecessors had come from. Memory failure was however community neutral, as not only the Hos but also Goala and Tanti deponents of another village exhibited a similar tendency.17 This palpable want subverts the very project of reconstructing a longue durée study of country life with the help of collective memory. Condensation of memory Memory often tends to be condensed and synoptic. Vansina assigned this flaw to the changing impact of the historic event with time, or rather the homeostatic nature of oral tradition itself (1985: 119–20). This is true about events both big and small. The British armed attack over Kolhan during 1836–37, its subjugation to East India Company’s empire, the formation of Kolhan Government Estate, and the anti-British civil rebellion of 1857–58 were large and momentous events. These caused an extensive exodus of people, administrative resettlement of villages and significant shifts in the nature of the village and regional geo-polities. Naturally therefore, these events survived in collective memory long after the tumult had subsided. However, time took a heavy toll on the text of collective memory. Consequently, people condensed them merely as disturbances of 1836–37 and 1857–58, often lumping these together into a single disturbance without further details. Most notably, the representation of these events remained disuniform when villagers portrayed the events, particularly the latter, from their social positions. This meant that the reality of the present often determined the representation of the past (Sen 2011: 82–96). Despite this, memory of these events is significant for reconstructing village history. These events served as village time markers. Recalling 1836–37, people deposed that their village was settled during Lt. Tickell’s time.18 Likewise, referring to 1857–58, villagers said that: ‘Bhuiyans, the early settlers, had left the village in Raja Arjun Singh’s (Raja of Porahat) time and the Hos had followed’.19

18

Telling the story

Furthermore, people often treated insignificant and important events in the same way. So death due to lightning, small pox and tiger menace survived in their memories in the same way as the tumultuous events referred to above. People recalled that the first Munda of their village was in office for only one year due to his death by lightning.20 In a larger number of villages, the issues were smallpox and tiger menace, which were endemic problems in jungleinfested Kolhan. One villager reminisced that all the original settlers ‘died of small pox, only one man was left & he left this village’.21 Regarding tiger menace, it was reported that ‘Muri Ho was the Munda of this village. His mother was killed by tiger. All the raiyats of the village deserted the village when the Munda was killed’.22 This may be likened to the elephant menace of present-day Adivasi villages, where they suffer severe loss of life and property.23 Mainstream historians may blame Adivasis for their failure to distinguish between big, i.e. historic, and small, i.e. insignificant and therefore un-historic, events (Vansina 1985: 118). It may be suggested that in Adivasi perception, an event gained importance more due to its immediate impact on their mundane lives rather than the long-range consequences of the historic events. Inventive and manipulative character of memory Scholars critique the inventive and manipulative nature of memory. This ‘often privileges the interests of the contemporary’ (Kansteiner 2002: 180).24 Being in a state of ‘permanent evolution, open to the dialectic of remembering and forgetting’ (Nora 1989: 8), this becomes basically an unstable (Halbwachs 1992: 40) source for historical reconstruction. In the present case, the Khuntkatti Papers unravel selective erasure of the past due to the endemic manipulation of the past and invention of fiction by villagers. I will take up the latter issue first. To understand the meaning of fiction, it is relevant to know what constitutes the traditional history or ‘recognised tradition’ of a village. In social and official perceptions (the convergence between the two is detailed below), this is the sum total of facts about which there is a social consensus. In a khuntkatti dispute case, the official noted: ‘There is generally a consensus of opinion about the original founder’.25 Likewise, there was a general agreement among residents of a village about the original killi and later comers.26 But where there was not, the past became a contested zone. An official observed: ‘The evidence of witnesses shows that there is no recognised tradition about village founding’.27 Therefore, consensus was the measure of truth or village tradition, which survived in village memory due to the mechanism of generational transmission. In a khuntakatti dispute case, the objectors claimed descent from one Dode Ho, the cousin of the original founder Damu Ho. But when the Munda forgot about him, the official remarked ‘how Dode’s name escaped Munda’s memory. If Dode had really been connected with Damu the tradition must have come down as such & there would have been no chance of missing’.28 However, court cases over khuntkatti right, elaborated in a later chapter, not only unravel the endemic contest over recognised tradition, but also the

Telling the story

19

pervasive tendency among villagers to weave fiction to establish their claim. This leads us to the strategy of weaving a fiction and then the creation of the realm of friction. I shall expand on the strategy first, while the latter will be discussed later. In a large number of cases, the invention of fiction centred on the village name. The Munda of Kokarkata claimed that the name of the village was a combination of two words: Kokar, i.e. owl in Ho, and kata, i.e. to cut. But the claim was rejected because the suffix kata was a non-Ho term, the Ho equivalent being ma.29 In another case, villagers claimed that Biskata derived its name from the event of the village maker Bishi (also Bishia) Ho’s foot being injured (cut), while he was ploughing his land. The investigating official deemed this ‘a farfetched explanation’ due to the lexical intrusion of a diku word kata.30 In both cases, the Munda was the inventor of the fiction. This indicates its elite origin. But more interesting was how it was socialised. In the second case, it was revealed that two Ho and one Tanti villager endorsed Munda’s tale.31 The second strategy was to pop up an original reclaimer and fabricate the story of village origin. D.M. Panna wrote: It appears to me that owing to the slight similarity in the sound of the village name which is pronounced as Pawapi and Pawanpi by some, the ingenuity of the Hos led them to connect it with Paun Ham a common name among the Ho.32 Another instance is equally interesting. The Munda of Bankodar deposed that Banka Ho, his predecessor, was the original clearer. He had a cock which crowed out Dhar in the early morning. So the village was so named after ‘the original founder and the crowing of the cock’.33 The third strategy was to superimpose Ho presence onto that of the earlier settlers, first by obfuscating the archaeological evidence of the latter and then fabricating a Ho-centric parallel story of origin. Despite the remains of an old tank of Sarak origin, the majority of the Ho witnesses of a village deposed that Pokharia Ho was the early settler, implying that the village had been named after him. This shows that the fiction had a tribal origin; besides witnesses from the principal killi, men from other killis also deposed along the same line. Obviously, they were influenced by the principal killi, rather than the community.34 During khuntkatti enquiry, numerous familial, intra/inter-killi and intercommunity disputes, as detailed in another chapter, made memory a hotly contested form of historical evidence. This created the problem of misrepresentation of the past elaborated on below. Memory as the tool of misrepresentation of the past Misrepresentation through usurpation and erasure of others’ past is assigned to the selective and exclusive nature of memory. Nora observes: ‘Memory is blind to all but the group it binds… there are as many memories as there are groups’

20

Telling the story

(1989: 9). This critique underlines the basic subjective nature of memory as against the supposed objectivity of history. But as Peter Burke reminds us: Remembering the past and writing about it no longer seem the innocent activities they were once taken to be. Neither memories nor histories seem objective any longer. In both cases historians are learning to take account of conscious or unconscious selection, interpretation and distortion. (1997: 44) Largely, the Ho villagers indulged in manipulating earlier history. In the process, they either decimated or glossed over such palpable evidence as tanks, mango groves and other symbols of the Saraks and Bhuiyans, but sometimes of the Hindus also. I will provide the details on this in a later chapter.

Memory and history: towards conflation I fear that collective memory might be trivialised as ‘a jumble of chance genealogies, usurped glories, proofless assertions’ (Goubert 1971: 115). This may yet underline the dichotomous relationship between memory and history.35 However, some scholars contend that the prejudice of mainstream scholars is largely the product of ethnocentrism. Rappaport observes that a Euro-American vision of history considers its ‘own construction of the past as “history” while alien modes are called “myth”’ (1998: 12; see also Kansteiner 2002: 180). Furthermore, this may in a way democratise history by ‘bringing recognition to substantial groups of people who had been ignored’ (Thompson 1978: 7), besides promoting the ‘social purpose’ of bringing ‘a shift in focus’ and opening up ‘important new areas of inquiry’ (ibid.: 6). But since we cannot make an ‘unreflective deployment of collective memory’,36 we should examine the tools society and colonial officials used to verify the authenticity of oral evidence. How this would conflate memory and history is elaborated on below. Technique of knowledge verification As discussed above, knowledge verification was necessitated by doubt and uncertainty prevailing at social and official levels over village tradition. Socially, this conflict is visible when villagers drew on oral tradition and deviated from it. This produced narratives and counter-narratives. Likewise, British officials swayed between the urgency to obtain oral information while retaining serious distrust about it. Though this should have normally set the stage for a conflict between memory and history, the imperative of determining khuntkatti right largely compelled the villagers and colonial administrators to put the available information under strict scrutiny. Tools of verification were of indigenous (Adivasi) and extraneous (non-Adivasi, including British) origin. Kursinama (genealogical tree), sasandiri (sepulchral stone) and desauli (sacred grove) belonged to the former genre, while the latter was represented by such artefacts as Sarak and Bhuiyan tanks and mango

Telling the story

21

groves, and also temples and images of Hindu and Bhuiyan origin. Furthermore, names of village and arable lands also served the purpose of verification. The specific and subjective nature of these artefacts however made verification a tricky exercise. Often, these were pitted against each other: genealogical tree (GT) against tank/mango grove, and desauli against Pauri (the Bhuiyan goddess). The problems intensified when villagers indulged in the mental and physical decimation of the symbols of others. The British officials, who needed information for efficient governance, sought to solve this baffling situation by verifying memorised information using sasandiri, marang killi-haga, villageland names, deori-Munda (Tuckey 1920: 19–20) and also genealogical tree and desauli tests. These were adapted from the indigenous tradition elaborated on below. As an additional measure, they deployed exotic artefacts, official correspondences and settlement reports to further examine the veracity of memory. The following pages will explore and critically review the interplay of these tools, and also latent conflicts, in the verification of historical knowledge. Social mode of verification The general perception is that oral societies preserved their memories through generational transmission but they did not develop tools of verification. But a closer reading of Adivasi rural life reveals that this notion is not wholly true. One mode of verification was its reproduction by the village old men who were socially considered as the custodians of village tradition and history. The other measure was whether village tradition, comprising information on the village founder, founding killi and the details of demographic settlements, was socially confirmed or not. There were some more physical modes of socially corroborating and authenticating historical information. The first was kursinama or genealogy of the founding family/killi that determined what was the marang (senior) killi/haga (brotherhood) and who held the posts of deori-Munda and Munda. Past as genealogy and past as chronology, to borrow from Eric Hobsbawm (1997: 20–21), in fact respectively represent preliterate and literate societies. In normal cases, genealogies survived in the family. So people generally remembered the man who had founded the village and set up family settlements. But the problem arose, as cited above, due to the early death of parents. We have also learnt about the shortness of memory as well as familial and social amnesia due to the absence of old men. There was however a social technique of preparing a GT when such problems arose. This involved cobbling together genealogies with the help of old people. This is proved by the statement that the ‘Munda has filed a Genealogical table which he prepared after consulting the old men of his killi’.37 Genealogies also informed and provided confirmation about the unbreakable link between the present inhabitants and the original founders, besides profiling the authentic demographic history of a village. Village Papers also inform that people generally expressed their time of entry to a village in reference to the village head. This implies that genealogy of the Munda family also drew the temporal scale of Adivasi village history.

22

Telling the story

Desauli According to Adivasi tradition, villagers demarcated and preserved a part of the primeval forest at the time of village reclamation. Known as desauli or Sarna in Jharkhand, this was considered to be the abode of the village god, who ensured the general welfare of the village, good rainfall and freedom from diseases. Desauli therefore tested whether a village had an ethnic origin or not. During khuntkatti enquiry, colonial officials applied a desauli test to verify village origin. E.C. Probal, the investigating officer, remarked: The Hos cannot expect to have khuntkatti rights when they cannot show their deshawalli. According to their custom, the original Ho settlers in a place, keep by a portion of jungle as a home for their village God.38 So when the Ho inhabitants of a village failed to show their desauli, their claim of khuntkatti right was officially turned down.39 This also proved that villagers had not severed their link with the mother village, when the former and daughter villages had a common desauli. Burumpada village once formed part of Baliapada. But since they had not developed their separate desauli, both were considered one village religiously.40 Sasandiri The cultural symbol of the Adivasis was the village sasan or graveyard of their ancestors, where they placed sepulchral stones either vertically (sasandiri) or horizontally (biddiri).41 Dalton considered these ‘ancient and modern monuments’ useful archaeological tools to unearth the indigenous past in the absence of ‘traditions’ (1873: 112–19). In Jharkhand, such graves and memorial stones (Roy 1970: 222) more or less verified whether villages were settled by the Adivasis or others. In Adivasi perception, when a village had an independent sasan, culturally it attained the full status of a village. Conversely, villagers used the sasan of the mother village for burial to signify its dependent status.42 Colonial officials applied the sasandiri test for obtaining information on the village past and for verifying memory. First, the age of the sasan helped to identify the founding killi. In Bhaluka, the Bobonga Hos were known as the marang killi because they had the oldest burial ground.43 Second, burial evidence was privy to multi-layered village histories. In one village, there were burial grounds of the Sirkas, the Purtis and the Bobongas. Of these three, the Sirkas were the original settler; after they became extinct, the Purtis came, but they too became extinct. The last to come was the Bobonga, the present settler.44 Thus, separate sasans came to represent three distinct archaeological layers.

Telling the story

23

Exogenous artefacts The social mechanism of knowledge production and corroboration came under severe stress with the tailoring of genealogies, faking the origin of village names and effacement of the past belonging to others. This necessitated the invocation of other tools to corroborate facts. Colonial officials applied these tests to examine and ascertain whether a village was of non-Ho or Ho origin. Tanks and mango groves First were the historic tanks and mango groves. Extant old tanks (Craven 1898: paras 21–46) of Sarak, also Bhuiyan, origin, socially called either surmidurmi or bonga pokharis, were assigned to bongas or gods but not to the Hos, i.e. human beings.45 Similarly, mango groves were ascribed to these pre-Ho settlers. Verbal testimony of villagers about the demographic specificity of this archaeological evidence, as endorsed officially, gave such evidence the status of legitimate tool of verification. In respect of a village, an official commented: ‘The existence of Sarawak (Sarak) tanks raises a reasonable doubt in the mind if the Hos are the original reclaimers’.46 And then, the Assistant Settlement Officer wrote: ‘it was a custom with the Sarawaks not to take water from a tank or well excavated by others. Where ever they halted even for a short time, they dug their own Bandh’.47 The presence of as many as four tanks in one village and ten in another, and a mango grove or five old trees, testified the Sarak origin of these villages.48 There were also villages where these tools conclusively established their Bhuiyan origin.49 Remains of religious symbols The remains of Hindu temples and the images of Shiva, Ganesh and Pauri related a pre-Ho phase of Kolhan history. The remains of a temple at Benisagar proved its Hindu origin, dismissing the claim of the village head that ‘probably his grandfather was the original reclaimer’.50 The discovery of an unnamed Hindu idol in another village similarly bore testimony to the fact that ‘some Hindu castes were originally residents’ here.51 But the remains of such religious symbols did not always authenticate the past, as the following instances show. The discovery of the remains of a Shiva temple otherwise evidenced the Hindu origin of a village. But the parallel evidence of a Sarak tank and mango grove affirmed that Saraks were actually the original settlers before the Hindus occupied it.52 Another village presents a more interesting story. The Bhuiyan residents claimed that they had founded the village. But the presence of an idol of Shiva, still worshipped by the Brahmins of Jaintgarh, dismissed their claim. This should have normally affirmed the Hindu origin of the village. But an old mango garden containing several mango trees established that in fact the village did not originate either with the Hindus or Bhuiyans.53

24

Telling the story

Goddess Pauri was the deity of a class of the Bhuiyans who were known as Pahari Bhuiyans. So the presence of her image provided archaeological proof of original Bhuiyan settlement. Consequently, besides the above archaeological remains, officials verified whether the village had the image of Pauri or a desauli, respectively evidencing its Bhuiyan or Ho link. The discovery of such an image established the Bhuiyan ancestry of Diku Ponga.54 But invariable invocation of this archaeological parameter was problematic. There were innumerable examples of acculturation where the Hos had also adapted Pauri as their village deity.55 Politico-administrative symbols Remains of a fort, iron-drum, sword-shield-bugle, iron arrow and feudal land tenures provide reliable details about the feudal layer of Singhbhum history, more so of Kolhan villages. We learn that Porahat chiefs claimed themselves as the Rajas of Singhbhum, but on the eve of British conquest their control had dwindled considerably (McPherson 1906: 18). On the basis of the tools named above, we can trace out the nature and extent of Porahat control over villages. An old fort, mango trees, the Rajabandh and paikali mouza (lands assigned for the maintenance of the paiks of this dynasty) provided evidence that Jaintgarh was the bastion of the Porahat dynasty in south Kolhan. The neighbouring Rajabassa, Chanpada, Darposi and Pokam villages originated as its satellites.56 Likewise, Kharband was the base of the Porahat dynasty in south-eastern Kolhan to which villages like Kumardungi, Chukri, Lakhiposi and Tangar owed their origin. Furthermore, the old fortress at Garh Kesna was the citadel of Keonjhar Rajas who controlled such villages as Nawagaon, Tarapai and Amda from that base.57 Yet another purpose that these symbols served was to verify claims of village foundation. Regarding the origin of Kharband, witnesses deposed that the village had been founded by one Bade Ho, who had come from a far-off village in Bantaria pir. The claim was considered fictitious on the basis of the fact that Kharband fell within the domain of Mayurbhanj Rajas and this implied that the village had a non-Ho origin.58 Linguistic archaeology Names of villages and plots of land served as useful tools of knowledge production and verification.59 Both Gond and Ho witnesses of Tangar claimed khuntkatti right. In support of their claim, the latter named Tango Ho, their predecessor, as the village maker. But this was officially dismissed on the ground that Tangar was a diku word with an etymological link to huge stones, which were scattered over the village.60 In another village, the Ho residents deposed that two of their predecessors had settled the village. But the investigating officer found that the village name had actually originated from the Oriya roots Juari (yoke) and bhanga (to break).61 Likewise, in Kusmunda village, Bhuiyan residents cited their lands called Patbera to establish their claim over the village.62

Telling the story

25

However, invoking this linguistic evidence was problematic for different reasons. First, names were often borrowed. The prefixes San (small) and Bara (large), both non-Ho words, should otherwise evidence the non-Ho birth of San and Bara Mirgilindi villages. But more significant was the etymological composition of Mirigilindi, which grew out of the sum of Miri, i.e. jungle, and dili, i.e. a small village in Ho.63 These proved that the villages had a Ho origin and had borrowed the above prefixes. On such occasions, officials applied two other tests. They verified which of the killis had numerical preponderance, and second, which killi uninterruptedly held the posts of Munda and deori.64 Linguistic evidence often proved misleading as names were changed and distorted. Also, there was a tendency by the principal demographic group to ignore the nomenclatural evidence.65 As cited above, giving Ho names to Sarak tanks was a more common practice. In the same way, villagers of Kokarkata renamed the historic site called Darbar Mela with the Ho word Uliburu.66 It becomes clear that above tools of verification, rather than authenticating facts, often led to conflict. To resolve this problem, investigating officials invoked colonial literate evidence such as Tickell’s list of abandoned villages of 1838 and settlement papers. During the British invasion of Kolhan in 1836–37, people had abandoned their villages. After the formation of the Kolhan Government Estate in 1837, several of these villages were resettled. Names of these villages were mentioned in Tickell’s above list of villages. During khuntkatti enquiry, officials verified whether the village remained in continuous possession of the founding killi or whether it was resettled after 1837. In the former case, after subjecting the village to other tests of verification, the authenticity of the original history was established. But in the latter case, despite the above verification, khuntkatti right was denied. To substantiate, Gurgaon, a small village on the Mayurbhanj border had a mixed population and a contested history. During khuntkatti enquiry, the Ho witness deposed that this village was ‘settled after the first disturbance in Kolhan in Tickell’s time. The village was not occupied before then’. He further said that the Ho name of the village was Goonga. But Lt. Tickell’s list included the name of the village. This therefore became the basis for the rejection of a Ho claim of foundation and the origin of the village after 1838.67 The land revenue settlement records served as the other tool of verification. I will continue to refer to the above village to examine its function. A Ho villager claimed that his ‘grand father’s father’ Dugud was the original founder and his son Borea was the Munda during the land revenue settlement of Kolhan in 1867. On the basis of settlement papers, the official commented that: it would be impossible to have 270 bighas of rice land in the village in 1867 if Borea’s father cleared and first settled here. The extension of cultivation from 1867 to 1896 was 177 bighas of rice lands only & at this rate the village must have been settled long before the time fixed by the Hos.68

26

Telling the story

Conflation of the social and official tests of verification therefore greatly resolves the binary of history and memory. This methodology has been deployed for the reconstruction of the history of Adivasi village making. The story begins with the historic conjuncture of the genesis of a village.

Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34

This chapter has developed from my essay, Sen (2015: 16–37). Tuckey Settlement Village Note (TSVN). This section draws on Sen (2018: 19–28). E. Roughsedge to C.T. Metcalfe, Secretary to the Government, 9 May 1820, para. 15, South West Frontier Political Despatch Register (SWFPDR), 20 April 1820 to 7 June 1821, Vol. XXVII, para. 17. I draw support from the observation ‘The student of the subject of historical consciousness must not overlook Halbwachs; he was the first to discuss the concept of collective memory systematically’ (Funkenstein 1989: 9). Regarding lack of chronology, Vansina however adds that the genealogies may ‘form a basis for local chronology’ (1985: 24). TSKP, Lakhiposi, 6–8, VN 33. ibid., Tangar, 6–8, VN 34. An additional quote is more eloquent: ‘So many years have elapsed so I do not know the name of Turi Ham’s father nor do I know of his mother, nor of his brothers’. ibid., Bara Nanda, 3–12, VN 69. ibid., Jamjoi, 3–5, VN 70. TS, Papers of cases u/s 89, Topkocha, 6, VN 2. TSKP, Baduri, 3–5, VN 21. Officially, 25 years made one generation. TSKP, Pawapi, 3–7, VN 50. TS, Papers of cases u/s 83, Dobrosai, 4–5, VN 14. TSKP, Kursi, 3, VN 16. ibid., Dirigo, 3–5, VN 36; ibid., Bara Raikhaman, 3–5, VN 36. ibid., Bara Raikhaman. ibid., Naranga, 3–6, VN 41. ibid., Khas Jamda, 3–5, 72. See also ibid., Pachpaia, 3–5, VN 2 MT. TS, Papers of cases u/s 83, Kandegutu, 8–9, VN 20. TSKP, Rela, 3–4, VN 1 MT. See also ibid., Rairowa, 3–4, VN 1MT. TS, Tanaza Papers, Note for Orders, Sankara Ho s/o Mundi Munda vs Bhavo Gour & others,10, VN 1 MT. Another village had witnessed a similar group exodus ‘on account of the ravages of tigers’. ibid., Rairowa, 3–4, VN1MT. Prabhat Khabar, 30 December 2019, 3/8 January 2020. Funkenstein considers personal and collective memories primarily as ‘a design of the present and its structure, composed of the contents and symbols of the here and now’ (1989: 9). TS, Papers of cases u/s 83, Kotsana, 7, VN 1. TSKP, Sidma, 3–5, VN 24. ibid., Etar, 3–5, VN 34. See also ibid., Mahuldiaha, 3–4, VN 34. TS, Papers of cases u/s 83, Ulihatu, 12–14, VN 13. TSKP, Kokarkata, 3–7, VN 36. ibid., Biskata, 3, VN 37. ibid. ibid., Pawapi, 3–7, VN 50. ibid., Bankdar, 3–6, VN 35. ibid., Pokharipi, 3–8, VN 70.

Telling the story

27

35 Nora observes ‘Memory and history, far from being synonymous, appear to be now in fundamental opposition’ (1989: 8). Also, ‘Collective memory is not history, though it is sometimes made from similar material’ (Kansteiner 2002: 180). 36 I would add: ‘It is the unreliability of memory that requires historians to apply critical analysis and verification in order to substantiate it as a source of evidence’ (Gedi and Elam 1996: 33). 37 TSKP, Bankodar, 3–6, VN 35. 38 ibid., Khas Jamda, 3–5, VN 72. 39 ibid. 40 ibid., Burumpada, 3–4, VN 38. 41 This was part of Adivasi culture in Jharkhand. For the Mundas see Roy (1970: 222). 42 TSKP, Popkoda, 3–4, VN 1MT. See also ibid., Kadalsokwa, 3–5, VN 72. 43 ibid., Bhaluka, 3, VN 49. Interestingly, the Hos called this village Maluka, while the Dikus called it Bhaluka. See also ibid., Katepara, 3. VN 50. 44 ibid., Popkoda, 3–4, VN 1 MT. See also ibid., Kadalsokwa, 3–5, VN 72. 45 ibid., Pokhripi, 3–8, VN 70; ibid., Bankodar, 3–6, VN 35. 46 ibid., Etar, 3–5, VN 34. 47 ibid., Bankodar, 3–6, VN 35. 48 ibid., Pawapi, 3–7, VN 50; ibid., Karanjia 3–6, VN 50; ibid., Tangar, 6–8, VN 34; ibid., Sarda, 3–4, VN 39. 49 ibid., Gamharia, 3–8, VN 42; ibid., Jaipur, 3–8, VN 42; ibid., Goberdhan, 3–5, VN 39. 50 ibid., Benisagar, 3, VN 38. 51 ibid., Panduaburu, 3–4, VN 38. 52 ibid., Sarda, 3–4, VN 39. 53 ibid., Darposi, 3–8, VN 46. 54 ibid., Diku Ponga, 3–4, VN 1 MT. See also ibid., Kulaiburu, 3–4, VN 1 MT. 55 ibid., Diku Ponga, 3–4; ibid., Kudriba, 3–4, VN 1 MT. 56 ibid., Jaintgarh, 3–6, VN 46; ibid., Rajabassa, 3–6, VN 45; ibid., Chanpada, 3–5, VN 45; ibid., Darposi, 3–8, VN 46; ibid., Pokam, 3–7, VN 46. 57 ibid., Garh Kesna, 3, VN 41; ibid., Tarapai, 3–5, VN 41; ibid., Nawagaon, 3, VN 41; ibid., Amda, 3–5, VN 41. 58 TS, Cases u/s 83, Kharband, 25, VN 33. 59 The village name constituted archeological proof of their Munda origin (Roy 1970: 77–8). 60 TSKP, Tangar, 6–8, VN 34. 61 ibid., Joaribhanga, 3–4, VN 37. 62 ibid., Kusmunda, 3–9, VN 43. 63 ibid., Miriglundi, 3–14, VN 50. 64 ibid. 65 ibid., Kochra, 3–12, VN 50. 66 ibid., Kokarkata, 3–7, VN 36. 67 TSKP, Gurgaon, 3–8, VN 44. 68 ibid.

3

The birth of a village

Introduction The study of village birth or village origin introduces a theme which is somewhat incongruent with the empirical idea of a village. Largely due to the limited timeframe of their investigations, empiricists fail to capture the process of village genesis after the conversion of natural space into a cultural one and the gradual making of the village. This conversion is associated with the changing spatial idea of a village. Having knowledge about its historical significance is crucial; the first, i.e. the making of the village, is elaborated on in this chapter, while the other, i.e. the conversion of natural space into a cultural one, is discussed in the next chapter. For the present chapter, this knowledge is salient for three reasons: for understanding the meaning of village origin; unfolding the connotations of a village; and initiating the study of the birth of a village as the foundational unit of the villagers’ socio-polity, which grew out of their occupied or conquered community territory or homeland (Sen 2018: 10, 74). The chapter is divided into two sections: The first section focuses on the meaning of a village, while the second section elaborates on different stages of its origin.

Meaning of a village The meaning of a village in Adivasi society is a rather complex idea as it raises a few spatio-temporal questions. Does it denote the inhabited and cultivated parts only or also the adjacent uninhabited areas? Does it simply have a physical and material meaning, or is it something more than that? Does it mean the time when the idea of a village was conceived, or the time of its actual birth, such as the delivery of a child, and then finally the time of its coming of age? Does it, then, constitute a single event such as either of the above or is it a sum total of later events associated with it? These questions reveal that the meaning of a village is not spatio-temporally static but changing. The term village has a host of synonyms in India. It is called grama in Sanskrit, ganw or gam in Hindi, mouza in Arabic and khel in Punjab, while Ur is the common Dravidian word meaning a village (Baden-Powell 1972: 74). Among the ethnic communities, the Bhils named it para or parra (ibid.: 152),

The birth of a village

29

while hatu is a synonym of village among the indigenes in Jharkhand. In common parlance, a village, or rather a raiyatwari (settlement made with a raiyat or tenant cultivator) village, denotes the location of a ‘group of cultivators… bound by certain customs, with certain interests in common, and possessing… the means of local government, and satisfying the wants of life without much reference to neighbouring villages’ (ibid.: 9). The Dangi meaning of a village comes closer to this definition. Though ‘temporary abodes’ also denoted a village to them, ‘the community constituted in cultivation’, involving governance and payment of fixed tax, earned the status of a real village (Skaria 1999: 53). But in an academic sense, a village denotes both the demarcated or bounded village site and also the administrative unit variously termed as mouza, administrative village, revenue village and survey village (Shah 2002: 5). The social and legal debates, however, made the quest of uncovering village meaning problematic. I will begin with the latter. Officially, the meaning of a village was basically administrative, involving the process of delineating the physical boundary, demographic settlement, resources and occupational patterns (Datta 1928: Section 3, Chapter I, 21; Bridge 1996: para 230). Integrated with the district, division and province, the village formed the smallest unit of the colonial administrative framework. As we address the social meaning, some confusion and discordance is evident. This surfaced when the British administration dealt with the issue of village foundation during the khuntkatti enquiry of 1913–18. The central issue of who founded the village carried with it the secondary question of what a village signified for an Adivasi. Bharat or Borta Ho was socially known as the founder of Uligutu. He had four sons: Rasai, Sado, Har and Bir Singh. When their families grew and needed more land, Achu, Rasai’s son, founded Loharda; Sado’s descendants laid out Baika and those of Har and Bir Singh founded Argundi. There was, however, a dispute. When the Attestation Officer enquired who made the village Baika, Loharda and Argundi, the objectors replied: ‘The village as we understood was the site. We have never worried our heads about boundaries’.1 This implies that the concept of a village denoted the original demarcated site within the forest over which multiple villages could be built, rather than the actually built village as evident from above. Shah (2002: 13) underlined the specific significance of site in village studies. The question that arises is why should villagers make a distinction between site and boundary? The distinction arose due to the fact that when a group of people arrived at a jungle area, their leader ceremonially fixed the rough site for demarcation. As Roy describes: Huge bonfires were lit up at four corners of a selected tract from one point to the next, connecting the four bonfires. These lines formed the boundarylines of the new village. And within the limits of the village thus demarcated, all the land, cultivable as well as waste, all the hills and jungles, and streams, – everything above ground and underground, became the common property of the village-family. (1970: 63)

30

The birth of a village

The performance of rituals evidences that demarcation of the site or laying down the village boundary was a significant social event. This explains why the selection of the site preceded the laying down of the boundary, and that the site itself denoted a village. Perhaps this also suggests that for some people, the focus was on the conception of a village before its formation rather than the emergence of the village once it formed a distinct social identity and status following the performances elaborated on below. However, we learn that the actual making of a village was more determining for others. This adds an administrative facet, which is distinguished from the social meaning stated above. Ghono Munda of Bara Kundrijor deposed that ‘Kande Gura Ham of killi Boipai came here from Barkela & colonized the village. He was the first man to clear the forest & clear land’.2 Accordingly, a chosen site assumed the status of an administrative village when the forest site was cleared and made habitable; cultivable lands were allotted and the Munda was socially chosen. However, to earn the social status of a full village, it had to fulfil other practices also. To quote: ‘It appears Tareya & Sukripora were one village before. Now for administrative purposes they are separate but for religious purposes they are still one. They have a common deshawalli’.3 Therefore, this implies that although administratively the village had an independent status, the absence of separate village desauli did not culturally accord it the same status. Yet another criterion was the appointment of an independent village priest. It was he who performed the vital social ritual of offering prayer to the forest gods: A Deori is a most essential person at the founding of a village for one of the first ceremonies performed is the puja to the gods who abound in the forests according to the belief of the Hos.4 The absence of a separate village priest signified the dependent status of a village. To quote: ‘originally a tola of Bikuli, Jahira of Bikuli is still in the village and the Deori lives in Bikuli who performs the services for both the villages’.5 This implies the religious union of mother and satellite villages. Uli Rajabassa, Gara Rajabassa, Galubasa and Kitahatu originally formed a single village. This was why for ‘all the four there is only one Desauli or Jahira and only one Deori. The Desauli is in the original main village’. Obviously, deori must have also lived there.6 This lingering unity must have been for the purpose of familial solidarity. In another case, however, the reason was different. Even after bifurcation, Bichaburu did not have its own desauli, and understandably no deori either. Located in a jungle area, villagers offered ‘pujas at the Desauli at Kusmita’ as the jungle was ‘within the jurisdiction of the Bonga of Kusmita’. So when Gagrai killi Hos of Kusmita settled in Bichaburu, they continued to also offer pujas at Kusmita desauli, implying that this occurred through its deori.7 But after separation, having its own desauli and deori signified the religious coming of age of the new village. Why it happened is substantiated by the case

The birth of a village

31

of Baruisai village above. Though this was the norm, Pokhripi provides an interesting but rare case of departure. Sildauri and Pokhripi, being one, had a common desauli and deori for a long time. This means that religious independence was not functional, which had its own impact: ‘Every one does bongai (worship of the bonga) for himself. The Desauhli is at Sildauri. There is no Deori but every one offers sacrifice for himself’.8 The above details make it clear that the meaning of a village incorporated the completion of the intermeshing processes of conception, birth and the gradual coming of age. This occurred in stages. The entire process was summed up in local language as chilike hatu baeleda, i.e. how a village was settled. Chilike hatu baeleda9 The adoption of settled cultivation and permanent village life occurred simultaneously across the world. A close link between stable peasantry and the rural way of life is evident in Western Europe (Duby 1989: 141–2). The same is visible among the ethnic communities of Gujarat (Skaria 1999: 53–4), and also among the Bhils of Udaipur in Rajasthan (Baden-Powell 1972: 152). However, there was a difference in the period of its occurrence. Regarding Central African indigenous communities, Chanock noted the following: ‘Like tribes, in our period the villages were created by the colonial political process and people were learning to live in them, not living traditionally’ (1985: 21). The emergence and consolidation of ruralism was, however, a pre-colonial event in Jharkhand. The story of the staged making of a village actually began after the disparate groups of the Munda tribe first entered Singhbhum. Mainly due to their dependence on hunting, foraging and shifting cultivation, the immigrant groups first lived in temporary villages; later they shifted to permanent villages, when they adopted settled cultivation. It is interesting, however, to highlight the existing traditions regarding village foundation. What we find is that there existed a village tradition, about which there was general agreement, while some traditions were disputed. Where early man had completed all or the major steps of village founding, as with the case of Dangar Ho of the above Luia village (he was said to have cleared the jungle and ‘founded the village’), then he was socially recognised as the village founder or Ham. A dispute occurred when the early man had not fulfilled all the requirements or when a village had been settled by a group of people. This might have been the case with Lidian. Though the Munda claimed that Lidian Ho of his killi had reclaimed the village, other witnesses disputed this.10 Likewise, in Naranga, one witness claimed that the village had been named after Narangaburu. But no one supported him.11 Therefore, we have to examine the precise elements of village foundation. The first stage was the selection of a village site. Generally, this was determined by safety, economic and ecological concerns. The physical safety of the settlers from the aggression of real or putative enemies was a factor in village formation in India (Baden-Powell 1972: 65–8). The village formation by the Bhils

32

The birth of a village

reflected this concern (ibid.: 152). The fear for physical safety from external aggression, such as Aryan aggression in the historic past, seemed to have generated fear among the Adivasis of Jharkhand (ibid.: 153–4). Being ‘on all sides somewhat difficult to access’, and being also ‘well suited to their wants and out of reach of their enemies’, they therefore chose Chotanagpur plateau as their homeland (Dalton 1866: 153).12 Environmental factors largely influenced site selection. The easy availability of food, fodder, water as well as arable and habitable land, which the unoccupied forested tracts amply provided, was the principal motivation (BadenPowell 1972: 65–71). In founding a village, the ethnic groups of the Himalayan region primarily considered the availability of ‘good forest and grazing ground’ (Guha 2008: 279). In the cases of the Dangs of Gujarat and the Adivasis of Jharkhand, ecology not only determined site selection but invested in the village a certain identity. Due to their close affinity ‘with jangal’, the Dangs characterised their rusticity as forest-centric (Skaria 1999: 58–9). Likewise, in Jharkhand, rusticity and agrarianism were saturated by a close yet variable link with the forests. The Hos, for instance, first inhabited a thickly forested zone of northern Singhbhum (Tickell 1840: 696), followed by the colonisation of the more densely wooded south Kolhan. Here, they generally chose open and even terrain for village sites, rather than the densely forested and hilly parts (Craven 1898: 6–13), or the inhospitable southern parts. However, a few fertile valleys and occasionally the slopes of the western part were chosen for ruralisation, although the area was generally hilly and forested. The far south, in which the famous mountainous and forested Saranda tract is located, contained a few villages (Tickell 1840: 699). In the Hazaribagh and Lohardaga districts of Jharkhand, a central plateau region with undulating surfaces, both ‘prosperous villages and a fair extent of villages’ were located. On the other hand, its extensively forested valley region was less densely ruralised (Hunter, Vol. XVI 1976: 23). Ecological determinism was, however, conditioned by the material progress achieved by the community. The more agriculturally advanced Oraon preferred open central parts of the plateau (Roy 1984: 65), while materially less developed Munda immigrants cleared jungles and established their villages ‘in the heart of deep dense forests’ of the Chotanagpur plateau (Roy 1970: 62). After selection of the site, an Adivasi village developed in stages. However, there were some differences in the process depending upon whether the village was the original/mother village or its satellite. The original/mother village emerged as the basic settlement in the wooded terrain, about which we do not have much direct evidence. The Village Papers relate mostly to the formation of satellite villages, which developed out of or due to the original/mother village. However, the stages of formation for both were almost identical, except for the tradition of populating a village. The trend was that when the original settlement became overcrowded, the search for new land began.13 This was determined by the following custom of the prohibition of family property beyond a certain limit.

The birth of a village

33

If there are two khets and three sons, the third son must shift for himself. It often happens that if the holding of the father is small the brother makes it all over to the eldest, and the others try to do what they can, but still their claim exists and is never destroyed. (cited in Sen 2012: 90) Another factor in village formation might be an instance such as an intracommunity/killi feud, though this was rare. One such had occurred among the Jamuda killi people, causing the separation of Bara Lagiya and Uligutu.14 But among the Konds of Orissa, inter-community warfare was endemic over land and women. This made ensuring physical safety and security a decisive factor in their collective life (Bailey 1960: 60–3). The next stage involved the conversion of the tola (hamlet) or sai of the primary village into an independent village. During Hayes’ Settlement of 1867 in Kolhan, Ulirajabassa was the primary village and Gara Rajabassa and Kitahatu were its tolas. During the above settlement process, these developed into independent villages. How this happened makes interesting reading. The founder of Ulirajabassa was Data Sura Ho. He had three sons: Karanti Selai, Ribi Sita and Rega. Ribi Sita moved to and built a house in Gara Rajabassa and Rega built one in Kitahatu, while Karanti Selai stayed behind in the mother village, presumably because he was the eldest of the three. A more important factor was that even after separation, a material link continued as these families had both land and houses in all these villages. Together with this, a cultural link endured as they had a common desauli and deori in the original village.15 Village founder The actual village making began with the advent of the village founder or the early man, called Ham, in the forested tract. This involved considerable enterprise and a sense of adventure (Baden-Powell 1972: 28).The Mundas and the Hos prized the crucial role of the pater familias, or the early man, as he was the one who selected and demarcated the village space (Roy 1970: 63; see also Skaria 1999: 53).16 Although according to Santal tradition a village was formed by a group of persons, they also recognised the key role of a leader. Guru Kolean informed: ‘To found a village three to four men will go with a leader and investigate a forest’ (Bodding 1994: 100). Therefore, often memory of the pioneer was the recognised village tradition or social fact, as the Village Papers inform. This is why members of khuntkatti and other killis of a village admitted in one voice that Mandur Ho of Honhaga killi had founded the village.17 This is the case with the historic Siringsia village, where villagers unanimously named Tandung Ho as the ‘reputed founder’.18 This proves that in some villages, the village founder was a cultural hero and the memory of his historic role survived the ravages of time. However, this memory had dimmed in several other villages. It may be presumed that since the village maker was not often alone in his founding mission, people did not make any distinction between

34

The birth of a village

leading and following. But worse perhaps was that the memory of collective action often caused social dispute, a latent social problem of pre-colonial origin aggravated during khuntkatti enquiry. When the village founder and his men arrived at the forest site, his first task was to identify a suitable location after ritual verification. The test permanently implanted faith in sacred or ritual elements in the Adivasi psyche. That this had a lingering presence in their mundane life is evident in the Adivasi protest against the decimation of sacred sasandiris and sarnas during the Koel-Karo movement in the 1970s (Chandra 2013: 54) and in the invocation of ‘sacred’ and the spiritual symbols during the recent Niyamgiri resistance in Odisha (Krishnan and Naga 2017: 1–17). The test decided whether the site was auspicious or ominous. This leads us to the indigenous world of myth and morals. Among the Tsongas of Africa, when ‘moving of a village’ was contemplated, the headman of the earlier village explored a site and examined it by breaking ‘small twigs from various trees and these are tested by divining bones to see which spot will be prosperous’ (Gluckman 1960: 116). However, Santal site selection was more elaborate and diverse. If they met ‘any of the three kinds of quails flying’, the chosen site was considered ominous, and so was abandoned; on the other hand, the sight of birds ‘sitting quiet on their eggs’, or if either a tiger or its footmark was found, then they considered the site auspicious. They then verified whether the ground was dry; whether the place abounded with a good proportion of highland and homestead fields; whether rice fields could be easily prepared and whether or not a source of water was available nearby. Finally, they considered omens and waited until they obtained ‘full good omens’ (Bodding 1994: 100–1; Bridge 1996: para 227; Sifton 1996: para 186) with the help of the ojhas or medicine men. Dalton noted: ‘They (the Oraons) never build a house, or select a new site for a village or a new threshing-floor, without consulting the ojha and omens’. The same is also true about the Mundas (Dalton 1866: 188–9). Laying down the village boundary was a corollary cadastral and ritual practice. Baden-Powell notes that rather than individual villages, ‘clan territories were more definitely demarcated’ (1972: 11; emphasis in original). More detailed information is available about the Munda boundary making. Roy narrates: The boundaries of the village were laid down by Pater familias. And even to this day, the Mundas regard as sacred and inviolable these boundary-lines over which the boundary-gods (Siman bongako) keep a vigilant watch. (1970: 63) Likewise, since the time the Kond groups were small, virtually comprising ‘the sons and grandsons of one man’, they developed a similar tradition. As Bailey comments: ‘When you came to a new place then you lit a fire and as far as the fire burned the land was yours’ (1960: 65). However, ethnic groups also used streams and patches of waste and jungle as boundary markers (ibid.: 57–8).

The birth of a village

35

In the recent pathalgadi movement in Jharkhand, agitators reiterated the historical practice of placing vertical stones as boundary markers (Singh 2019: 28). This politicisation of the concept of boundary makes it necessary to ascertain whether demarcating the village boundary with pillars was the ethnic practice. Although Roy’s above quotation underlines the significance of boundary making, he is silent about the use of stone pillars. But the fact that ethnic communities followed unique techniques to demarcate the village area is evident. The Tsongas fixed the chosen area ‘with magical substances’, but this was ‘to obstruct the entry of witches’ (Gluckman 1960: 117). Despite this concept of physically delineating a village, the borders were not rigid due to social and cultural factors. Therefore, ‘hamlets merged into villages, and villages into clanterritories’ to form Kondmal of the Konds (Bailey 1960: 67) and Kolhan, or rather Ho-desum, of the Hos. These ‘supra-village or regional networks’ (Breman, Kloss and Saith 1997: 5) reinforce the post-colonial empirical challenge posed by the colonial notion of village isolation and unity (Dube 1959: 5– 6; Breman 1997: 15–16; Gupta 2005: 752). After the selection of the site, prayer was offered by the pioneer to the Singbonga for the success of the endeavour. At this stage, he acted as both their secular and religious head (Roy 1970: 64). This shows that the offices of the Munda and deori were initially combined. After the above ritual, allocation of separate forest spaces for clearance and habitation began. I will provide details on the broad method of land distribution, saving its elaboration for a subsequent chapter. This rebuts Baden-Powell’s observation: ‘We have so far no evidence… of any formal tribal or other procedure for allotting the several village areas within the territory occupied by the tribe or clan’ (1972: 10). Among the Adivasis in Jharkhand, the founding killi enjoyed a privilege in land/site selection. This tradition also prevailed among the indigenes of Bastar (Sundar 2008: 28). Initially, the pioneer allotted land to persons who had accompanied him. These might have been members of his own family, socially known as marang haga (senior brotherhood) and other families of his killi called huring (junior) haga. They comprised what was socially known as marang killi. Yet members of other killis known as huring killi, often identified as the pioneer’s praja19 and his servants20 (chitra), might have also been with him or were invited later. The selected and allotted area formed the nucleus of their hatu or village, called the khuntkatti or Bhuinhari hatu (Roy 1970: 63; Roy 1984: 65). The actual village making began with the clearance of the jungle for habitation and cultivation. But it was a slow and protracted process that first catered to the immediate needs of the inhabitants and the supposed requirements of their descendants (Dalton 1973: 185). Obviously, members of marang haga/killi reclaimed the more levelled and arable region. Being first settled, this formed the oldest part of the village. Malidu was divided into four tolas: Munda tola, Santrasai, Surasai and Rasikasai. Munda tola, founded by Pere Ham, was the oldest of all,21 and was also the most ecologically hospitable. In tandem, the quantitative preponderance of marang killi in land-owning is also visible. This sowed the seeds of socio-economic heterogeneity, which widened later. But to

36

The birth of a village

maintain solidarity, society evolved techniques of homogenisation. Under this scheme, in recognition of their services, the non-khuntkattidars were assigned a specific portion and were permitted to name the tola they so reclaimed after the first clearer from their family. In Malidu, Surasai was therefore named by Nara, the pioneer, after his son Sura; Rasikasai after Rasika Ham; and Santarasai after the Santals who had developed it.22 The other technique was to share village space according to killis. Sinkus and Laguris were the oldest killis of Dumarjoa. They shared Rebedloa and Dumarjoa Khas, respectively, between them.23 Similarly, in Bara Nanda, Nanda Khas was the first to be reclaimed by Bobonga killi. It was the largest in size and the most populated. Hansdi and Loapi tolas were younger and smaller in size.24 Due to a paucity of information about the making of the mother village, I have to substantiate this with the process of house building and preparation of arable lands in a satellite village. The pioneer was the first person to initiate the process. Since this was generally done from the original village, house building was not immediately initiated. This introduces the novel ideas of bechirag (lampless) and bechappar (roofless) villages. It meant that at the initial stage, the village merely served a cultivating purpose rather than being a habitable unit. This was why the Kunkals of Tangar Pokhri reclaimed lands at Chota Bardadih before they built their houses.25 Likewise, Bara Bardadih was originally a part and tola of Gidibasa. Members of the founding killi first prepared arable lands here from the mother village. Later, some members of the family built houses in Bara Bardadih.26 Often the founding family had cultivable land and houses in both the villages. This was largely because the villages were adjacent and tolas were subsequently converted into independent villages. We find this in the cases of Ulirajabassa, Gararajabassa, Kitahatu and Galubassa.27 In some cases, either mother or daughter village was chosen for final habitation. This was impacted by the quantum of land enjoyed by these families. This is substantiated by Angardiha and Darima, the latter originally being the tola of the former. Descendants of the village founder owned lands in both. But only those members of the family who obtained a larger share of family lands later moved to Darima and built houses there.28 This shift seemed to be a family decision. The original clearer’s descendants had houses and cultivable lands in both Baduri and Kandegutu. While the father stayed in one village, his sons looked after the cultivation in another. In such cases where a family had two establishments, general practice was that one of the sons stayed in one village, while cultivation in another village was assigned to another brother.29 The above social narrative of the birth of a village has been officially partially corroborated during khuntkatti disputes. W.G. Kelly observed: Khuntkattidars are those people whose ancestors have found a suitable area, fixed its boundaries, cleared the jungle and made their lands & also called other people of the village & gave them permission to bring certain portions of jungle under cultivation.30

The birth of a village

37

What is remarkable is that Kelly left out the moral and ritual aspects of village making narrated above. This signifies that, officially, village making was merely a profane function, while according to indigenous perception it was more inclusive: Profane as well as sacred. Village naming: eternalisation of the moment Between the time of demarcation of the village boundary and land allocation, or maybe later, the village was formally named. Hatu namkeda and hatu baekeda were therefore co-terminous, presumably because giving a village its name also marked its formal birth. As with naming a child, naming a village was a memorable event, though perhaps no specific ceremony was observed, unlike the former. Seemingly, this was another important duty which the village founder had to perform.31 How and why a village was named revealed the Adivasi mentality and worldview. First, it was marked by a kind of debt payment to the original founder and natural elements for their services and help. Second, it expressed both the sacred and profane inclination of their mind. Third, since the name of a village often proved who was the khuntkattidar, villagers often resorted to concoction and fiction. Last, we notice an attempt by simple and credulous Adivasis to eternalise a momentary and transient experience during village making. A detached and insensitive mind may trivialise this as celebrating frivolity and smallness. But a more sensitive reader would contend that such otherwise small and insignificant happenings were in fact historical landmarks for Adivasi villagers. This may also offer us an opportunity to comprehend how an Adivasi contemplated the recording of history and historical events in their oral tradition. These ‘small voices of history’ need to be intercepted and deciphered in order to write an authentic Adivasi history. It is reassuring that these were verified by an official mechanism to scrutinise claims made by villagers. To ascertain why natural objects had a predominant impact during name selection, it is necessary to form an idea of the ecological setting. The erstwhile district of Singhbhum occupied the southern part of the Chotanagpur plateau. This was basically a hilly upland tract clad with forests, river basins and stretches of comparatively level or undulating country. Saranda hills and a number of smaller ranges placed it at an altitude between 2,500 and 3,000 feet. The upland plateau, surrounded by hill ranges, formed its central region, comprising the most fertile part of the district. Kolhan region, famously known as Kolhan Government Estate during British rule, the bastion of the Hos, formed its south-western part. The region called Porahat estate, also predominantly populated by the Hos, formed a hilly terrain, partly level and gently undulating. This covered the upper valley of Sanjay river near Sonua and Goilkera (O’Malley 1910: 1–5). Besides hill ranges, Singhbhum abounded in rivers and natural springs. The major ones are Subarnarekha, South and North Koel, Karo, Kharkai, Roro etc. and the tributaries of some of these. Of these, Subarnarekha and South Koel

38

The birth of a village

traversed through different districts. Most of these rivers drained the territory they passed through and released the heaviest of the rainfall. South Koel, which flows through Ranchi and Singhbhum, drains an area of roughly 3,600 square miles. The drainage area of Subarnarekha and Sankh comprises 1,100 square miles within Ranchi district alone. Rivers are fordable for the greater part of the year but are mostly not navigable. Besides these, numerous streams and waterfalls fulfilled the aquatic needs of the people (Craven 1898: paras 6–8; O’Malley 1910: 10–11; Hallett 1917: 5–7; Bridge 1996: para 6; Hunter, Vol. XIV 1976: 268–70; Sifton 1996: para 5). These water bodies were mostly monsoon dependent. The ‘gleaming golden river Subarnarekha and Baitarani, the river of Gods; Karo, Koel and many a meandering stream’ made the Ho land not only beautiful but also holy in the eyes of the villagers (Sen 2008a: 115–16). Before human settlements were formed, Singhbhum was a densely forested district, its south-western part the location of the world-famous Saranda forests. Trees of different varieties, particularly sal trees, enriched the forest cover and came to constitute an important link between nature and culture. Diverse uses of trees, in particular, created a symbiotic link between nature and Adivasi rural life. A rich variety of flora and fauna closely determined the character and course of their lives. Initially, the Adivasis were dependent on foraging and hunting. Even after the growth of ruralism, these activities remained an important part of their collective existence. So the animals they hunted and the fruits they collected from the adjacent forests for food were important components of their lives. Dependence on all these natural elements was so vital for Adivasi villagers that they acknowledged their debt to them not only by venerating them as their totems, but also by naming their villages after them, as elaborated on below. The founding of a village under the leadership of the pioneer signified the historic transformation of the itinerant Adivasis to a settled rural life. Therefore, the village founder had a special position in indigenous society. This is why there are several instances of a village being named after the village pioneer, such as the village Sarda being named after Sarda Ho32 and Putkarsai after Putkar Ho.33 The original founder might have laid out the main village, as we find in the case of Sarda. But there were cases of a tola being converted into a separate village by the first reclaimers, as instanced by Putkarsai and Kolaisai.34 There were also instances when the founder’s name, in conjunction with a natural element, gave the village its name. Kechabaipi was so named because Kecha, the reputed founder, had built his hut under a bai or banyan tree.35 Similarly, Udajo was supposed to have derived its name from Udai Ham and a jojo (tamarind) tree, which were found throughout the village site.36 However, Adivasi society sometimes attached conditions for a village being named after the pioneer. First, he had to perform all such activities attached to village foundation stated above. It was therefore the case that Sidma was named after Sidam Ham, who was chosen as its secular and religious head.37 Association between the village founder and the aforementioned posts was so vital that these functions were generally passed on to his descendants. Sinku killi villagers

The birth of a village

39

claimed that one Rali Ho was the original reclaimer of Ralibera. But since his descendants did not hold the offices of Munda and deori, their claim was officially rejected.38 From the cruciality of the performance associated with these posts emerged the second condition. Since the completion of these practices took time, often the person had merely performed either selection of the village site or its demarcation. Therefore, completion of other practices was left to his successor(s). This made marriage/fatherhood an attendant criterion for village foundation. Bamiya Ho was the man who had arrived at the jungle and selected and cleared the village site. But he was socially deemed ‘an unimportant man being a bachelor’ and so was ruled out as being the founder. The village derived its name from Bambai Ho, ‘who had his wife and children in the village’ and became its first Munda.39 Furthermore, village nomenclature often reflected the influence of the experience of the pioneer during reclamation. Since that moment/event was considered memorable, the Adivasis eternalised it by naming their village after it. Social traditions are therefore important sources for writing Adivasi history. Sararia was so called because the early man had found monkeys (sara) in the adjacent jungle during village reclamation.40 Gangimundi is supposed to have derived its name from the combination of two words, Gangi and Mundi, the latter meaning ‘finished or ended’. The story was that the place where the pioneers, Gangi Kui and Rengua, had finished their journey was named Gangimundi.41 Regarding Kuira village, it was said that the early clearers had found kite (kuid in Ho) nests in a place near to Kuidburu hill, so they named the village Kuira.42 Another instance is the name of Gamharia. Witnesses deposed that this was the combination of two words, Gamha (rain) and rea, meaning rabang or cold. When the forest was cleared by original settlers, the place had become cold due to rain.43 Yet another instance may be revealing. Jhiki, in Ho, means hedgehog and lata means crevices, i.e. the nests of hedgehogs. During village settlement, as early settlers had found hedgehogs and their nests in the neighbouring Saragutu hill, the village they founded was named Jhikilata.44 An interesting fact is that this link between the founder and an event often also inspired fictitious claims. This happened particularly in cases where the village had been resettled by the Hos. Bankodar had originally been founded by the Saraks, as proven by the remains of their surmidurmi tanks. But after their desertion, this was resettled by the Hos of Pat Pingua killi. In order to establish their khuntkatti right, a story was invented. They claimed that at the time when Banka Ho was reclaiming the village, he ‘had a cock which crew out “Dhar” in the early morning. Bankodar therefore derived its name from the name of the original founder and crowing of his cock’.45 The naming of a village after the founding/dominant killi was yet another practice. One instance is provided by Jonkosasan, so named after Jonko killi, which had founded it.46 Two more instances prove the point further. The name of the primary village was Surnia, which was subsequently separated into two independent villages. One was named Sundi Sunria after the village head of Sundi killi, while the other acquired the name of Hessa Sunria after Hessa killi,

40

The birth of a village

the original reclaimer of old Sunri.47 Here we notice a similarity between Ho and Bhuiyan traditions. Among the latter, the practice of naming a village after a killi was more common than the former.48 Sensitivity to the natural environment dominating Adivasi mentality, floral and faunal species or physical features of the adjacent landscape also inspired village naming (Skaria 1999: 55). This obviously stemmed from the totemic basis of Adivasi culture, and also from their sense of gratitude to nature. The original reclaimer, Siram Ho, found a big kadam (Neolamarckia cadamba) tree at the time of reclamation, so he named the village Kadamdiha.49 The jungles of Chotanagpur abounded in self-grown mango trees, the fruits of which villagers enjoyed during summer. White and thick mango juice (holong in Ho) inspired the name of Holangutu.50 Kusum (Schleichera oleosa) or barui trees abound in the jungles of Kolhan. This resulted in one village being named Baruisai.51 People sometimes also named their villages after natural aquatic sources. The inhabitants of Duarsai claimed that the village had derived its name from a spring in their jahira, which flowed out from a rock, the duar or door of Bonga’s house.52 Likewise, regarding Jampani village, witnesses deposed that as reclaimers had found water in a huge Jamun (Syzygium cumini) tree, the village was named Jampani.53 The Munda of Unduda narrated that the village was so called because there was water in a hollow beneath a stone.54 Although the above causality in the case of water is tenuous,55 linkage with hills/ hillocks is more certain and profound. The name of Debrabir village was assigned to an adjacent unnamed hill,56 while that of Naranga was named after Narangaburu.57 Similarly, villagers claimed that Kabragutu was named after kabra (spotted stones) found in a gutu, i.e. a small hillock, situated near the village.58 The close linkage of the Adivasi with the fauna sometimes inspired village naming. This shows that despite a shift from hunting-foraging to agro-rural life, they still preferred to celebrate their basic wildness through this cultural practice. Mongra, the village famous for anti-British militancy like Siringsia, had supposedly derived its name from manger or crocodile. It was alleged that the early settlers had found this animal in Deonad river, lying to the eastern boundary of the village, at the time of its settlement.59 Sometimes the local chieftaincy influenced village naming. Regarding Ghorabandha, it was observed: ‘Tradition goes to show that Beni Raja had a stable here’. His Ghora or horse being kept in the stable gave the village its name.60 Similarly, regarding Patajaint, the tradition narrated: ‘Mata Ho killi Pingua got “Patta” from the Raja of Singhbhoom who was then living at Jointgar & hence the village is called Patajaint’.61 Besides the above secular reasons, religious influence sometimes had a role in village naming. Champai Munda of Luia deposed: The village was named Luia by the first clearer after the name of the Bonga which resides in the village. In a dream the Bonga revealed its name to the first clearer when they were offering sacrifices to it before they commenced to clear the jungles. The jahira of the village is known as Luia Deshauli.

The birth of a village

41

He added: ‘I have heard that from my great grandfather. Dangar Ho was the original founder. It was Dangar Ho who saw in a dream the name of the Luia Bonga’.62 Regarding Dodari village, it was claimed that the village name came from the Bonga of this place.63 Ho religious sensitivity, as evident from these two cases, may be likened to the practice of the local Gond community. Aula was a Dhurua or Gond village, which supposedly derived its name from Aulaseni, the village deity.64 An endemic problem, however, was that villagers often fabricated stories to ensure their khuntkatti right. This happened largely in cases of resettled villages. Gitikendu was originally founded by the Saraks. It was later occupied and resettled by the Hos after it had relapsed into jungles. The new settlers argued that Gitilata derived its name from giti, meaning to lie down, and kendu tree. Their story was that the original clearers of the forest had made a shelter for themselves out of the branches of the tree under which they lay down.65 Village grid The formation of a village grid was another landmark of ethnic village foundation, with the original or mother village functioning as the epicentre (Orans 1965: 17). This reinforces the idea that the Adivasi political system was more a politico-cultural idea than a simple politico-administrative one. Among the indigenous communities all over the world, the village grid therefore represented the idea of a politico-cultural territorial area, which was formed on the basis of the bond of brotherhood and fatherhood (Gluckman 1960: 10–11; Baden-Powell 1972: 9–10, 266–7). This is embedded in the indigenous tradition of building and regulating the clan area of control. Among the Nuer, centring round ‘common residence’, people remained ‘linked in a wide-flung web of kinship ties which spreads across land’ (Gluckman 1960: 14). Likewise, the notion of ‘agnatic brotherhood’ among the Kond was essentially territorial, based on the idea of localised and dispersed clanship built round the village and wider territory (Bailey 1960: 22–3, 47–8). This comprised the political expanse of the clan in question as a kind of bulwark on occasions of inter-clan feud, with which the tribal world was ridden (ibid.: 47–8, 50, 60–1). This networking may be ascribed to the spurt in population that created pressure on existing resources. However, it is difficult to ascertain the nature of leadership and the exact role of the killi taking the lead. It can be presumed that the dominant killi played a decisive role. This explains why this network was often killi-centric, as evidenced by the rich information about the Sinku village-grid system provided in the Village Papers. The original seat of the Sinkus in Kolhan was variously known as Katra/ Kochra or Jamdiha. From there, they moved to and founded Kitahatu. This village became the next seat from where they settled several other villages in Kolhan. The witnesses deposed that their Jamdiha settlement was nine generations old. Calculating one generation as equalling 25 years, the village can be calculated to have been established 225 years ago. On the basis of settlement

42

The birth of a village

operations in the village in the year 1917, the village was born in the 1690s. We should be curious to know the precise factor that facilitated this large Sinku colonisation. The Village Papers inform that one member of the Sinku killi of Jamdiha, very likely the village head himself, was the Sardar (tribal chief) under the Porahat Rajas, when they had control over south Kolhan. This made the killi resourceful enough to spread their area of control by establishing such new villages as Damodarpur, Deojori and Nagra, besides resettling Pawaipi, Iligara and Kendposhi. The first of the resettled villages was of unidentified diku origin; the second was known to have been established by the Saraks and later occupied by the Bhuiyans; while the third was also originally a Sarak settlement. Iligara provides more information. The Sinkus had resettled it eight/nine generations, i.e. between 200 and 225 years, ago. One feature of this colonisation was adjacency or nearness. This meant that the colonisers chose the neighbouring forest tract for expansion.66 Besides this Sinku killi-centric network, we come across other areas of concentration and influence by different killis. To substantiate, the Honhaga killi Hos had their village network in Purnia, Kuchusai, Garahatu and some neighbouring villages. Likewise, Haiburus enjoyed numerical preponderance in Binj, Kearchalan and villages nearby.67 These killis apparently did not enjoy the political advantage the Sinkus had. But very likely, this operated within the social norm that privileged the marang killi of the original village to settle new villages for them in the adjacent woodland. This way, not only local polity but also society legitimated killi-centric politico-cultural zones. But this logic cannot be overstretched because minor killi mobilisations through an increase in number necessitated freedom of movement for carving out independent spaces for themselves. This obviously served the collective need of effecting communal homogeneity and solidarity. The previous pages have narrated how a section of the woods was demarcated and made into a lived site. This formed the first stage in the historical process that underlines ‘villages as entities ever in-the-making’ (Mines and Yazgi 2011: 14). The next stage of village making was the formation of village demography, which is discussed in the following chapter. This chapter will historically examine the veracity of the empirical understanding of the ‘interrelationship between a village and larger society and civilization of which it is a part’ (Marriott 1955: xiv; Srinivas 1955: 4–10; Dube 1959: 5–6).

Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

TS, Papers of cases u/s 83, Objections No 843–88, 890–95, Loharda, 8–10, VN 1. TSKP, Bara Kundrijor, 3–5, VN 72. ibid., Sukripora, 3–5, VN 72. TS, Papers of cases u/s 83, Objection No 1615–16, Gunabasa, 6–8, VN 15. TSVN, Vol. VI, Jairpi, 222. TS, Papers of cases u/s 83, Objection No 498, 798, Gara Rajabassa, 5, VN 10. TSKP, Bichaburu, 3–9, VN 43. ibid., Pokhripi, 3–8, VN 70.

The birth of a village

43

9 This section elaborates on the ideas and facts related to village making as sketched in Sen (2018: 96–112). 10 TSKP, Luia, 3–5, VN 67. 11 ibid., Naranga, 3–4, VN 41. 12 See also Campbell (1866: 20) and Bradley-Birt (1903: 86). 13 TSKP, Sangajata, 3, VN 11. 14 TS, Papers of cases u/s 83, Objections No 975–78, Bara Lagiya, 4–5, VN 2. 15 ibid., Objections No 498, 798 of Gara Rajabassa and Kitahatu, Gara Rajabassa, 5–7, VN 10. 16 ibid., Cases u/s 83, Judgment, Loharda,8–10, VN 1. 17 TSKP, Kotsawan, 3, VN 1. 18 ibid., Siringsia, 6, VN 58. 19 TSKP, Dumarjua, 10–1, VN 68. See also ibid., San Nanda, 3–8, VN 69. 20 ibid., Bara Nanda, 8, VN 69. See also TS, Papers of cases u/s 83, Kuidbusu,3, VN 54. 21 TS, Papers of cases u/s 83, Objection Case No 151/83, Malidu, 21–22, VN 30. 22 ibid. 23 TSKP, Dumarjua, 3–20, VN 68. 24 ibid., Bara Nanda, 3–12, VN 69. 25 ibid., Chota Bardadih, 3–5, VN 24. 26 ibid., Bara Bardadih, 4, VN 22. 27 TS, Cases u/s 83, Objections No 498,798, Gara Rajabassa, 5, VN 10. 28 TSKP, Darima, 4–5, VN 23. 29 TS, Cases u/s 83, Objections No 168/83, Kandegutu, 8–9, VN 20. 30 ibid., Objections No 908–11, Naranga, 6, VN 2. 31 TSKP, Dumarjua, 3–20, VN 68. 32 TSKP, Sarda, 3, VN 8. 33 ibid., Putkarsai, 3–4, VN 34. 34 ibid., Kolaisai, 3–4, VN 69. 35 ibid., Kechabaipi, 3, VN 2 CT. 36 ibid., Udajo, 8, VN 70. 37 ibid., Sidma, 3–5, VN 24. 38 ibid., Ralibera, 3–4, VN 36. 39 ibid., Bambaisai, 3–5, VN 68. 40 ibid., Sararia, 3–8, VN 42. 41 ibid., Gangimundi, 3–5, VN 25. 42 ibid., Kuira, 3–8, VN 42. 43 ibid., Gamharia, 3–8, VN 42. 44 ibid., Jhikilata, 3, VN 51. 45 ibid., Bankodar, 3–6, VN 35. 46 ibid., Jonkosasan, 3, VN 7. 47 TS, Cases u/s 83, Objection No. 42/83, Hesa Sunria, 7–10, VN 56. 48 TSKP, Paral, 3–5, VN 1 MT. 49 ibid., Kadamdiha, 5, VN 34. 50 ibid., Holongutu, 3–5, VN 1MT. 51 ibid., Baruisai, 3–8, VN 32 214. 52 ibid., Duarsai, 3–8, VN 70. 53 ibid., Jampani, 3–6, VN 47. 54 ibid., Unduda, 3–5, VN 36. 55 In both cases, the officials dismissed the claims. 56 TSKP, Debrabir, 3–4, VN 25. 57 ibid., Naranga, 3–4, VN 41. 58 ibid., Kabragutu, 3, VN 66. 59 ibid., Mongra, 3–7, VN 69. 60 ibid., Ghorabandha, 3–5, VN 39.

44 61 62 63 64 65 66

The birth of a village

ibid., Patajaint, 3–7, VN 45. ibid., Luia, 3–5, VN 67. ibid., Dodari, 3–4, VN 2 MT. ibid., Aula, 3, VN 36. ibid., Gitikendu, 3–11, VN 68. TSKP, Damodarpur, 3–6, VN 50; ibid., Sialjor, 3–10, VN 50; ibid., Iligara, 3–9, VN 51. 67 TS, Cases u/s 83, Objections No 660, 669–71, Sonro,11–2, VN 5.

4

Weaving the demographic pattern

Introduction The conversion of a natural area into a human settlement studied in Chapter 3 involved considering the idea of a village as a spatial category. The present chapter engages with the weaving of the village community to conceptualise the notion of a village as a distinct social idea. This approach first highlights the category distinction between space and demography. The chapter then underlines these as two distinct phases of village making, keeping in mind the historical reality that the founding of a village and the village community did not occur at the same time, although later changes in village space and the village community took place simultaneously. This involves the unity-in-difference nature of the relationship between these two stages of village making. Unfortunately, this escaped the attention of Maine,1 Baden-Powell2 and Srinivas (2010: 51–70) when they studied villages in tandem with village communities. The lack in empirical works involving the necessary conjugation of these two categories emanated largely from the limited timeframe of their investigations, which failed to capture the details of changes in village space. Deviating from this category mix, this chapter seeks to unravel how the composition of human geography accompanied the conversion of demarcated geographical space into a social place. Like other villages, in Adivasi villages this too occurred in phases. The first phase was marked by the entry of the founder(s) and his associates, followed by other members of the family and killi. In the next phase, members of other killis and finally the caste groups and different communities entered. This forged the idea of a village community, together with the contrasting trends of fusion and fission in village life. Different sections of this chapter seek to unfold how the demographic pattern gradually crystallised. Besides seeking an understanding of the social framework of a village, this chapter addresses other vital issues: Whether the idea of a village is structural and holistic or atomistic and elemental and whether or not village life is marked by unity (Dumont and Pocock 1957: 26–8). Taken together, the chapter pieces together the inter-connected spatio-demographic aspects of statehood. It will help to comprehend how a community gained control over a territory and converted it initially into an exclusive indigenous domain and later into a conglomerate of ethnic and non-ethnic groups.

46

Weaving the demographic pattern

Understanding the concept of village community In academic studies, the concept of village community generally refers to the creation of kinship affinity among people bound by the habitation of a village. Here they ‘live, work, dance, breed, die, on the earth in the company of other men’ (Gluckman 1960: 16). However, the combination of the two terms village and community is often used in divergent ways by scholars. Shah uses the term in its geographical and demographic senses (2002: 196–7), while Oscar Lewis underlines its ecological, physical, social, economic, political, religious and psychological dimensions (1955: 160). Of these, the present chapter will study the social rather than the demographic aspect, leaving discussion of the remaining aspects to the other chapters of this book. The study of the concept of village demography began more or less during the colonial period (Dumont 1966: 67; Dewey 1972: 291) to serve diverse purposes. On the one hand, the aim was to obtain information about the social composition of a village, which colonial administrator-ethnographers deemed administratively useful. On the other hand, nineteenth-century Western scholars sought to explore the origin of the concept of property to address the evolving notions of law and form of government. In the process, they learnt that the prevailing form of property had developed out of the original, ‘Teutonic’, village community (Dewey 1972: 291–328). This largely inspired scholars like Henry Summer Maine (1822–1888) and B.H. Baden-Powell (1857–1941) to explore how this evolution had taken place. Maine, who served as a Law Member of the Governor General’s Council between 1862 and 1869, was influenced by the linguistic basis of race, which popularised the idea of the ‘Indo-Aryan diaspora’. This drew on the evolutionary notion of the progress of civilisations, according to which ‘Europe was India’s future and India was Europe’s past’ (ibid.: 306–7; Mantena 2010: 57, 75). Two other factors aided this interpretation. One was the prevalence of wide ‘unrest and resistance’ in India. This brought in the use of the ‘comparative method’ in order to obtain a holistic understanding of traditional Indian society characterised by the centrality of agricultural village communities (Mantena 2010: 56–7, 80, 131). The other factor was that colonial administrators felt that this perspective would help them to comprehend the nature of the ideal form of property (individual or several) and finalise the policy of fixation and collection of land revenue in India (Dewey 1972: 309–10; Mantena 2010: 89, 120, 140). This policy comprised the mahalwari system (a settlement made with the landlords or Lambardars/Nambardar, a title for the powerful families of zamindars) representing the whole village, or even clusters of villages of the North-West Provinces, and the raiyatwari (a settlement made with individual raiyats or tenants) system. Against this backdrop, a study of the issue of village community became necessary. The Anglo-Indian perception was dominated by ‘a single image of the village community’, which originally evolved before 1808 and was restated in 1832 by Metcalfe (Dewey 1972: 296–300). But the problem was that while village

Weaving the demographic pattern

47

community was ‘a purely historical phenomenon’ in England, in India it ‘was an omnipresent reality’ (ibid.: 291). Scholars considered this as ‘the basic unit in a hierarchic political federation’, in which families constituted the villages, the latter the tribe and the tribe the kingdom. Maine maintained that a ‘clan-based village was the basic community in earlier societies and… its bedrock, was the patriarchal household’ (Inden 1990: 140). He argued that ‘kinship and ritual’ functioned as ‘sources of the community’s cohesion’ (Dewey 1972: 300–2). Regarding the origin of the village community, he observed (as cited by Mantena) that: The real move to landed property began when larger groups of self-styled kinsmen (the tribe or gens) settled and worked the land collectively. This… marked the beginning of the transition from kinship to locality as the source of communal affiliation and obligation. (2010: 134) According to him, the patriarchal family and the village community constituted a mere ‘assemblage of co proprietors’. But at the same time, he conceded that it was a backward stage of human civilisation and as such ‘its obsolescence was at once an index and a source of progress’ (Dewey 1972: 308–11). Baden-Powell was a member of the British Indian bureaucracy between 1861 and 1889. He arrived on the scene when area-specific reports and gazetteers created the wealth of empirical evidence on Indian villages. This put forward ‘the simple, unilinear evolutionary scheme’, which had inspired Maine (Inden 1990: 140). Baden-Powell therefore presented a different picture of the Indian village community. Critiquing Maine’s ‘sources and method’ and his notion of a ‘single ideal type’ of village community, he suggested ‘a bewildering variety of village communities’ which he clubbed under broad categories of joint and several (Dewey 1972: 320). He formulated a ‘tripartite theory of the evolution of property from collective to individual forms’. In his schema, the earliest form was land owned by tribes or clans, followed by paterfamilias and finally by individuals (ibid.: 321). However, this did not address the crucial question of how a tribe or clan originated. Baden-Powell seemed to provide an answer to this when he formulated another pattern of evolution. Accordingly, the nature of ownership was initially individual, and subsequently assumed the form of joint ownership of the ‘close kindred’. Later, this evolved into a ‘collective sense of clan-right’, kinship bonds being further strengthened through co-operation during ‘conquest, clearance and defence’ (ibid.: 321–3). Furthermore, he postulated that the raiyatwari villages based on individual ownership emerged out of a ‘tribal stage of society’. The ‘matrix of the typical Indian village community was, thus, the Dravidian (or some other aboriginal) race’. This differed from Maine’s basic proposition that ‘the Aryan race (together with other ‘late-comer’ races) was the matrix of the jointly held village, a form of landholding imposed on the other severalty form’ (Inden 1990: 141). The village community developed ‘in interaction with one another and in response to the “needs” arising in the distinctive natural, social, and political environment of India’ (ibid.: 142).

48

Weaving the demographic pattern

The above strands of thinking and information influenced contemporary and later anthropological writings in India on Adivasi village institutions. It will be interesting to examine the impact of the above propositions on S.C. Roy’s (1871–1942) book on the Mundas (1912). He was obviously exposed to the works of the above two thinkers who published their works between 1888 and 1907. Roy upheld that the Mundas had developed the idea of private property before their arrival in the forestclad Chotanagpur plateau. But their original form was: the archaic one of joint ownership by the family or by a group of agnatic families… Each family made in the virgin forests its own clearances which came to be called the hatu, later on known as Khuntkatti-hatu, or the village of the family of the original settlers. (Roy 1970: 62–3) The first line of the above quote reveals that Roy followed Maine in identifying a joint or common form of property to be the original. He thus more or less equated the aboriginal (Munda) form with that of the Aryan. It appears that the Dravidian or aboriginal form of property, as propounded by Baden-Powell, shaped the rest of his proposition. Accordingly, with the incorporation of other families, the community was born and gradually through allotment and clearance, the idea of familial/private property took shape. This perspective implies that land cleared and allotted to people converted wandering groups into a territorial community. This constituted their communal habitat where they were located in permanent villages and practised settled cultivation. Roy found here the early seed of a village family, specifically a village community comprising agnatic families (hagas), cognate (balas) groups and others. However, we cannot ignore the failure of either Maine or Baden-Powell (and also Roy) to address one crucial gap in the scholarship. Neither Maine nor Baden-Powell addressed the vital issue of how the concept of joint property originated. This failure seems to stem from the original failure to address the issue of how a tribe/race came into being. This gap in the scholarship seems to prevail in Roy’s portrayal of Risa Munda and his followers as the paterfamilias who originated the Munda rural settlements.

Constructing village demography Was village demography a composite whole or heterogeneous in nature? In engaging with the above issue, empiricists rarely adopt a holistic view of a community because of their methodological limitations. While Srinivas (2010: 58) challenges the uncritical deployment of the term community, Bailey (1960: Chapters II–III) focuses on the clan and lineage composition rather than on the whole tribe (the Kond). Their problem is augmented by the fact that often villagers remain loyal to their own community rather than the village (Dumont and Pocock 1957: 29). The failure to address this may be attributed also to the short timeframe of empiricists’ interventions. I would like to argue that the

Weaving the demographic pattern

49

problem can be resolved considerably if the issue of the community formation (Adivasi in the present case) is studied over a long timeframe, amalgamating creative pre-colonial and colonial pasts. This was the period when numerically predominant indigenous communities in Jharkhand had either politically entrenched themselves (Munda, Oraon) or crystallised as distinct ethnicities through occupation or conquest (Ho, Santal). However, we have to overcome a major hurdle due to category confusion in respect of tribe, clan and sept in colonial ethnography, the major source of our information. Maine’s tribe (Gene) comprised ‘self-styled kinsmen’. In that sense, the distinction among tribe, clan and sept becomes blurred because all of these had been characterised by kinship affinity. On the other hand, BadenPowell grouped tribe and clan into the same category, while Roy considered clan and sept to be equivalent (1970: 230–1). Lexically, however, tribe stands for the generic category, denoting a group claiming a real or putative origin from a common ancestor and sharing the same language, manners, tradition and law (custom). Clan represents a close-knit group of inter-related families within a tribe, while a sept is a branch of the clan. Confusion becomes compounded because of the tribe/race/nation equation in nineteenth-century colonial ethnography. Dalton (1973: 245) classified the Santal and Oraon as a race. Likewise, Roy (1970: 230–1) observed that before their entry into Chotanagpur, the Mundas, Santals and Bhumijes were one people belonging to the ‘Kolarian’ race as different from the Aryan race. Furthermore, tribe was identified as a political category, to be elaborated on below, representing a distinct nation. The problem increases because of the more dominant global trend of deploying the notion of tribe as an analytical tool to explain the difference between the natives and immigrants. Iliffe observed that in Tanganyika, the colonial government ‘conceived of tribes as cultural units with a common language, social system and “an established system of customary law” to distinguish them from the Europeans’ (quoted in Chanock 1985: 20). In India, the dominant motif had been the characterisation of ‘aboriginal’ tribal peoples of north India belonging to the Kolarian race who were markedly distinct in physical appearance, culture and custom from the immigrant Aryans (Campbell 1866: 3–11, 13, 20–56; Dalton 1973: 263; see also Cederlof 2013: 392–93). This difference was used first as a ploy to justify the expansionism of the white people in Africa (Parker and Rathbone 2007: 3) and, second, tribe/race, being identified as a distinct nationality, were deployed as a counterpoise to resurgent Indian nationalism (Campbell 1866: 28; Dalton 1866: 153). A recent study argues: Thus, ethnology was deployed as a counter-nationalist rhetoric to identify these natives as distinct nationalities. This prompted Risley to remark: ‘We are too much accustomed to speak of India as a single country, and of its inhabitants as a single nation; but the truth is, that as regards its history, its extent, and its population, India displays the diversities rather of a continent than of a single State’. (Sen 2018: 30)

50

Weaving the demographic pattern

However, the colonial ethnography could not cling to the idea of tribe either as a monolithic race or distinct nation because the publication of regional and local reports and gazetteers informed scholars of the inter-ethnic socio-political differences (Campbell 1866: 5, 11, 20, 29; Hunter, Vol. XVII, 1976: 57; Rycroft 2006: 108). Despite this, they continued to mix up race and tribe, amalgamate killi and tribe and identify killi both as clan and sept (Dalton 1973: 213, 254). What I would like to argue is that category confusion impacted the retrieval and analysis of specific information on tribe, clan and sept, preventing the possibility of precisely explaining the emergence and growth of their distinct identities. The following section makes an attempt to examine the relevant category-level information to reveal a more elaborate picture of the changing character of demography and its co-relation with territory. This gives us an idea about the spatio-demographic aspect of the Adivasi state with the village being its basic unit.

Family, filiality and fraternity: forging of social relations The foundation of the indigenous rural settlements involved two intertwining processes: expansion into the unoccupied forested region and territorial expansion through conquest. According to Baden-Powell, the demographic composition of Indian villages depended on whether the clan settlement was individual (one man) or joint family (two to three brothers) in origin (1972: 28–9). Our experience of the history of Chotanagpur, however, suggests that, being founded by the dominant Adivasi groups, the demographic character of the villages was basically communal/collective in nature, clan and family village formations being both simultaneous and subsequent developments (ibid.: 225–8, 232–3). We can substantiate this idea by considering the history of the Mundas, who had in academic circles been classified as of the Proto-Austroloid race and Austro-Asiatic linguistic group. Presumably, their ethnic identity had crystallised long before their arrival in Jharkhand. Though a systematic and reliable pre-migration history is not available of their earlier settlements, we can form some idea of their village settlements in the central region of the Chotanagpur plateau. This involves the story of the Munda expansion into the primeval forest region under the leadership of their legendary cultural hero, Risa Munda. The story is that he led a band of 21,000 Mundas, representing 21 Munda killis, into which the tribe was then constituted though we do not have definite information about their earlier settlements. This implies that the later proliferation of the Munda community and their village settlements followed the crystallisation of the idea of tribe and killi. In the formation of new settlements, the role of Risa Munda was crucial. It was he who laid down their original cradle in Satyomba, followed by the foundation of its satellites by his followers (Hallett 1917: 22; Roy 1970: 62–70). Though not explicated, these must have also been their killi-cradles.3 This was obviously the strategy used to maintain ethnic harmony and balance of power within the community. Subsequently, the original village family branched off into a

Weaving the demographic pattern

51

number of separate families belonging to the same killi or sept. The eldest son of the village founder became the patriarchic head of the different branches of the family (Roy 1970: 62–4). In the next stage, these killi-nuclei promoted the formation of new killis and killi-centric village grids under these families. As with the formation of the Munda settlement, the Santal homeland was the product of the steady occupation of a previously unoccupied territory (Bodding 1994: 3–22). But the other process, as the history of the Ho community informs us, was to establish territorial control by conquest. Since their continuous immigration into Singhbhum after the tenth century AD, the groups of Mundas, who later acquired the distinctive ethnic identity of Ho, gradually dislodged the Saraks and Bhuiyans from their bastions in southern Singhbhum. This was followed by the creation of major village settlements from the end of the seventeenth century, which comprised their homeland or Hodesum (Tickell 1840: 697–9). This cryptic colonial ethnography does not provide relevant details about the Ho village demography. We will therefore examine the wealth of khuntkatti records to obtain more information. Village community formation followed certain social norms. First, since the land was under Ho control, the community arrogated the natural right of movement within the entire forested territory for carving out village settlements. The concept of natural right seemed to have been rooted in their mythology of the creation of the world by Singbonga.4 Within the norms of the prerogative of the community, the second norm was to accord superior status to the pioneering family and killi in recognition of the decisive role of the original or reputed founder, and finally to other killis of the same ethnic community. These processes resulted in indigenous clan settlements within the canopy of indigenous community settlement. The entire process of devolution was governed by the principle of consanguinity, according to which the basic norm of property was common. This common property was to be inherited as a matter of right by all those originating from the real or imagined common ancestor. Therefore, different stages of devolution were family, killi, community (tribe) and finally inter-community, as elaborated on below. What is significant is that after conquest, the control of the community (Ho) had to be entrenched through the foundation of rural settlements in which an intertwining process of release and control seemed to be at work. The community expanded through a family/killi nexus that operated the process of release of community control. In the next stage, family control expanded to create a killi network. This finally restored the control of the tribe or community over the ethnic habitat or Adivasi homeland comprising families and killis. Before developing the discussion, it would be pertinent to mention that the emergence of Ho village republican polity coexisted with the foundation of a feudal system under the Porahat chiefs of Singhbhum.5 Ho political expansion was facilitated by their early rapprochement with this dynasty, though subsequent escalation of their area of control was the product of their conquest over the Saraks and Bhuiyans as well as victories over the chiefs. Until then, the Ho village settlements owed allegiance to the rulers of Porahat, Seraikela,

52

Weaving the demographic pattern

Kharsawan and Mayurbhanj. They paid occasional tribute and lent them assistance in their mutual fights. However, as their power grew, the Hos launched incessant raids into their areas and completely dislodged the Porahat chiefs from their bastions in south Kolhan. In this way, the Hos extricated themselves from the feudal state (Sen 2011: 13–14). Meanwhile, their village settlements expanded, prefiguring the rise of the confederacy of village settlements called Hodesum. This process is elaborated on below. At the familial stage of the formation of village demography, a crucial fact to interrogate is whether the pioneer came alone or if he had companions. The vital question is who these companions were: branches of his own family or killi, or other killis or non-Hos also? Generally, the pioneer had companions, except for a case such as Kolaisai village. Kolai Ho of Sinku killi came alone from Amdiha to found the village. Then he started living in the village.6 But the founding of a village by one man was somewhat of an exception. Kolai could do so because, being a tola of Amdiha, he simply had to reclaim the village out of the adjacent forest portion of the original village.7 It is evident that the selection of companions depended on his personal capacity and need. Originally, his companions were generally the members of the founding family/killi, followed later by other family branches of the same clan. This was, however, not only relevant in the case of Adivasi villages, but characterised rural life in India in general (Bailey 1960: Chapter II). We lack precise information from Ho history about the time when other members of the founder’s family and branches of his killi entered the village. However, Santal oral tradition informs: Thereupon they go back to their old homes and call on each other saying: When shall we start? They then take their children and all they possess with them and go to the new village. The time of moving is the months of Phalgun and Chait (middle of February to middle of April). Now all of them clear the jungle for the homestead fields, and the trees they cut down also serve them for house-timber. Any remaining timber, etc., they burn away. They build houses. Running along the middle of the place they keep a village street, and at the end of this they arrange a sacred grove. (Bodding 1994: 101) The above quote suggests that usually the early man was not alone during village foundation. It also tells us that the founder returned to the old village after the new site was chosen to inform and invite members of his own family. This was perhaps the governing social norm for a people who were bonded by the concept of unity. The crucial factor of invitation is corroborated by the following instances from Ho history. Udalkam, which had only three recorded inhabitants in 1867, was a small village surrounded on all sides by the Government Reserved Forest. This was inhabited by Sidu killi, with the exception of one Gagrai family. In that sense, this was practically a uni-killi village. After Mata Ho of the killi had laid out the village, he invited other families of his

Weaving the demographic pattern

53

8

own killi to settle here. The prerogative of the founder to invite others proves that customarily a village originally belonged to the founding family. We will later see that the prerogative of the reclaimer was not limited to invitation alone, but also extended to govern other processes of village foundation. But we also cannot deny that owing to the prevailing norm of killi homogeneity, aspects of which will be detailed in Chapter 6, members of the same family and killi enjoyed the right to settle in a village of the same killi. What we generally notice is that after a member settled a village, other members of the same family followed. The founder of Chirchi was Supai of Bari killi. After his initial act, three members of his family, perhaps his brothers, came. This was why the Baris of Chirchi traced their descent from these four ancestors.9 The other pattern was for a village to be founded by different branches of the same family, as instanced by Baduri. Here, five branches of a Kudadah family ‘came together’, being ‘equally enterprising’ in founding the village.10 A closer reading points to another reality. A purely familial/killi composition seems to be a prevalent factor underlying the origin of the mother villages. After the families branched off, the character of the village demography became inter-familial. But the more enveloping trend in both types of villages was moving towards inter-killi formations. This may be ascribed to the need to provide a ‘safety valve’ against constant intra- and inter-tribe cleavage and feuds in the ethnic world (Bailey 1960: 45, 60–3). This impacted what Bailey characterises as the process of ‘recruitment’. Summing up the function of the process among the Mundas, Roy notes: In course of time, men not-belonging to the village family appear to have been introduced. Relatives by marriage, – men of different Kilis or septs, – a son-in-law, for example, – would sometimes come and settle in the village. (1970: 64) These people were ‘admitted into the village family by a ceremonial adoption’ (ibid.). The following example illustrates the process among the Hos. After Kolai had settled Kolaisai, other branches of the Sinku killi from the neighbouring Damodarpur, Deljaposhi and Jintugara entered the village, cleared the forests and made their lands for house building and cultivation.11 Another popular trend was that other killis often accompanied the founding killi. This may be corroborated by the statement: Misa tege Purtalo ale hujulena (We came together with the Purtis). This relates to a village founded by the Purti killi being accompanied by the members of the Honhaga and Tiu killis.12 Likewise, Kunkals and Sawaiyans had moved together when Telai Jerai was reclaimed.13 The records do not specifically mention why they did so. But in a large number of cases, others immigrated in response to a formal invitation from the pioneer family. Deojori was populated by the Sinku, the original killi, as well as the Laguris, Munduiyas and Gagrais. One member of the Sinku killi had called on a Laguri and Munduiya each to settle in the village.14

54

Weaving the demographic pattern

Through the above recruitment, the general pattern was that from the original single (founding) family, the village community became a multi-family (founding killi) and then a multi-killi social institution, such as nine killis forming Bara Lagiya,15 and ten killis forming Gurgaon.16 However, in such villages, the demographic distribution was generally disproportionate, a marker of social hierarchy. In Pancho, there were 74 Singh Kuntia families as against two each of Tope, Chaki, Soy, and one of Purti killi. The preponderance of the founding killi forced the comment ‘the village may be called a Singh Kuntia village’.17 However, some villages could still retain their uni-killi character, as was the case for Udalkam cited above. This perceptively disuniform trend in social formation may be attributed to the village having a more central and ecologically hospitable location compared to villages located in the remote and forested parts. The other reason presumably was that during reclamation, the founders and others accompanying them had invited their haga killis (among whom marriage was prohibited) and balas (among whom marriage was permissible) to settle. This did not occur in villages such as Udalkam. Over the course of time, another decisive shift in village demography occurred with the influx of nonethnic communities.

Presence of the dikus: and a changing social landscape The changing nature of village demography from the original single family/killi to a multi-family/killi formation implies that initially the village demography was ethnic in character, predominated by the Adivasi community which had founded it. However, the history of the formation of rural society in India reveals its essentially mixed character. In caste-dominated villages, it comprised the castes/communities other than the founder caste (Shah 2002: 196–7), while castes and communities other than the founding ethnic group composed Adivasi villages. Who they were and how they came to inhabit Kolhan-Porahat are elaborated on below. Termed variously as diku, dikku or deko, the linguistic surveys, dictionaries and gazetteers more or less defined them as oppressive non-tribal out-groups, more so Hindus (Sinha, Sen and Panchabhai 1969: 121–4). By Hindu, the early colonial ethnographers generally denoted upper caste people and not the functional castes (Dalton 1973: 164–7, 185).18 However, later, petty traders, blacksmiths, weavers, day-labourers and tenders of village cattle came within the category of what colonial rulers coined as ‘foreigners’ (Craven 1898: 20–2). But ethnographers often combined the racial and spatial meanings. In this sense, every non-Ho was considered as a foreigner. The reason was that Kolhan was an exclusive Ho country; the Hos did not allow any foreigner to settle in their village except for Tantis and Goalas (Ricketts 1854: para 109). Likewise, for Dalton (1973: 167, 169) ‘Diko’ meant not only the Hindus but also all those who did not belong to the ‘province’ of the Larkas, while Craven (1898: 20–2) termed immigrants from Bihar and Orissa as foreigners. This was also true for

Weaving the demographic pattern

55

Santal Parganas, where a Bengali of the better class was called diku (Sinha, Sen and Panchabhai 1969: 122). The presence of non-ethnic elements is visible before the onset of British rule. This was instrumented by the local chiefs of the Chotanagpur plateau region and Singhbhum, who encouraged the immigration of non-ethnic farmers, landholders, traders and Brahmins (Singh 1966; Sahu 1985; Jha 1987). The Village Papers indicate the presence of Rajputs and Brahmins at the behest of the local chiefs of Porahat, Seraikela, Kharsawan and Mayurbhanj. The former controlled Porahat and south/south-western parts of Singhbum; Jagannathpur and Jaintgarh were their bastions in Kolhan. Furthermore, Mayurbhanj chiefs ruled over Bar, Lalgarh, Aula and Bharbharia pirs of Kolhan. A Kolhan village, later occupied by the Hos, was formerly inhabited by the Brahmin priests of Porahat. They had planted a mango garden and excavated a tank named Guru Bandh.19 In another, Brahmins (also Doms) were pre-Ho settlers.20 Similarly, Jogi Nanda village belonged to one Jogi Brahmin.21 In the next phase, Adivasis invited largely functional castes to live in the villages as service providers during the preBritish period. Since then, these caste groups have registered an almost invariable presence in their villages. The diku presence throughout Jharkhand became more numerous and extensive under the British. I will provide an outline of the broad character of diku demography, leaving the details for the next chapter. Broadly classified, these elements were town and village based. Of the former, there were clerks and officials employed by the British immediately after the onset of their rule in Kolhan.22 Their number increased with the expansion of the administrative network. They were mostly Hindu employees and a sprinkling of Muslims, as the details of the permanent establishment reveal. Professional groups followed in close succession. By the 1840s, mostly Hindu lawyers were enrolled as members of the District Bar.23 The foundation of lower and upper primary schools saw the entry of diku teachers. Growth of trade and mining ushered in others. Traders found Kolhan, and Singhbhum district more broadly, very lucrative for their vocation. After the prospecting of minerals began from the onset of the twentieth century, miners and forest contractors from all over the country rushed to Kolhan. The entire Adivasi belt became a thriving centre of trade and commerce. However, these elements, who resided mostly in the urban centres, were largely peripheral in the countryside. A much greater number of functional castes and non-Ho communities inhabited Adivasi villages. They were the Ghasis, Dhobis, Barbers, Mallahs (fishermen), Kurmis and Muslims, and among the ethnic communities, the Santals and Oraons. Their entry was promoted to serve the needs of Adivasi villagers and the colonial political economy. The British decided their status and the facility they would enjoy. During W.W. Hayes’ Settlement (1867), the sale of land to a foreigner was legalised (Craven 1898: 30–1). They were classified as old (those who had settled before 1867) and new dikus (those who had settled after 1867). The Craven Settlement allowed old dikus to own land at the same rate of rent as was paid by the Hos.24 During the Tuckey Settlement, they

56

Weaving the demographic pattern

were further divided into desirable and undesirable25 outsiders, the former being permitted to own uncultivable land (Tuckey 1920: 22–6). Furthermore, the CNT Act accelerated the transfer of large swathes of land to individual and corporate groups (Datta 1928: 114). The latter two changes made town-based dikus considerably relevant for the Adivasi villagers. How did the social character and the number of the non-Adivasis change? As found in the colonial reports, the population of Kolhan in 1838–39 was 70,653, with 60,366 Hos, i.e. about 85% of the total, and 10,287 non-Hos. The latter comprised the functional castes (Tickell 1840: 700). In 1867, the population rose to 118,281, of which 93,968 were Hos, comprising about 78%, the remaining being Hindus (Dalton 1973: 185).26 The latter comprised the functional castes and all those who pursued government jobs, trade and commerce. Their number rose further by the turn of the century. The 1891 Census recorded the following: Aboriginal tribes: 175,683, i.e. 74.2%; Semi-Hinduised aboriginals: 7,827, i.e. 3.3%, the remaining 22.5% included Hindus: 49,724, i.e., 20.9%, Christians: 2,196, i.e. 0.9%, Mohammedans: 1,441, i.e. 0.6%, and Unknown and Unspecified castes: 449, i.e. 0.1% (Craven 1898: para 66). The Census of 1911 registered a further rise in the non-Adivasi population. Termed as animists, the Adivasis numbered 213,128, while the Hindus totalled 80,798, Mohammedans 2,194 and the Christians 1,756 (Tuckey 1920: paras 18–20). Hindu castes were largely Goalas, Tantis, Lohars and Kumhars, while the upper castes had a negligible presence in Kolhan villages. This rise was visible throughout Adivasi-dominated parts of Bihar. According to the 1911 Census, in Palamau district, their numbers were: Brahmins: 30,883, Rajputs: 27,083 and Kayasthas: 3,987, while Chamar, Dusadh, Ahir, Kahar, Lohar, Koiri, Barehi, Mallah, Teli, Kumhar, Kurmi, Rajwar, Hajam and Rauniar totalled more than 250,000. Out of a total population of 687,267, the Muhammedans numbered 34,827 (Bridge 1996: paras 21–4). The rise in the non-Adivasi population continued unabated in the post-colonial decades. According to the Census of 2011, out of a total population of 32,988,134 in Jharkhand, the Scheduled Tribes numbered 7,087,068, i.e. only 26.3% of the total, the rest being non-ethnic others (Sen 2018: 90). We will return to this issue in greater detail in the next chapter. For the time being, let us focus on the social relationship between these communities.

Unity and difference in village life The study of the nature of social relations has been problematised by sociologists and anthropologists. This originates from the microcosm/macrocosm or universal/ parochial controversy referred to in the introductory chapter. Considered as a microcosm, a village represents an autonomous and independent entity that underpins its essential unity. Empiricists have used the term ‘whole’ or ‘unity’ as social and ecological categories. The social categories are ‘caste’ and ‘tribe’, a composition that invests ‘well-defined structural unity’ (Srinivas 1955a: 1). On the other hand, ecologically studied, the village also represents ‘physical, territorial

Weaving the demographic pattern

57

unity’ (Miller 1955: 50), ‘a definable structure’, ‘conceptually a vivid entity’ – ‘a system’ (Marriott 1955: 176). But empiricists also highlighted several manifestations of disunification and heterogeneity in village life (ibid.). These manifestations become more prominent when a village is understood as a ‘macrocosm of Indian civilisation’ (Dumont and Pocock 1957: 25), as a part of a greater aggregate. The other problem was the internal confusion in empirical works. Srinivas is a classic example. He enumerates that village unity ‘manifests in inter-village rivalries and situations of calamity, often blurring the differences of castes into which a village is constituted’ (1955: 20–4). He reiterates the unique village pattern and mode of life that differentiates it from neighbouring villages (ibid.: 2). But he concedes that ‘unity of the village is not an axiom to be taken for granted’. This was because of ‘regional or all-India uniformities’ and ‘centrality of caste’, due to which ‘far from being self-contained’, a village is drawn into religious, social and economic relations with the adjacent villages. (ibid.: 2–6). Ambivalence is more pronounced in others. S.C. Dube on the one hand underlined ‘corporate unity’ and ‘individuality of its own’ among villages in the Indian sub-continent. On the other hand, he highlighted disuniformity due to the ethnic, linguistic and caste constitution of the villages and also because it forms ‘part of a wider social system and organised political society’ (1959: 2–7).27 How was this confusion rationalised? Srinivas seemed to find a way out through conflation. He observed: ‘The village, may, then, be described as a vertical entity divided into several horizontal layers, each of which is a caste’ (Srinivas 1955a: 32–4).28 But the consensus opinion was that village unity should not be accepted as an axiomatic truth. The above details relate mostly to caste-centric villages. The empirical reading of an Adivasi village is somewhat different. Even after long contact with others, Carstairs (1955: 62) found that the Bhil tribals maintained a separate and distinct social structure and mode of life that made them different from those in the plains. Likewise, Bailey (1960: 45) informed that the norm of an Adivasi village in Odisha was to remain united, while dealing with outsiders. How does this contemporary understanding correspond to the historical picture? Assertion of contemporary Adivasi identity underlines the solidarity and harmony of village life as a basic parameter of their selfhood (Sen 2018: 108–9), a fact also supported by history. During khuntkatti enquiry, a representative meeting of the social leaders was held at Chaibasa on 8–9 July 1914.29 These leaders opposed the officially introduced differential rates of rents for khuntkatti and non-khuntkatti raiyats. They warned that this would fracture their traditional social equality and homogeneity.30 This raises some vital questions: What constitutes village solidarity and harmony? Are these two elements essential markers of village unity? How have these been translated into a social fact? In sum, these issues make a study of the nature of the relationship among villagers relevant and crucial. The present section will seek first to address the issue of village unity as both a structural and social fact. The former represents unity at a spatial level where

58

Weaving the demographic pattern

the village was accepted first as an independent geographical entity with the demarcation of the village boundary out of primeval forest. In the second stage, this was converted from natural into cultural space, or rather ‘space’ into a ‘place’.31 The ‘place making’ started with the clearance of the forest area and distribution of lands within the village among its inhabitants, as elaborated on in Chapter 6. The third stage involves turning the bounded area into an administrative unit with the selection of its mundane and profane governors and determining the norms of social governance, to be detailed in Chapter 6. The second and third stages virtually enacted the process of the village becoming a social unity. But social unity is achieved through the meticulous process of bonding or homogenisation. It will be pertinent to historically examine to what extent this relationship remained homogenous and, where this was not the case, what was the nature and reason for the drift from the social ideal.

Homogenisation: the indigenous technique The story will begin by identifying the elements that composed village demography and the process that moulded them into a whole. These were the predominant Adivasi community, Ho in the present case, comprising different killis, and other ethnic communities, such as the Oraons and Santals, and the non-Adivasis. The ideological cushion for homogeneity or bonding of the preponderant Ho people was provided by their creation myth. This held that the perpetuation of communal homogeneity was a moral act and its violation an act of sacrilege, a custom that continues to be reproduced annually during their festivals (Sen 2018: 64–72). The ideal was enacted by evolving the custom of co-sharing of responsibilities. This stemmed basically from the notion of common origin and was reinforced by co-habiting the same village space. Accordingly, members of the same killi were originally buried in the killi sasan and stood by one another in weal and woe. During marriage, death and festivals, members of the entire killi contributed in cash, kind or labour (Majumdar 1937: 60–3). Bailey adds a more elaborate inventory: they undertook activities together, such as gossiping, recreation, gathering leaves and other forest products, visiting the nearby market, meeting at the village council to finalise the dates and organisation of joint activities and to settle disputes, performing religious, marriage and funeral functions together, besides showing solidarity with villagers during inter-village disputes (1960: 20–1). The other mundane strategy to maintain village homogeneity was to share important village offices like those of Munda, deori, dakua, gobhari and jomsin32 at intra and inter-killi levels. Under this norm, in Ulihatu one branch of the Pingua killi enjoyed the post of Munda, while the other held the posts of deori, gobhari and jomsin.33 Purtisai offers us another example of the enactment of bonding. It was claimed that Delga Ho of Purti killi was accompanied by Jalea of Pingua killi during village founding. Out of gratitude, Mundaship was offered to the Pinguas, while the deoriship remained with the Purtis. There

Weaving the demographic pattern

59

was yet another instance. As Durua Ho of Bhengra killi had assisted Delga, they were made gobhari and jomsin.34 However, sometimes by default, a change in the family line occurred, as the following instance reveals. But significantly, there was a latent sacred aspect, elaborated on below. When the holder of the deoriship of Abin died, his wife remarried outside the killi. The post then passed to her son through the second marriage. The incident and the reason for social sanction become clear from the following quote: It is not unusual for a transfer of this kind. The widow of Gola (deceased deori) according to the custom of the Hos must have been well versed in the duties of the Deori & it is quite possible she trained both her sons in the office. When one son died the other was appointed as Deori being of the family of the Deori’s & in favour with the Gods.35 Evolving modes of inter-family/killi dispute settlement was yet another strategy. This was done through the practice of consensus rather than the adversarial mode of delivering justice and the co-sharing of village offices among killis and communities. I have elaborated on these strategies in Chapter 6. The practice of inter-killi exchanges of villages provided perhaps the strongest, though rare, mode of maintaining communal homogeneity. This related to Korta and Sukripora villages, involving Hembrom and Kerai killis. I will elaborate on the cases separately to highlight the process. Originally, the village Korta was settled by the Kerais. But this became a Hembrom village at the time of the Tuckey Settlement, when they held the offices of Munda and deori. The change occurred through a mutual agreement when the ‘ancestors of the present Hembroms exchanged their lands at Tareya with the lands at Korta belonging to the Kerais’.36 The other village, Sukripora, originally belonged to the Hembroms. They exchanged their Sukripora lands with the Korta lands of the Kerais. By mutual agreement, not only possession of the village but also exchange of population took place. The case of Sukripora was officially endorsed: This exchange appears to me to be true as there is still a Hemrom (Hembrom) sasan in existence here. This is a clear trace of the former Hemrom settlement in this village. There is not a single Hemrom in the village now. This seemed to have taken place three generations or 75 years ago, i.e. in the 1840s. But this social act seemed to have been facilitated because of the fact that Korta and Sukripora formerly comprised one village.37 These were socially developed strategies to homogenise others. Perhaps the most significant was that of integrating them into the ritual world. I will discuss here how and why this was done in the case of ethnic kinsmen, postponing the narration of ethnic others for a later section. In Ho society, the act of village founding was annually celebrated by offering prayer to the desauli during Mage parab (festival). Often, this became an occasion to bury

60

Weaving the demographic pattern

differences and create inter-community bonds. This was enacted in other ways too, as the following events testify. In Bara Lagiya, when some families of Jamuda killi were displaced from their village by their agnates, Mundris invited them to settle in Barubera Dilakuti, a portion of which was later named Bara Lagiya. Jamudas reciprocated this mundane act of munificence by accommodating them in the ritual world by offering sacrifices to their departed ones.38 But this annual exercise might also be perpetuated by offering them a place in their mantras (sacred chant). This was probably the reason why the Haiburus of Binj ‘recognized them (Chora killi people of the village) as their brother & hence they appear in the mantra’.39

Fission in village life: departure from the social ideal However, like the empirical studies, a historical reading also informs that unity was not an invariable fact of ethnic life. This had diverse manifestations in the pre-colonial past. The first was the fragmentation of the killis into independent ones and sub-killis, which underlined the latent trend of heterogeneity. As their number rose, those who inhabited Chotanagpur plateau found it difficult to maintain endogamic norms. This resulted in a rise in illicit relations which, as their creation myth informed, was divinely reprimanded (Sen 2018: 61–4). So to escape this retribution, they reinvented the norm of consanguinity by fragmenting major killis and then breaking those down into sub-killis (Roy 1970: 229–35). We have interesting details of such social engineering from the Village Papers,40 though colonial ethnography merely provides information about the steep rise in the number of killis among the Mundas, Oraons and Santals (Dalton 1973: 189).41 The second factor was the emergence at a global level of status distinction and socio-economic heterogeneity among the indigenous groups. We can cite the well-known Bedouin saying in support: ‘Me and my brothers against my cousins, me and my cousins against the world’. Konds believed that ‘they are all brothers, but some are more brothers than the rest’ (Bailey 1960: 45–6). Likewise, the Mundas maintained insider and outsider distinction, i.e. between eta-haturenko (literally, men of other villages) or the praja-horoko and the hatu-horoko, i.e. the khuntkattidars, the descendants of the original village family (Roy 1970: 64). On the other hand, this involved marang-huring, khuntkatti-kayemi and khuntkatti-chitra distinctions among the Hos, though there was confusion about its presence at the official level.42 Status distinction was expressed in terms of ‘higher’ and ‘lower’ among the killis.43 Furthermore, this impinged a sense of dominance of the founding killi or main lineage among the Hos, a trend similar to Santal geo-polity (Orans 1965: 17–19). This was true for the Konds who treated themselves as the ‘true citizens’, while the non-Konds were considered as ‘second-class citizens’ (Bailey 1960: 21). This raises the relevant question as to whether the core or marang elements may in any way be likened to the dominant castes of Indian villages. The

Weaving the demographic pattern

61

concept of dominant caste has been developed by Srinivas (1955a: 17–19), drawing on the notion of dominant clan prevailing in Africa. Originally, the principal criteria were ownership of a large amount of arable land that accorded it superior economic status compared to other castes, and a superior position in the village socio-political hierarchy. Though the concept has been highly debatable ever since it was formulated, its existence has more or less been academically accepted. This brings forth a comparison with the core-marang elements found in Adivasi villages. The issue of core and periphery, surfacing in a major way during khuntkatti enquiry, pointed to three levels of difference in an Adivasi village: 1) khuntkatti and non-khuntkatti or kayemi/praja (later comer) among killis; 2) marang/ huring haga (senior/junior brotherhood) within the founding family; and 3) founder/servant44 among killis. The first parameter of identification was the time factor that related to which killi was the first to settle in a village.45 In Katepara, a member of Deogam killi admitted that they were the praja, while the Sinkus were marang killi, being the descendants of the original founder.46 It was embodied somewhat differently when Digi, Boipai and Surins admitted that Tunti was the senior killi, as Jetha Ham, the village reclaimer, belonged to it.47 Likewise, regarding the marang/huring distinction, it was observed that huring were those who ‘do not belong to the founding family, but came later as tenants’.48 The third criterion was numerical. A haga/killi with numerical preponderance in the village was considered marang. Kotswan was inhabited by Honhaga and five more killis, the latter being very small in number compared to the former.49 This social criterion was also officially adopted. In a khuntkatti dispute case, Bankira, Honhaga, Saonia, Samad and Hansda killis claimed founder’s status vis-à-vis the Jamudas. In actual reality, while the rest of the killis had a total of 11 households, the number of the Jamudas was 38. So the claim of the objectors was officially dismissed with the comment that they ‘are numerically so few goes to show that they were later comers’.50 Who exercised the privilege of extending invitation to others and distribute lands among them was the fourth measure of seniority, to be elaborated on below. Having mentioned the criteria that created inter-/intra-ethnic social hierarchy, I will now seek to address how this dovetailed with differential distribution of resources and power. Within the Tswana community of Africa, this hierarchised their domain of authority into domestic units, local agnatic segments, wards, and the chiefdom. Here the vital determinant was the concept of agnation, which ordered ‘rank and access to positions within the administrative hierarchy-positions that carried with them a good deal of control over people and property, land and labor’ (Comaroff and Comaroff 1991: 129–30). Among the Adivasis in India, the concept of ownership of the village resting on village founders was crucial. In acknowledgement of the role of the founding killi, the Konds identified the village as belonging to this killi, or treating founders as one ‘who own the earth’ (Bailey 1960: 47). By the same criterion, Chirchi village was socially recognised as ‘Bari killi village’.51

62

Weaving the demographic pattern

Ownership of space contributed to social empowerment in diverse other ways. First, the founding family/killi enjoyed the right to invite others to settle in the village and own land there.52 Argundi was founded by Jamuda killi. While nine killis residing in the village claimed khuntkatti right, they admitted that their ancestors came to the village upon the invitation of the Jamudas, and up to that day had permission from them to make new lands.53 Among the Kond tribe, the right of invitation also lay with the main lineage (Bailey 1960: 49). Second, generally the important village posts like Munda and deori went to this lineage, as discussed in Chapter 6. The privilege of the selection of the quantity and quality of village land was enjoyed by the core elements. This underlined the reason for the disproportionate distribution of resources that finally created socio-economic distinction in Adivasi villages. Due to earlier entry, the founding families and killis could obviously gain greater access to the open, levelled, arable and watered portions of the demarcated forested region. This often manifested in greater quantitative and qualitative control over village land. In Barajaipur, for instance, out of a total of about 792 bighas of arable land in the possession of 33 tenants, four khuntkatti families alone owned over 406 bighas. This means that one-eighth of the village population possessed more than half of the total cultivable land.54 All these factors combined to contribute to the material superiority of the dominant killi. This often led to the emergence of a caste-type distinction among killis. First, this manifested in the observance of dining and marriage taboos. Sinku, Hesa and Laguri killis in Karanjia claimed superior status. How did they define this? They observed: ‘These three are all marang killis & they intermarry & eat with each other’.55 Another village highlighted this distinction slightly differently: ‘The other killis take food from the Baris, but Baris won’t take food from them’.56 This meant that those with whom dining and marriage were tabooed came to be rated lower in status. Besides the distinction mentioned above, burial distinction at community/killi levels manifested heterogeneity in village life. Originally, Adivasis used to have a common haga/killi sasan, but later they came to either cremate or bury the dead in family sasans. In Karkata, the Sundis were the marang killi who considered themselves as hagas or brothers, a fact socially supported by the custom of being ‘buried in one sasan’.57 This social custom was co-opted by local officials and named as a ‘sasandiri test’ to differentiate between khuntkatti and non-khuntkatti killis. Bobongas were therefore considered the marang killi of Bhaluka, a marker of affinity being ‘their common burial ground’ and also being ‘the oldest’.58 Did social disparity lead also to open clashes, the kind of intra-/inter-tribal feud and war seen elsewhere (Gluckman 1960: 14)? We have some instances to address the point. The first is the intra-killi feud among the Pinguas, the founding killi of Karsakola. During the Mage festival, members of this killi were heavily drunk. A fight ensued among them for an unstated reason in which some were killed. Others deserted the village out of fear, despite them being the principal killi members.59 Another instance was intra-familial.

Weaving the demographic pattern

63

Jamudas, belonging to the same family, had been the founders of Uligutu. They were involved in a squabble over the share of mangos, which forced one group of them to flee the village.60 These clashes reflected a deep-seated animosity and tension at the inter-family/killi levels discussed in a later chapter. However, a closer reading of the Village Papers reveals that khuntkatti-praja/ tenant or master/servant distinctions in Jharkhand did not actually create a vertical split in society. A researcher with good knowledge about Adivasi life would be aware that these did not correspond to the kind of lord/subject and master/servant divides prevailing in stratified societies. Generally speaking, ethnic communities were governed more by the norm of egalitarianism and homogeneity, which cemented haga/killi/hatu bonding. This was evident in the gradual mellowing of family/killi ownership of a village and the emergence of the idea of the village community, comprising all the inhabitants of a village. The following statement substantiates my point: ‘The dead of the country are mentioned & not only particular people’. They included not only the members of marang and huring killis, but also Tantis, Gours and all others. The occasion for remembering them was the Mage festival (January–February).61 This in a way replicated the rural practice of the ‘ritualization’ of ‘village solidarity’ as practised through the common celebration of ‘public rituals’ and sharing of responsibilities and resources in Indian villages (Fuller 2010: 272; Yazgi 2011: 56–7). Similarly, the nature of the master/servant relationship was different from that found among others. In Kolhan, due to the shortage of hands and also because of social taboo, more particularly in a family headed by a woman, engaging a chitra became necessary to assist in tilling. Often being an agnate or cognate, intra-haga/killi norms of consanguinity did not allow the relation to be governed by the norm of servility. We come across cases of the incumbent inheriting family property or being married to a daughter/sister of the family.62 Yet we cannot completely ignore the presence of a sense of superiority or dominance in Adivasi villages. The growing challenge of the youth and women against gerontocracy and patriarchy was the other area of social fission. Youthful assertion was more active at the marriage level when they violated the norm of settled marriage and resorted to apartipi, rajikhusi modes of love marriages. Due to the high rate of gonong (bride price), the rising incidence of ‘immoral intimacy between the sexes’ (Dalton 1973: 192) became endemic. Therefore, preserving the sanctity of exogamy became a serious social problem. To counter it, the defaulter was initially given the death penalty and later the defaulting family was outcasted or declared a kajomesin (a mode of ostracising) (Majumdar 1937: 55; Roy 1970: 66; O’Malley 1999: 134). Later, under official initiative, social leaders reduced the rate of gonong (Dalton 1973: 192; Sahu 1985: 170). These efforts did not bear much fruit and love marriages emerged as the more dominant trend of village life. Incidence of Adivasi women violating reputable social norms of conduct and resorting to going to court to assert their rights became a trend (Sen 2012: Chapter IV). Gender articulation sapped the traditional Adivasi notion of a happy home and homogenous social life.

64

Weaving the demographic pattern

Nature of the relationship between the Adivasis and non-Adivasis The relationship between ethnic and non-ethnic communities was generally ambivalent. It depended on whether they belonged to the officially defined categories of desirable or undesirable. The former were those who were ‘peaceful’, ‘useful’ and ‘non-moneylending’.63 It meant that only those who did not transgress the above norms were homogeneous and wanted. A section of scholarship, however, underlines that despite the imperative of ‘external recruitment’ referred to above, the non-Adivasis were treated as heterogeneous in indigenous societies (Bailey 1960: 23). We can broadly characterise this as a mark of external hierarchy. To cite an extreme instance from Ho history: Not having any of the feelings of veneration for Bramins, cows which pervade Hindoos of every description they make no scruple of putting to death any man of respectable caste who presumed to enter their territory, nor is there I can venture to affirm a single Bramin, Rajpoot or Mussulman in any one of the numerous and well inhabited villages they possess.64 Among the Santals, the disaffinity with non-ethnic elements was defined in diverse ways. First, it was done in spatial terms, identifying dekos as those ‘non-Santals of the better class, especially Hindus who inhabited the plains’, as against the Santals belonging to ‘the forests’ and ‘the hills’ (Bodding 1994: 10). This was interpreted in political terms when they were marked as harmful and unfriendly people, referring to the Hindu and Muslim subjugators of the Santal homeland (ibid.: 10–11, 20). The pang of diku subjugation finally prompted them to conjure up the notion of ‘essential dialectical relations between the dominant and dominated’ and ‘the idea of racial oneness with such castes as Doms, Kamars, Tilis, Hadis, Bauris, Kunkals and unnamed others’ (Sen 2018: 70–4). The sense of otherness finally became cultural when Santal creation legend underlined their basic difference from the Hindus/ Muslims (ibid.). The village deori therefore chanted: ‘We will kill the witches, the snakes and the Dikus’ during Oteili, a ceremony connected with land. In a similar way, the Santals equated a diku, meaning a Hindu, with a cat and a thorn tree that pricked (Sinha, Sen and Panchabhai 1969: 127). Furthermore, ethnic others were accorded a servile position in Adivasidominated villages. An early colonial ethnography on the Hos observed: ‘They allow to reside in villages under great subjection, a few pahuns (weavers), gwallas (cowherds), and conchus (potters) for the sake of being provided with cloth, pots and ghee’.65 This was accentuated by adverse distribution of land to the dikus. Khandkhori village had in total 716 people: 492 Hos and 224 dikus comprising Tantis, Kamars, Goalas and Doms.66 The distribution of land holdings is as shown in Table 4.1. In the village, in fact, the dikus owned merely 63–12–16 bighas of land out of a total of 2150–18–15 bighas. Regarding the socio-economic marginalisation of

Weaving the demographic pattern

65

Table 4.1 Land (in bigha)

Ho

Non-Ho

Land (in bigha)

Ho

Non-Ho

Less than 1 Less than 10 10–20 20–30 30–40

11 56 30 22 8

7 11 1 – –

40–50 50–60 60–70 80–90 –

9 1 1 1 –

– – – – –

Source: Sen (2011: 126)

the dikus, the official comment was: ‘The area at present held by the foreigners is not at all sufficient for their maintenance. Most of them maintain themselves by labour’.67 A closer historical reading, however, presents a more balanced picture. We learn that the nature of the relationship depended largely on two factors. The first was whether the dikus formed an essential part of the village community and whether they were harmful or beneficial for village life. To take up the situation of extraneous elements like the traders, miners and forest contractors first. Although the outstation traders were not an integral part of village life, as sellers and purchasers of village agrarian and forest products like rice, paddy, wheat, oilseeds, other kinds of grain, sugar, molasses, vegetables, tobacco, beads, cloth etc.,68 they played a harmful role in village life. Despite the fact that primary producers were often cheated by these traders, marketplaces grew into meeting points that paved a utilitarian relation between Adivasi villagers and these elements. Likewise, miners and forest contractors played a significant role in alleviating the suffering of the marginal farmers by providing supplementary sources of income. Naturally therefore, in general cases people tended to treat them as useful. In Jharkhand, the professional castes were more integral to village life for their services in contributing to the socio-economy of villages. This made their presence a pervasive trend in the countryside (Reid 1912: paras 23–6; Bridge 1996: paras 27–8; Sifton 1996: 39–40). We learn that in one village in Kolhan, a Lohar and a Tanti were invited by the raiyats and provided with a homestead.69 In another case, the Munda himself brought two Goalas from an adjacent village, as there was no Goala in his village.70 Likewise, villagers and Manki requested the Deputy Commissioner to permit a Sahu of Mayurbhanj ‘to remain in the village’ as they felt the ‘necessity of a shopkeeper’ and the person was reported to be a man of ‘good conduct’.71 These dikus served various purposes. Goalas tended village cattle and sometimes also served as agrarian labour; Lohars or blacksmiths made iron ploughshares and other implements of domestic use; Tantis made cotton clothes for the villagers. They were therefore treated as an essential part of the village community and integrated into the ritual world when their dead ancestors were remembered, as shown earlier, along with the departed among the Hos during Mage parab.

66

Weaving the demographic pattern

Furthermore, functional castes were sometimes assigned a significant role in village governance. Roughsedge noted that pahuns or tantis generally acted as village accountants and interpreters while dealing with outsiders.72 In one village, we notice a Gour acting as the village dakua, and in a different village another functioned as the pir dakua.73 Their being chosen as village deori, as happened in the case of a Kumhar,74 instanced their inclusion in the religious domain. The significance of this rather rare event was that, among the Hos, to be a deori outside the founder’s family/killi was unusual, beyond the ethnic bounds even more so. Not only village governance, but the memory world, or rather village history, was sometimes assigned to outsiders. When old men were either not available or their information was found conflicting, an intelligent man earned official and social trust as a repository of village history. In some cases, the village past was retrieved from the dikus. This had happened in the case of Damodarpur, which owed its name to one Damodar Ho of Sinku killi. That Damodar was a Ho and not a diku, as the word itself suggested, emerged from the testimony of the Goalas of the village. They testified that Damodar was actually a Ho.75 There were, however, occasions, when Ho villagers themselves assigned the responsibility to a diku resident of the village. During khuntkatti enquiry, unable to recall how many sons the village founder had, Daso deori of Laguri killi of Udajo said ‘The old men of the village Bunda Goala & (and) others might know them’.76 However, more often than not the detrimental role of the dikus created distance and suspicion. Most important of all was the very influx of outsiders in Jharkhand, which Adivasis considered to be their homeland. I would like to elaborate the process from Ho history. Kolhan, which was a Ho preserve in the 1840s constituting about 85% of the population (Tickell 1840: 700), changed its demographic character by the turn of the century. I will provide macro data on the systematic growth of the diku population in a later chapter; the following details on a single village will analyse the trend at the micro level. In Tuntakata, the ‘foreigners’ (Goalas, Lohars and Tantis) came to constitute 29% of the total population.77 Their systematic rise in number followed a pattern. While initially they entered villages following the invitation of the Adivasis, the pervasive subsequent trend was that both the old and new dikus encouraged the entry of their kinsmen across villages. In Kolhan villages, there was hardly any Muslim penetration before 1867. But during the second decade of the twentieth century, one village registered 16 recorded new Muslims and 30 unrecorded new ones. One of them was a hide trader who also indulged in lending. He was reportedly ‘responsible for introducing several Muhammedans in the village’.78 Some of the other dikus first settled at Chaibasa before spreading into villages. Thus, seven Mallah families of Gaya found their entry in Kokcho.79 What intensified during colonial rule continued to the lived present, converting the once Adivasi-dominated Jharkhand region into diku dominated, reducing the number of the former to a mere 27% of the total population according to the 2011 Census.

Weaving the demographic pattern

67

Another irritant was the attempt made by some dikus to grab lands, a trend that disturbed the land-owning pattern of the villages. In the plateau region, this had begun and proliferated when Chotanagpur Rajas encouraged revenue farmers, cultivators and functional castes largely from Bihar to settle and own land in villages once predominated by Adivasis. Colonial rule accelerated the process. The outsiders were generally more enterprising but avaricious than the ethnic groups. Irrespective of their professions, they tried to acquire arable and homestead lands of the Adivasi peasants. Gour, Oraon, Tanti, Mallah and Lohar residents of one village purchased Ho lands.80 In another village, a diku villager, who had entered the village 13 years back, took 20 plots of a Ho on thika (mortgage) for a meagre payment of Re 1–8.81 Regarding the land hunger of diku cultivators of one village, the official comment was: Though the area has become double it is still insufficient for the sustenance of the foreign settlers of the village & there is every likelihood of its increasing if steps be not taken to check it.82 The above quote reveals that the local administration was concerned with land alienation. But this more often than not proved ineffective for all those who were engaged in trade and lending. One hide trader and lender, who had settled after 1867, came to own 84 bigha/19 katha paddy land, 70 bigha/11 katha/15 dhur upland.83 This trend severely fractured the balance of land share in rural life, as shown in a later chapter. Naturally, therefore, once Adivasi-dominated areas in the country became a hotbed of popular protest against attempts to usurp their lands by individuals (Sen 2018: 186–203). More details about the strategy are provided below. Some of the outsiders indulged in nefarious money and paddy-lending business. We are aware of the role of moneylenders as an important factor behind Santal Hul (1855–56). The growth of bonded labour epitomised by the notorious kamiouti system was a glaring example of the exploitation of Adivasis (Sifton 1996: 256–68). In Singhbhum, due to the inadequacy of taccavi loans (paid to farmers to purchase seeds, equipment and fertilisers) from the government for alleviating the crisis created by famine and drought, villagers had to depend on money and paddy loans from the local lenders, even though the rate of interest was as high as 50%.84 But private loans from mostly diku paddy lenders were easily available. The local administration more or less compromised with the situation because paddy loans ‘helped them (villagers) a lot’. This enabled some of the outsiders to virtually run a lending network that covered several villages.85 Naturally, the indigent villagers fell prey to them. The ultimate result was largescale land alienation from the Adivasis to dikus, and in many cases also from diku to diku. How they conducted the process of land grab will become clear from the following quote. He (moneylender) lends out money on hand notes at prohibitive rate of interest. When after a year or two the interests come to big sums he makes

68

Weaving the demographic pattern the debtors to transfer their lands. His hand notes and sale deeds are in some cases suspicious.86

It is a well-known fact that unpleasant behaviour towards Adivasi women was a major cause behind the Kol Rebellion of 1831–32 and Santal Hul of 1855–56. Though such extreme cases did not occur in Singhbhum, aberrations continued to cause social ire. One of the dikus from Mayurbhanj, a trader by profession, was disliked by villagers because he had ‘kept a Ho woman’.87 Likewise, a petty trader was ‘very unpopular among the Hos’ because of his ‘immoral character’. So they wanted him to be exiled from the village.88 One of the sons of a Brahmin family had ‘enticed the daughter’ of a villager. So the whole family ‘incurred the displeasure’ of the villagers.89 Other irritating diku elements were the hide dealers. They were often accused of poisoning cattle for animal skin and cattle theft. Some of them raised hide godowns for running their hide business. Such elements were disliked and often complaints were lodged with the district administration, asking for the closure of these godowns and eviction of hide dealers from villages.90 No less disturbing was the advent of exogenous religious faiths and practices in Adivasi land. The advent of Christian Missions had a heterogeneous impact, vertically splitting Adivasis into those following the traditional religion and Christianity. The converted were weaned away from the rest when they observed Christian festivals as against the rest who practised Adivasi festivals such as Mage, Sarhul, Sohrae etc. Churches stood out to be an exotic and grafted symbol in a land of desauli or Sarna. I will cite one example from Ho history to provide an understanding of the nature of the social wedge thus created. Customarily refraining from performing the last rites of the dead in the family, the converted were also denied the right to inherit family property (Sen 2012: 108). Due to this social hiatus, villagers lodged a collective protest against the appointment of a Christian Ho as their Munda.91 Religious cleavage assumed political overtones. This manifested in a split of indigenous agitators of the Sardari uprising on religious grounds92 and violence perpetrated against Christian missionaries during the Birsite movement (Singh 1966: 95–112). Likewise, though not through formal conversion, the Hindu religion had spread across Jharkhand. Temples and worship of Hindu deities created a dent in the Adivasi religious world, leading to a division between Hinduised and aboriginal. In recent times, the religious hiatus has generated a distinct Adivasi religious identity. This has been articulated in the form of them being identified neither as Christian, nor as Hindu. Adivasi intellectuals assert that instead of being classified as ‘animists’ as done in the Censuses, they should be constitutionally accorded the status of the adherents of the Sarna religion. On the whole, barring largely the old dikus, other dikus were disparate elements of village demography in Kolhan. This largely also featured in inter-community relations in Odisha. A recent study underlines the compartmentalisation of the ethnic and non-ethnic groups. To quote: ‘the Santals and other tribes live apart from the Hindu castes, and they have only minimal relations with them’, though the situation in Bengal was much different (Carrin 2017: 3).

Weaving the demographic pattern

69

The above pages have brought to light the exact nature of the social composition of Adivasi villages and how the relationship among the families, killis and communities developed. This study has also alluded to the salience of population movement in the village demographic formation. The next chapter unfolds the history of in–out-migration as a crucial event in Adivasi village life.

Notes 1 Village Communities in the East and West (1876). 2 The Indian Village Community (1896) and The Origin and Growth of Village Communities in India (1899). 3 According to Dalton (1973: 189), these numbered 18, while 21 was the number stated by Roy, who provides an exhaustive list of the killis. 4 The same is true about the Mundas and Santals although their highest deity is Dharmes and Thakur. 5 The family legends ascribe the origin of Porahat chiefdom to the sixth century AD, though colonial ethnography dates it to AD 1205. 6 TSKP, Kolaisai, 3–4, VN 69. 7 ibid. 8 ibid., Udalkam, 3–6, VN 68. 9 ibid., Chirchi, 3, VN 17. 10 TS, Cases u/s 83, Objection Cases No 1519–53, Baduri, 6–9, VN 14. 11 TSKP, Kolaisai, 3–4, VN 69. 12 ibid., Sonro, 7–16, VN 5. 13 ibid., Telai Jerai, 3–5, VN 24. 14 ibid., Deojori, 3–16, VN 51. 15 ibid., Bara Lagiya, 3, VN 2. 16 They were Jarika (founding killi), Boipai, Koda, Jonko, Lamay, Chaki, Bansing Purti, Kondangkel and Laguri. ibid., Gurgaon, 3, VN 3 CT. 17 ibid., Pancho, 3, VN 62. 18 This distinction generally also prevailed in other parts of Chotanagpur (Sinha, Sen and Panchabhai 1969: 124–5). 19 TSKP, Banskata, 3–7, VN 46. 20 ibid., Sarbil, 3–7, VN 47. 21 ibid., Jogi Nanda, 3–6, VN 47. 22 Captain T. Wilkinson to Lt. Tickell, 13 May 1837, paras 36–8, Governor General’s Agent, SWFPDR, 13 May to 1 December 1840, Vol. 231. 23 Return of Pleaders of the Senior or Higher Grade for the District of Singhbhum for the year 1878 (Circular Order no.12 dated 30 June 1877), GAR for 1878–79, No. 678, Chaibasa, May 1879. 24 Those who immigrated after 1867 were called new dikus. Their rate of rent was double the normal (Craven 1898: 8–22, 29–31). 25 The meanings of these two terms are mentioned below. 26 Col. E. T. Dalton, Commissioner of Chotanagpore to T. B. Lane, Secretary to the Board of Revenue, Lower Provinces, No. 754, 6 April 1867, Revenue Department, June 1867, Proceeding No. 122, 128. 27 For other instances, see Marriott (1955: 172, 182–91); Mandelbaum (1955: 223); Miller (1955: 48–50); Gough (1955: 45–8); Bremon, Kloos and Saith (1997: 5). 28 K. Gough informs that caste was both a uniting and disuniting force. She writes: ‘The vertical unity of the village has always been counterbalanced by the horizontal unity of each endogamous subcaste’ (1955: 49).

70

Weaving the demographic pattern

29 ‘Note of statements of Mankis and Mundas at a Conference held at Chaibasa’, Resettlement of the Kolhan Government Estate in the district of Singhbhum. Appendix B, 24–26. 30 ibid. 31 I owe this idea to Creese (2013: 185–218). For conversion of natural to cultural space, see Sen (2018: 43–8). 32 Gobhari is the person who helped the deori in offering the sacrifice of fowl during the Mage festival. Jomsin, as the other assistant of the deori, performed the ritual cooking of the fowl-flesh and other ceremonial food during Mage. I am grateful to my friend, Dobro Buriuly, an eminent Ho intellectual, for the above information. 33 TSKP, Ulihatu, 3–4, VN 38. 34 ibid., Purtisai, 3–4, VN 38. 35 TS, Cases u/s 83, Objection No 358–59, 794, Abin, 7, VN 6. 36 TSKP, Korta, 3–5, VN 71. 37 ibid., Sukripora, 3–5, VN 72. 38 ibid., Bara Lagiya, 3–4, VN 2. 39 ibid., Binj, 3, VN 5. 40 TS Papers of Cases u/s 83, Pandrasali, 22–3, VN 8; TSKP, Bhoya, 3–5, VN 7. 41 For the Munda and Oraon see (Risley, Vol. II, 1998: 102–9, 113–4). Among the Santals, the original number was seven, which later rose to twelve (O’Malley 1999: 106; Risley Vol. II, 1998: 226–7). 42 D.M. Panna, the Assistant Settlement Officer, observed: ‘It has been found that it is a universal custom in the Kolhan to call the descendants of the first settler as Marang hagas while the descendants of the same killi are known as Huring hagas’ (TSKP, San Chiru, 3–5, VN 11). See also TS, Cases u/s 83, Objection Nos 1519–53, Baduri, 6–9, VN 14. But we cannot deny that the disavowal of social disparity was a social ploy to obviate the official policy of enforcing a differential rate of rent for khuntkattidars and kayemi raiyats. This may also be owing to the prevailing social uncertainty regarding the meaning of khuntkatti and village founding, elaborated on in a subsequent chapter. 43 TSKP, San Nanda, 3–8, VN 69. 44 ibid. See also TS, Papers of Cases u/s 83, Kuidbusu,3, VN 54. 45 TSKP, Iligara, 3–4, VN 16. 46 ibid., Katepara, 3, VN 50. 47 ibid., Peta Peti, 3, VN 3 CT. 48 ibid., Bagiabera, 3, VN 43. See also ibid., Iligara, 3–4, VN 16. 49 ibid., Kotswan, 3, VN 1. 50 TS, Cases u/s 83, Objection Nos 810, 813–14, 816, 818–19, Baika, 19, VN 1. 51 TSKP, Chirchi, 3, VN 17. 52 ibid., Lisimoti, 3–6, VN 68. 53 TS, Cases u/s 83, Objection Nos 832–35, 837–38, Argundi, 5, VN 1. 54 TS, Papers of Cases u/s 28/85 (2) ii of 1917, Barajaipur, 5–12, VN 13. See also ibid., Cases u/s 368/85 (2) ii of 1917, Dumarjua, 5–13, VN 68; and Cases u/s 364/85 (2) ii of 1917, Kitaktorang, 5–10, VN 68. 55 TSKP, Karanjia, 3–6, VN 50. 56 ibid., Bamebasa, 3, VN 61. 57 ibid., Karkata, 3, VN 65. 58 ibid., Bhaluka, 3, VN 49, see also ibid., Iligara, 3–9, VN 51. 59 ibid., Karsakola, 3–8, VN 43. 60 ibid., Uligutu, 3–4, VN 38; ibid., Bara Lagiya, 3–4, VN 2. 61 ibid., Binj, 10, VN 5. 62 TS, Papers of Cases u/s 83, Kuidbusu, 3, VN 54. 63 TSVN, Vol. VI, Jamdiha, 250. 64 Roughsedge to Metcalfe, 9 May 1820, para 13.

Weaving the demographic pattern 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92

71

ibid., para 16. TSVN, Vol. IV, Khandkhori, 134–5. ibid. CSVP, Dhobadhobin, 4, VN 494. At Bhangaon haat, attendance and exchange items were much greater. ibid., Bhangaon, 3–4, VN 646. TSVN, Vol. I, Bainka, 4–6. ibid., Vol. I, Kaida, 150. ibid., Vol. IV, Majhigawan, 441. Roughsedge to Metcalfe, 9 May 1820, para 16. TSVN, Vol. III, Tilaijori, 42; ibid., Vol. V, Gumuria, 395. TSKP, Iligara, 3–4, VN 16. ibid., Damodarpur, 3–6, VN 50. ibid., Udajo, 5, VN 70. TSVN, Vol. III, Tuntakata, 371. ibid., Vol. IV, Kurposi, 372. ibid., Vol. II, Kokcho, 209–11. ibid., Vol. II, Chirchi, 215–16. ibid., Vol. III, Pandrasali, 304. ibid., Vol. III, Tuntakata, 371. ibid., Vol. IV, Kurposi, 372. ibid., Vol. IV, Kalkalgutu, 205. CSVP, Sardha, FS 5, 1–3, VN 460; Padampur, FS 9, 1–8, VN 650; TSVN, Vol. IV, Awla, 233; Kalkalgutu 240. TSVN, Vol. IV, Kurposi, 375–76. ibid., Vol. IV, Lidian, 303. ibid., Vol. V, Gamharia, 197. ibid., Vol. IV, Ichakuti, 513. Daitari Sardar of Jaintgarh reports against some hide merchants (who) opened their shops in Kolhan & (and) prays that they may be turned out of Kolhan, CS, Jaintgarh, FL, Mis Case No. 1241 of 1904–5, SN 22, 9, VN 654. CSVN, Combined Title Page & FL, Case No 90 of 1913–14, Maki Kui of Panga’s Petition for an acting Manki for Panga, Panga, FS 8, 7–8, VN 327. Papers relating to Chota Nagpore Agrarian Disputes, Calcutta, 1890, 113, 128.

5

The story of in- and out-migration

Introduction Migration has been a recurrent and decisive process in Adivasi life. The present chapter explores its spatio-temporal pattern that determined the nature of village socio-polity. In Jharkhand, Adivasi migration into Chotanagpur formed one aspect of the spatial pattern, while their gradual dispersion across Chotanagpur and Santal Parganas was the other. In terms of the temporal pattern, migration began during pre-colonial eras but continued and accelerated under British rule. However, there are some broad differences in the nature of migration during these periods. The major difference is that while during the precolonial period large in-migration of the Kolarian people took place, their entry from outside virtually stopped under British rule. Instead, their movement across Jharkhand and beyond was accelerated. Second, the influx of non-ethnic elements, which had started under feudal rule in Jharkhand, unprecedentedly increased during the colonial period. The present chapter seeks to broadly shed light on these issues in four sections. The first section presents an overview of the time, distance and cause of demographic movement; the second section narrates the history of ethnic and non-ethnic migration in and across Jharkhand during pre-colonial and colonial times; the third section provides information on the story of out-migration in Singhbhum, particularly its Kolhan region, to other provinces, including movement to coal fields and tea gardens; and the last section discusses the impact of in–out-migration on rural life.

Time, distance and cause of migration This section seeks to address the time and distance of migration, followed by an enumeration of the causes of the entire range of Adivasi migration during the pre-colonial and colonial eras. But the problem is that indigenous societies did not measure time and distance in the way mainstream societies generally did, though gradually they acculturated to the exogenous methodology. Let us begin with time, denoting its longer version such as a period or era, or a shorter one such as day, week and month. The Hos, indeed the Adivasis in general, measured daytime through the movement of the sun. Furthermore,

The story of in- and out-migration

73

they only knew of today, tomorrow and the day after, but not week, month and year. What they knew for certain was the movement of seasons that fixed the broad timings of their festivals (Sen 2003a). This makes fixing the exact time of movement difficult. The Adivasis also did not measure space and distance in terms of inch or foot and yards or miles. Regarding the former, their method, as we learn from the first land survey and settlement in 1838, was to measure land on the basis of the area in which a khandee (equivalent to 20 seers) of paddy might be sown. In 1867, dang or stick calculation was officially introduced in Kolhan and Porahat countryside. However, we cannot deny that like other pre-peasant societies, indigenes measured length as ‘near’ and ‘far’ without spelling out what these two terms actually denoted. Though they had learnt from diku neighbours about kos (1 mile being equivalent to 2 kos), for them this simply meant a distance covered until a branch of green leaves dried up in the hand (Hunter Vol. VI, 1976: 86). Regarding the causes of migration at the pan-Indian level, Adivasi understanding was diverse. The imperative of the mixed economy had forced the Dangs to relocate themselves (Skaria 1999: 46–8). Likewise, when they were pursuing axe-cultivation in small groups comprising ‘the sons and grandsons of one man’, the Konds kept on moving to new places (Bailey 1960: 65). However, migration of the villagers had also occurred for reasons such as the growth in population, clan feuds and the urge of people living in smaller settlements to resettle themselves around their larger kin settlements (ibid.: 45, 50, 60–1). The Kunbis migrated to Dang from Konkon due to the terrible Durgadev famine of 1396–1408 (Hardiman 2010: 392) and a large number of Bhils from the Dang region left their homes for the plains of south Gujarat for seasonal agricultural employment (ibid.: 412). In central Gujarat, natural calamities such as famines, floods and epidemics caused population movement (Shah 2002: 56). Temporary and permanent migration occurred to facilitate marriage relations and participate in religious celebrations (Mandelbaum 1970: 328–9). The other reasons were a hunger for land, search for jobs as wage labour, sarkari oppression and forest reservation (Skaria 1999: 149, 224, 227). The latter incidents focus on the officially induced migration. But this was a global phenomenon. In colonial Latin America, people ‘left the villages to escape labor and tribute obligations’ and also because of ‘the petty tyranny of local officials’ (Martin 1996: 207). Likewise, provincial, regional and inter-village/pir migration occurring in Adivasi-dominated areas of Bihar resulted from diverse causes. In the first two cases, displacement due to political upheavals necessitated the search for a safe and secure settlement location. The major instances were Kolarian shifts from the Gangetic plains to Chotanagpur, Oraon movement from Ruhidas to Chotanagpur plateau, Munda migration to Singhbhum from Chotanagpur, and Santal exodus from their earlier settlements due to Hindu and Muslim (later also British) expansion. With relocation to the final destination being preceded by the selection of an intermediate habitat, the distances covered were short, though the final journey took a long time and, barring the latter from the above list, all had occurred during pre-colonial eras. But sparse information is available for historicisation, as elaborated on later.

74

The story of in- and out-migration

In contrast, the specific details of inter-village/pir dispersion within Singhbhum are largely within our reach, courtesy of the Village Papers. We learn that migration was motivated by the search for new land. This was a localised affair, being influenced by easy and abundant availability of land in the adjacent forests. Ho villagers also mostly lacked the resources and enterprise to undertake distant adventures. When we seek to temporally identify specific cases of population movement, a mixed picture is available containing uncertain and specific details. Due to the lack of a calendrical sense of time, the Adivasis used such uncertain time measures as ‘after’ and ‘during’, thereby linking migration to an individual or a memorable event. We may somewhat liken it to the centrality of ‘successions of events’ as a time marker among the Nuer (Evans-Pritchard 1940: 94). To elaborate, such families/killis came after the original reclaimer had fixed the village site or prepared lands; and then ‘we came during such and such Munda’s time’. Villagers deposed that Supai Ho was the first (i.e. before others came) to settle in Chirchi, and other branches of his killi ‘came later being called by Supai’.1 The same expressions were used to describe the immigration of family branches and other killis. Michrai Munda from Bara Chiru reclaimed Sangajata. After him, his relatives started reclamation, and then they moved to the new village.2 The other time markers were the anti-British movements of 1836–37 and 1857–58 (Sen 2011b: 87–8). But the problem was that on occasions, these were referred to either as simply a disturbance or as associated with persons without revealing their specific identity. In Gobergaon, Ho and diku, villagers recalled that they had deserted the village during a ‘disturbance’.3 On the other hand, in another village people deposed that during ‘Indian mutiny’, the Dhuruas flew the village and Gagrais stepped in. But they associated the event with two persons belonging to two different disturbances, Tikin (Tickell of 1837) and Coptan Saheb (Lt. Birch of 1857).4 However, such modes of time measurement were not acceptable to the colonial administrators using clocks and calendars. Therefore, they introduced the generation-scale to determine the approximate year and period of events, a generation measuring 25 years. Acculturated to this scale, a villager observed ‘we are such and such generations of the original settler’ to temporally locate population movement for the purposes of original reclamation or settlement. Dibru Biruas, the original founders of Sararia, informed that they were in the village for eight generations. On that scale, the village was calculated to have been founded during the AD 1720s (1916 [the year of survey] – 200 [825] = 1716). Similarly, the case of resettlement of Kuira by Birua immigrants from Jaipur could be connected to the AD 1790s (1916–125=1791) as their fifth generation {525=125} resided there.5 However, villagers mostly fumbled with the precise genealogical tree due to loss of memory and more so because this was not socially mandatory to calculate before. Nevertheless, in a way this established a correspondence between Ho and the modern calculation of year and period, suggesting how the process of acculturation worked. More information about time, distance and cause will be provided as I relate the story of Adivasi in-migration and expansion below.

The story of in- and out-migration

75

Adivasi migration into Chotanagpur This section tells three stories: 1) the in-migration of the Mundas and Oraons after their displacement from their earlier bastions to the Chotanagpur plateau region; 2) the dispersion of the Mundas in groups to Singhbhum; and 3) the entry and dispersion of the dikus in and across Singhbhum. The availability of historical materials narrating these stories is variable. The details about precolonial Munda and Oraon migration to Jharkhand are sketchy. On the other hand, Santal oral tradition is partially more informed about their pre-historic shifts and the causes thereof, while it remains fragmentary for the historic period (Bodding 1994: 3–22). Likewise, information about the migrant Munda groups, who later assumed Ho identity, is sparse. In contrast, the Village Papers are replete with details regarding the cause, distance and time of their dispersion across Singhbhum. Pre-colonial period The colonial-day ethnographers and anthropologists, such as S.C. Roy, largely drew on Adivasi oral tradition to reconstruct the pre-feudal/colonial history of Munda and Oraon immigration in the present-day Jharkhand region. Traditions of the Mundas, corroborated by their stone memorials and ancient Sanskrit texts, informed that they and their allied ‘tribes’ occupied large parts of northern India before the arrival of the Aryans. According to Mundari tradition, the hilly tracts of north-western India were their earliest bastions. This association was inscribed in their creation myth through the metaphor of Marang Buru or Great Mountain. It was here that they had entered settled village life. But they were gradually driven to the Gangetic valley by the Aryans and after forming several intermediate habitations, they finally arrived at Chotanagpur plateau (Roy 1970: 13–34).6 Oraon traditional history recounted the story of their origin in south India at a remote period. Their folklore, as reconstructed by Rev. Dehon, narrated their participation in the clash between Ram and Ravana. Presumably, the Oraons lost the battle and were forced to migrate first to the Narmada region and then to the valley of the river Sone. It was here that they developed their ‘ancient seats’ at Aramnagar (Arra) and Byaghra-sara (Buxar). Later, they formed their settlements in the Ruidas hills region (ibid.: 68–9).7 It is probably the case that the Cheros or Kharwars drove them out of Rohtas, their earlier stronghold. Subsequently, one of their branches inhabited Palamau (Hallett 1917: 22). A Munda informant said: We allowed the Oraons of Ruhidas (the modern Rohtas, a famous fortress about 150 miles northwest of Ranchi District) to come to this country. They came peaceably, and we allowed them to occupy the country in peace. (MacDougall 1985: 62)8

76

The story of in- and out-migration

The paucity of information available precludes an understanding of the picture of the socio-economy of the Kolarain groups when they were making early entry into the forested tracts of Chotanagpur. Presumably, the itinerant group pursued hunting, foraging and shifting cultivation. The parallel instance of the Dang region of Gujarat practising a similar mixed economy may help to extrapolate the cause of migration in Jharkhand. The imperatives of the socioeconomy did not allow the Dangis to stay in one place for more than two to three years: Their huts were small and temporary and abandoned when they moved to a new place; forced migration to another place and region was an outcome of fleeing excessive taxes and also natural calamities (Skaria 1999: 46–8). The Mundas of Chotanagpur seemed to replicate this pattern until they colonised its large portions that made them, as they later claimed, the khuntkattidars or original settlers. Munda traditional history narrates how this happened. Under Risa Munda, 21,000 people moved towards the east and first settled in Murima village; Korumba, his follower, set up the village named after him as Koromba; Sutia, another follower founded the village, which acquired the name of Sutiambe after him. Mundas inhabiting the central part of Chotanagpur still referred to the latter two villages as the ‘cradle of “Konkpat” Mundas’ (Hallett 1917: 22). We learn that after the ‘more prolific’ Oraons set their feet in the plateau, ‘the remote ancestors of the Mundas finally secluded themselves in the valleys and jungles of Chota Nagpur’, cleared forests and set up new villages. As population growth caused a space problem, new villages continued to emerge. In the process, not only did the number of villages proliferate, but a ‘number of separate families belonging to the same killi’ also grew. Gradually, the Mundas occupied south-eastern and north-western parts of the old Ranchi district (Roy 1970: 62–70). This seemed to interrupt the recurrent migrations of the earlier phase until the arrival of the Hindus and Oraons in the plateau. The displacement of the Mundas by the Hindus and the wilful sharing of their habitat with the Oraons triggered a new phase of movement outside the plateau region into Singhbhum. The pattern of this movement is narrated below. The preponderance of the Hos in Ho-desum, which the Hindus disparagingly called Kolhan (Tickell 1840: 694–8; Dalton 1973: 178), was the product of their systematic migration. As related previously, in dispersed groups, the Mundas left Chotanagpur plateau to carve out a new homeland in Singhbhum. This southward descent from the hills presumably followed two routes: One was a western route along Koel and Karo rivers, while the other was an eastern route through Seraikela and Kharsawan. They first occupied pristine forest areas in the northern part of Singhbhum. At this stage, they presumably practised shifting cultivation, which made them virtually a footloose people living in temporary huts and villages. Large areas of Singhbhum were then under the political control of the Saraks and Bhuiyans. Almost about the same time, a local dynasty of the Porahat Rajas, as unconfirmed history informs, established control over northern and southern parts of Singhbhum. Meanwhile, immigrant Mundas gradually swelled

The story of in- and out-migration

77

their numbers through intermittent influx. As part of a mutual agreement with the Porahat dynasty, they left their northern settlements. They steadily spread across central and southern Singhbhum and developed a distinct ethnic identity as the Ho. Meanwhile, they adapted to settled village life and cultivation, a transformation that necessitated new lands for setting up villages. They first dislodged the Bhuiyans9 and Saraks (Tickell 1840: 696–7), the earlier inhabitants of this region, and then followed this up by establishing systematic ascendancy over areas in southern Kolhan previously controlled by the Porahat rulers. They also expanded into extreme south and south-eastern pirs such as Bar, Aula, Lalgarh and Bharbharia under the Mayurbhanj rajas and converted this into ‘Kol territory’ (Tickell 1840: 694–9; Sahu 1985: 6–17). Presumably, a group of the Hos had taken the Seraikela–Kharsawan route, and were finally able to occupy the above pirs. This is the broad pattern of Ho in-migration and dispersion in Singhbhum. On the whole, the foundation of their early settlements was motivated by the imperative of laying the base of their homeland. In this phase, presumably, as the instance of Risa Munda and his adherents stands out as a kind of model, different Munda groups who might have been representing different killis reclaimed killi-centric mother villages. However, colonial ethnography merely gives a clue to this expansion and migration pattern, failing to elaborate on the origin of the primary bases of Ho killis. Presumably, this replicated the Kond pattern of ‘the sons and grandsons of one man’ taking the lead. Likewise, the Village Papers are not informed about the original Ho killi centres. Instead, they relate why and when later branching off of killis occurred to set up killicentric mother villages and their satellites. In the next phase, it was mainly a land-crunch due to numerical growth that forced individuals/families to leave their natal village. I cite the following instances in support. Gamaria and Dopai originally formed one village reclaimed by a family of Tiu killi. When the former became ‘over-crowded’, members of the same killi founded Dopai.10 A space problem similarly caused movement of two branches of a killi. Kotachara was a village in a jungly area founded by Jotea of Sinku killi. But after some time, he migrated to Khairpal with his family, understandably because of the above reason. People of Joro Sinku, a sub-killi of Sinku, moved from Amda and occupied the village. But they also did not stay there for long. One of them informed: ‘I cannot say why they left but we have heard that they left this place as the village was too small. They left for Koyo’.11 This implies that the wrong selection of a small village site was the cause of movement in this particular case. But as in this case, often the village became small with the increase in population number forcing the excess population to leave, as had been the case when the Sinkus were forced to leave Khairpal and found Hesapi. Later, seemingly due to the same reason, some of them moved to Asanpat, while others continued to live in Hesapi.12 Migration in search of land was mostly inter-village/pir in nature, as the small distance covered bears out. Kalundias moved from Kokcho to found

78

The story of in- and out-migration

Iligara, which was ‘not (a) far off village’.13 Again, Laguris of Jaipur in Bar pir stated that they came from ‘far away’ Bantaria pir,14 though the distance covered was not very long. Instances abound when distance was measured against miles,15 showing their acculturation to the modern method. Bainka, Loharda and Argundi were reclaimed from Uligutu. Villagers informed that Bainka, Loharda and Uligutu were ‘within a radius’ of ½ mile, while Argundi was ‘one mile or so away’ from the three above, being separated by a hill.16 But there were some cases when a greater distance was covered. The original founders of Udalkam came from Korejora in Rengra pir, which was about two miles away.17 In two other cases, the distance was six18 and eight miles.19 Migration in the above and below cases mostly comprised inter/intra killi incidences of peaceful dispersion of the community. In these cases, with family size becoming unwieldy, branches of the family mutually decided to live apart. Nando and his sons Thakura and Budhu founded Bachamhatu and Thakuragutu. When the brothers separated, Budhu and his children decided to live in Bachamhatu, while Thakura and his family moved to the adjacent Thakuragutu.20 The same factor caused much wider dispersion. Bharat Ho, the pioneer of Loharda, had four sons: Rasa, Sado, Har and Bir Singh. From their original home in Uligutu, they reclaimed lands in Bainka, and Argundi. Following Ho custom, when their father died, the brothers decided to separate and divide their lands among themselves. Rasai’s descendants chose Uligutu; Sado’s progenies moved to Bainka and those of Har and Bir Singh to Argundi. Later, Rasia’s son Achu founded Loharda.21 However, inter-killi/community migration also occurred due to mutual feuds and tension. Jamuda killi was the principal killi of Uligutu. A ‘quarrel’ among them over division of mangos took such a serious turn that some of the families were forced to flee the village.22 This indicates prevailing inter-clan tensions, which added an urge to provide clan security as an important consideration for demographic settlements and movement. This was seemingly behind the invitation to his ‘relatives’ (hagas) from Bara Chiru to reclaim lands in Sangajata by Michrai, the founder of the village.23 Supai of Bari killi, a resident of Rowali Bankan in Kainua pir, set up Chirchi. He then invited ‘descendants of four different ancestors’ from Rowali Bankan to reclaim land and settle in Chirchi.24 Obviously, they were motivated by the desire to entrench the family in the village geo-polity. While consolidation of the killi in the event of inter-killi rivalry caused migration and relocation, the other motive was to consolidate the Ho community in the regional geo-polity. In general cases, as the above instances corroborate, the strategy generally followed by the Hos was to establish demographic dominance over villages. This is why the founding families not only invited other families of the same killi, but also their balas, and then other killis. As cited above, the majority of Kolhan villages thus became multi-killi in nature. These villages obviously demonstrated an extension of haga–bala social networking into a more comprehensive demographic formation for the sole reason of setting up a community bulwark against other communities, particularly the

The story of in- and out-migration

79

non-ethnic people. This was necessary in view of the fact that Kolhan had been a hotbed of political rivalry first between the Saraks and Hos; second between the Hos and Bhuiyans; third among local chiefdoms; and last between the Porahat rajas and the Hos (Tickell 1840: 697–8; Sahu 1985: 6–14). The Village Papers inform that the Ho/diku hiatus was more deep rooted. Despite overall numerical preponderance, sometimes due to socio-cultural difference, the Ho villagers preferred to relocate themselves. This is corroborated by the following instance. However, there is variation in the social and official interpretations of the cause of the Ho exodus. Socially, the reason was wilful departure of the Hos to avoid social tension and quarrel. To quote: from private talks I learnt that originally there were Hos at what is known as Kunkal Kochra and as the Kumhars and Goalas would not tolerate eating of pork and beef and drinking of Diang by the Hos the latter left the old site.25 But the official view was that due to diku trickery and machination, the Hos were systematically eased out of the village. This was officially admitted: It might be that the Ho settlers left Kokcho because they could not live together with their Diku neighbours peacefully. The Dikus being more intelligent than the Hos might have, by means fair and foul, dispossessed the latter of their lands, otherwise it is not possible that the Sinkus would have easily left their ancestral lands and relinquished them in favour of the Dikus when they had removed but to a little distance from Kochra village site.26 There were, however, more specific factors behind in-migration. In Udalkam, the village founder, who had hailed from Korjora in Rengra pir, called another killi member, not a haga, from Pokhriburu to ‘work as his servant’. He also brought another person of a different killi from Lisimoti, seemingly for the same reason.27 Presumably, these people helped the pioneer to reclaim his own land, a reason behind other such migrations. Laguris from Babaria came to Kotegarh as the ‘praja (raiyat) of the Munda’. Subsequently, however, they made Kotegarh a base for reclaiming lands in Kumirta.28 Assuming the subordinate status as either ‘servant’ or ‘praja’ was not therefore the only purpose of migration. Another motive was to consolidate cognatic relations. The Gagrai killi, the marang killi of Bichaburu, invited a Honhaga family from Dokata as one of their members ‘had married in the Gagrai family’.29 The above instances of migration of families and individuals represented acts of human volition. But there are several cases where fear of animals and epidemics forced a group exodus. Regarding the animals, Kolhan villages were disturbed by the tiger menace the most, depending upon the presence of jungle in the vicinity. On the whole, memory of tiger-killing survived despite the ravages of time, though the response of the villagers to this menace varied. Pere of Dibru

80

The story of in- and out-migration

Birua killi had founded Malidu. Of his two younger brothers, one was ‘eaten by a tiger’. But his descendants did not abandon the village.30 The same was the response in another village.31 However, in other cases, villagers resorted to a mass exodus. Akahatu was formerly populated by the Champias, who later deserted the village and moved to Ipil Singi. This was remembered by the Sirkas, the later occupants of the village, Champias and the Manki of the elaka. To quote the Manki: ‘All the Champias left the village & (and) went away to Jangiburu & Ipil Singi as there were many tigers here. Dibru (Champia) returned afterwards from Ipil Singi’.32 Another cause of group exodus was epidemics. Kolhan was ‘yearly scourged by cholera, fevers, and small pox’, as Tickell informed. He further wrote about how the community resorted to mass exodus to escape epidemics: The Hos are more free from disease than any other people, in consequence of the precautionary measures they take – their nutritive food and drink, and the open airy positions they built in. As a guard against infection and fire their villages are small and scattered, and on the first appearance of any epidemic, they leave their houses and flee into the jungles, living apart from each other. (1840: 706) But we do not have the precise instances of such population movements from the pre-British period. I will therefore below draw on the incidences occurring during the colonial period to provide a picture of migration in the countryside. Colonial period The onset of colonial rule stimulated a fresh wave of Adivasi migration across Jharkhand. Regarding the cause, nature and extent of migration, we find commonality and difference between pre-colonial and colonial times. A common factor was that growth in population, along with epidemics and animal menace, largely contributed to migration. But the differences were greater in number. First, while pre-colonial migration generally involved cases of dispersion driven by the urge for territorial expansion, later migration more or less consisted of displacement due to indigence. Second, colonial-day migration was often interdistrict, even inter-provincial, compared to earlier adjoining movements. Third, migration was often other-induced, being caused by the colonial rules and regulations. Last, while the quest for land was largely the primary trigger for the earlier population movements, the urge to secure supplementary or additional sources of earning determined later-day spatial relocations. Of the three types of migration induced by a quest for land, indigence, fear of epidemics and animals, I will discuss the first two. The quest for land either to found a new village or for the purposes of cultivation took two different forms. In one, the distance of the journey was short. The policy of forest protection and reservation introduced by the Forest Acts of 1865 and 1878 put a check on

The story of in- and out-migration

81

the free movement across the adjoining and even more distant forests. Instead, villagers resorted to the reclamation of forested or less reclaimed parts within the village. This led to tolas being converted into new villages and a consequent localised shift of people. This relocation occurred in large numbers during the Hayes Settlement.33 The other type took the form of inter-provincial migration from Bihar to Odisha. The chiefdoms of Keonjhar and Mayurbhanj in Odisha required the services of Ho villagers to clear the jungles to extend the area under plough. The quest for land therefore triggered the movement of peasants from the adjacent villages in Kolhan to these estates, beginning from the end of the nineteenth century.34 Besides a quest for land, the animal/epidemic menace continued as in the preBritish period to cause population shift in the countryside. The villages adjoining the Samta, Ankua and Tirilpi forests of the Saranda region were the greatest sufferers as tigers were ‘found at all times and seasons’ there. As late as 1910, on average 50 people were killed by tigers annually. Though every Ho was traditionally armed with a bow and arrow and axe, they were not adept at hunting tigers. The problem multiplied as ‘professional tiger-killers’ were not available. Leaving details about this to Chapter 7, I will now dwell on the actual menace and its impact. The Tiriyas from Kalaria had reclaimed Dakua Jangal. One villager deposed: ‘These men after remaining for some years fled away through fear of the tigers which then abounded in the jungle of the village’. But Roya Munda added: ‘One of the sons of Supai Ho (original reclaimer) was killed by tiger and he fled away to Mayurbhanj. All the raiyats had fled away from the village at the time of Hayes Settlement’.35 This had happened in another village. Muri Ho was the Munda of this village. His mother was killed by tiger and Muri Ho was killed by tiger. All the raiyats of this village deserted the village when the Munda was killed. This was some 15 or 16 years ago (probably in 1900 or 1901).36 Not only the Hos, but also the Bhuiyans, resorted to the same tactics. Bari Kalu Bhuiyan, who came from the ‘west’ sometime in the pre-British period, founded Samtha, when the place was ‘full of forest’. But his family line became extinct when his grandson was killed by a tiger. Seemingly, this caused the exodus of the same branch of the Bhuiyans. The village remained unoccupied for some time until another Bhuiyan family from Chota Nagra entered and reclaimed it.37 Epidemic menace was an equal scourge for the countryside. In 1839, smallpox had ‘spread with fearful havoc into the Kolhan’ (Tickell 1840: 706). When this epidemic re-emerged in 1859 and 1866 (Hunter, Vol. XVII, 1976: 141), villagers deserted the village en masse. Most of the members of Angaria killi, the marang killi of Rela, died of smallpox. Those who survived left the village.38 Rai Roa narrated a gloomier tale: ‘The village was inhabited before by the Hos of killi Angaria. The deadly disease small pox visited this village &

82

The story of in- and out-migration

all fell victim to it & died’. Long after the epidemic, another branch of Angaria occupied the village.39 There are some other villages where mass exodus took place, though the records are silent about the cause. But ecological similarity among all these villages compels us to ascribe communal flight to the outbreak of smallpox.40 Migration of indigent and other elements in search of a livelihood and better opportunities was more endemic. This took them beyond the village and pir as well as province, near and far away. To understand the process, I will shed light on the changed socio-economic and political scenario as factors that also facilitate demographic movement. We witness first the widening of socio-economic differences among the Adivasis in general, and also the creation of pockets of marginality produced largely by a differential land owning pattern. While raiyats owning 40 bighas or more were generally rare, the majority of villagers owned less than 10 bighas. The socio-economic condition of villagers became precarious when a large proportion of their land holdings constituted second or third classes, i.e. bad and gora lands. The picture of marginality and destitution was grimmer, particularly in the hilly and forested tracts where land was undulating, rocky and less arable, the disadvantage being accentuated when supply of water was inadequate (Sen 2011: 107–11). With a monsoon-dependent agriculture, failure of rains rendered their position helpless. On the whole, as their frail land holdings did not support them throughout the year, they had to opt for employment as agrarian, mining and forest labour. This precipitated not only inter-village and pir migration, but also inter-provincial migration as elaborated on below. The expansion of the modern road and railway network facilitated unprecedented movement throughout the tribal region of Bihar. Earlier, village and forest paths had been in use for pedestrian and cart-driven inter-village/pir movements for social purposes or for bartering their commodities. To purchase salt, they even carted their way to distant Puri (Tickell 1840: 805). The situation completely changed when the colonial government built metalled roads to facilitate administrative works and also trade and commerce. By the turn of the nineteenth century, barring roads maintained by the municipalities, the total mileage of roads totalled 1,029 miles in the Ranchi district; 1,140 miles in the Hazaribagh district under the District Board and Public Works Department (PWD) and 840 miles in the Santal Parganas, mostly unmetalled, being maintained by the District Board Committee, alongside 33 miles of village roads (Reid 1912: para 13; Sifton 1996: para 15; O’Malley 1999: 209). These roads connected the concerned districts with the neighbouring districts of Bihar and also the United Provinces, and in the case of the Santal Parganas with those of Bengal. The Grand Trunk Road passing across Hazaribagh district had virtually a northern Indian connectivity (Sifton 1996: para 15). By the 1870s, in Kolhan, eight road systems connected Chaibasa with Midnapur, Barakar, Ranchi, Gangpur, Jaintgarh, Kharsawan, Baharagora and Bamanghati of the adjoining provinces of Bihar, Bengal and Odisha. The total length of the roads was 306 miles (Hunter Vol. XVII 1976: 99). Within the span

The story of in- and out-migration

83

of the next four decades, there was further expansion of the road network under the aegis of the PWD, the District Road Committee and Kolhan Market Fund. The first two maintained 438 miles of metalled and 61.5 miles of unmetalled roads, and the last 127 miles of village tracks. These linked Singhbhum and Kolhan additionally with Mayurbhanj, Bankura and Purulia (O’Malley 1910: 16–61). We can form some idea about the road network from the remote trading centre of Jagannathpur. To the east, the Jagannathpur–Gamaria road met the Chaibasa–Jaintgarh road at Gamaria; the Jagannathpur–Gitilpi road passed through the north; the Kotgarh–Jagannathpur road was to the west and to the south was the Jaintgarh–Jagannathpur road.41 Since the 1890s, a railway network was gradually introduced in the tribal region of Bihar. Ranchi district had a narrow gauge line connecting Ranchi with Purulia; Hazaribagh district was served by the East Indian Railway and the Grand Chord Line, with a motor coach service that connected Hazaribagh town with Hazaribagh Road station and a branch line that linked railway coal fields near Gomia with Adra-Gomoh Chord Line; Palamau district was rather poorly served by the Daltonganj branch of the Grand Chord Railway, which passed through Nabinagar and Japla and terminated at Daltonganj (Reid 1912: para 9; Sifton 1996: para 14; Bridge 1996: para 13). Santal Pargana district, however, enjoyed a railway facility much earlier when the Loop Line, passing through its north-eastern part, was opened in 1859 and the Grand Chord Line of the East Indian Railway serving its south-west region opened in 1871 (O’Malley 1999: 208–9). On the other hand, initially Kolhan fell outside the pan-Indian railway network as only the Bengal–Nagpur railway passed through its north-western borders via Seraikela, Kharsawan and Porahat estates. Commuters had therefore to travel to Rajkharsawan, Chakradharpur and Jamshedpur, located between 10 and 40 miles from Chaibasa. With the opening up of the Amda–Jamda rail track, which passed through Chaibasa, the forested and mineral zones of Kolhan were connected with the rest of India. Though very limited, passenger services fostered movements into and away from this region. The discussion will now turn to the nature and extent of migration promoted by the above railway lines. The trend of inter-village/pir/district in-migration reveals first that mostly socially marginal people migrated in search of employment as a labourer or to acquire land for habitat and cultivation. Second, community and familial links acted as significant pull factors. Last, colonial rules and procedures determined whether immigrants would be given permission to inhabit the place in which they had chosen to reside. The pattern of migration as documented by colonial records is somewhat vague about movement within a district. We learn that the Mundas and Oraons did not leave their homes because they ‘possess(ed) a very deep attachment for their homes and fields’. But the fact was that a ‘rapidly expanding population’, ‘uneconomic system of cultivation’ and lack of frugality largely forced them to move. The limited information available (Reid 1912: para 20; Bridge 1996: para 28) makes sifting the cases of village/pir mobility difficult.

84

The story of in- and out-migration

The Village Papers are, however, more informed about inter-village/pir mobility. In a large number of cases this involved the migration of the marginal peasants in order to earn their livelihood as agrarian labour. Kin and familial links determined the selection of a place. There are nine cases of Ho migration from three neighbouring villages to Ambaimarcha in 1901. Eight involved building houses on a Ho resident’s land, while the other case involved building on the wasteland of the village. These evidently received official sanction because the Ho villagers did not raise any objection to their kins’ entry.42 In another case, six Hos shifted to another village and built houses on Ho lands. While four of them were allowed to do so, the remaining two were ordered ‘to be ejected’, ‘as they were deemed quarrelsome’.43 Familial links also fostered movement. From the adjoining Runju village, a Ho migrated to Bharbharia where his father-in-law resided. He built his house provided by the former and earned his living as a labourer. Deemed as inoffensive, he was granted permission to live there. But another Ho migrant was kept under one year’s surveillance because he was a man of ‘suspicious character’.44 Some of them made attempts to acquire land. In one such case, a Ho treasury peon moved to his brother-in-law’s village, built a house on his land and then acquired land from him on thika for cultivation.45 Besides inter-village migration, there are cases of infrequent inter-pir shifts through communal and familial links. In one such, a Ho moved from an unnamed ‘other pir’ to Thai pir, built a house on a Ho villager’s land and worked as a labourer. Since villagers found ‘him useful as a labourer’, he was allowed to stay.46 The inter-district/provincial movements in Jharkhand were mostly distress migrations of the marginal peasants and the landless in order to earn their livelihood as agrarian or mining labour. In the Ranchi district, the number of immigrants per 10,000 people from contiguous districts was 157, while from other places it was 112 (Reid 1912: para 20). In the district of Palamau, records specifically mention that 23,320 people had immigrated largely from Gaya, Shahabad, Hazaribagh, Ranchi, Tributary and Feudatory States and United Provinces (Bridge 1996: para 28). In contrast, 54,476 people emigrated from Ranchi district to contiguous districts of Bihar, of whom the bulk belonged to the Munda, Oraon and Kharia communities (Reid 1912: para 20). The figure for Hazaribagh was much higher. Out of a total of 144,500, people who left to take up agricultural pursuits in the neighbouring districts of Gaya, Munger, Santal Parganas, Ranchi, Palamau and Manbhum numbered 32,000, while 3,300 moved to Jharia and Burdwan as coal-mining labour (Sifton 1996: 40). From Palamau, according to the 1911 Census, 28,005 emigrants moved to such districts as Gaya, Shahabad, Hazaribagh, Ranchi, Manbhum, Tributary and Feudatory States and United Provinces (Bridge 1996: para 28). Similar movements, either temporary or permanent, in Kolhan had been for the purposes of obtaining a job as a labourer or to pursue family trade. To substantiate, a Ho Kamar migrated from Mayurbhanj estate to a Kolhan village and built a house on Munda’s land. Obviously, the new village was more suitable for

The story of in- and out-migration 47

85

his profession. Porahat estate was the other place from which a Ho entered Kolhan and started living in a house built by him on waste land. But why he came was not stated.48 In a large number of cases, crop failure due to famine and drought forced people to leave. On such occasions, Mayurbhanj estate was the cherished destination for adjoining Kolhan villagers. In Ho-dominated Kamardih, local demand for labourers was meagre. So in lean seasons, people left for Mayurbhanj,49 as famine forced the villagers of Nawagaon to work as labour in the adjoining villages of the above.50 The colonial-day migration of socially marginal people from Adivasi villages to different districts of a large number of other Indian states continued unabated during the post-independence eras. The destinations were Haryana, Punjab, cities like New Delhi, Bangalore and others. Political disturbances forced group migration on a large scale (Sen 2011b: 82–96). During the disturbance of 1836–37, Ho villagers of Kolhan migrated to escape British reprisal. The second disturbance occurred during 1857–58, when the British indulged in pillage and plunder, and people fled their villages to avoid this. One of the villages affected on both occasions was Patajaint. One Gour villager recalled: ‘There were disturbances in the Kolhan twice & the villagers ran away to Keonjhar & Mayurbhanj & some concealed in jungles’.51 We will return to insurgency-induced desertion later in this chapter. Displacement and migration were the outcome of the colonial forest policy of converting all unreserved forests into protected forests in 1892. Between 1895 and 1897, 58 forest blocks were carved out, followed by the demarcation of 14 more in 1903 (Sen 2011a: 214). This triggered a group exodus, largely from villages located in the forested Manoharpur police station area of Kolhan. We come across seven such cases of desertion and resettlement.52 The Hos of Suri killi were the original settlers of Balia. After they abandoned their village, another branch of the same killi moved in because their earlier village named Kencho was included within reserved forest.53 Likewise, when Kakrauli was included within reserved forest, the Sidu killi Hos were forced to move to Tentarighat, a village formerly inhabited by the Magadha Gours and Bhuiyans.54 Lumber killi Hos were the earlier inhabitants of Holonguli, as evidenced by their sasan in the protected forest. When their village was included in the protected forest, they had to leave the village.55 Likewise, the sasan of the Sidus, the original reclaimer of Jam Kundia in the adjoining reserved forest, corroborated their earlier settlement.56 After Indian independence, state policy towards forest villages and the conversion of large portions of the forests of the Netarhat region of Jharkhand into Netarhat Field Firing Range (Singh, unpublished) emerge as the virtual continuity of British forest policy that rekindled the fear of displacement and migration. The introduction of the railways in 1890 to Kolhan required the acquisition of land. While this occurred on a large scale, there is not much evidence of the evacuation of the entire village except in the case of one village. Mamar once belonged to the Jarika Hos. But during khuntkatti enquiry, except for the nonresident Munda, nobody was present to lay a claim as they had left for an unknown place. The Munda deposed: ‘The prajas left the village when railway line was constructed through the village’.57

86

The story of in- and out-migration

Migration of the dikus during the pre-colonial and colonial periods An important phenomenon of the Adivasi history of Jharkhand is the migration of the dikus. As narrated in Chapter 4, this occurred during the pre-colonial and colonial eras. Continuing the discussion, this section unfolds how and to what extent migration determined their composition. The study of the early formation of non-ethnic demography is problematic due to a lack of information. We can merely derive clues from colonial ethnography. It relates that the dikus of Kolhan in 1840 were the supposed progenies of Aryan settlers (Dalton 1973: 185). But who they were and how they settled remain unanswered. Presumably, they were the people whom the local chiefs and the Adivasi village heads or villagers had invited, and their progenies. These were mostly near and internal migrations within Singhbhum district. Who were these dikus and where had they travelled from into the villages? To understand these issues, we should look into the socio-political scenario of Kolhan and its neighbourhood. Kolhan or ‘Kol’ dominated parts of Singhbhum were once the bastions of the Porahat dynasty and its branches, i.e. the chiefs of Seraikela–Kharsawan. The former had their seats of power at Jagannathpur and Jaintgarh in south Kolhan. Furthermore, Mayurbhanj rajas held sway over four south and south-eastern pirs stated above, while Bamanghatty Mahapaters (landlords) exerted political and territorial control over bordering villages. Since feudal times, these areas had sizeable Hindu settlements composed of Goalas, Tantis, carpenters, blacksmiths etc. as well as a sprinkling of Brahmin and Rajput families. A feature of the demography was that the presence of the upper castes was very insignificant in Adivasi villages, in marked contrast to the functional castes. Out of a total of 411,684 Hindus, there were only 4,214 Brahmins and 1,918 Rajputs in the early 1870s.58 These small Brahmanical segments had largely been introduced and patronised by the chiefs of Porahat, Seraikela, Kharsawan and Mayurbhanj before the onset of British rule. They were mostly located in the capitals of these chiefs, from where they later spread to several villages of Kolhan.59 Together with them, the Bhuiyans, as among pre-Ho settlers, had perhaps a much greater numerical presence and political control as early founders of villages. But the Hos gradually occupied large tracts of Kolhan woodland, subsequent to their victories over the Saraks and Bhuiyans, as did Porahat rajas, and founded either new villages or resettled villages abandoned by the Saraks and Bhuiyans. At this point, when they required services of the functional castes, these elements living within Kolhan and its borders seemed to respond to a Ho call. As early as the 1820s, they were the weavers, Goalas and conchus (potters) who catered to the village need for cloth, pots and ghee, while the former acted as interpreters and accountants for the villagers.60 What we further know is that they were assigned a subordinate position in the socio-economy of Adivasi villages with insignificant land holdings in the village peripheries. But the supplementary service, as referred to above, that they

The story of in- and out-migration

87

rendered also provides a clue to their assuming a coordinate status. The subordinate status of early diku immigrants was, however, a generic Chotangpur phenomenon (Sen 2018: 107). An unprecedented influx of outsiders under the British was different in many respects from earlier migration. First, demographically this was more diverse and numerous. Second, migration was promoted to serve the colonial political economy rather than the needs of the village community, as had been the case earlier. Third, in several cases, immigration was from distant locations, with people coming from neighbouring provinces, and even from the furthest corners of the country. It will be interesting to know who these elements were and what factors fostered their migration. Jharkhand region became a vibrant administrative and commercial centre during the colonial period. This encouraged enterprising and fortune-seeking outsiders to enter Adivasi land. To serve administrative offices and institutions, mostly Bengali, Bihari, Odiya and Muslims entered Jharkhand region. The establishment of courts required the services of the vakeels and lawyers, while hospitals needed medical practitioners and schools needed teachers. Their entry began in a small way with the advent of British rule61 but proliferated as the administrative machinery expanded.62 Villagers, more particularly the Mankis and Mundas, came into direct contact with these elements while remitting the revenue at the district treasury; litigants came into contact with court clerks and legal practitioners while fighting court cases, and village officials and villagers came into contact with district officials and local police functionaries in connection with crimes in their elakas. Chaibasa, the headquarters of Singhbhum district, where administrative offices, law courts, schools and hospitals were located, grew into the hub and permanent residence of lawyers, officials, medical practitioners, school teachers, traders, businessmen and miners. Surrounded by an ocean of tribal villages, the town virtually formed a diku island, which promoted temporary movements of villagers to its courts, administrative offices, shops, schools and hospital. Likewise, the inclusion of the tribal region of erstwhile Bihar into a thriving zone of trade and commerce was an important factor of colonial rule. This fostered the establishment and growth of weekly and daily markets located at such important urban centres as Ranchi, Gumla, Bundu, Lohardaga, Palkote, Sahebganj and Chaibasa (Reid 1912: para 12; O’Malley 1999: 64, 206–7). During British rule, weekly markets or haats steadily grew in Kolhan from one founded at Chaibasa in 1837 to a total of 37 in 1913–18 (Tuckey 1920: 3). This brought an unprecedented spurt in rural trade and commerce, linking villages almost invariably with adjoining, and on occasions with distant, markets.63 Entry of traders naturally followed. Initially, they were either itinerant traders who visited the local weekly markets (Tickell 1840: 805) or a few of those who settled in the urban centres and visited village markets from their urban habitations. Although there were very few village shopkeepers in the early phase of colonial rule, some of them were later allowed to settle, as instanced below, in Adivasi villages by the village head to pursue trade. The items of exchange were

88

The story of in- and out-migration

generally rice, tasser cocoons, sabai grass, timber (Craven 1898: para 15) and hide. There were cases when Goalas and Tantis, alongside Muslims, conflated their traditional and trading professions. In a large number of cases, they became temporary and permanent residents of villages. Some of them took advantage of human distress due to drought and famine, to start the thriving grain and money-lending business stated above. Those who entered Kolhan after 1867 largely migrated from Gaya, Hazaribagh, Ranchi in Bihar, Manbhum, Bankura and Midnapur in Bengal, Cuttack and Baleswar in Odisha as well as the then United Provinces.64 On the other hand, those who entered other parts of Jharkhand belonged to the adjacent districts of Bihar, United Provinces, Tributary and Feudatory states (Bridge 1996: paras 21–4). Growth of mining and industrial activities emerged as the cause and consequence of the influx of entrepreneurs in a big way. Since the 1850s, the British were able to learn about the availability of copper and gold in Singhbhum. Later, systematic survey and prospecting operations uncovered huge stocks of iron ore, chromite, manganese and limestone etc., followed by a spurt of mining in Kolhan from the 1920s. This stimulated the entry of Marwari, Gujarati, Parsee, Bengali and other fortune seekers, and also their employees, from different parts of the country. They were joined by foreign and Indian corporate groups such as Schroder and Smidth Company, Balmer Lawrie Company, Messers Bird and Company, Villiers and Company, Tata Iron and Steel Company, Indian Iron and Steel Company, Raniganj Paper Mills and Kasim Bazar Clay Factory. With them came mining experts, engineers, officials and labourers from outside (Sen 2011: 69–75). They had a greater stake in the hinterland as the forests were the storehouse of Kolhan minerals. They therefore acquired large swathes of forestland but chose to operate mostly from Chaibasa. Mining activities caused large-scale internal and external labour migration across villages, and also from the neighbouring districts and provinces. Besides the above, groups of forest contractors entered to participate in the export of timber and various forest products. The boom in this export trade is corroborated by the huge quantity of exportable forest-related products (Craven 1898: paras 56–8). The economic potential of Kolhan also attracted migrants from distant places. Two Eurasians settled in a village adjoining Chaibasa town.65 However, records are silent as to why they chose to do so. But in another case, a Parsee from Bombay acquired 18 bigha–17 katha–10 dhur66 land in Matkamhatu near Chaibasa to open a lac factory.67 Mesers Schroder Smidth & Company had built houses in Jojohatu for working their manganese ores. An interesting fact is that the Munda had no knowledge whether the Company had any official permission to do so.68 The fact of the matter was that these individual and corporate entrepreneurs were the blue-eyed boys of the state as their royalty payments inflated the colonial treasury. The change in mentality largely influenced the state-sponsored development policy, promoting their interests and the levers of political economy shifting to their hands during the colonial and post-independence periods. More about this change will be given in the following section.

The story of in- and out-migration

89

The in-migration of enterprising agricultural groups such as the Mathurabasi and Magadha Goalas and Kurmis (Sahu 1985: 164–7) as well as diverse other professional castes from Odisha, Bihar and Bengal thrived. Unlike the people mentioned in the paragraph above, they mostly made villages their homes. In Kochra, the Munda and villagers invited Kumhars from Keonjhar and Magadha Gours from unknown villages.69 A Kamar was similarly brought from Purnia by the villagers ‘to make their ploughshares’.70 Significantly, village needs had meanwhile grown, and with this the number of caste groups and also the purposes of invitation. A Sahu from Mayurbhanj was allowed to live in and open his shop in a village because villagers were in need of new items of use.71 It is not, however, known what these items were. But the cobblers were invited to make the musical instruments needed by song-music-loving Hos. However, it is not clear whether they permanently settled in the villages.72 As related before, fear of tigers caused, though on a very small scale, the entry of a new group of dikus, called the Baghmaras or professional tiger hunters. One of these migrated from Ranchi district to settle in Uligutu before the Craven Settlement, obviously on the invitation of villagers.73 The Manki invited a Mehtar (sweeper or scavenger) from Kumirta not because villagers needed his services, but because the pir head wanted him ‘to work as Mehtar in Kolhan (Dak) bungalow’.74 But in another case, the purposes were split. The Munda of Kaida invited two Goalas from Matkamhatu as there was no cowherd to tend village cattle. But the Munda had another purpose in mind. It was to engage them to supply ‘water when a Hindu officer’ visited the village on official work.75 Besides the functional castes, some Adivasi communities (non-Ho) entered Kolhan villages. As the Bhumijs ‘were well-acquainted with the forests’, Ho villagers brought them to Unchdih. However, an interesting fact is that ‘jungleloving Bhumijs cleared out as the jungles had meanwhile been destroyed by the Hos’.76 The Oraons were known for their superior agrarian skills. So in one village, those who had considerable land brought them from Ranchi to settle.77 Likewise, in one village the Koras were invited for digging tanks due to their expertise in this technique.78 However, migration of those who wanted to eke out a living or accumulate wealth was much greater. This started immediately after the establishment of British rule in 1837, a trend that grew as the rule progressed. There were many incentives for these immigrants. For some, it was the lure of arable land in the virgin forests and abandoned villages. This motivated two Santals of Kuldih in Mayurbhanj to found Bara Dangua, presaging the later entry of the Ho and other diku settlers.79 One Gour similarly reclaimed Chota Pukhuria and invited Santals and Hos to inhabit the village.80 A Gond came from Gungu Paharia in Mayurbhanj and settled in Thoi village.81 Likewise, a Brahmin settlement was founded in Diku Balkand.82 Kurmis settled several such villages.83 There were others who took recourse to diverse ways to earn a living. A Lohar from Gara Rajabassa and a Goala from Seraikela entered Ulirajabassa. While the former pursued his caste profession, the latter dealt in pachoi (preparation of intoxicating drink).84 A Santal and Bhumij came from Mayurbhanj to earn a

90

The story of in- and out-migration

living through an unnamed source. It is very likely that they were seeking employment as village labourers,85 as an Oriya Goala from Mayurbhanj did.86 Three Muslim traders migrated from Sikharbhum in Manbhum district obviously to pursue their profession.87 But many of them in fact wanted also to acquire land.88 Those who entered first chose an intermediate settlement like Chaibasa before moving to an interior habitat. This is substantiated by the entry of the Mallahs of Gaya89 and an Oraon from Ranchi. Interestingly, in the latter case, the pull factor was the earlier Oraon settlement.90 While these individual instances reveal the broad pattern of diku influx, the specific detail from one village will illuminate the phenomenon further. Gamharia was a thriving village with a weekly haat, a sub-post office, Forest Department Bungalow and the branch office of Bengal Trading Company. Its population distribution was mixed: Ho: 231; Goala: 73; Tamaria: 6; Bhuiyan: 26; Ghasi: 10; Kamar: 2; Baraik: 7; Muslim: 2; Sau: (Sahu) 4. The dikus had mostly migrated after 1867. Besides pursuing their caste professions, some of them showed a tendency of acquiring land other than that they had built their houses on. We find that three Gours reclaimed a large amount of fallow land with Munda’s permission and another built a liquor shop. Muslims from Jaintgarh worked as hide dealers. One Bhuiyan and Sau acquired Ho land. A Teli came as the servant of the above Sau from Cuttack, and obtained permission from the Deputy Commissioner to open a miscellaneous shop and cowshed. Two other dikus from Orissa worked respectively as a contractor and petty trader in salt and tobacco.91 Fear of tigers, as elaborated on before, was a pervasive menace that caused demographic movement. Dakua Jangal presented the case of such a shift of diku population. Due to tiger menace, when the Hos abandoned the village, a Chatri family, originally from Arrah, migrated from Jagannathpur, took settlement of the village in 1857 and became its Munda.92 We come across the reverse instances of out-migration of dikus from villages caused by different reasons. In some cases, this was internal when people relocated within Kolhan. But the other trend was the movement to neighbouring districts of Odisha, while migrating to the tea gardens and collieries, elaborated on below, was yet another pattern. One major reason for internal relocation was the political disturbances between 1830 and 1858, as related earlier, forcing the group migration of dikus from the villages they had founded. To illustrate further, I will provide some more information to substantiate this phenomenon. A section of affluent Brahmins had settled Diku Balkand. During either of the two disturbances (1837, 1857), they deserted the village after some of them were killed. This event was recalled by a Ho witness: ‘The Brahmins left the village & went away none can say where’.93 But major desertions happened during the uprising of 1857–58, when the Dhuruas abandoned Gamharia94 and many of the adjacent villages.95 These were settled by the British with the Hos. But where the deserters went remained unanswered. Gours left Purnia, took shelter in the jungle and later established Heselkuti village.96 Another Gour village presented a different story. Villagers

The story of in- and out-migration

91

deposed that ‘during the disturbance in the Kolhan the village was burnt & the villagers ran away to Keonjhar’. But ‘when peace was restored, villagers returned & Government settled their lands back with them’.97 Villages witnessed much greater Bhuiyan migration during 1857–58. They abandoned several of their village settlements, fearing British reprisal. In some cases, their destination was known,98 but not in the case of their flight from Manikpur, Kadokora, Behrampur and six other villages. Since in most cases they did not return, the ownership and nature of the demography changed. Manikpur and Kadokora passed into the hands of the Gours, while Behrampur was settled with the Kurmis99 and Bokna village, discussed above, with the Champia Hos.

Out-migration to coal fields and tea gardens The out-migration destinations from Jharkhand region were both near and far away. First, as related above, migration of Ho villagers from south Kolhan to the adjacent Mayurbhanj and Keonjhar estates took place. Their motivation was the lure of rent-free lands for cultivation and free use of the forests.100 Presumably, the migrants were the marginal groups, for whom survival in the villages had become precarious largely due to their meagre land holdings. The second trend, as recent studies show, was the migration of ‘coolies and colliers’ from Chotanagpur and elsewhere to the coal fields of Bihar and Bengal and tea gardens of Assam. The Mundas, Oraons, Kharias, Hos, Bhumijs, Santals and others such as the Kurmis, Murasis, Ghasis, Goraits, Bauris, Turis, Bhogtas, Rautias, Chamars and Dosadhs constituted the bulk of the recruits. The Mundas were the most numerous among them, followed by the Oraons and Ghasis (Mohapatra 1985: 259). These migrations could be attributed generally to land alienation, indigence of small cultivators, occurrence of famine, the absence of work during lean seasons (Bates and Carter 1994: 218, 225), the pressure of the cost of marriage and marginalisation of women in a patriarchal setting (ibid.: 224fn). Other push factors were the demand of plantation labour, lack of expansion of cultivation, rent burden, indebtedness and the impact of ecology (Mohapatra 1985: 254–95; Bates and Carter 1999: 160–1). Regarding the migration to Assam, our experience of Kolhan, or Singhbhum more broadly, reveals that indigence and indebtedness were largely the underlying reasons.101 The immediate trigger was crop failure, which created famine conditions in the countryside,102 forcing largely Adivasi and non-Adivasi marginal peasants103 to mortgage their frail holdings and leave for Assam. Furthermore, the condition of Kolhan villagers was generally aggravated when the colonial policy of reservation and protection of forests put a stop to Ho expansion into the forests for new cultivating spaces. Migration to Jharia coalfield started after 1894. Largely, semi-aboriginals and landless castes of Manbhum and Hazaribagh seasonally moved to these collieries. Their number is estimated at 97,245. On the other hand, tea garden

92

The story of in- and out-migration

movements were more popular among the Mundas, Oraons, Hos, Kharias and Bhumijs (Mohapatra 1985: 250–62). The emigration to Assam from Kolhan seemed to begin from the 1870s (Dalton 1973: 191). In all, 444 and 410 people emigrated, respectively, in 1877 and 1878.104 Later, however, the number rose, reaching a peak of 15,477 in 1916–17, interspersed by a decline in between the two time periods (Sen 2011: 121–4). There were 282 recruitments from 36 villages with the highest total of 74 from Khandkhori village of Lalgarh pir alone during 1914–18.105 The nature of migration was generally temporary. The period of recruitment in Singhbhum for Assam was usually four or five years (Sen 2011: 127–8). But the period of contract did not always reveal the period of absence of the migrant labourer from his village. Ghasiram Ho of Udajo left for Assam in 1880; he returned after 15 years.106 Likewise, Pandu Ho of Kharband was not recorded as having ever returned.107 Like other districts of Chotanagpur (Mohapatra 1991: 259), the nature of emigration from Singhbhum was familial. The facility of moving with the family, the lure of higher wages, better service conditions and sometimes land for cultivation often converted temporary migration into a permanent one (Behal and Mohapatra 1991: 147–8, 164). Labour recruitment accelerated with the opening up of local labour depots. In the 1890s, the Munda of Darposhi village in Bar pir allowed one Myres to set up a depot in the village.108 A similar thing happened at Diliamarcha, near Chaibasa.109 Chaibasa depots, numbering six in 1892, were always a haven for those interested. The depot of the Tea Districts Labour Supply Association functioned as a rest house for its free sardars and their labourers recruited from Singhbhum (Sen 2011: 119–20, 129). Furthermore, arkatis (decoy, recruiter of labour for plantation) indulged in illicit recruitment. The common mode was recruitment through enticement, in which often women suffered (ibid.: 127–8). Though some of these decoys were legitimate recruiters, there were others whom, ostensibly having a different occupation, clandestinely acted as an arkati.110

The impact of in–out-migration on rural life The impact of migration was both material and moral. Materially, it determined the demography of the Adivasi villages at the macro and micro levels. To underline the broad characteristics, in-migration of the ethnic groups largely converted Jharkhand region into the stronghold of different Adivasi communities. On the other hand, it was due to the influx of non-ethnic communities that the region changed from a predominantly Adivasi ethnic landscape to a diku-dominated state. The progressive dilution may be understood from the following figures: The number of dikus in Kolhan rose from 24,313 in 1867 to 69,399 in 1897 and 97,978 in 1918 (Sahu 1985: 266); in Ranchi and Hazaribagh districts due to the rise in the number of non-Adivasi immigrants, the Adivasi population dwindled to less than one-third of the total in Hazaribagh, and a little more than half (58%) in Ranchi in 1911 (Sifton 1996: para 31).

The story of in- and out-migration

93

At the village level, two major changes took place. First, villages, which were originally mono-family/killi formations gradually became multi-family/killi ones. Second, with the migration of dikus, these in large cases lost their indigenous character. This made, as Virginius Xaxa argues, the Adivasi claim of ‘spatial originality’, ‘highly questionable’ (1999: 3591–2). Simultaneously, moral life in the countryside was influenced in diverse ways. First, the outbound movement presaged the sapping of the cultural link between the villager and the village and community. Patrilocality as a distinct marker of ethnicity suffered a serious dent, especially in cases of permanent migration. Occasional visits to their native place after years and decades might have renewed relations, but locally they came to be reidentified with the place they had moved to. Second, Adivasis gradually learnt to adapt and admire a new life of adventure, relocating themselves in a completely heterogeneous and strange world. This is particularly evident in Adivasi intelligentsia carving a career in different parts of the country, and also abroad. More remarkably, they underlined this as a source of pride and community achievement. Furthermore, the relocated people tended to utilise their new homes as the extended base of their culture and strengthened their identity movement. At the same time, we cannot deny that often they were thrown into an identity crisis, as we have witnessed with the Chotanagpuri Adivasis who settled in Assam in recent times. The negative impact on village life was more extensive and deep rooted. In the case of labour movement to Assam, we notice an upsurge in deceitful and fraudulent activity among villagers. A recent study found: a Ho or a diku unscrupulously combined in camaraderie in crime. This inoculated an otherwise simple and innocent Ho with the doses of deceit, fraud and a brazen cut throat attitude. As a result community affiliation, softness towards females which Hayes or Dalton found or [a] Tickell-day non-material and carefree worldview surrendered before material gain. They were gradually conditioned to a new notion of criminality. Commitment of murder or suicide due to sudden on-rush of blood was joined by cool and calculated act of deception and seduction. (Sen 2011: 131) Also, labour trade, and particularly the fraud narrated above, created mental and physical dents in the countryside. Generally, social suspicion in the Adivasi rural world arose against those who had a criminal background, who had no ostensible source of earnings and who pursued a lifestyle disproportionate to his vocation. Two cases may be cited to prove my point. In the first, Jano Kolin complained that two Kamars and Hos each had fraudulently sent Barju and Pasing Ho to Assam. One of the accused, Dula Ho, did not pay off his loan although he owned lands in the village. Besides this, he had friendships with ‘coolie’ recruiters. Both were considered socially aberrant. Jano and villagers therefore suspected him to be an active decoy. Another of the accused, Dula’s cousin Gadai Ho, came under similar suspicion as he had no known source of

94

The story of in- and out-migration

earnings and had a murky past. In another case, the suspect had merely less than one bigha land; he was not seen to work, yet he was an itinerant man. People therefore alleged that he visited villages only to recruit labour and finally implicated him in the illegal migration of a person from Nimdih village to Assam (ibid.: 131–2). Last, land alienation through mortgage, sale or temporary surrender of possessions to a relation or others became endemic.111 Furthermore, as against wilful transfers by the owner, forcible change of title often occurred. Dunoo Ho of Dumria had mortgaged his 7 bigha, 7 katha and 5 dhur land to Jiba Ho for a payment of Rs. 4. But as he did not return from Assam after eight years, his land was mutated to Jiba’s name.112 Similarly, on Mungroo Ho leaving for Assam shortly after the Craven Settlement, his lands were settled with others.113 Such mutations were done by the administration to prevent the land remaining fallow, rent unpaid and title remaining unclaimed or uncertain. But often these led to court cases for recovery of land, which disrupted village peace and harmony. Thus, during the pre-colonial and colonial eras, the countryside witnessed migration in many different ways. While this contributed to the social making of the countryside, setting up the ideological and institutional framework to govern village social life and its resources became necessary. This formed the coexisting but final stage of village making, as discussed in the following chapter.

Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

TSKP, Chirchi, 3, VN 17; See also ibid., Sini, 3, VN 16. ibid., Sangajata, 3, VN 11. ibid., Gobergaon, 3–7, VN 45. ibid., Gamharia, 3–8, VN 42. ibid., Kuira, 3–8, VN 42. For these intermediate locations, see Roy (1970: 35–59). For their migration to Chotanagpur and also for the suggestion of forcible entry, see (Campbell 1866: 33). Campbell writes: ‘They must have been strong, to effect an ingress to a country not originally their own’ (ibid.). The link with this place survives in Munda tradition (Roy 1970: 59). Campbell identified them as ‘the original occupants of much of the lower country to the south of the Chota-Nagpore plateau, great part of Singbhoom and Bonai, and the borders of Orissa’. He also wrote, ‘These Bhooyas or Bhooians have been reputed to be the Aborigines of Bengal’ (1866: 52–3). TS, Cases u/s 83, Objection Nos 444–58 (Gamaria), 153–90 (Dopai), Dopai, 34, VN 3. TSKP, Kotachara, 3–5, VN 41. ibid., Hesapi, 3–8, VN 44. ibid., Iligara, 3–4, VN 16. ibid., Jaipur, 3–8, VN 42. Presumably, they used kos instead of miles, but the investigating official converted it into miles. TS, Loharda, Cases u/s 83, Objections No 843–88, 890–95, 8–9, VN 1. TSKP, Udalkam, 3–6, VN 68.

The story of in- and out-migration 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57

95

ibid., Bara Nanda, 3–12, VN 69. ibid., Beterkeya, 3–7, VN 72. TS, Cases u/s 83, Objection Nos 928–72, 975, Bachamhatu, 21, VN 2. ibid., Objection Nos 843–48, 890–95, Loharda, 8–9, VN 1. TSKP, Bara Lagiya, 13, VN 2. ibid., Sangajata, 3, VN 11. ibid., Chirchi, 3, VN 17. See also ibid., Sini, 3, VN 16. ibid., Kochra, 3–12, VN 50. ibid. ibid., Udalkam, 3–6, VN 68. ibid., Kumirta, 3–5, VN 71. ibid., Bichaburu, 3–9, VN 43. TS, Malidu, Cases u/s 83, Objection No 151/83, 23, VN 30. TSKP, Lisimoti, 3–6, VN 68. ibid., Akahatu, 3–5, VN 72. This will be clear from a reading of the Khuntkatti Papers. LRAR for 1907–8, DCOS, RD, CN XI Returns, FN. 16, para 21. TSKP, Dakua Jangal, 3–4, VN 69. TS, Tanaza case, Sankaro Ho vs Bhavo Gour, Note for Orders by E. C. Probal, Roam, 10, VN 1 MT. See also TSKP, Ankua, 3–4, VN 2 MT. TSKP, Samtha, 3–5, VN 3 MT. ibid., Rela, 3–4, VN 1 MT. ibid., Rai Rowa, 3–4, VN 1 MT. ibid., Jamira, 3–4, VN 1MT; ibid., Lebenta, 3–4 VN 1 MT; ibid., Ambia, 3–5, VN 1 MT. TSVN, Vol. III, Jagannathpur, 59. Diku Report, Board Miscellaneous No 84, R/660 of 1909–10, FL 459, Kolhan Inspector’s Report regarding transfer of land by sale, Bagun Jarika’s Report, 24 September 1901, Ambaimarcha, SN 9–10. ibid., Bagun Jarika’s Report, 18 September 1901, Ghorabandha, SN 12. ibid., FL, No NA, Kolhan Inspector’s Report regarding Diku Settlement and unauthorised transfer of land in Bharbharia pir, Bagun Jarika’s Report, 21 December 1902, Bharbharia, SN 22. ibid., Board Miscellaneous No 84, R/671 of 1909–12, FL 177, Bagun Jarika’s Report, 4/17 September 1908, Gitilpi, SN 23–25. ibid., Board Miscellaneous No 84, FL 4, Kolhan Inspector’s Report regarding Dikus and unauthorised transfer of land, Thai pir, Bagun Jarika’s Report, undated, Ukoomadkam, SN 7. ibid., Board Miscellaneous No 84, R/652 of 1909–10, FL 608, Kolhan Inspector’s Report regarding transfer of land by mortgage, sale & ticca, Bagun Jarika’s Report, 22 July 1901, Gumaria, SN 3. ibid., Board Miscellaneous No 84, FL, No NA, Kolhan Inspector’s Report regarding mortgages & ticca, Bagun Jarika’s Report, 30 November 1901, Rela, SN 4. TSVN, Vol. V, Kamardih, 17. ibid., Vol. V, Nawagaon, 36. See also ibid., Vol. III, Majhigawan, 430. TSKP, Patajaint, 3–7, VN 45. Villages were Balia, Kundriba, Holonguli, Tentarighat, Baihatu, Jamkundia and Churgi. TSKP, Balia, 3–5, VN 1 MT. ibid., Tentarighat, 3–4, VN 1 MT. ibid., Holonguli, 3–5, VN 1 MT. ibid., Jam Kundia, 3–4 VN 2 MT. ibid., Mamar, 3, VN 2 MT.

96

The story of in- and out-migration

58 Report of Castes to accompany Census, sent by W.W. Hayes, Deputy Commissioner Singhbhum to the Inspector General of Registration, No. 577 dated Chaibasa, 29 September 1872, vide FL, DCOS, CN not mentioned, FS 3, Enclosure, Castes of Singhbhum, 1–17. 59 We have instances of Brahmins, particularly Oriya, living in Jagannathpur and Jaintgarh, the seats of Porahat raj within Kolhan. For Brahmin presence see TSKP, Tangar Pokharia, Jugi Nanda, Diku Balkand, Jaintgarh and Jagannathpur. 60 Roughsedge to Metcalfe, 9 May 1820, para 16. 61 Wilkinson to Tickell, 13 May 1837, paras 36–8. 62 This becomes clear from the details of the Permanent Establishment of the district administration. 63 TSVN provide interesting details about the names and distance of neighbouring and distant markets. 64 One gets this impression from village-wise population figures in the Village Notes. In 1881, Brahmins numbered 98 and Rajputs 82 (Craven 1898: Appendix A, IV; O’Malley 1910: 48). 65 TSVN, VN VII, Nimdih, 213–14. 66 Bigha: A measure of land varying in extent. In Bengal it contained only 1,600 square yards or a little less than one-third of an acre; Katha: the twentieth part of a Bengal bigha, i.e. 80 sq. yards; Dhur: one-twentieth of a katha. 67 TSVN, VN VII, Matkamhatu, 220. 68 ibid., VN I, Jojohatu, 173 CT. 69 TSKP, Kochra, 3–12, VN 50. 70 TSVN, Vol. VII, Ganjra, 359. 71 ibid., Vol. IV, Majhigaon, 440–41. 72 Diku Report, Board Miscellaneous No 84, R/623 of 1909–10, FL 255, Mis Case No. Nil of 1903, Pargana Gitildar, Juria Munda of Gitildar’s Report to Bagun Jarika, SN. 38. 73 TSVN, Vol. I, Uligutu, 17. 74 ibid., Vol. IV, Majhigaon, 440–41. 75 ibid., VN I, Kaida, 150. 76 TS, Cases u/s 83, Objection Nos. 1315–21, Unchdih, 19–20, VN. 10. 77 TSVN, Vol. II, Kokcho, 209. 78 Diku Report, FL, No NA, Kolhan Inspector’s Report regarding Diku Settlement and unauthorised transfer of land in Chainpur pir, Bagun Jarika’s Report, Date NA, Diku List, Kotasona, SN 5. 79 TSKP, Bara Dangua, 3, VN 19. 80 ibid., Chota Pukhuria, 3, VN 19. 81 ibid., Thoi, 3–4, VN 20. 82 ibid., Diku Balkand, 5–7, VN 11. 83 ibid., Ichapir, 3–5, VN 3 MT; ibid., Dhipa, 3–5, VN 3 MT; ibid., Barpos, 3–4, VN 3 MT; ibid., Ghagra, 3–5,VN 3 MT. 84 TSVN, VN I, Ulirajabassa, 361. 85 ibid., VN IV, Haldia, 142. 86 ibid., Majhigawan, 440. 87 ibid., 433. 88 ibid., VN IV, Sanparsa, 477. 89 ibid., VN II, Kokcho, 209. 90 ibid., Vol. VIII, Mahudi, 237. 91 ibid., VN V, Gamharia, 189. 92 ibid., Vol. VIII, Dakua Jangal, 77–8, VN 69. 93 TSKP, Diku Balkand, 5–7, VN 41. 94 ibid., Gamharia, 3–8, VN 42. 95 ibid., Jaipur, 3–8, VN 42.

The story of in- and out-migration

97

96 ibid., Heselkuti, 5, VN 44. 97 There was yet another reason, the uncertain origin of the village. ibid., Gobergaon, 3–7, VN 45. 98 ibid., 3–4, VN 72. 99 ibid., Kadokaora, 3–13, VN 46. 100 LRAR 1907–8, DC’s Office, GD, RB, CN XI Returns, FN 16, para 21. 101 This may be gleaned from Craven and Tuckey Settlement Village Papers containing Thika Lists. 102 TSVN, Vol. IV, Barajambani 133, Haldia 148, Patahatu 154. 103 Note on the history of Singhbhum 1910–11, 17. 104 GAR 1878–9, Singhbhum District, No. 678, Chaibasa, May 1879, 9. 105 TSVN, Vol. IV, 11–685. 106 TS, Tanaza Papers, Udajo, 3–4, VN 70. 107 ibid., Kharband. 5–6, VN 33. 108 CSVNERR, FS, A Miscellaneous, Darposhi, 5, VN 652. 109 CS, Form of order sheet, Court of Settlement Officer, Land Dispute Suit No. 65 of 1895–6, FS, A Misc., Diliamarcha, 31–2, VN 84. 110 CS, Ejection of Sohrai Tamaria, FL, Misc. Case No. 44 of 1911, FS 15, Siringsia, 1– 3, VN 222. 111 DR of the elaka of Joseph Manki, FL, R/754 of 1911–2, Misc. Case No. 435 of 1911–2, 2; DR of the elaka of Gangaram Manki, FL, R/627 of 1912–3, Misc. Case No. 600 of 1911–2, p. 10; DR, R/1024, 3, 38, DR, R/995, 5. 112 Application of Damura Ho, op. cit. 113 CS, Case between Bonga Ho and Ganga Naik, FL, Misc. Case No. 646 of 1910–11, Deogaon, 1–6, VN 626.

6

Governance of a village

Introduction The gradual crystallisation of the ideology and institutions of governance had two different yet interlocking aspects: sacred and secular. Their compartmentalisation, with which we are generally familiar, is not true for indigenous societies. This mixed ideology of governance was rooted in the indigenous knowledge system, which developed a specific technique of socialisation during the pre-colonial and colonial periods. Pre-colonial governance was largely an amalgam of the sacred and profane functions with the former having primacy. The colonial phase, on the other hand, was marked by a hybridisation of indigenous and exotic ideas and institutions. Another change that occurred was the conversion of governance into an exclusively secular function. This is the theme of the three parts of this chapter; the first unfolds the process of socialisation that shaped the ideological basis of governance; what constituted the sacred aspect is elaborated in the second part, while the last part deals with the entire scope of secular governance. Besides addressing the main purpose of how governance accompanied the process of village making, the chapter serves two other purposes. First, it unfolds Adivasi ideology, legitimating their polity, which emanates from the belief that they were the progenies of Singbonga. This approximates to the theory of the divine origin of the state. It was reinforced by the mechanism of social approval, which somewhat functioned to enact the social contract theory of its inception. Second, the chapter helps to understand the very nature of the Adivasis’ pre-colonial village republican polity when they were historic agents, which sustained their idea of arcadia (Dalton 1866: 160) or a hallowed ‘remembered landscape’ (Damodaran 2002). But the colonial state subordinated them, which converted the arcadia into ‘the landscape of their current servitude’ (ibid.). Having an appreciation of this historic symbolism is salient when a scholar perceives ethnic groups as subaltern/citizens or studies their colonial and post-colonial struggles.

Governance of a village

99

Part I Socialising process Governance is basically an endeavour to create and sustain a social order and regulate human relations and resources. In mainstream societies, this is achieved through rules and regulations framed by the state, the aim being the maintenance of equity and justice. On the other hand, the purposes of indigenous1 governance were the maintenance of peace and harmony and perpetuation of a homogenous and egalitarian social order with the help of their customs and traditions. Understandably, the above social traditions developed through time to create and consolidate the idea of a collective self and its distinction from the other. This was aided through a mechanism of formal and informal training based on the ethnic value system. In constructing the socialising process, I will begin with the African experiences where relevant details are more abundant. The socialising technique was built into the Tallensi pedagogic system, which purported to achieve ‘ever closer integration into the system of co-operation and reciprocity’ (Hallpike 1979: 106). Among the Tallensi and Kpelle, childhood was the early period of socialisation when children were ‘assimilated into adult life as quickly as possible’ (ibid.: 108; see also Gay and Cole 1967), so that they might learn the trades and jobs useful for their society. These were farming, care of livestock, hunting, fishing, building, thatching, cooking, housekeeping, gardening, and use of specialist technology, besides the knowledge of kinship, rituals, ceremonies, economically and medicinally useful herbs and roots, law and custom, and also the modes of buying and selling (Hallpike 1979: 106). The social purpose of education among the indigenous communities in India was similar. Underlining the indigenous education at familial and social levels, an Adivasi elder reiterated that home was the actual seminary where a child learns ‘everything about his/ her household and the village, such as kinship and killi (clan), paddy farming, tusser (silkworm) rearing, and various other matters of domestic importance in the house itself’ (Singh 1995: 737). One significant facet of indigenous instruction and training was to abstain from specific verbal lessons and instead emphasise observation and participation in real social activities. Among the Kpelle, a child spent ‘all his days watching until at some point he is told to join in the activity. If he makes a mistake, he is simply told to try again’ (Gay and Cole 1967: 16). The second method was to instil credulity and a sense of conformity. Questioning was, therefore, treated virtually as an act of ‘challenge to authority and tradition’ (ibid.). Hallpike observes: [We can summarise] education in primitive society as conducted in a context of real life, by example and observation, and without much verbal instruction or any specialist training situations. The object of education is not ‘cleverness’ or the ability to question or experiment or to think for

100

Governance of a village oneself, but good sense, wisdom, and the ability to perform as a good citizen in work and social relations. The child is highly motivated to conform, and his basic learning commitment is not to things or ideas, but to people, especially those closest to him socially. (1979: 109)

In a pre-literate society, knowledge was consigned to familial and social memory and generationally transmitted. In Cape Coast fish markets in Ghana, experiences related to the selling of fish and market operations were ‘memorized in a form handed down by mother to daughter’ (ibid.: 100). In African primitive societies, memory of proverbs, riddles, allegory, imagery, allusion and concrete symbolism were sources of intimate, and specific, knowledge. A proverb, for instance, served the useful purpose of communicating ‘a moral or practical point about conduct’ (ibid.: 110–13). Among the indigenous groups in India, folktales, myths, legends, folk songs, riddles, proverbs, folk speeches and stories were the storehouse of indigenous knowledge (Patnaik 2002: 5–12) to be preserved and handed down to the descendants. We noticed earlier how creation myth provided an historical vision among the Adivasis of Jharkhand of the origin of the people, the nature of social relationships, and a moral vision for how intra/inter community relations have to be regulated. Their annual festivals such as Mage, Sohrai and Dandakatta were occasions to reproduce the myths to reiterate the efficacy of social harmony and the need to perpetuate the Godcreated social order. The genre of folktales and stories, with ‘a mixture of actuality and fantasy’ also form the storehouse of their historical experiences (Patnaik 2002: 8–9). Scholars relate the creative social use of stories. Skaria found that story-telling has been ‘a major aspect’ of life of the Dangis of Gujarat, who created their vadilcha goth to retain the memory of their ‘ancestral’ pasts (1999: 1, 19). While this constitutes a representation of a ‘distinctive sense of pasts’, it is no less important to retain and reproduce it as an important mode of socialisation. Through reproduction of two distinct historical epochs – moglai and mandini – they narrate respectively the stories of an arcadian time of freedom and growth and also subjugation and defeat (ibid.: 15). While vadilcha goth contained a generic account of their conquest by the British and their resistance, they also contained a ‘highly fragmented and diverse’ account of every locality, lineage or individual. ‘Everyday conversation’ was generally the occasion of telling a vadilcha goth in which: Old men and women, reduced to immobility by age, might often tell children and others stories of their youth, and the stories they learnt from their vadils. In the evenings when friends get together and drink liquor, or during long afternoons when there are no pressing agricultural tasks, or while working with friends in the field, conversation might turn to vadilcha goth. (ibid.: 27–8)

Governance of a village

101

Likewise, the Ilongots ‘organized perception of the past and projects of the future’ as a strategy to bolster their sense of collective identity (Rosaldo 1980: 17). Within their stories or berten, these were used ‘as a moving force in the lived-in present and as an accurate depiction of events from bygone days’, whereby they ‘mapped onto the landscape’ the many events that had shaped their lives and reinvented their sense of being and identity (ibid.: 31– 54). The stories representing specific events of their past were received from the eyewitnesses by people of the same age and stories were transmitted to the next generation about their migration, settlements, organisation of the regular chores of their familial and collective lives, feuds, beheadings and their political subjugations (ibid.: 231, 312). Among the Santals in Jharkhand, generally the old people and elders told the fairy stories and tales, which formed a source of great entertainment and joy to children (Bodding 1994: 118). But these also had a tremendous formative influence. Santal proverbs are recounted as teaching morals, influencing people’s ‘wills and actions’ and sharing their experience (Patnaik 2002: 85). The Hill Kharias of Odisha tell their stories with an educative purpose. In hours of relaxation, grandparents and other old persons of the family assembled with the children and by recounting folktales and myths, they shared with them the ‘knowledge and the wisdom’ embodying the collective experience of generations (ibid.: 117). Ethnographic information is, however, more elaborate and vivid in the case of the Mundas. They had a specific genre of folktales which they called Ka-ani or Kahani. These are Kaji-Ka-ani, the most common class of folktales narrated in prose form; Durang Ka-ani, stories interspersed with songs; and Nutum Ka-ani, which are in fact riddles and not tales, to ‘test the powers of observation of the Munda youth’ (Roy 1970: 291). Furthermore, they had a rich collection of proverbs or Kajira Jutuku, which ‘embody their worldly wisdom and experience’. Regarding the socialising import of the above indigenous folklore, Roy notes: The only vehicle for instruction and culture known to the ordinary Munda is folklore or kahani, consisting of narratives or folk-tales, riddles, and proverbs. These are recited and learnt in the evening by young bachelors and maidens assembled in their respective giti-oras, after the day’s work is over. (1970: 285–92) No less significant for transmitting history and social tradition was their rich wealth of songs through which the Mundas expressed their sentiments, emotions, close link with nature and mundane experiences. To quote Roy again: ‘songs graphically represent the inner emotions that move him and portray the outer world that surrounds him’ (ibid.: 292–324). In fact, these formed a vital source of entertainment, transmission of an indigenous sense of identity and the collective experiences of the entire group. Regarding the Hos, Majumdar notes:

102

Governance of a village

‘The Ho boys and youths care more for Dama, Dumang and Susung (i.e. drums, dances and songs) than for occupations which are expected to assist the family’ (1937: 64). Adivasi social organisation was anchored to the ideology of an ideal communal life. However, this was linked to the arcadian phase of their past, largely enshrined in their creation myths, from which they had mostly moved away due to the impact of critical historical forces. The Santal tradition messaged that the septs and sub-septs and the entire human race that proliferated from the original human pairs would ‘live well (i.e. harmoniously)’ in order not to be ‘exterminated from the earth’. Similar was the divine injunction inhering the Ho tradition of origin. Accordingly, being the descendants of the primeval 12 brothers and sisters, humankind co-existed by wilfully sharing food and not interfering into others’ domain (‘none shall touch his brother’s share’) (Sen 2018: 65–7). Likewise, pursuit of mutuality and reciprocity as necessary community conduct was and remains a global phenomenon among indigenous groups. People of Kalimantan in Borneo, ‘working in a rice field, building a house, dealing with sickness, death and wedding are all done collectively by the whole community’ (Bamba 2010: 31). Likewise, the Santal vision was one of working together, of sharing responsibilities such as building houses, cultivation, cutting and collecting wood from the forest, sharing items of utility with others and helping each other during illness (Bodding 1994: 108–9). The Oraons expressed it more succinctly in terms of what characterised a good man. He is one: who does not quarrel with his neighbours nor causes them harm, – who does not covet lands, cattle, married females, or other ‘property’ not his own, nor meddles in the black art, who minds his own affairs, keeps his promises and gives in charity to beggars whatever he can, – who takes proper care of his own lands, cattle, and family, and conforms to the laws and usages of his forefathers, who is hospitable to his tribe fellows, and stands by his family, his clan, his village and his parha in resisting a common danger or pursuing a common good. (Roy 1984: 247) The social norms of homogeneity and harmony among agnates and cognates were reproduced at two levels. At one level, this was an institutional function. Among the Kpelle, the tradition was to segregate boys and girls for months in the bush, to provide practical training in farming and building huts (Gay and Cole 1967: 16). In the Indian context, the institutional mode of social training was carried out in the dormitories called Gitiora by the Mundas and Hos, Dhumkuria by the Oraons and Ghotul by the Gonds and Murias of Chattisgarh and neighbouring places. Gitiora is in fact the sleeping quarter of every Munda house. But they had the tradition of having separate collective gitioras for the young bachelors of the village or a hamlet where they spent the night. This social institution functioned as ‘seminaries for moral and intellectual training’

Governance of a village

103

of Munda boys and girls. They assembled in their respective dormitories after their evening meals. Here, riddles were ‘propounded and solved, folk-tales…, traditions and fables are narrated and memorized, and songs sung and learnt, until bed-time’ (Roy 1970: 221). A similar institution functioned among the Hos, though not in all the villages, which stored musical instruments, bows and arrows for the hunting and fishing materials of the inmates (Majumdar 1937: 17). The huts of young Oraon men and women were respectively known as Jonkh-Erpa, popularly called Dhumkuria, and Pel-Erpa. These represented ‘a very archaic form of economic, social, and religious organization’. This served ‘the purposes of food-quest’, a ‘useful seminary for training’ young men and women in their social and other duties and in the ‘magico-religious observances calculated to secure success in hunting and to augment the procreative power of the young men’. Oraon young men and women received instructions in their social and religious duties, songs and dances so that they grew into ‘useful and serviceable members of the community’ (Roy 1984: 124–85). The above process of indigenous training to perpetuate their community traditions and customs seemed to slacken with time. This in its trail weakened the foundational social institution of family, killi and hatu (Culshaw 1949: 7–10; Orans 1965: 3–27; Roy 1970: 228–30; Roy 1984: 65–71; Dalton 1973: 177–221, 245–63; O’Malley 1999: 89–151). This accelerated following the substitution of traditional education with literate education and training under British rule. The basic feature of this parallel method is a formal link with a school, college or university, representing, respectively, primary/elementary, secondary and higher levels of education. Accordingly, Anglo-vernacular schools were opened at Kishenpur in 1839 and at Chaibasa in 1841, the sole purpose of which was to make pupils conscious of social evils and enable them to serve the local administration (Nath 2016: 20). In schools, pupils were taught first reading, writing and arithmetic. William Adam stated the official policy in his famous Report of 1838: I am aware that much may be and has been done to civilize those tribals by promoting and protecting industry, by administering justice between man and man, and by punishing the crime against society. But that moral conquest can be secured only by the knowledge and those habits, which education gives and the means of education hitherto very sparingly employed. (cited in ibid.) Students were taught under a fixed curriculum for which texts were prescribed. This reveals that the purpose of education was to introduce a modern curriculum through the teaching of language, arithmetic and geography, the sole objective being the dissemination of secular education through the medium either of English or the vernacular tongue (ibid.: 21–7). Although the indigenous dormitories survived until late into colonial rule, the new system led them to a strange world in which learning and writing English, Bengali and Hindi alphabets took place via a literate medium instead of the oral medium of education and training. Learning the above languages acquainted

104

Governance of a village

pupils with the technique of expressing ideas through words and sentences for which they were taught grammar and the spelling of words. This was accompanied by the process of creating literary tastes in prose and poetic forms. Though the content of arithmetic texts is not available, presumably students were taught numbers and tables so that they could learn and apply the skill of counting and simple calculation. The teaching of history took on a new meaning. Reminiscences and recounting of their own past experiences, which broadly summarised their sense of history, was replaced by the recorded history of England, Greece and Rome. Likewise, the teaching of geography was a novel idea. The mere mention of texts does not, however, give us an idea of the course taught, but we can presume that this was an attempt to introduce to children a sense of the earth and its constitution. The overall purpose ‘was to inculcate rational and scientific thinking so that the educated section of a society might develop the habit of questioning irrational and obscurant socioreligious ideas and institutions to usher change and development’ (Sen 2016: 108). In this process, Adivasi children were integrated into a mainstream knowledge system that could serve as a panacea for curing social evils like witchcraft and instilling a sense of loyal and useful subjecthood. In the following pages, I will seek to reconstruct how the socialisation process sustained the governance of Adivasi villages, beginning with its sacred aspect.

Part II Sacred governance Introduction Before discussing the ideology and structure of sacred governance, I would like to underline the nature of relations between the sacred and profane. While Durkheim formulates a dichotomy between the sacred and profane, EvansPritchard rebuts this ‘rigid dichotomy’ and underlines its basic composite nature. To quote: Surely what he calls ‘sacred’ and ‘profane’ are on the same level of experience, and, far from being cut off from one another, they are so closely intermingled as to be inseparable. They cannot, therefore, either for the individual or for social activities, be put in closed departments which negate each other, one of which is left on entering the other. (1965: 64–5) Likewise, a recent study asserts that rather than keeping close to ‘rigid definitional distinctions’, we should be attentive to ‘shifting boundaries of indigenous conceptualizations’ (Stewart and Strathern 2004: 2). The ‘primitive (also called natural) religion’, Evans-Pritchard observes, amalgamates ‘beliefs and practices’ as well as ‘magic, totemism, taboo, and even witchcraft’ (1965: 3).

Governance of a village

105

Ideology and function of the sacred governance Subscribing to the above view, I would like to further develop the indigenous idea of the sacred after C.R. Hallpike. Regarding the cognitive development of the primitive mind, he places emphasis on the ‘prominence of non-linguistic symbolic representations based on imagery and the shared associations of everyday objects’ rather than on ‘linguistic representations’ (1979: 135). This symbolism or imagery has been reiterated through the primitive mythology of the creation of the world and human beings. This depicts their cosmological notions, which signify an early attempt at comprehending and explaining the lived world (Sen 2006: 310–20). Rather than just performing an epistemological purpose, it has a practical import too. The imagery of the myth inheres the very notion of a moral society among the indigenous communities, which anchors their notion of governance. Regarding the Baigas of middle India, Elwin underlines that ‘the mythology of the Baiga is the central power-house of the life and energy of the tribe… Myth does far more than explain the Baiga’s institutions; it is their motive power and their authorization’ (2002: 305). How is the indigenous notion of a moral society constructed? The idea of a God-created universe, inhabited by all biotic and non-biotic elements, centres round an essential link among all the elements of creation. The indigenes of Borneo, for example, emphasise ‘inter-dependence and co-existence not only among human beings but also with the non-humans as well’ (Bamba 2010: 31). Likewise, in Latin America, ethnic groups continue to uphold that all the components of nature ‘form multiple connections’ (Cunningham 2010: 54). Since their lifeways are ‘bound up with the organic processes of nature’, ethnic communities believe that the well-being of society and nature are intimately related (Hallpike 1979: 95–6). Furthermore, from the salient aspect of creation myth that this earth, made up of human beings, flora and fauna, is a divine creation, originated another vital component of their worldview. This was that the perpetuation of this order is a moral and sacred act and its violation, as detailed below, would entail divine retribution (Sen 2006: 310). The second factor is the notion of the basic familial relations of humankind. According to the Baiga, creation myths constitute ‘the biographies of the parents of mankind’ (Elwin 2002: 305). In fact, all the creation legends of the Adivasis in India propound the basic universalistic nature of mankind being the children of the primeval first pair (ibid.: 305–17; Hunter 1975: 452–3). The Ho legend addresses the people of the world as the descendants of the first pair and their 12 progenies, identified as the children and grandchildren of Singbonga (Tickell 1840: 798).2 Setting up of exogamic and endogamic norms The imagery of the myth embraced the vision of how this social order was to be organised. It begins with the exogamic norm, which strictly prohibits liaison among killis. Therefore, when people ‘became very bad’, implying when they

106

Governance of a village

committed incest in a primeval time, Haram destroyed the human race and peopled the world again. At this stage, five more Santal septs were added by Thakur as a ploy to check the flouting of the endogamic norm (Bodding 1994: 7–10). But when mankind subsequently proliferated, i.e. they were divided into tribes and castes, in order to ensure that ‘they may live well and not be exterminated from the earth’, Thakur or Singbonga arranged the mythic feast (ibid.: 19; Tickell 1840: 798). At the feast, these people collected their share of food and acquired their distinct ethnic and caste identities. Crystallisation of distinct identities, coupled with the divinely designed separation of shares of these peoples, implied that all should keep within their bounds. As the Ho legend ordained, people would wilfully share their food and ‘none shall touch his brother’s share’ (Tickell 1840: 696–7). Presumably, this shaped the endogamic norm that formulated the notion of communities keeping themselves within their physical and social limits. They considered this to be the surest way to homogenise and harmonise god’s children. However, this is the vision of an arcadian order. The historical reality, which is writ large in Ho, and especially in Santal legend, is that of transgression of the norm as symbolised by the subjugation of Ho territory by the British, and in the case of the Santals, by the Hindu, Muslim and British (Sen 2018: 70–2). As mentioned before, endogamy and exogamy constitute two central pillars of indigenous social structure. Accordingly, ethnic groups enjoined marriage within the community and outside the clan or sept in order to cement friendly relations at the community and clan levels. Marriage was therefore the pivotal institution, and the social norms of its solemnisation gradually evolved. The settled marriage known as Andi marriage among the Hos was the earliest form. In the early phase, when gerontocracy had a firmer grip over indigenous society, this was the reputed and regular practice. Marriage was finalised by the elders with the help of marriage brokers, after they had verified the signs and omens, the socio-economic standing of the family and mutually settled the gonong payable to the bride’s family (Tickell 1840: 789; Bodding 1994: 29–78). Early colonial ethnography, however, hints at emerging threats to this social institution. The first threat was the incidence of familial disputes over the reluctance of the parents of the brides to send their married daughters to their husbands’ houses.3 The second threat was the large incidence of illicit social relations and love marriages due to a high bride price. In order to ensure that people strictly followed the reputable norms, society enforced the death sentence, socially ostracised the culprits or declared them as kajomesin (Majumdar 1937: 55; Roy 1970: 66; Bodding 1994: 84–5; O’Malley 1999: 134). But at the same time as the incidence of illicit marriages becoming endemic before British times, society seemed to accommodate love marriages like rajikhusi or elopement and anadar (marriage by intrusion) by introducing the practice of obtaining social exoneration through a punitive feast (Majumdar 1937: 89–91; O’Malley 1999: 134) or undertaking the sanctioned steps of recasting (Bodding 1994: 85–6). While the norm of exogamy influenced marriage relations, the imagery of myth gave birth to other rites and practices to regulate healthy and harmonious

Governance of a village

107

intra/inter-killi relations. The notion of common descent from one pair seemed to bolster the notion of community. From this emerged the central concept of family as essentially joint or the idea of kinship through a common ancestor. Among the Mundas, the origin of a killi or sept was assigned to the matriarchal age (Roy 1970: 229), but the Santals trace its origin to an unidentified primordial time (Bodding: 1994: 8–9). Upon the birth of a killi, descendants of the founder seemed to have lived as one family; members shared the same roof, kitchen and property, worshipped the family deity in the family adding (portion of the house reserved for the ancestral spirits and for making offerings to them) and buried their dead in the common sasan. From this originated the idea of paternal consanguinity and brotherhood, patrilineal descent of family property and succession to the village headship and priesthood. Among the Santal, the ideal was that both land and village posts belonged to the village itself, which had to be annually surrendered and reallotted in the month of Magh, i.e. January–February, to their earlier owners (O’Malley 1999: 108). Among the Hos, the right to familial and common property was socially endorsed. Furthermore, social approval was a necessary component of the custom of the hereditary succession to the posts of village and pir heads.4 I crave the indulgence to make a correspondence between this notion of social approval and the contractual theory of state origin. Origin and split of killis When the family became inordinately large, the brothers separated, leading to the creation of a different lineage that gradually took the form of a separate killi (Roy 1970: 229–35). This was the indigenous technique, as inherited from the imagery of creation myth, used to resolve difference and heterogeneity and to redefine inter-killi relations. Presumably, there were originally 12 Kolarian killis, having descended from a primordial 12 pairs. Subsequently more were added. Dalton mentioned 18 killis, though his list was incomplete (Dalton 1973: 189).5 In the case of the Hos, this was 50 in 1895–97 and 124 later (Craven 1898: 19–20; Denney 1975: 110–19). The number was much greater in the case of the Santals (Risley 1998: 125–7). A corollary process was the creation of sub-killis. The documental evidence is generally silent about the circumstances by which a killi split into independent killis and sub-killis. However, the Village Papers provide an instance of how a new killi was born. It is reminisced that: This (Ichagutu) is a very rare killi. Nowhere in Kolhan Ichagutus are to be found save in Bhoya. In the rare cases in which they are found in the villages they belong to Bhoya originally from where they went out to other villages. People related that the killi and the village were born together after the arrival of the original clearer at the village site. The pioneer built his house on a

108

Governance of a village

hillock abounding in Dhawai trees (called Icha in Ho) after which his descendants came to be known as Ichagutu or Bhoya.6 Another instance informs how a killi split. Korpa Hari and Senegal Sura of Purti killi dabbed themselves with wet flour made of rice (holang) at the time of sacrificing goats etc. during the founding of Pandrasali village. So they acquired the sub-killi name of Holang Purti. Again, when descendants of Senegal crossed a stream within the village area and built their hut opposite the bank on which Korpa’s descendants lived, the former came to be called Param Purti. One may be tempted to equate Senegal’s crossing (Param in Ho) of the stream to Caesar’s Crossing the Rubicon, capturing the historic moment in the village’s past to be celebrated by the formation of a sub-killi.7 The development of the notion of property The development of the notion of property was an important aspect of the crystallisation of rusticity in the world. This relates to what characterised material resources or property in ethnic perception; how the entitlement of property at different levels was gradually made; and finally how property or resources were socially governed during the pre-colonial and colonial periods. Postponing the discussion of these until the third part of the chapter, I will move on to discuss another important aspect of ethnic life. Deployment of social capital The social deployment of labour and resources was the eminent technique followed by the indigenous communities across the world to organise their material and moral life. The idea was that since they originally belonged to one killi, even after the break-up, different families belonging to the same killi were obliged to stand by one another in weal and woe. Primarily, the ideal was to share the burden of work and utilise the available resources in the creation and gathering of food as well as sharing in the celebration of festivals, marriage and death. This was a kind of killi custom that underlined killi consanguinity and its difference from other killis. Therefore, non-observance of the social norm caused forfeiture of the right to protection or help from the killi (Majumdar 1937: 60–3). In Tswana, families ‘regularly cooperated with one another and exchanged labor and goods’, retaining however the autonomy of the domestic units. Their socio-economy based on agriculture and pastoralism, supplemented by hunting and gathering, ‘functioned within the difference of gender and generation’, and ‘social division of labor’ (Comaroff and Comaroff 1992: 133). In Jharkhand, similar social engineering was in function until colonial times and later, as the following practices substantiate. The first is the communal celebration of annual sendra or social hunt during the month of May and the mode of mutually sharing the meat among participants.8 The second is the practice among the Hos of lending cattle and seed for cultivation by those who had excess to those who were in want. This social custom was

Governance of a village

109

reiterated when Ho villagers petitioned the local administration against the imposition of grazing taxes on an additional number of sheep and goats possessed by villagers.9 Likewise, the sharing of items of necessity and extending help in building a house, in cultivation and helping others during illness also characterised Santal village life (Bodding 1994: 108). The third practice was the mobilisation of social labour towards collective need such as the clearance of forests and excavation of village tanks. We learn that Ho villagers ‘combined to make excellent bunds on their own initiative when they see that such will be useful and in fact between December and May they have little to do but jungle cutting & making bunds’.10 Collective celebration of birth and mortuary rites was the other eminent ethnic custom. I will cite the evidence of the common observance of mortuary rites, and its changing nature, to substantiate my point.11 The original practice was burial in a family sasan located in the mother village. So, even after the break-up of the family and movement to another village, people continued to bury the dead or their bones in the original sasan. This norm however mellowed with time, when the setting up of a village sasan implied the coming of age of the daughter village. At this stage, the practice of burial in the village sasan of a killi evolved, and later there were family sasans in the individual family compounds.12 The custom of social celebration of festivals also falls within this category. Regulated mostly by their agrarian cycles, the major ones of the Adivasis of Jharkhand were Mage, Sohrai, Sarhul and Karma. But in the historical past and also in the lived present, the festival was/is celebrated as per the convenience of the village. Accordingly, annually the village community headed by the Munda/ Majhi/Pradhan finalised the date for the celebration in the village. However, actual celebration of the rituals was done by the religious functionaries such as the deori/pahan/jogmajhi. However, we cannot deny that during pre-colonial eras the indigenous communities had slowly been drifting away from the social ideal. Inter-killi differences and conflict heterogenised the ethnic community; growth of the notion of familial property divided families further and the emergence of socio-economic difference forced socially marginal people to put a price to their labour as an occupation during colonial rule. Earlier we witnessed the inter-village/pir labour movements to earn a living. This is evident from the occupational distribution of Singhbhum population in 1903–4. This showed that 66.9% of the total population were cultivators, while 11.1% served as field labourers and 9.6% as general labourers.13 This implies that about one-fifth of villagers were not in a position to follow the social obligation of free service to other members of the family and killi. This forced society to evolve the mechanism of labour payment. In Kolhan, pailas (round-shaped wooden measures) for economic transaction generally measured 80 tolas.14 In the interior of the district of Singhbhum in 1883–4, labourers of both sexes were paid two to three seers of paddy per diem with a drink of rice beer, while those engaged in reaping work received seven to eight seers of paddy per day. However, in places the practice of paying

110

Governance of a village

6 pice to male labourer and 4 pice to a female labourer was also in vogue.15 About two decades later, the monthly wage of a daily labourer at Chaibasa rose from 2 annas 6 paisa in 1906–7 to 3 annas in 1907–8.16 Labourers were obviously available in adjacent villages. In the countryside, their presence was quite sizeable. In one village with 195 people, while 27 were daily labourers, 87 were engaged in thatching houses,17 presumably for additional earning. Having narrated the sacred basis of the governance of men and material, I will now seek to examine the indigenous belief system as the crucial component that governed their sacred, or rather metaphysical, domain. Governing the benevolent and malevolent domains Scholars do not agree whether the ethnic groups were aware of physical/natural and metaphysical/supernatural distinctions. Evans-Pritchard observes: ‘Azande certainly have no such notions of reality. They have no conceptions of “natural” and therefore neither of the ‘supernatural’ as we understand them’. But he concedes that ‘if they do not give to the natural and supernatural the meanings which educated Europeans give to them they nevertheless distinguish between them’ (1976: 30). Among the Adivasis in India, we notice some form of distinction being observed, as prevailing in their belief in the demarcation of the metaphysical world into benevolent and malevolent domains. The notion of benevolence seems to emanate from the willingness and ability of the elements to bring material and moral welfare to the village and its residents. These elements were the dead ancestors and benevolent bongas. I will begin with the first with whom Adivasis believed in the continuity of relations despite their physical absence. ‘Living with the dead’ The Adivasis nourished a feeling of eternal togetherness with their dead ancestors (Troisi 1978: 113). They were considered as benevolent spirits and revered as guardians of the family, though a vital change in the composition of the dead developed over time. The ambit of the dead was probably more inclusive when ethnic groups were confined to their mother villages. At that stage, the benefactors were the entire genre of village dead of a killi, who were buried in the common sasan. At the next stage, the dead were confined to those belonging to the lineages of a killi for whom they developed their own village sasans. However, when they developed family sasans, they buried only the dead of their own families. Furthermore, they developed ading or bhitar (a portion of the house preserved for the ancestral spirits and for making offering to them) as another important mortuary institution. This is the resting place of the dead in every Adivasi home, the venerated private site where only family members are allowed. However, despite the progressive shrinkage of the domain of the dead, they somewhat retained the link with the entire cluster of the dead villagers when people annually remembered them during Mage parab with prayers and

Governance of a village

111

offerings. Retaining a close and continuous link with them showed how intimate and cherished the relationship between the living and dead was, and this has continued. As additional evidence, I would like to quote the following mortuary song, which has been rendered into English from the Ho original. We never scolded you, never wronged you; Come to us back; We ever loved and cherished you, and have lived long together Under the same roof; desert it not now! The rainy nights, And the cold blowing days, are coming on; do not wander here, Do not stand by the burnt ashes; come to us again! You cannot find shelter under the peepul, when the rain comes down. The saul (shawl) will not shield you from the cold bitter wind. Come to your home! It is swept for you, and clean; and we are there who loved you ever; and there is rice put for you; And water; come home, come home, come to us again. (Tickell 1840: 795) ‘Living with the dead’ and the enduring tie with them combined to bridge the distance between burial grounds and the residential arena found elsewhere. I draw on Tickell to substantiate my point. He observed: and in the centre, an open space of turf, shaded by two or three tamarind trees, contains the slabs of stone under which the ‘rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep’. On these stones the people assemble daily to talk or lounge, when there is no work to do in the fields. (ibid.: 783) Deori, the governor of the benevolent domain The deori was supposed to negotiate with the governor of the pristine forests and, after its conversion into villages, with the village or hatuka bonga.18 On these occasions, their deities and spirits were invoked and offerings and sacrifices were made to ensure that people remained free from epidemics and illness and they were blessed with good rainfall and crops. Being an annual practice, prayers were offered during Mage festival to the desauli or village deity. Furthermore, the malevolent spirits were propitiated to avert their evil influences (Craven 1898: 22–3; Dalton 1973: 196–8; Bodding 1994: 135–59). The responsibilities the society assigned to a deori required specialised knowledge of rituals. This seemed to offset the earlier practices of the posts of Munda and deori enjoyed by one person and founding family, detailed in Chapter 3. Instead, specialisation, as tested by the parameter of ability, came into function. The social test was that the village regularly enjoyed good crops and freedom from diseases. So, when crops failed and an epidemic visited a village, people lost faith in him and made changes, as had happened in Amrai. The Munda informed that:

112

Governance of a village formerly the post of Deori was held by members of Purti killi (marang killi of the village) but one year when there were several cases of small pox in the village people lost faith in the power of their Deori, a Purti & appointed a man of Bandra killi.19

Furthermore, in popular perception, the success of the deori depended not upon his ritual knowledge alone, but more on whether he enjoyed the support of the bongas. Interestingly, the support might devolve on a diku also, registering the other shift, de-indigenisation of the office. This is instanced by a Kumhar deori in the Ho village of Iligara. To quote: It is not explained and the villagers do not know why a Diku Kumhar became Deori of the village. But it is not a strange thing for a Diku to become Deori for any and everybody for whom the Bongas may have likings can become a Deori according to the ideas of the Hos.20 An interesting fact is that it was the duty of the sokha (witch finder) to read the bonga’s will, and not a deori. How the sokha instrumented the appointment of a separate deori is related by Soban Munda of Baruisai: The Deori of Angardiha who is of the same killi as myself used to worship for us as well. When we did not have good crops and our cattle died for five or six years consecutively we consulted our ‘sakha’ (sokha) who advised us to worship the spirits residing in Peligutu of our village. From that time we began worshipping the spirit there and offer our mage sacrifice also. The sakhas consult the spirits and let people know their intentions.21 The performance of a benevolent role by the sokha somewhat blurred the distinction between benevolent and malevolent in ethnic perceptions.22 Also, this often led to a mix-up of socio-religious categories, a very perceptible feature of the rural ritual structure irrespective of communities.23 I will identify these to be a rather general phenomenon, as elaborated below. The world of magic and sorcery: the domain of the malevolent Malinowski observed that sacred ‘traditional acts and observances’ were ‘carried out with reverence and awe’ by ethnic groups. This signified their faith in magic, or their ideas ‘about beings, spirits, ghosts, dead ancestors, or gods’ (1948: 1). The world of ‘magic, totemism, taboo, and even witchcraft’ ‘was not however completely malevolent, as this was both ‘white’ and ‘black’ in nature. Comprising ‘a series of rites’ performed for ‘good crops to maintain a dense population’, the former was considered ‘absolutely indispensable’ by the Melanisians (ibid.: 10–11). However, the latter variety was opaque and malevolent, which, as the Adivasis in Jharkhand believed, was governed by their evil bongas and spirits. This led to the emergence of an apposite and elaborate belief system

Governance of a village

113

in magic and witchcraft among them. In turn, this sustained their notion of benevolent and malevolent forces to be negotiated through ojha (diviner and medicine men) and dan (witch and sorcerer) (Troisi 1978: Chapter VI; see also Roy 1970: 278). The Oraons believed that though persons could be born with the ‘evil eye’ and the ‘evil mouth’, this art could be acquired through a ‘course of training’ during the night (Roy 1972: 189). Indigenous people all over the world considered malevolent elements to be the major source of malady and misfortune (Evans-Pritchard 1976: 25, 45).24 This nurtured another belief that held that, magic and sorcery being harmful, the social elements who practised occult art had to be identified and countered. One way of dealing with them was to offer prayer and propitiation. An ethnographer elaborated: ‘In time of sickness they (Hos) have recourse to prayers and sacrifices, and they place more confidence in the latter than in any of the few and simple drugs with which they are acquainted’ (Dunbar 1861: 374). From this metaphysical analysis of causes emanated the notion of a non-physical method of cure. The early colonial ethnography, while relating Ho belief in witchcraft as a cause of sickness, informed about the widely prevalent practice of eliminating the suspected witch and his/her family as the surest way of curing the evil (Tickell 1840: 802).25 Evans-Pritchard found that Azande people also believed that this evil trait was ‘inherited’ and ‘transmitted by unilinear descent from parent to child’ (1976: 2) and so death, caused by witchcraft, ‘must be avenged’ (1976: 34).This leads us to the domain of witchcraft, evil bongas and spirits and indigenous strategy of negotiating with them. Also, it opens up a window to explore the indigenous reasoning, or ‘local logics of explanation’, to which we need to place ‘special focus and attention’ (Stewart and Strathern 2004: 8) in order to grapple with the milieu and mentality at work in the countryside. Sociologists and anthropologists in India famously put forward the notion of an egalitarian and harmonious ethnic society. They usually draw support from their mode of peaceable distribution of village land and the notion of village natural resources as community property, which I have detailed before. Let us examine the veracity of the above empirical notions in a wider context. Keith Thomas identifies poverty, sickness and sudden disaster as the ‘familiar features of social environment’ in 16th–17th century England, in which people in general suffered the ‘hazards of an intensely insecure’ life. Society was highly stratified, manifesting a huge ‘variation of living, educational level and intellectual sensibility’. This was the product of an economy based primarily on the production of food in which the destiny of common man depended on the ‘fate of annual harvest’. But the food supply for common man was ‘precarious’. Therefore, people were ‘chronically undernourished’. Coupled with this, periodic waves of influenza, typhus, dysentery and smallpox imperiled the lives of the rich and poor alike. The inadequacy of medical facilities blunted the possibility of immunity through medicine and vaccine. People in the countryside were therefore ‘extremely liable to pain, sickness and premature death’. Consequently, the poor indulged either in ‘careless stoicism’ or alcoholism and smoking. Additionally, they practised witchcraft and sorcery as an escape from their ‘helplessness in the face of disease’ and suffering of all kinds (Thomas 1984: 1–27).

114

Governance of a village

This is largely analogous to the ethnic scenario in India. Although Adivasi society was not rigidly stratified either on economic grounds or in levels of educational sensibility, as related before, the division into better off and poor was produced by an inequitable distribution of lands among the earlier and later comers, or rather between kuntkattidars and non-khuntkattidars, or due to village settlements in a hospitable terrain or forested-hilly regions. The colonial legacy from the earlier eras depicted a differential scenario, as between the ‘very comfortable and copious’ houses of the Mundas and Mankis and the temporary dwellings of the ‘nomad tribes of Hos’ inhabiting the hilly tracts, who were ‘obliged to move every third year, to make fresh clearings in the forest’. Young ‘women and girls of the better classes’ made ‘a striking exception’ to the women of the lowest classes, who ‘go about in a disgusting state of nudity, wearing nothing but a miserably insufficient rag round their loin’, their physique rendered ‘shrivelled and ugly’ by ‘constant exposure’ and hard work (Tickell 1840: 783–4). The traditional ethnic mode of education and training, as shown before, could hardly create any difference in sensibility and consciousness among the pre-literate group of people, as had prevailed between the educated and uneducated after the onset of modern education. The life of the indigenous communities was rendered very hazardous due to such reasons as fire, drought, epidemics and attacks by wild animals. Tickell seemed to romanticise Ho life when he exaggerated the inbuilt social mechanism to combat epidemic. He appreciated their ‘precautionary measures’ of ‘nutritive food and drink and the open airy position they build in’, and as a safeguard from ‘infection and fire’ they lived in ‘small and scattered villages’, ‘and on the first appearance of any epidemic they leave (left) their houses, and flee (fled) into the jungles, living apart from each other’. But he informed that Singhbhum was ‘yearly scourged by cholera, fevers and small-pox’ (ibid.: 706). We do not have studies on the state of folk medicine and its practitioners during the pre-colonial period. But it is certain that relief from disease was minimal. The situation was particularly aggravated in areas close to or within the forests, by the menace of wild animals, particularly tigers. Flight, as shown above, often leading to mass exodus, seemed to be the only way out. Therefore, in the pre-literate ethnic world, disease leading to death was, in popular perception, invariably inflicted from outside by evil forces, and not due to any lack of sanitation or hygiene, or infection. Against this backdrop, evil spirit and witchcraft emerged as the only explanation for pain and death. The belief in a witch shapeshifting into a tiger often emerged, as narrated below, in Adivasi perception. Therefore, suspicion of witchcraft as the cause of an individual ailment became not only a familial but a ‘village community’s affair’ (Troisi 1978: 219; see also Roy 1970: 278). Therefore, a wrong done to an individual or family was collectively avenged by other members of the killi and even the village. The logic was that a wrong done to the individual or family was tantamount to one perpetrated against the social aggregate i.e. killi or the territorial aggregate, the village. I will illustrate below the function of this norm with regard to witchcraft.

Governance of a village

115

Practice of witchcraft: malady, myth and medicine One who is familiar with the Adivasi rural world will confirm that a belief in witchcraft leading to the murder of the suspected continues to be an unfortunate contemporary reality. Since this social evil has roots in the past, we should unravel the historical milieu during the pre-British and British periods to understand the rural mentality. Regarding Ho society, the earliest information about the incidence dates back to the onset of British rule. As early as 1840, T. Wilkinson noted witch murder as a virulent social evil among the Hos. He was glib that the three-year-old rule of the British administration had stemmed it considerably. But rather than treating witch killing as a mere law and order issue, he prescribed education and hospitals as more tangible means of curing this social anomaly.26 The strong arm of alien rule no doubt put an immediate check on the evil practice in the countryside. But that it failed to fully cure the evil came as a rude eye-opener to the British, when during the Great Rebellion of 1857–58 the temporary recession of British control over the tribal region caused a fresh spate of witch killing. In his letter to the Commissioner of Chotanagpur dated 24 August 1860, A. Money, the Officiating Secretary to the Government of Bengal, observed: Under the first class of offence against the person there is a remarkable increase in the number of murders. The average of the previous five years was seven cases, in which eighteen persons were implicated. The returns of 1859 exhibit fifty-nine cases of murder, in which 218 persons were implicated. It appears, however, that fifty of these occurred during the disturbances of 1857 and 1858, the people availing themselves of the temporary withdrawal of our authority to indulge their superstitious desire of exterminating witchcraft. (cited in Roy Chaudhury 1958: 134) Note the above recurrence of the practice; the other proof of its socialisation was the addition of the equivalent terms to that of witch, called Danhri in Ho lexicon, and Mati or Deonra among the Oraons (Roy 1972: 192–3). Danhri denoted a person having supernatural power in controlling the evil and malevolent forces and having their help to perpetrate evil on others. This signifies that in indigenous perception, witchcraft was the performance of ‘black’ magic on a person with evil intent. This was somewhat akin to the definition of witchcraft as the ‘attribution of misfortune to occult human agency’ in Europe (Thomas 1984: 517). But the denotation was more inclusive in Europe where popular magicians were addressed by various such names as ‘wizard’, ‘cunning man’, ‘wise men/women’, ‘charmers’, ‘blessers’, ‘conjurers’, ‘sorcerers’, ‘witches’ and the like. They ‘offered a variety of services, which ranged from healing the sick and finding lost goods to fortune telling and divination of all kinds’ (ibid.: 210). For their services, these cunning men commanded a lot of fear and respect in their own societies (ibid.: 300).

116

Governance of a village

As Thomas continues: ‘cunning folk and maleficent witches were believed to be separate, but at times these “overlapped”’ (ibid.: 517–20). Even then, we notice that the wide prevalence of magic and sorcery, as ‘black’ and ‘white’ magic, in tandem ‘encouraged witchcraft’ (ibid.: 653–4). We find among the ethnic groups in India the tendency to mix up social categories. This becomes clear in the role of the Matis or Deonras among the Oraons. They acted as ‘witch-finders and witch-doctors, spirit finders and exorcisers’, while in tandem practising ‘anti-social magic for their own ends’. They learnt this through a ‘long course of systematic training’ under a guru (Roy 1972: 192–3). Trial Papers relating to witch-hunt during the uprising of 1857–58 amply evidence the tendency to lump witch, sorcerer and wizard together.27 This tendency lingered long after this tumultuous event (Majumdar 1937: 157). Power of a witch Regarding the power of a witch, villagers had great faith and fear. EvansPritchard notes the following: Witchcraft is ubiquitous. It plays its part in every activity of Zande life; in agricultural, fishing, and hunting pursuits; in domestic life of homesteads as well as in communal life of district and court; it is an important theme of mental life in which it forms the background of a vast panorama of oracles and magic; its influence is plainly stamped on law and morals, etiquette and religion; it is prominent in technology and language; there is no niche or corner of Zande culture into which it does not twist itself. (1976: 18) The popular belief in England was that a witch, male or female, but more often female, might cause physical injury or death to a person or a farm animal. He/ she could ‘interfere with nature by preventing cows from giving milk, or by frustrating such domestic operations as making butter, cheese or beer’ (Thomas 1984: 519). In Tswana, people alleged that sorcery could undermine ‘all positive action’ to the detriment of the normal functioning and growth of their corporate existence (Comaroff and Comaroff 1992: 165). Likewise, it was the ubiquitous nature of a witch’s power that ethnic societies in India dreaded most. The Baigas attributed a ‘majority of evils’, from sickness, death and destruction of crops to the curdling of milk and spoiling of meat to witchcraft (Elwin 2002: 370). The Hos assigned sickness and death to the evil influence of a witch or the displeasure of their deotas or bongas.28 Similarly, the Santals attributed disease ‘to the agency of evil spirits and forces, witches and the evil eye’ (Troisi 1978: 207–9). The malevolent role of the witch was the fundamental reason behind the murder of the suspected, as witch-hunt trials show.29 Popular belief was that the power was so enormous that not only an individual and family, but the entire village, could also suffer (Tickell 1840: 802).30 This could be done by introducing a cholera

Governance of a village

117

epidemic (Dalton 1973: 200), causing destruction of the crops and cattle and disturbing the normal weather cycle (Tickell 1840: 802).31 Worst perhaps was the capability to neutralise the influence of the desauli, the respectable guardian of the village (Dalton 1973: 200). Social fear heightened the belief in animorphism, i.e. the power of shapeshifting into a tiger or leopard to wreck vengeance (Majumdar 1937: 158–9). In a large number of cases, the animal was tiger, as the witch trial from 1859 to 1860 reveals, a fear contributed by the ecological reason stated earlier. The accused, whose wife had been killed, therefore testified: he had become a tiger. He had in this form sprung upon my wife when she was collecting leaves in the jungle and had killed her. I witnessed the change from man to tiger when I first saw it, it was half man half tiger. It commenced becoming a tiger in the legs. It first had Poosa’s head, this was transformed into a tiger’s head in my presence.32 This fear had a global presence. The Kpelle feared most the power of a witch leaving the human frame or changing into animal form to perpetrate a mischief (Gay and Cole 1967: 23–4). Likewise, in colonial and post-colonial Africa and New Guinea, this is ‘seen as a power belonging to persons through their bodies or spirits, giving them an ability to fly out of the body or to transform themselves into other creatures’ (Stewart and Strathern 2004: 6). It is interesting to know how the occult power was exercised. In England, different methods were put to use; first, ‘physical contact: the witch touched her victim or gave out a potent, but invisible, emanation from her eyes’. The other was to pronounce a curse or malediction. The third was the use of ‘technical aids – making a wax image of the victim and sticking pins in it, writing his name on a piece of paper and then burning it’ and ‘burying a piece of his clothing’ (Thomas 1984: 519). Ho villagers inform of similar and other techniques. First, a witch could exercise occult power through a number of malignant bongas under their control. They could harm a person by shooting an arrow at an effigy of the man or at his shadow, a trick done mostly at night. The other technique was pricking the effigy of a person, made with powdered rice or wheat flour with thorns (Majumdar 1937: 158–9). Witchcraft trials inform us about the use of meat for this purpose.33 Motivations behind witch killing The factors motivating witch killing largely emanated from the belief system of ethnic society. Despite the stoicism dominating the countryside in the event of misfortune and malady and the absence of relief from sickness, rural societies all over the world had developed internal mechanisms to mitigate the suffering. As related before, one such was witch killing. This is evident from the depositions of the accused persons and witnesses. To quote:

118

Governance of a village I arranged it all at Amjora, and it was by my desire and order all were killed. Joorey had killed my younger brother Bisooi by his sorcery. The day after his death we arranged for the destruction of Joorey. Bisooi himself stated, when dying, that Joorey had bewitched him.34

The same fear lurked in a different murder. One witness informed that Samoo, the accused, had murdered his sister Bootnee because she had killed his next brother and child with witchcraft. He also informed that ‘she dug up the bones of my younger brother after we had burned them. She did so twice. I do not know why she did so. I killed her with an axe’.35 Causing death through shapeshifting into a tiger particularly panicked the villagers. The observation of the accused whose wife had been killed, as cited above, is one example. Likewise, others deposed before the court: I also knew that he could transform into a tiger… I never saw him in his tiger-shape but that he sometimes becomes a tiger I know, as one night he devoured raw a whole goat… Whilst he was eating he roared like a tiger and through fear no one went near him.36 There were other peripheral factors. In one case, theft of dhan (paddy) was the reason. In another, while one ascribed the murder of the witch to the strange reason of her being ‘a passionate woman’,37 another raised his objection to the victim having trespassed into the paddy field.38 We know of yet another case where an ‘old infirm’ person was killed because he had become a liability for the cousins, who earned a precarious living through labour. The cousins were also apprehensive that he might burn their house as threatened.39 I will now enter into further discussion about certain factors while seeking to ascertain who could be identified as a witch Identity of the witch A witch could be someone known to the social network, but not someone who was considered to be within the society. This dichotomy made witches unfriendly, and not so integrated into society. In scholarly circles, the practice of witchcraft has been ambivalently described as a ‘weapon of the weak’ and also as a weapon drawn by the powerful to punish an attempt to disrupt social order (Thomas 1984: 621–31). As such, witchcraft served as ‘a means of expressing and discharging tensions between people within a particular social structure’ (Stewart and Strathern 2004: 3). This release of catharsis was the product of ‘underlying conflicts over land and power’ (ibid.: 6) that manifested the socio-economic difference prevailing in the countryside. This has been metaphorically described by the Bemba (Northern Rhodesia) proverb that ‘to find a beehive with honey in the woods is good luck; to find two beehives is very good luck; to find three is witchcraft’ (cited in ibid.: 643). The quote suggests the disruption of the norm of a levelled society, through an unusual gain, a sign of accumulation of wealth.

Governance of a village

119

It will, therefore, be interesting to address the social characteristics used to identify a witch, besides adding more flesh to the nature of intra-/inter-community and village relations, discussed in Chapter 4. In Tswana, ‘sorcery was regarded as the noxious by-product of the agnatic rivalry and political competition’ (Comaroff 1985: 57), often due to the sibling rivalry over the patriarchal estate (ibid.: 48). Similarly, among the Kpelle, witchcraft was familial and intra-village. They believed that only ‘members of the same family will attempt to bewitch each other’ (Gay and Cole 1967: 23–4). More so, people did not ‘fear witchcraft from a person from another village, or another quarter of the same village’ (ibid.). The above facts indicate a broken and stressful country life. This was assigned to ‘the upheavals of community life brought on by labor migration, the movements of people’ (Evans-Pritchard 1976: 3). On the other hand, while Victor Turner ascribed this to ‘underlying conflicts over land and power’ (cited in ibid.: 4), Keith Thomas focuses on manifestation of ‘deep felt animosities’ emerging from ‘unresolved conflicts’ (1984: 669–70). Likewise, the Azande saying underlines ‘hatred, jealousy, envy, backbiting, slander, and so forth go ahead and witchcraft follows’ (Evans-Pritchard 1976: 46–8). Ascribing social stress in Santal society to witchcraft, Guru Kolean observed: Witchcraft is the great trouble with us Santals. Because of witchcraft people in the village become enemies, the door of relatives is shut, father and sons quarrel, brothers are separated, husband and wife are divorced, and in the country people kill each other. (Bodding 1994: 160) Against this backdrop, the afflicted suspected a person as a witch with whom he/she had either a previous quarrel or any type of ill will (Tickell 1840: 802). The evidence during witch trials establishes a co-relation between sorcery and illness/death. However, this evidence refers, though incidentally, to other factors causing intra-/inter-familial/killi tension in Adivasi villages. The people who figure in the above trials as the culprit, accuser or witness belonged to an agrarian society. They were either cultivators or labourers/servants, therefore providing evidence of a stratified and tense society. These papers sometimes also point to the function of a patron/client linkage. Therefore, the servants, identified also as the raiyats of village and pir heads, got themselves involved in crime at the patron’s behest.40 However, we come across a deeper social hiatus at the agnatic and cognatic levels. In one case, a relative of the accused had married the daughter of the victim.41 In the second case, involving the murder of a person and his family by four persons, the former was the uncle of the wife of the first accused.42 The relationship was closer in another case where the brother murdered his sister.43 A brother aiding the murder of his brother comes out from another case.44 The above cases corroborate the fact that not only were close relatives involved, but in general the killers were co-villagers too. Yet in some other cases, we notice the involvement of people from the neighbouring village also.45

120

Governance of a village

Witchcraft also manifested social differences related to gender and age. In common parlance, women are mostly identified to be witches (Sinha, 2006: 127–49; 2015: 105–7). The Baigas and Warlis predominantly castigated women as witches (Remedios 1998: 19; Elwin 2002: 236). This was largely true about the Dangis also, who called them Dakans (Skaria 1999: 258–60). Tswana society, for instance, showed a ‘marked asymmetry in the social relationship between male and female’ (Comaroff 1985: 48). This had diverse manifestations. An old and ugly barren woman or women who did not toil to earn familial bread could be castigated as a witch (Majumdar 1937: 157, 51). Furthermore, as in other societies, ethnic groups attributed considerable value to fecundity and productivity, in terms of child-bearing and food production. The barrenness of a woman was attributed to her cohabitation with the evil spirit (ibid.: 108). On the other hand, in Africa, this was often associated with old age. This was why ‘Azande often express(ed) apprehension of old persons’ (Evans-Pritchard 1976: 7–8). However, our historical experience is different. Colonial ethnography identified a danhri to be either a male or female, old or young in age (Dalton 1973: 200). On the other hand, the Trial Papers inform that the suspected could be males or females, both aged and young.46 Likewise, the social norm was that human conduct, including means of livelihood, should be transparent and socially acceptable. As these defined the fundamental ethnic notion of social conformity and affinity, every ethnic community developed strict processes of socialisation. In Kpelle, this was ‘shaped by their elders and village chiefs’ and through an education system (Gay and Cole 1967: 15). So, departure from the social norm was critiqued as harmful for social cohesion and discipline. In Tallensi and Merina of Madagascar, the failure to abide by the kinship obligation could attach the witch tag to a person (Bloch 2004: 78). We can therefore say that, as in Kpelle society, witchcraft was in ethnic societies used as a ‘weapon to curb insolence’ by the strong and powerful (Gay and Cole 1967: 23–4). THE PROCESS OF IDENTIFICATION AND THE ROLE OF THE SOKHA

Widely prevalent belief in witchcraft among the ethnic communities in India and beyond prompted them to develop a strategy to combat it. First was the application of counter-magic through a person who had the expertise to do so. He was variously known as soka or sokha (Ho), mahan or janguru (Santal), or ojha, Bhagat (Oraon). Evans-Pritchard observes: A CLEVER witch-doctor is an important person in Zande society. He can locate and combat witchcraft which to the Zande is an ever-present menace. He can cure the sick and warn all over whom hang impending dangers. He is one of the means by which hoe-culture and hunting may yield their fruits to human labour, since through his magic they are freed from witchcraft which blasts all endeavour. Magic gives him power to see into the hearts of men and to reveal their evil intentions (1976: 111)

Governance of a village

121

In Ho land, the diviners, who could supposedly alleviate physical suffering, were often the local Hindus; people travelled long distances and even risked ‘parting with all their possessions’ to procure their services (Tickell 1840: 802). About three decades later, the wild tribe of Kharias of Singhbhum came to be considered the most expert sorcerers, though villagers avoided them due to their avarice (Dalton 1973: 200). In indigenous perception there was no difference between witchcraft and sorcery, as early colonial ethnography (Tickell 1840: 802) and the papers below on witch trials reveal. However, social anthropologists underlined their distinctiveness. According to them, while witchcraft is an ‘innate quality’, an ‘involuntary personal trait’, malevolence being perpetrated by occult means, without taking the help of ‘words, rite, spell or potion’, sorcery is the ‘deliberate employment of maleficent magic, involving the use of a spell or technical aid, which can be applied by any person having the knowledge of “correct formula”’ (Thomas 1984: 551). The process of identifying a witch was an elaborate social practice. Initially, the victim attributed his/her misfortune to a wizard, accused to have visited the person in a dream, stood on him and sacrificed him to the gods to bring about his end. But when such an accusation was found inadequate, a diviner came into the scene (Troisi 1978: 209–16). After performing usual ceremonies, he subjected the suspect to several such tests as dipping his/her hand into boiling ghee or water, standing upon a red hot shovel, tying up the accused in a sack and throwing him/her into water with the option of floating on the top if innocent (Tickell 1840: 802–3). Yet others were the test by the stone and poila (a large half coconut-shaped wooden cup used as a measure for grain), seeking the help of spirits familiar to the sokhas for the identification of the witch and finally appeasing or driving away the possessing devil through sacrifice of animals (Dalton 1973: 199–200). CORRECTIVE MEASURES

Indigenous societies adopted a variety of methods to deal with the perpetrators of evil. When sickness was attributed to the evil influence of a bonga, he was propitiated first by the sacrifice of fowl and goats; in case evil was not mitigated, bullocks and buffaloes were offered (ibid.: 199–200). However, the more rampant mode followed the ancient notion of justice, an eye for an eye or a tooth for a tooth. The Adivasis developed a sense of the natural right of the victim to punish the perpetrator in order to avenge the wrong done to him/her. Wilkinson noted that the socially approved act of retribution of theft and plunder of property was the automatic right of the victim to raid the accused’s house with his brethren and friends, and ‘divert off… thrice cattle without regard to whom they belonged’.47 The same logic operated in the case of witch killings. The logic was that, since a witch was the cause of death and destruction, the only relief from maleficence was his/her destruction. The systematic liquidation of the suspected witch or wizard with his entire family was

122

Governance of a village

therefore the dominant practice48 (Tickell 1840: 802–3, 807; Dalton 1973: 199). During 1857–58, in a case related to the murder of the whole family, the mastermind behind the crime confessed: ‘We killed children because we considered that they must have been taught by their father and would all turn out wizards or witches’.49 Although hostility to witchcraft continued, the nature of punishment became softer. Instead of summarily killing the accused and the family, Adivasi societies resorted to beating and chastisement and eviction of the suspected from the village (Dalton 1973: 199–200). The strong presence of authority, which termed witch murder as a crime, no doubt brought about the change in social attitude, though the practice of the socially sanctioned mechanism of supernatural trials through divination and ordeal persisted (O’Malley 1910: 86–7; Majumdar 1937: 159). A clear hiatus in official and social responses to witchcraft was, however, evident. While in official perception the witch killer was an accused before law, the witch was the accused before society. This registered a clear difference in social and legal attitudes to crime, discussed below. Conspiracy and the crime: the site of social trial Witch murders in Adivasi villages were more or less social occurrences. Instead of being products of momentary impulse, these were often committed in cold blood with meticulous planning. Second, these were not perpetrated by the person and the families directly affected alone, but were done with more or less the covert and overt support of villagers. There seems to be a clear pattern. As stated before, the main instigator, the victim of the supposed occult practice, identified the witch. In some cases, where there was doubt, the sokha’s help was sought. The chief conspirator involved other members of his family or his agnates and cognates to help him. However, the Trial Papers merely inform about the community (mentioned as caste Cole) identity of both the victim and the murderer, not revealing their killi identity. The source is, however, more informed about the persons involved, how the killing was socially supported, often with the help of the head of the village and pir, how prior to the crime the perpetrators were engaged in singing, drinking and feasting either among themselves or at times also with the victims, how the latter were lured to the spot of the crime, what weapons were used in the murder and how invariably a mortuary ritual followed the crime.50 These details no doubt reveal that the witch killing was a social act in terms of participation. The reason for this was that people deemed it to be a religious and ethical act that derived legitimacy from the social ideal of the preservation of the ethnic order. This will be taken up in the next part that studies the broad ideological and structural framework of secular governance. How and in what form did this notion of the sacred influence Adivasi individual and collective behaviour during the period under review and later? First, elements of nature being attributed sacredness was and still is the dominant attitude. Instances are a deep spiritual attachment with Mother Earth that the

Governance of a village

123

indigenous peoples developed all over the world; the territory the Hos, Mundas and Oraons occupied being considered Nirul desum or holy and sacred Land; Oraons and Mundas venerating the village as the ‘sacred and inviolable’ ‘abode of the spirits’ and Adivasis in India attributing sacredness to natural objects and worshipping them as part of their deep-rooted tradition. Coupled with these, the tie that Adivasis felt for the ancestral homeland and village ascribed not only material but moral meaning to the landscape.51 Elwin observes that Adivasis in India had ‘no fixed deposit of doctrine, no sacred book to carry traditions from one generation to another’ (1968: ix). It was therefore the case that they turned this symbolic landscape into a text, a text converted into the weapon of the subaltern in defence of their right. These weapons were the sacred Gandhamardan hills in Odisha against Bauxite mining and industrialisation (Guzy 2014: 149–55); the sasandiris and sarnas of the Mundas to stop Koel-Karo projects (Chandra 2013: 54–5) and the desauli of the agitators of Singhbhum against the Kharkai project (Sen 2018: 200).

Part III Secular governance of Adivasi villages ‘Secular’ or its synonym ‘profane’ in the present context embodies the process of setting up the institutional framework of governing the human and natural resources of a particular area. The third part of this chapter therefore seeks to travel through the pre-feudal/colonial and colonial eras to understand how the ideologies and institutions of secular governance emerged. This will be studied under three broad sections: the first engages with the emergence of the ideology and structure; the second section deals with the process of the governance of natural resources; and the third unfolds how justice was delivered. Besides studying ideology and the institution of governance, the chapter attempts to engage with other vital aspects of rural life. First, this embodies how the Adivasi village republican polity functioned; second, how colonial rule presaged the conversion of this nebulous socio-cultural institution into a formal and hierarchised state system; third, how this change aided the transformation of the Adivasis from having agency to subjecthood and subalternity; and last, how the historic experiences of differential governance impinged upon them a sense of dilemma between indigenous and colonial codes. Ideology and framework The available information on the original system of indigenous governance of Jharkhand in colonial ethnography and empirical studies is fragmentary. Nevertheless, available sources indicate the existence of a structure comprising somewhat distinct ‘nesting levels’, as found in Tswana of Africa. These are the ‘domestic units, local agnatic segments, wards, and the chiefdom’, each representing ‘a domain of authority, a species of social group, and a set of habitual

124

Governance of a village

practices’ that functioned as inter-mingling political, economic and social units (Comaroff and Comaroff 1991: 130). However, the indigenous system in Jharkhand differed primarily in the composition of the units, nature of authority and role of the chiefdom. The nesting levels were family, killi, hatu (village) and pir, followed by the feudal chiefs, the last wielding area-specific authority. The emergence of this level in Jharkhand geo-polity marked the differential incorporation of indigenous republican polity into the feudal state system. In the Chotanagpur plateau region, this was represented by the Nagvansi chiefs, in West Singhbhum by the chiefdom of Porahat and its offshoots and also that of Mayurbhanj, while in Santal-dominated areas of Jharkhand it was represented by the killi confederacy of centralised polity under Kisku chiefs.52 This was followed by the final subjugation of indigenous space and people under the British state system. The governance of the landscape rested, as related before, on the Adivasi notion of space or territory. Space for them was basically moral, which later assumed a material dimension. The original master of the land they occupied was the spirit or bonga. Although after the foundation of the village, this passed to human hands, the ultimate ownership of the spirit ideally survived. Therefore, to avert the ire of the spirit and to ensure divine blessing, during Mage parab, villagers annually offered prayer and propitiation. These sacred and profane duties were assigned to functionaries who were regulated by fixed social norms. As in Africa, ‘rank and access to positions within the administrative hierarchy’ was determined by agnation (Comaroff and Comaroff 1991: 131). There was however a difference in that the notion of cognation and transcommunity networking progressively came to determine ‘control over people and property’ and also ‘the exercise of power’ (ibid.) among the Adivasis of Jharkhand. The basic unit was the village. The head of a village was addressed by different names: Munda by the Munda and Ho; Manjhi by the Santal; and Mahato by the Oraon in Jharkhand. The origin of the post was closely connected with the transformation of the Adivasis into a settled rural community, as related before. The basis of his selection and the salience of his office lay primarily in his role in leading and achieving the community cause of the foundation of a permanent village settlement. Ideally, when the first reclaimer or Ham was the single person associated with village foundation, he was the natural choice for the post of Munda (Roy 1970: 63–4; Bodding 1994: 101). To recapitulate, this was however conditioned by him performing functions associated with village making, as detailed in Chapter 3. Any lack disqualified him for selection. In Kandegutu, Kolai was remembered as the founder. But during his lifetime, ‘the village had not been well-reclaimed… so he could not become its Munda’. Instead, his son Naranga was chosen, understandably because of the fact that he consummated the process.53 Likewise, Kolai Ho had reclaimed and rehabilitated Kolaisai. But he did not become Munda because he had actually reclaimed the part of Jintugara, which was known as Kolaisai. So in 1867, when Kolaisai was converted into an

Governance of a village

125

independent village, his son was chosen as its first Munda. On the other hand, when brothers shared the responsibility of village foundation, seniority determined selection. Bikram, Saluka and Doya Hams were socially recognised as the reclaimers of Sini. As Bikram was the eldest, he became both the Munda and deori.55 This gave birth to the indigenous custom of assigning the mundane and sacerdotal duties to the same person. The early man therefore served as the village priest called deori, pahan (Munda, Oraon) and naeke (Santal), and he offered prayer to the spirit of the space (Roy 1970: 63–4; Roy 1984: 28).56 This becomes evident from an official remark: ‘Usually it has been seen that the first settler becomes Munda and Deori of the village’.57 With this, the devolution of the posts of Munda/deori to the descendants of the pioneer/pioneers became the social tradition. Gradually, however, the offices were split as narrated below, signifying the separation of the sacred and profane worlds. When village foundation was done by more than one person, their debt was duly recognised. Pundu Ham founded Bunumda with the help of Rui and Kulu, his brothers. So while the former assumed the post of Munda, Rui became the deori. Obviously, posts were shared to strengthen familial bonds. But this presaged the origin of the tradition of the separate lineage of Munda and deori.58 The offices were also split to reinforce inter-killi homogeneity. In Bara Guntia, originally Kondaiburu killi held both the posts of Munda and deori. But later the former post passed to the Purtis.59 During British rule, one reason for the separation of offices had been to ensure efficient governance. In one village, the posts of Munda and deori devolved to the Kudadas. But as they ‘could not manage Mundaship… they surrendered it to the Hemroms’.60 This became the major reason for interfamilial/killi shifts in respect of the Munda. In Serengbil, when the son of the first Munda of Buriuli killi willingly surrendered the post, it passed to a person of Karwa killi.61 It is not reported why he had to do so. But from another source, we learn that as the incumbent could not efficiently govern the village due to infirmity, this is why he did so.62 British officials therefore set precise qualifications for appointing a village head to circumvent the inefficient functioning and enforce discipline. In fact, the pressure of official norms was such that surrender of office was deliberate, as practised by the Munda of Sundi killi of Birsinghhatu.63 On another occasion, the Ho Munda resigned his post due to his inability to learn Hindi.64 However, on other occasions, change in the post occurred due to the dereliction of duty. In one village, when the Munda failed to remit revenue of the village to the government, he was dismissed and a member of another killi was appointed.65 In another case, as a result of ‘suppressing a case of murder’, the Hessa killi Munda was replaced by a Gour.66 During the uprising of 1857–58, several changes occurred due to anti-British activism and desertion of villages. In some villages, the Ho community lost Mundaship for the first reason, while in others the victims were the Bhuiyans. During 1857–58, they ran away from Kotegarh along with the Bhuiyan Munda. The local administration assigned the post to a Ho. Why the change was made leads us to a very interesting story. Villagers related: 54

126

Governance of a village Bonj Ho was the first Ho Munda. He got the Mundaship only because lots of his bullocks (200 according to another member of the Munda’s family) were taken away by the British regiment. Bonj was then at Katikera. He came to the officer-in-charge and requested him to give him back his bullocks. His prayer was rejected (according to one account the British soldiers ate up the bullocks) but he was given the Mundagiri (Mundaship) instead.67

The reverse trend was also in operation. For anti-British activism, the Ho Munda was replaced by a Gour.68 The post of the Munda was hereditary in nature. This devolved to the son and remained confined to the founding family/killi, unless the family became heirless. In that eventuality, it descended to the nearest male kin of the same family. This was a kind of natural selection, conditioned, however, by the physical and mental fitness of the incumbent. This was unlike the case of the Santals, among whom, as related before, the custom of renewal of the Manjhi was annually enacted. The ideology of village governance was communitarian rather than authoritarian. The Munda could not arrogate authority by virtue of his wealth and power. His landed property, though often greater than others, was in no case considerably disproportionate to that owned by his kinsmen. He could not accumulate wealth by appropriating revenue like a zamindar, nor like a feudal lord did he head or own an armed force to enforce his command and authority (Sen 2020: 28–30). He was the social leader to whom villagers felt attachment, rather than fear.69 Representing the social will of the village community, he replicated the position of ‘first among the equals’. In governing the village, the Munda was assisted by a panchayat, comprising village elders and respectable members of the same village. This caused the base of power and authority to expand beyond agnate and community. The colonialday ethnography and mechanism of village governance inform that resolution of disputes for the maintenance of peace and harmony in the village and governance of village common property were its two major functions, to be elaborated on below. This social tribunal held its meetings at a central place in the village. This ‘public enclosure’, not necessarily ‘the court of its headman’, was ‘the venue of all collective activities’ as found in Africa (Comaroff and Comaroff 1991: 130-1). The Santals called it the manjhi than (headman’s shrine) or it was the akhara, i.e. village meeting place, and dancing ground, in the Chotanagpur plateau (Roy 1935: 242; Man 1983: 88; O’Malley 1999: 111). It does not appear that there was a supra-village body for appeal among the Hos, like the Council of Five Manjhis under the parganait (head of pargana) found among the Santals (O’Malley 1999: 112; Archer 1984: 15–24). The pir, parha or pargana, comprising a varying number of villages, formed the higher layer of village governance (Roy 1970: 238–48).70 The head of a pir was called the Manki. We have no definite idea about the origin, nature and function of the institutions of pir and Manki. The Munda history informs that parha was basically ‘a wider brotherhood’, comprising ‘allied and associated villages’ (Roy 1970: 235–6) so formed to ‘afford greater protection to the

Governance of a village

127

communities against the aggression of other village units that surrounded them’ (Hallett 1917: 23). On the other hand, either ‘the Munda of the parent village or the strongest and most influential of the headmen’ of the villages was chosen as the Manki by the Mundas, whom the Oraons addressed as the Raja (Hallett 1917: 23–4). However, in the case of the Hos, the post, as we learn from the colonial ethnography, was of exogenous origin. The local chiefs of Porahat, Mayurbhanj, Seraikela and Kharsawan, after they gained control over parts of Singhbhum, created the institutions of pir and Manki for the collection of land revenue and maintenance of law and order within their territories (Tuckey 1920: para 32). When Kolhan was incorporated into the British Empire, a person was chosen as Manki from among the Mundas and resident raiyats, ‘chiefly owing to the influence’ and ‘with the general consent’ of the inhabitants of the villages falling within his area.71 Village revenue, collected by the Munda, was remitted to the chief’s treasury through the Manki. We do not have any idea whether the Manki and pir performed any judicial function under the feudal chiefs. But, among the Munda, Oraon and Santal, there was the pir council, which acted either as a primary or appellate court (Hallett 1917: 66–8). Having elaborated on the composition and function of pre-colonial Adivasi republican polity, the study seeks to explore the entry of an exogenous colonial state system into rural lives. This also narrates the process whereby they surrendered their political agency and entered a phase of servitude and what this transformation entailed for villagers in general. During British rule, the village and pir were brought under the statutory control and superintendence of the district, divisional, provincial and central administration. This diluted the autonomy of the Adivasi system of governance, besides removing the politicoadministrative seclusion of villages. In the colonial administrative framework, the Munda was the lowest official; the Manki was his superior; and the Deputy Commissioner was at the apex of the district administration. Thus, original social functionaries were converted into government officials. While reinventing the mechanism of governance, indigenous and British norms were conflated. Village governance was thus filtered and hybridised. On the one hand, the traditional familial, hereditary and male-centric norms of appointment to these posts were retained.72 On the other, as part of colonial bureaucracy, they were vested with clearly defined powers and jurisdictions; specific rules of their appointment, service and dismissal were framed and payment of commission as a reward for their services was added to the system. Other innovations were the legalisation of the seniority and adulthood and literacy criteria for appointment.73 The collection of land revenue was the principal duty of village officials. The formal process was that the Munda would collect rent from villagers in two unequal instalments. The duty of the Manki was to oversee and ensure due and timely collection of land rents of villagers and their remittance at the district treasury by the Mundas. A significant fact was that, for default in payment they were subjected to forfeiture of commission, fines, attachment and sale of property, and finally dismissal. Furthermore, to maintain account

128

Governance of a village

and grant receipts for rents to payers, on the formal approval of the Deputy Commissioner, the Munda could appoint a tahsildar (accountant and revenue collector). But it was incumbent on the village head to ensure that he followed the rules strictly. The Manki and Munda were respectively allowed the payment of 10% and 16% of the total amount collected by them as commission for undertaking the above responsibilities. The above measures made fundamental changes to the process of resource mobilisation within a village. First, the right of the village community to mop up resources was withdrawn; instead of indefinite and irregular payment of subscriptions, fixed and timely payment of rent was introduced and default in payment was made a punitive offence for the villagers and collectors. Besides revenue function, village and pir heads were made primary agencies for the maintenance of law and order, administration of justice and governance of the village resources (Sen 2018: 118–23). I will begin by discussing the latter. Governing village resources: land, water and forest Before providing details on the changing dimension of the governance of village resources, it would be pertinent to address two basic questions: first, what was the indigenous meaning of resources? And second, what was the original indigenous ideology of their governance? For the Adivasis, resources basically denoted natural resources like land, water and forest created by Singbonga and Haram. To recapitulate, this divine origin invested the idea of sacredness among indigenes all over the world, a link to be ritually celebrated by them (Bailey 1960: 22; Gluckman 1960: 17; Bamba 2010: 32). Among the Adivasis of Jharkhand, sacredness attached to the lived village derived from this belief system. Accordingly, the demarcated forest area from which the village grew was the abode of the bonga who originally owned and presided over it. Though his ownership continued to persist, a transfer seemed to occur when this sacred natural space was converted into a cultural place. This began with the demarcation of the physical boundary by the pioneer and followed with other features of village making, as related in Chapter 3. Second, being God’s free gift to humankind, the right over the earthly resources naturally devolved to human beings as the descendants of Singbonga and Haram. Originally, humankind was one, from which they were divided into distinct groups. Subsequently, they divided the earth among themselves and learnt to live separately as per a divine scheme (Sen 2018: 61–75). This gave rise to the concept of landscape as a cultural space controlled and owned by different human groups. But the right over territory could be affirmed, as the Kolarian people believed, through the process of occupation, demarcation and clearance of the primeval woodland. The Mundas believed that ‘whoever cleared the land became the owner of the same’ (Roy 1970: 108). From the notion of community resources gradually developed the idea of property as belonging to a village, family and individual. The basic purpose behind the management of resources, as with the dispensation of justice, was to perpetuate the social ideal of homogenisation and

Governance of a village

129

harmony of the agnates and cognates. This was necessitated by an urge to found a moral society, which the imagery of the myth had diffused among the ethnic societies. The other imperative was to ensure the safety and security of killi groups and their properties to obviate inter-killi and community cleavages, referred to earlier. However, this was progressively saturated first by the imperative of addressing intra–inter family/killi/community rifts; and second by the systematic dissipation of the traditional ideology of ethnic governance under feudal and colonial rule. These in a way hybridised the very meaning of resources and their governance. I will begin with land, the principal natural resource of a village. Land Land in the present context stands for the two components of earth mass: the territory that comprised the ethnic homeland and the village.74 More relevant for this section is the complementary concept of village land, as individual and common property.75 This was the natural sequel of the fragmentation of the original joint family into smaller units, necessitating smaller family parcels. We can identify this change in ethnic society as a pre-colonial event (Roy 1970: 62–3). This in a way replicated the Indian village structure; the joint family formed the ‘basic primary unit’, while families belonged to a particular community with whom they ‘share(s) a settlement site’ (Dube 1955: 34). Furthermore, besides individual and familial land, an Adivasi village owned unutilised cultivable and fallow land within the demarcated boundary. These properties were ‘administered by the headman and are held by the village as a whole’ (Archer 1984: 25–7; Roy 1984: 71). Significantly, land as community settlement and familial property stemmed from the notion of the sacredness of land prevailing in the countryside. In Central and South Africa, this caused the ‘recognition of a moral order over a range of land’ (Gluckman 1960: 11, 17). In Gujarat, village land did not simply denote ‘land for the habitation of human beings’, but also ‘a place made sacred by the habitation of gods and goddesses’ (Shah 2002: 56). This was true for the Baigas, as the following quote reveals: ‘All the kingdoms of the world… may fall to pieces, but he who is made of earth and is Bhumiraja, lord of the earth, shall never forsake it. You will make your living from the earth’ (Elwin 2002: 106). Adivasis believed that originally the entire village belonged to the founding family.76 But subsequently, this had to yield to the imperative of socialisation of village property. Regarding Santal society, Archer informed: The village land in fact is partitioned among individual Santals only as functioning members of the community and it is the community which is the final owner’. So when a villager finally left the village, the land was restored to the ‘village-stock’. (1984: 25–6)

130

Governance of a village

Significantly, the devolution of right was not democratic, but one that depended on ‘the place in the table of descent from the founder or acquirer’ (BadenPowell 1972: 29). The concept of land as individual property emerged after the demarcation of the village boundary. The questions are: How did this accrue? Who was the bestower of this right? And who were the beneficiaries? We have seen that in village foundation two levels of leadership were involved, individual and group, in most cases involving brothers or agnates. In the former case, the pioneer initially allotted land among his haga and killi, and also others who accompanied him. He was therefore recognised as the village founder. This fact is corroborated in a khuntkatti dispute case. The objectors admitted that Lopar Ho, the original founder, ‘was the manager of affairs’, implying he was the real leader of the event. As such, he ‘distributed jungle among his own people & among members of other killi’.77 This leads us to two conclusions. First, the person/persons who demarcated the village site was/were its original owner(s). Second, as such, customarily the right of distribution of the village devolved to the pioneer/pioneers. This is corroborated in the judgement of Kelly in a court case. He admitted that the fact that ‘the office of Munda and deori is held by Kudada killi without interruption’ also proved that ‘these people had some superior right’.78 This entitled the founder not only to the right of land allotment, but also other privileges detailed below. In the next stage, a village belonging to the founding killi, socially known as marang killi, developed within the notion of the superiority of the founding lineage. This is proved by the original custom of seeking their approval for living in the village and owning land, as corroborated by the objectors in another case. They were unanimous that Jamuda killi was the marang killi of Argundi who had invited them to live in the village. More importantly, they argued that ‘up to this day they got permission from them to make new lands’. This meant that the founding killi enjoyed the privilege of inviting others to live in the village and allotting land to them.79 Customarily, the founding killi also enjoyed the privilege in the matter of land selection. At the time of clearance of the forest area, the pioneer/pioneers could obviously choose the best part of the terrain and also the quantity of land he/they thought would be necessary for him and his nearest kin. The same facility was extended to the other families of his killi, understandably to cement intra-killi solidarity. But this social custom was conditioned by contemporaneity and efficiency. We may draw support from the fact that five different branches of a killi were recorded with approximately equal qualities of land during the Hayes Settlement. The reason for this was that ‘their ancestors came together & were equally enterprising’.80 This norm, however, did not prevail in respect of other killis. We therefore notice that the khuntkatti families largely owned proportionately better and more land than kayemi raiyats, both tribe and diku. Renso Ho of Singh Laguri killi was the original founder of Lisimoti. His family was reported to possess ‘the greater and better portion of the cultivated lands of the village’.81 The following table will further substantiate my point.82

Governance of a village

131

Table 6.1 Total raiyat 111

Total land: 2381–13–19

Bera (first class of rice land) 778–4–0

Marang Killi (Singh Laguri) 41 Huring killi

Rice (Bera and Bad) land 619–1–4 Rice land (Bera and Bad) 80–17–3

Total land 1799–1–15

Bad (second class of rice land) 1464–9–19

Gora (cultivated upland) 138–19–17

Total land 210–9–7

What we find is that a little more than 36% of villagers belonging to the senior killi owned about 80% of the rice land. The disproportionate land share between khuntkatti and others rises further if the junior killi is taken into account. This shows that a pyramidal land structure emerged after the foundation of Adivasi villages. Before stating its impact on the general tenor of village life, I would like to cite the land-owning pattern of a village as a representative case. In Bara Chiru, between 1914 and 1918, total land was 1178 bigha–9 katha–17 dhur belonging to 141 raiyats. Land distribution was: below 1 bigha – 16; below 10 bighas – 91; between 10 and 20 bighas – 26, between 20 and 30 bighas – 5, between 30 and 40 bighas –1, and above 40 bighas –2.83 The disproportionate nature of land share must have been a factor in sapping the ideal notion of ethnic egalitarianism and homogeneity, leading to the creation of mistrust and enmity at familial and killi levels, as detailed earlier. The original ownership of a village by the founding family/killi functionally dissipated after village land was allocated by it to others. There were two types of allotment. In several villages, we notice the apportioning of part of the village territory to the associate of the original reclaimer belonging to another killi. This formed the tola or sai of that village. As the reclaimer of that part, he enjoyed the status of its pioneer with the privilege of disbursement of land within it. His role was often socially acknowledged by naming the sai after him, as Lokesai evidenced.84 The second type was the allotment of the demarcated village area to an individual/family of the same killi, later also to other killis, who had accompanied the pioneer. Once this was done, the original owner could in no way claim the land back. This developed the notion of familial right over land to be owned through inheritance by the descendants of the original recipient. Second, ownership gave the families the right to alienate through thika to avert distress. Alienation also occurred when an individual/family deserted the village. However, since family/individual right over land was not customarily extinguishable, the person/family could always resume the right on return. The emergence of the notion of individual/familial ownership seems to contravene the ruling notion of the village community as the ultimate owner of

132

Governance of a village

village resources. But I would like to show how this ideal co-existed with the familial right to property. First, though the right to real property was familial and hereditary, villagers did not enjoy the right to alienate it permanently. Second, though the notion of original reclaimer as the owner of the village practically ceased at the functional level, the idea of him being the original and ultimate owner survived as village tradition. This legacy was rooted in the custom of the offices of Munda and deori devolving to the founding family. Last, the ultimate right of ownership of the founding family was reproduced by the colonial-day practice of restoring an abandoned plot to the Munda. The interplay of these checks and balances created the notion of the village community as the governor of land, water and forest falling within the village boundary. In sum, while the notion of killi/familial right over the reclaimed part came into play, the remaining unreclaimed part – uplands, springs, rivers and forests – was considered as village common property to be frugally used as per individual/family need, subject however to the superintendence of the village community headed by the Munda. There was another aspect where their religious beliefs came into play. Adivasis believed that the natural world was ultimately the preserve of the spirits, waterbodies of the nage era, while the forests were that of the spirits ruling over these. So any profligacy in their use would cause the ire of the spirits. How these notions shaped indigenous ideology of the governance of common property in respect of water and forests will be detailed below. But before that I will seek to show how the ideology and governance of resources changed under the feudal and colonial state systems. The feudal and colonial control over the Adivasi homeland established through military conquest brought about three crucial changes in respect of land. First, land came to be treated as the property of the government. As related before, the feudal lords inaugurated a hierarchical administrative machinery where the institutions of pir and Manki were placed over the village and its head in matters of revenue collection and maintenance of law and order. These were rather strange for Adivasi villages. Together with this, villagers were forced to adjust to such new offices as chaukidars (watchman), tahsildars and other personnel connected with the police and court. The British brought about more fundamental changes. They arrogated legal authority to assert ownership and regulate the pattern of the use of land directly or through agencies determined by it. Crucial for the governance of land under these systems was the very meaning ascribed to it. To recall, for the Adivasis, land not only located their hearth and home, it was hallowed by the memory of their forefathers. Therefore, their link was as much material as it was emotional. For the new rulers, land was virtually a commodity, a source of revenue, purported to primarily serve the interest of the rulers who owned it. Commodification determined the formulation of governing rules. First, the territorialisation of land entailed the mapping of the physical boundary, contours and resources of a village. This invested the idea of village as a well-defined administrative unit that disrupted the original notion of a village as a basically socio-

Governance of a village

133

cultural formation. Second was the preparation of the cadastral account of the land falling under different units, the most basic being the village. Last, under the raiyatwari settlement system, lands were settled by the local administration with the villagers, in which individual/familial right to property was legalised by the allotment of pattas (record of rights). This entailed classification of lands under bera, bad and gora in Singhbhum, and as don I, II and III in the Chotanagpur plateau region and fixation of the respective rents, as elaborated on below. Unlike the Zamindari settlement of 1793, survey and fixation of rent were done periodically. The entitlement was hereditary, subject however to regular payment of rent; right and title were recorded along with the amount of rent payable to the district treasury and the nature of entitlement being usufruct denied the beneficiary the right to alienate at will. In sum, this exogenous ideology substituted the indigenous custom of Munda, representing the village community, as the dispenser of titles, by the feudal lord and later the colonial rulers. Also, instead of social endorsement, written record became the charter of right, reminiscent of ‘the use of charters as titles to property’ in medieval England. The other impact was no less profound. The maintenance of records and distribution of the same to villagers ‘prepared and fertilized the ground in which literacy could germinate among the ethnic communities’, replicating the change as it had happened in England (Clanchy 2013: 2). Simultaneously, governance of resources witnessed more profound and extensive changes under the British. Villagers in Kolhan experienced periodic land survey and settlement immediately after its conquest in the year 1838, followed by those done in 1854, 1867, 1895–97 and finally 1914–18. An interesting feature was their acclimatisation to different tools of measurement. In the first two settlements, hal (plough) was the measure, the measure being defined in terms of a certain amount of grain sown for cultivation, while in terms of payment of rent, this was equivalent to eight annas. Equally significant was the qualitative classification in terms of arability stated above. Introduction to the ideas of quantification and qualification of land was understandably innovative. This added greater value to land as a means of production and individual wealth, a change that deviated from the earlier meaning of land attributed by villagers. Equally novel was the administrative policy of enforcing regular payment of rent and punitive measures like the distraint of property in the event of non-payment. This made cultivation a regular and serious vocation that accelerated the transformation of a pre-peasant community into a regular peasant group (Sen 2018: 136–56). With the value of land accentuating, a more vigorous search for new pastures became a distinctive trend in the countryside of Jharkhand. This, on the one hand, steadily extended the agrarian borders through the denudation of the forests of the region. On the other, the enforcement of the generic Forest Acts of 1865 and 1878, and local forest rules, elaborated on below, restricted the earlier free use of the forests for colonisation. This made ruralisation an intensive process (ibid.: 96–112). Despite the incidence of out-migration, discussed above, and marginal urbanisation, related in Chapter 1, in Jharkhand, why a village continued to remain the hub of Adivasi culture is described below.

134

Governance of a village

A village was the location of the Adivasi hearth and home where inhabitants pursued agriculture as the principal means of livelihood. Naturally, therefore, this emerged as the pivot of their community life, attributing a sense of collective identity to ruralism. From this developed the notion of territorial identity around Jharkhand where their rural culture took shape. Though historically the Adivasi communities were the immigrants in Jharkhand, they reiterated that the very event of their founding villages after denuding the primeval forests invested them with the identity of khuntkattidar: the children of the soil, or the natives of Jharkhand. This is why during the official supervision of the survey of ancestral low-rent lands in Ranchi conducted during 1869–80 under Rakhal Das Haldar, a Munda affirmed: We claim bhuinhari rights because (Chota) Nagpur is our fatherland (italics added). We consider Nagpur as our Gaya, Ganga, Kasi and Prayag (sacred places in Hindu traditions). The bones of our ancestors lie buried in the bowels of Nagpur. We are no colonists from other countries, but derive our race from Nagpur. (MacDougall 1985: 60–2) Therefore, the Mundas and Oraons of Ranchi district identified themselves as ‘the pioneers or descendants of the pioneers’ and as a ‘descendant of the original founders of the village (a bhuinhar or khuntkattidar)’ (Reid 1912: para 20). However, the consciousness of nativity was virtually a global trend as visualised among the Andean indigenes from Latin America. To quote: ‘we are all descendants of our ancient tributaries from whom we have our titles that secure our lands’ (Rappaport 1994: 31). Thus, indigenes all over the world underlined that their right over a territory or the land they owned was earned as a matter of right through a long and uninterrupted link with their place of residence. However, as the well-known history of Jharkhand, and India more broadly, reveals, this claim to nativity and a charter of rights was widely contested during feudal, colonial and post-colonial times. The former diluted the status of the khuntkatti villages and the Adivasis living there for centuries. These villages lost the autonomy of function, as the village and pir heads were integrated into feudal and colonial bureaucracy; village resources came to be managed extraneously and enjoyed by the above; villagers were subjected to regular payment of rent. This disrupted country life in Adivasi-dominated parts of Bihar; a series of indigenous anti-colonial popular uprisings between 1831 and 1900 were the consequences. After Indian independence, Adivasi-dominated parts of the country were virtually converted into a zone of struggle against land alienation and displacement. But I will return to a more intimate understanding of the unassailable linkage with the landscape and the crisis that gripped Adivasi villages by engaging with the khuntkatti disputes in Kolhan. This informs how Adivasi assertion of rights registered a strategic shift. While, as related before, this was a contest between sacred and profane symbols, the assertion of khuntkatti rights saw the contest between custom and law. In a way, this

Governance of a village

135

underlined the selective appropriation of legitimacy by Adivasis, replicating the invocation of the sacred and customary (traditional) in Adivasi struggles of Jagatsinghpur and Niyamgiri in Odisha (Krishnan and Naga 2018: 1–17). The issue of khuntkatti and the contest between custom and law During the land revenue settlement in Kolhan under A.D. Tuckey (1913–18), khuntkatti proceedings were initiated under the CNT Act (1908) to ascertain who had reclaimed the village from forest. This followed the social tradition which accorded a special status to the khuntkattidars as against those who came later. However, the issue generated public debate largely because the district administration allowed khuntkattidars the privilege of paying half the rent of those who were not. This led to a series of litigations that convulsed country life unprecedentedly. The official and social debate around the terms khuntkatti, village foundation and original clearer confounded the situation. Officially, khuntkatti meant right earned through the clearance of primeval forest. On the contrary, people did not differentiate between primeval and forests that had reappeared after the departure of the original settlers. Second, according to the ethnic communities, village foundation was more comprehensive than mere clearance of forest, while officially it meant the actual act of clearance only. Last, while officially the original clearer meant the person/persons involved in the act of actual clearance, society accorded equal status to those who helped the original founders in the later reclamation of the allotted forest space. This attributed a wider meaning to the term khuntkatti, as evident from the support accorded to it by the social leaders in a public meeting convened by the district administration.85 In Kolhan, there were a large number of cases of reclamation of villages after they had relapsed into jungles following abandonment by the earlier settlers. These further confounded the confusion when villagers misrepresented resettlement as original settlement. The problem intensified further because of the hiatus between an Adivasi sense of legitimacy and that governing the mainstream societies. According to the former, ownership of the village devolved as a matter of natural right to the people who had first stepped on a tract, demarcated it and put an axe on the tree. When the occupation was socially endorsed, this became the basis of empowerment. It means that Adivasis considered social endorsement to be an evidence of right. On the other hand, the colonial administration treated state approval as the sole basis of authority. During khuntkatti enquiry, villagers were virtually thrown into a strange world as legal evidence tended to replace the social basis of entitlement. At this stage, they often drew on their cultural symbols to defend their claims.86 This shows that people who are often accused of a lack of consciousness and reasoning have their sense of logic engrained in their traditions. This opened the Pandora’s Box, which clearly evidenced social surprise and unpreparedness over the issue of khuntkatti. The following question/answer unfolds this crisis, while that emanating from meaning confusion will be substantiated below.87

136

Governance of a village

Since when they had heard the word (khuntkatti)? Since last year. AO: What is the Ho equivalent of Khuntkatti? VILLAGERS: We cannot say. ATTESTATION OFFICER (AO): VILLAGERS:

This might be due to the innocence of a rustic Ho or, more likely, the term did not have, as referred to earlier, the same sense to a villager to that which the local officials wanted to convey. Another instance will further clarify my point. One Gangi Kui had filed a petition claiming khuntkatti status, even though she knew that she did not belong to the founding Lamay killi. When the official asked her why she had to do so, her reply was ‘the petition was filed without knowing what was meant by it (khuntkatti), she filed the petition because others told her to do so’.88 This indicates that some had knowledge of the implication of khuntkatti and they were manipulative, while others, who were not conscious of this, fell prey to it. However, more problematic was the hiatus in rural and official perceptions, as another question/answer shows: What is the meaning of the word khuntkatti? It means their lands, house and trees etc.89

QUESTION: ANSWER:

From another village the same pattern emerges. Petitioners knew that Deogam killi had reclaimed the village. Even then, they filed an objection as ‘they were made to understand that khuntkatti right extended to lands cleared from jungle’.90 To streamline the process, the local administration issued a questionnaire to obtain information on the social criteria for determining khuntkatti. The questions included whether ‘better social position’, ‘more important God’, ‘earlier comers’ and ‘bigger lands’ should sum up the criteria.91 One may appreciate this and the incorporation of the Manki-Munda system related above as an attempt to form a shared realm of governance. But this disrupted village peace and harmony, as the following details bring out. The reason for this lay basically in the debate over the meaning of khuntkatti and relevant terms mentioned above. First, villagers misconstrued accompaniment as the act of founding a village, oblivious of the distinguishing role of the pioneer family/killi. In one village, although the Purtis were the reputed founders, Honhaga, Haiburu and Tiu killis claimed that they were entitled to khuntkatti right because they had accompanied the Purtis.92 Second, generally the social emphasis was on the ritual aspect. In one such case, the Haiburu objectors argued that ‘the sacrifice was performed by the Haiburus’ during Mage and Ba festivals.93 This made the office of deori the additional criterion for determining the village reclaimer. The objectors claimed that Jura, the original founder of Barijol, was the first deori and this office had been with the family ever since.94 This ritual criterion made another social custom, i.e. the killi reputedly supplying Rasida or sacrificial rice at the Mage and Ba parabs, very vital for the people. According to the norm: ‘It is impossible for the sacrificial rice beer to be prepared in any house other than that of the village Deori whose wife owing to her position is specially required to prepare the rice beer’.95

Governance of a village

137

How far were these social criteria analogous to the ones determined officially? Obviously, at the official level the emphasis was on secular and procedural qualifiers, though a compromise with the social ascription was made, as the following quote of the investigating official shows: Khuntkattidars are those people whose ancestors having found a suitable area fixed its boundaries, cleared the jungle & made their lands & also called other people to the village & gave them permission to bring certain portions of jungle under cultivation.96 Therefore, at some stage the social and official meanings came to converge. However, some formal tests, like Munda-deori, sasandiri and nomenclatural tests, came to be applied to make it more transparent and precise. This implied that to acculturate Adivasis to their ideology of governance, the British manipulated and reinterpreted the concept of khuntkatti itself, in the same way as they did with indigenous customs.97 But the fact cannot be denied that these tests were socially derived. Munda and deori tests enjoined that these offices must be continuously held by the founding family/killi.98 Significantly, out of these two offices, the occupation of the post of deori was deemed more determining, as the official statement corroborated: ‘All the Attestation Officers agreed that when the office of deori was held by a certain killi or branch of that killi without interruption that killi or family is undoubtedly the family of the founder or one of the founders’.99 But there was a snag. A large number of villages in Kolhan had been settled by later Ho immigrants after the desertion of the Saraks or Bhuiyans, the original founders. Even though the posts of Munda and deori had been uninterruptedly retained by the resettler Ho families since then, the local administration did not accord khuntkatti status to them. Dismissing the claim of khuntkatti by the objectors on the ground that these posts ‘were always held by the members of their family’, the official therefore observed ‘in Kolhan the above ground is of little importance in khuntkatti considerations neither do I think this point throws much light in this particular case’.100 Sasans or burial places were not simply religious sites but were also markers of killi consanguinity. This social evidence was transformed into a charter of khuntkatti right. In support of the khuntkatti claim of the Kandeyang killi, the Munda of Matkamhatu observed that objectors as well as he himself were of the same family as they worshipped in the same desauli, were buried in the same sasan and ate together.101 Likewise, the distinctive status of family branches was underlined by stating that ‘harjani or sasan of the different branches are separate’.102 In the first case, the official allowed the claim, but in the other he did not. The above test was applied to determine the khuntkattidars in all such cases where inter-killi transfers had been socially made. Kolhan abounded in several such transfers. In one village, Bobonga, Champia, Purti, Hembrom, Bhumij and Gours were the present inhabitants. The oral evidence was that the Sirkas were the original settlers. After them the Purtis were in occupation, followed by the Bobongas. The remains of the burial stones of the Sirkas in the village, and the

138

Governance of a village

sasan of the Purtis in the adjacent reserved forest, corroborated the oral claim.103 There was also an instance of inter-branch transfer. Rairowa was settled by a branch of the Angaria killi. But due to the outbreak of a smallpox epidemic, they left the village. Another branch then stepped in. Their two different sasans thus cleared the mist of village foundation.104 Village desauli was the third test. This common village property constituted a part of the primordial forest, which people had demarcated and cleared to make their villages. In fact, correspondence between the Ho village and desauli/jahira came to socially determine the pioneer family/killi. This prompted the comment: ‘It has been found as a rule that when a Ho clears a virgin forest & makes land he always keeps a portion of the jungle a grove, which he calls his Deshavalli or the home of the village God’.105 However, like other tests above, this evidence sometimes proved misleading because of resettlement by the Hos. They often adapted the religious site or the deities of earlier settlers, in several cases Pauri, goddess of the Bhuiyans, yet continued to demonstrate faith in desauli.106 Thus, the claims and counter-claims made the khuntkatti issue a very contentious and tricky one, and colonial officials supplemented this by offering a few more confirmatory proofs. One such was nomenclatural. Accordingly, if a village had a Ho name, it was considered to have been settled by that community.107 Second, the uninterrupted hold over the posts of Munda and deori by the incumbent family was made mandatory.108 The last criterion was whether the incumbent killi was in continuous occupation of a village ‘by inheritance from the original founders’.109 During proceedings, the conflicting social and official meanings attached to khuntkatti and the official attempt to convert the issue into a legal one convulsed rural life in the early decades of the twentieth century. Adivasis were unwittingly involved in a conflict between custom and law when credulous Adivasi villagers invoked their tradition and local courts stuck to the letter of the law. This intensified the social problem, as the following statement reveals: The Hos are no doubt stupid but the law does not allow them the privilege of khuntkatti unless they can show that they qualify under section 7 (of the CNT Act). They do not do this by declaring themselves of the same family as the original founder.110 Consequently, an enormous number of cases were registered and village society was ripped apart, as elaborated in the next chapter. While there was hardly any village where objections were not registered, 66 in Kendusai and 64 in Kumarlota represented the optimum number of cases filed.111 All of these cases were mostly inter-familial/branch-killi in nature. Due to the similarity of the cases, Kolhan courts clubbed them together and delivered judgements. But colonial courts had to face many tricky issues. One was that the objectors claimed themselves to be the descendants of the original founder, but they could not authentically ‘trace back their descent from him’.112 The problem of amnesia created a dilemma as to whether to rigidly stick to legal parameters. This put some of the officials in a moral dilemma. It was observed: ‘I think it

Governance of a village

139

would be very unfair to exclude these ignorant people from khuntkatti right just because they are unable to trace back their descent to the original reclaimers’.113 The second problem emerged out of the necessity of producing an authentic genealogical tree in support of a claim. Usually, this was prepared with the help of old men of the village who were socially considered eligible to do so. The pressure of the situation led to the emergence of parallel repositories of village tradition like the Munda or an intelligent/educated villager and endemic faking of the tree. W.G. Kelly commented: ‘it is hopelessly complicated & none of the persons present can simplify it. Several have attempted but have merely succeeded in driving me mad with their terrible ignorance’.114 In another case, manipulation of the Munda and members of Banra killi forced D.M. Panna, the AO, to remark: The genealogical table filed by the villagers is a result of a conspiracy among them… There has been a similar conspiracy in mouzah Ruidih… Yesterday the tenants of the village are simple enough but today the coaching of somebody they have become clever enough.115 The third problem originated when the administration made it compulsory for an incumbent to be present personally in court to establish right and title. This created grave confusion among villagers. People thought, perhaps as per their tradition, that being one family one brother registering an objection suit would protect the interests of the other brothers.116 In another case, on the same ground, nephews refrained from filing separate suits as their uncle had done so. When they were not registered as khuntkattidar, they argued that ‘their uncle had put in an objection & as they are of one family they thought that this was sufficient’.117 Such confusions agitated village life, despite the fact that the colonial administration showed prudence in creating a collaborative system of the governance of land. This was also true about aquatic and forest management detailed below. Management of aquatic resources Adivasis in general depended upon springs, rivers and streams to fulfil their aquatic needs.118 Ranchi district was famous for its many waterfalls (ghag) such as Hundru and Dasam (Roy 1984: 38). Besides, the Hos inherited a sizeable number of old surmidurmi tanks, dug by an advanced group of agrarian communities such as the Saraks and Bhuiyans.119 They later adapted man-made tanks and bandhs. The Adivasi attitude to these resources was shaped by their moral and material link with water bodies and other natural objects. They assigned ‘sacredness to the objects of nature, such as divinely created mountains (Maran Buru), rivers (Nage era) and trees (Sarna, the sacred grove)’ (P. Sen 2007: 48– 59). Likewise, as related before, Subarnarekha, Baitarani, Karo, Koel and ‘many a meandering stream’ added not only beauty but also holiness to their homeland. This sanctification of natural sources of water by the Ho might be likened to the attachment of sacredness to Koel river by the Kheriahs and to Damodar

140

Governance of a village

by the Santals (Dalton 1866: 155, 181–83), alongside the invocation of rivers and streams during Warli marriage (Remedios 1998: 64). The utilitarian link with water bodies developed after they adopted a settled agro-rural life. Along with the natural waterbodies, the old tanks formed the common property of villages. Though initially the Hos often converted existing Sarak and Bhuiyan tanks into cultivable lands, the imperative for artificial irrigation prompted them to adopt tank-digging. During the pre-colonial period, this led to the excavation of private tanks by the substantial raiyats (Sen 2018: 162–3). The colonial period saw more extensive deployment of artificial sources of water like tanks and bandhs/ahars for irrigation by the Adivasis of Jharkhand (Reid 1912: para 276; Bridge 1996: paras 11, 174; Sifton 1996: para 10), as was done in south Bihar (Sengupta 1980: 159–61). The urge to make a regular payment of rents to the government and the imperative to mitigate the impact of drought and famine through artificial irrigation were the main reasons for this. Consequently, four types of tanks and bandhs were constructed through social and official initiatives. The first type was dug generally by substantial raiyats.120 The second type comprised the village tanks constructed from the labour and finance of villagers.121 The inter-village tanks excavated by residents of more than one village formed the third type.122 The last were excavated and repaired by the government, the villagers enjoying the right of irrigation and fishing.123 Simultaneously, the community and government developed a technique to govern the individual and collective right over rivers, springs, tanks and bandhs. The concept of official tanks discussed above needs to be detailed further to understand the official management of water bodies and also to appreciate the nature of colonial rule. In official perception, water bodies were merely a ‘commodity’ to be owned and controlled by the state. The official policy was to administer these to aid cultivation so that ‘permanent, fixed and progressively higher’ revenue might flow (Rao 2011: 150). The other purpose was to protect villagers from famine and drought (Morrison 2010: 188). This was considered imperative because famine and drought were chronic problems throughout Chotanagpur.124 In Kolhan, the local administration found that ‘poverty of cultivation’ prevailed mainly due to ‘the scarcity of irrigation works’.125 They therefore undertook the policy of construction and repair of irrigation works. These were based primarily on a traditional technique, a policy that was also followed in other parts of India (Schmitthenner 2011: 181). The indigenous tradition in Chotanagpur involved excavating small and medium-sized tanks, bandhs or ahars at low ecological and social costs. A scientific study of the landscape revealed that Chotanagpur in general was not ‘suitable for irrigation works of any size’.126 In line with south Bihar and south India, the district administration pursued the policy of excavation of small tanks and bandhs mostly with local support and management (Sengupta 1980: 165–8; Ludden 1985: 143–5). Although elsewhere in Chotanagpur they were ‘the missionaries and intelligent and public spirited landlords’,127 in Kolhan the officials put trust in the village

Governance of a village

141

community, the traditional governors of village common properties. In combination with villagers, the government excavated 96 bandhs and tanks as against 731 exclusively done by villagers, alongside 182 tanks of historical origin (Craven 1898: paras 21–46). During the pre-colonial period, fixing familial or individual right over tanks was not necessary because digging tanks or embankments was not a Ho practice. Presumably, the notion of common right developed in respect first of natural sources like rivers and springs as well as the surviving Sarak tanks. The basis of commonness was its natural origin, which created the perception that as nature’s gift this should be utilised by all. The other reason was that their original owners had deserted the village.128 These village properties were managed by the village community represented by the village head. To ensure sustainable use of these sources, villagers were allowed access to water and fishing for household purposes and not for the purpose of making profit.129 The colonial policy of the management of hydraulic properties saw an amalgam of legal and customary rights over property. Furthermore, the idea of governance was saturated by the network of inter-personal relations operating in a village, and also the emerging notion of an Adivasi claim to certain facilities from the government as colonial subjects. Traditionally, among the Adivasis, a right was accrued to a family/individual as and when a piece of land was converted into a tank/bandh by dint of personal labour and expenses.130 This allowed the right of enjoyment of water or fish to its owner.131 With this, the hereditary norm in determining the ownership came into function.132 However, the Ho society made a clear distinction between title (ownership right) and enjoyment (use right). On the precise ground of owning the land on which the tank had been excavated, the right of title belonged to the person who owned the land. But in cases where villagers contributed labour or money for its excavation or repair, they earned usufruct right over it. This social norm was legitimised by the court.133 In Kolhan, title and right of enjoyment in respect of common property customarily devolved to villagers on the logic that they had invested labour and money towards its construction. This was officially endorsed and recorded in Village Papers.134 The same principle operated in the case of bandhs, which were constructed on government land, when villagers invested labour and money for their excavation and repair. What we generally find is that the local administration provided half of the excavation cost, while the raiyats rendered either half of the cost or provided the other half in the form of labour.135 Here in terms of providing land, the title was accrued to the government, while use right devolved to villagers.136 The proprietary right of individuals followed the British notion of private property. But the split right of title and enjoyment to the individual and villagers reflected the indigenous concept of management and enjoyment of village resources. The above modifications acclimatised villagers to the reality that not society but the government was the dispenser of rights. Therefore, instead of informal social approval, official records became the source of enfranchisement. The

142

Governance of a village

individual and common rights were precisely recorded in the Village Note and Village Enquiry Paper. But the local administration also made a few changes to the custom. First, for excavating a private or public item, formal permission of the district head became necessary.137 Second, the right of management in respect of village resources, which traditionally belonged to the village community headed by the Munda, was also curtailed. The infringement into customary rights led to disputes at the individual/ familial and inter-village levels (Sen 2012: 91–7). This considerably fractured inter-familial and village homogeneity. Furthermore, differential response to social and official projects for the excavation of new tanks muddled an otherwise harmonious relation between society and the administration. It is evident that the villagers did not generally come forward to contribute in the form of either money or labour when an official project was undertaken. Not only that, even at the risk of paying fines, the Mankis neglected repair work of the bandhs even after receiving advances from the government.138 The district head therefore rued: ‘The raiyats hardly agree to construct bandhs on the above conditions and irrigation is generally neglected’.139 This was in marked contrast to the practice of extending free labour rendered to communitysponsored water bodies, as shown earlier. The extent and depth of disharmony was much greater in relation to the forests, to be discussed in the next section. Management of the forests Jharkhand constituted a part of the ‘jungle highland of Central India remote, forbidding and barbarous’ during British rule (Sifton 1996: para 41). Understandably, this must have been more densely wooded before the Adivasis had entered this region and built their early village settlements. As their homeland abounded in ‘huge forest’ (Hallett 1917: 121) or ‘virgin jungle’ (Reid 1912: para 292), which vitally sustained them in many different ways, Adivasis in general developed a sense of forest-centric identity and a traditional mode of forest management After carving out their hearth and home in the forest region, Adivasis learnt to survive through foraging, hunting and tilling. Moreover, the woodland provided grazing grounds for the cattle, fuel, fruits, herbs, bamboo and wood for house making as well as ranu for preparing their sacred drink called illi or hanria (Tickell 1840: 803–4; Tuckey 1920: 120). Their economy was sustained by the sale of sabai grass, tasser cocoon, lac, items prepared from bamboo and wood and oil made from mohua, neem, kusum, karanj fruits and seeds (Craven 1898: paras 55–8, 159–60; McPherson 1906: para 119; O’Malley 1910: 153; Tuckey 1920: para 16).140 In close affinity with the forests, Adivasis in India developed their religious and cultural beliefs and practices. The first strategy adopted by them was to deify natural space (Hardiman 1999: 90–1, 117; Gadgil and Guha 2002: 20). The indigenes of the Khasi hills in Meghalaya preserved ‘sacred forests’ or ‘sacred

Governance of a village

143

groves’ (Karlsson 2005: 186–7). The Mundas worshipped bongas or deities related to the woods, the hills, streams, fields and groves (Roy 1970: 271–2). This deification symbolised their acknowledgement of debt to the forests as well as social repentance for the sin of harming them. Jharkhand tribals preserved part of the primordial forests adjacent to the villages as the sacred grove, locally known as Jahira or Sarna (ibid.: 221–2). This was believed to be the abode of desauli, the village deity, and his wife Jahira Buri (Dalton 1973: 141, 186, 188, 214, 281; McPherson 1906: para 123; Tuckey 1920: 127–8). Similarly, cultural practices of the indigenes were forest-centric. Their Baha, Sarhul, Sohrai and Karam festivals celebrated the advent of different seasons (Roy 1970: 272–5). Asan (Terminalia tomontosa) trees, as well as palash (Butea Monosperma), peepal (Ficus Religiosa) and kusum (Schleichera trijuga), were considered sacred because they respectively provided tasser and lac.141 Similarly, the Hos offered bread prepared from rice flour, seeds of sisum and palash flower to the desauli of the Jahira during Mage festival (Tuckey 1920: 127–8; Majumdar 1950: 211–17; Dalton 1973: 141, 186, 188,196, 214, 281). The forest also played a key role in evolving the Adivasi social structure. Their killis had a totemic origin: Tuti killi from tuti plant, Soe killi from Soel fish, Horo or Kachua killi from tortoise, Nag killi from nag snake (Roy 1970: 229–33). Likewise, Lugum killi was named after Lugum or tasser; Deogam after a bird, Melgandi after peepal; Kaika after kaika tree; and Kudada after blackberry juice (Majumdar 1950: 97–100). On this basis, Adivasis developed their endogamic norms as a kind of social acknowledgement of debt to those elements and an eternalisation of the moment when this link was forged. Once this norm was set up, it was reinforced by naming villages after such killi names as Angaria, Kudada, Pareya, Kandeyang, Bobonga, Sirka, Tubid as well as Deogaon after Deogam killi and Hesadi after Hessa killi (Areeparampil 1993: 15). Due to the above reasons, Adivasis governance of forests was at once moral and material. Being natural and as a divine gift, forests basically formed the common property of villagers. But at usage and identitarian levels, distinctions prevailed. First, forest space falling within the village boundary was considered the village common property, while the forests in the neighbourhood of villages were identified as the pir forests to be enjoyed by surrounding villages within a pir. Second, usufruct right varied between khuntkatti and praja families. While the former had the right to take wood from village forests as per their need, the latter had to obtain the permission of the khuntkattidars, though in practice this was not mandatory. However, after the recession of the woodland, between March and May, under the leadership of the Munda and Pahan, a specified part of the jungle was accessed by villagers for fuel and timber (Roy 1970: 63fn). The village community among the indigenous communities in India more or less controlled and managed the forests. The governance displayed an ‘ecological prudence’. As their sustenance and survival depended predominantly on the woodland, they appropriated forest resources only in a limited way (Gadgil

144

Governance of a village

1985: 1909; Gadgil and Guha 2002: 25–6). Ramchandra Guha underlined the ‘natural system of conservancy’ as reproduced through ‘religion, folklore and tradition’ by the Khasa communities of Kumayun (Guha 2008: 282–3). The Ho social governance of the forests through the village headmen seemed to prize its conservation. They appointed chaukidars (guards), on monthly payment of a fixed amount of paddy by villagers, to ensure that no villager took trees without permission and exceeding requirement.142 Things changed under feudal and British rule. The feudal and colonial attitude towards the forest was largely materialistic. The latter treated it as a commodity to be possessed and controlled as a matter of right by the state (Rangarajan 1999: 18–21, 30). But official policy witnessed many shifts. During the early decades, the emphasis on the extension of agriculture prompted the masters to consider the woodland as a wasteful zone (Arnold and Guha 1999: 72). The colonial state therefore wanted to remove this ‘obstruction to agriculture’ so that the agrarian border might be extended (Rangarajan 1999: 16–9, 44–5; Gadgil and Guha 2002: 120). Gradually, the forests emerged as a propertied zone or as a ‘zone of commerce’,143 and finally as a storehouse of valuable timber and mineral resources (Craven 1898: para 57; Hardiman 1999: 105, 112, 116–19; Rangarajan 1999: 8, 19–21, 55–6).144 Therefore, what was earlier a ‘positive nuisance’ came to be treated as ‘a valuable property’.145 The environmental and development concerns of the colonial masters also impacted official policy. The dominant bureaucratic perception was that this had to be protected from the vandalism of the ethnic communities. In 1901, the Commissioner of Chotanagpur blamed the people for recklessly denuding the state forest of valuable timber.146 The observation of forest officials were harder: ‘If left to their own devices the aboriginals will clear everything in less than one generation’.147 Similarly, Adivasis were not considered as development friendly. The simple argument was that as they inhabited the secluded forested and hilly parts of the country, the wild and backward ethnic communities (Skaria 1999: 37–8; Cederlof 2008: 263) were naturally resistant to change and progress. Dalton identified the Kolarian people of Chotanagpur as ‘the most unimprovable people’ (1865: 4). With this mindset, the British inaugurated a policy of state forestry in India. Forest areas were surveyed and demarcated, and the policy of reservation and protection implemented. Imposition of restrictions on the free use of natural space and resources by forested groups came in tandem (Guha 2008: 290). But the problem was that the colonial bureaucracy had to rationalise with ‘customary forest rights’ and ‘ancient privileges’ of the forest communities.148 They feared that this might cause ethnic unrest, raids, robbery and murder as well as large-scale migration of the forested communities (Sivaramakrishnan 1999: 167; Guha 2008: 290–302).149 This created the bureaucratic dilemma as to whether ‘the customary use of the forest should be based either on “right” or “privilege”’ (Guha 2008: 284). At the same time, the British could not compromise with the assertion of state authority over the woodland. Therefore, the Forest Acts of 1865 and 1878

Governance of a village

145

infringed into the customary community rights exercised by villagers through their village and pir heads. They put restrictions on collecting and selling flowers, fruits, thatching and sabai grass as these were in their eyes ‘essentially inconsistent with the ultimate ownership of the state’.150 Areas were annexed as reserved and protected zones, which restricted the customary right of clearing for cultivation, cutting trees, free entry and collection of forest produce (Reid 1912: para 294). The policy of state forestry was reinforced by local rules and regulations. The Notification No. 3375 of 5 September 1892 converted all unreserved forests into Protected Forests. Invoking section 31 of the Forest Act of 1878, the local administration then framed the Protected Forest rules in 1895, which were partially modified in 1896. During the Craven Settlement of 1895–97, 58 forest blocks were demarcated, and in 1903 the remaining areas were delineated as the village forests. The district administration framed Twidell’s Rules in 1903 to regulate the disposal of trees and other forest produce. This was duly approved in 1904. Later, 14 new Protected Forest blocks were carved out of the village forests.151 The Notification of 24 March 1922 imposed grazing taxes of 8 annas for each cattle over the number of four. They argued that sheep and goats caused the greatest damage to the forests.152 These encroachments into the customary forest rights of the Adivasi convulsed village life. There was a perceptible difference in the Adivasi response to the encroachments that happened in the plateau region and in Kolhan. While in the former region, resistance against the recession of customary forest rights mainly by the landlords was much more widespread, intense and continuous in the form of the well-documented Sardari Larai and Birsite Revolt, countryside in Kolhan/ Porahat remained on the whole peaceful, with sporadic manifestations of social protest.153 Adivasis resorted first to disobedience and wilful breaking of the law by setting fire to the forests, felling trees and removing forest produce and illegally grazing cattle in the prohibited forested zones. But they simultaneously resorted to a peaceful mode of protest by sending petitions to the administration. For the amelioration of the grievances against the formation of new Protected Forest blocks, 33 Mankis and Mundas of Kolhan voiced the grievances of people living in their areas by petitioning the Commissioner of Chotanagpur in 1906. In 1922, more than one thousand raiyats of Kolhan filed another petition to the Deputy Commissioner of Singhbhum District against the imposition of grazing taxes (Sen 2018: 180–4). These were the extra-ordinary occasions when the normal flow of village life was disturbed and villages were unwittingly drawn into the vortex of mainstream politics and activities. But rural life was almost regularly rippled by village disputes at different levels, as the next section informs. Administration of justice Early colonial ethnography provides some clues as to why these ripples were created in the countryside. One such was the marriage dispute over non-

146

Governance of a village

payment of bride price and ‘parents of the bride not sending her to her husband’. The second was over the return of the exact number of cattle to their owner by the person entrusted to take care of them. The third, and the ‘most troublesome’, was land dispute between the original owner and the person to whom it was leased out on thika ‘in pledge for loans’.154 Besides these civil cases, witch killing, murder of a general nature, theft of cattle and plunder were endemic in the villages of Singhbhum.155 However, Adivasi society did not distinguish between civil and criminal disputes as such. This was why, irrespective of their nature, all cases were dealt with at the panchayat level.156 We have very sparse and fragmentary knowledge about the pre-colonial system of delivering justice among the natives of Jharkhand. As disputes occurred generally between closely related persons, the purpose of delivering justice was to forge a compromise rather than deciding in favour of a single party. Therefore, a consensual rather than an adversarial mode of resolving the disputes developed, the aim of which was to perpetuate social harmony and peace within the family, killi and village (Sen 2012: 53–8). This seemed to emanate from the ideal of reciprocity and the mythology of co-sharing narrated above. The other purpose was to foster amicable relations at inter-village levels in order to cement communal solidarity. Disputes in a family were resolved within the family itself. Similarly, intrakilli issues were settled by the killi panch comprising its elders and more able members (Majumdar 1937: 60–5; Yorke 1976: 62–3).157 The principal judicial institution was, however, the village panchayat or council that negotiated interkilli and village-centric cases. This was considered sacrosanct by the Mundas (Roy 1970: 66) and a ‘cherished institution’ by the Santals (Hunter 1976: xiv, 330). This comprised village elders and respectable members, with the Munda as its informally selected head (Majumdar 1937: 60–5; Roy 1972: 28). But among the Santal, the Manjhi (headman), paranik (sub-headman), jogmanjhi (assistant to Manjhi), godet (orderly) and naeke (village priest) formed the panchayat (Archer 1984: 3–15; O’Malley 1999: 110–11). The village panch resorted both to consensual and coercive methods to enforce decisions.158 Among the Munda, Oraon and Santal, a trans-village body functioned as a higher court. In Santal society, this was the special Council of Five Manjhis headed by the parganait where issues of a ‘weighty’ nature were referred mainly because these could not be resolved at the village council (Archer 1984: 15–24; O’Malley 1999: 112). However, presumably, a pir council did not function either as a primary or appellate court among the Ho. As Adivasi women customarily continue to be deprived of property rights and roles in decision making, the ability of customs to empower women as full citizens was questioned by Nandini Sundar (2011: 420) and another recent study reiterated the need of ‘reinvigorating’ custom itself (Kumar 2017: 95–7). As related before, open trials conducted at the manjhithan among the Santals and at the akhara among the Mundas and Oraons (Roy 1921: 242; O’Malley 1999: 111) made administration of justice opaque, and into a social event in which every villager could participate. Judgement was orally delivered only

Governance of a village

147

when a consensus was arrived at. It seems that the decisions of panch courts were final as killi and village panches were independent and distinct bodies with no concept of graded authority (Sen 2012: 58). Justice was delivered on the basis of indigenous customs. Generally speaking, the village elders were the repository of social norms of conduct and village traditions. Among the Santals, the teachers or old gurus acted as the trustees of customs (Bodding 1994: vii, 1–2). Likewise, Warlis considered their ancient gurus (bhagats) or wise men as the repository of their traditions (Remedios 1998: 41, 63–4). This implies that Adivasi villagers continued to draw on ‘the oral wisdom of their elders and remembrancers’ as in medieval England, despite the fact that the ‘written record encroaches [ed] more and more upon the sphere of custom’ (Clanchy 2013: 3). The indigenous technique of appropriation and socialisation of norms and customs have been elaborated on above. The colonial intervention Colonial rulers devised the ideology and structure of the judicial system in diverse ways. First, it was based on Western conceptions of ‘justice, equity and good conscience’, which purported to found a just, impersonal and uniform order. The other motive was to impart definitive justice in a court of law on the basis of available evidence. Third, the colonial court system maintained a clear distinction between civil and criminal disputes with distinct mechanisms and laws to regulate their functions. Last, the nature of governance was essentially hybrid (Rudolph and Rudolph 1965: 26–8, 39; Cohn 1990: 569–70) and purported to establish a shared realm of indigenous and exogenous systems of governance. These changes were inter-linked and therefore will be conflated rather than dealt with separately in the following paragraphs. I will first study the machinery dealing with civil justice. This was basically hierarchic and complicated in nature compared to the simple indigenous structure. It is true that in the indigenous system we also find three layers of dispute settlement by the family, killi and village panchayat, and in the case of the Santals a fourth involving appeals to the trans-village panchayat. But generally dispute settlement remained village centric. On the contrary, colonial dispute settlement was more or less a trans-village affair with the provision of a formal system of appeal to the district and divisional courts. Therefore, judicially village boundaries expanded and people were increasingly connected with the world outside. The father of this new system was Captain Thomas Wilkinson whose rules of 1834 for administering civil justice laid down the ideological and structural foundation of civil justice for the entire Chotanagpur.159 Accordingly, the village panchayat was made the primary court of civil justice, comprising three or five respected and intelligent persons to be selected by the Political Agents or his assistants from among the persons most conversant with the ‘matter at issue’ (Sen 1999: 88–9).160 This initially did not conform to the indigenous practice of the automatic selection of the Munda, though later, the village and pir heads as

148

Governance of a village

well as substantial raiyats came invariably to compose the panch.161 The panchayat operated as an official rather than a social institution, under the superintendence and control of the district administration. Though the traditional practice of disputes being initially resolved at family, killi and village forums was retained, Wilkinson introduced a formal appellatory procedure in cases where the litigants were not satisfied with the villagelevel decision. This erected a hierarchic judicial edifice in which the primary court at the district level was that of the munsif, or that to which the power of a munsif was delegated. It could try civil suits up to the maximum value of Rs. 300. The court of the Assistant Political Agent was the next court vested with original power when the cause of action had either originated from, or the litigant was a resident of, the area under his jurisdiction; it also had the power to try appeals from the lower court. Suits of any value could be instituted in this court. The highest court of the Political Agent to the Governor General was an original court besides trying appeals from the court below it. The pecuniary upper limit at the Agent’s court was Rs. 5,000. Furthermore, appeals against such decisions of the Agent’s court as involving money transactions over Rs. 5,000 could be made to the Sadar Diwani Adalat, on being routed through the Agent (Sen 2012: 68). One salient feature of the colonial court system was that it was obligatory to file written complaints, instead of the previous practice of lodging oral ones. After receiving the defendant’s written answer, such disputes were referred back to the village panchayat for solution. In the operation of a panch, Wilkinson introduced the procedure of taking written engagements from the parties and then subjecting them to abide by the panch decision. This decision was officially recorded and executed. The principal purpose of this mechanism was the deliverance of expeditious justice. Thus, three major changes were made in the indigenous system. First, villagers were adapted to the literate procedure in place of the oral mode of function. Second, the village community ceased to be the sole dispenser of justice (Sen 2012: 61–8). Third, the creation of superior levels of courts made dispute settlement a trans-village affair. Villagers were involved in disputes over property (land, trees and tanks) that involved families, killis and villages. Gender assertion to own and alienate property agitated village life. Marriage, adoption, sale and mortgage of land were the other issues. However, land disputes were more numerous. These arose between sons after the death of their father or when a son claimed his share of property from the father. Furthermore, on a family branch remaining heirless, other members of the larger family laid a claim for a share. A daughter or wife also filed cases for a share on the father’s or husband’s death. While these litigations arose within the community, the problem of land alienation through sale and mortgage involved Adivasis and non-Adivasis. Likewise, village boundary and ownership of tanks made disputes an inter-village affair (Sen 2012: 81–137). Obviously, these incidences reveal that villagers disapproved of the decisions arrived at in the traditional forums of dispute settlement within the family, killi and village panchayat.

Governance of a village

149

Villagers generally resorted to the first two levels of courts narrated above. Suna Ho filed a civil suit in which he asked for his own share of land from his father Selae. But the munsif dismissed the case as Suna failed to prove that Selae was his father. He filed another case two years later before the Deputy Commissioner, formerly the Agent. The court directed Joseph Manki to enquire and report. The Manki conducted a local enquiry and submitted his report to the court. Not being convinced, the court referred the matter to a fresh panch consisting of two Mundas representing both the parties and the third Munda as the ‘Court Umpire’. The panch found that Suna was the legitimate son of Selae born of a settled marriage. Accordingly, it awarded Suna a share in his father’s property.162 The CNT Act of 1908 made the structure more complicated and hierarchic. This functioned under revenue officers such as Settlement Officer (SO) and Assistant Settlement Officer (ASO) and finally the Deputy Commissioner. These courts and their functionaries operated under sections 80, 83, 85 and 87 of the Act. The first dealt with a land survey for the preparation of a record of land rights of villagers by the Revenue Officer (RO). The second was related to the preparation of an actual draft of the record of rights, publication of the same by the RO and an amendment on the basis of objections. The third was about the fixation of fair rent. The latter provided for the institution of a suit before the RO at any time within three months from the date of issuing the certificate of the final publication of the record of rights under sub-section 2 of section 83 (Datta 1928: 206–54). The jural process began at Tanaza court where objections were filed before the Attestation Officer (AO). The ASO was the appellate authority against the judgement of the AO. The next court functioned u/s 83. After the record of right had been prepared u/s 80 by the RO in accordance with section 83, he could publish its draft, receive and consider objections against entry therein or omission therefrom. I cite an instance to show how the judicial machinery functioned. Dandia Ho and Galu Ho filed a suit at the Tanaza court against their brothers claiming for an ‘equitable and fair partition of their paternal property’. The AO dismissed the case. An appeal was made by the litigants to the ASO. But he also disallowed the case with the order that the ‘parties have been living separately for a long time & so the remedy, if any, for the objector lies in the Civil Court’. The entire process was conducted between 13 March 1915 and 12 June 1915.163 Making a local enquiry had been the salient feature of the court system. Section 82 of the Act of 1879 empowered the Deputy Commissioner to cause: a local enquiry and report respecting the matter in dispute to be made by any officer subordinate to him, or by any other officer of Government within the consent of the authority to whom such officer is subordinate, or by any other person whom the Deputy Commissioner may deem fit, or may himself proceed to the spot and make such local inquiry in person. (Carnduff 1905: 47)

150

Governance of a village

After local enquiry and report as well as examination of witnesses, the Deputy Commissioner, or a bureaucrat designated with his power, passed judgement in an open court held in any place within the limit of his district or local jurisdiction (ibid.: 44, 51, 65). The Act of 1908 continued the existing provision of local enquiry and the method of delivering the judgement (Datta 1928: 331). However, these provisions diluted the Wilkinsonian procedure of solution of disputes through the agencies of the Manki and Munda as invoking their services was not obligatory under the changed process. In fact, the CNT Act assigned no specific role to these indigenous functionaries. But in actual practice, as related below, these agencies, customs and the panch were allowed effective leeway (Sen 2012: 74–5). I take up the case of local enquiry first to underline how village officials and panch were assigned crucial roles. In a case over the title of four plots of land, J.N. Chakrabarty, the ASO, directed the Kolhan Inspector (KI) to make a local enquiry and report about the man in possession of the land, the manner in which he had done so and under what title. After visiting the spot, Provash Chandra Bose, the KI, submitted his report. On the basis of the report, the ASO decided in favour of Berga Ho, one of the defendants, and directed Bose to inform the amin (an assistant deputed for land survey) to do the necessary. The case raised the vital issue of whether a KI or Manki/Munda should be entrusted with the task of local enquiry. It became clear that the ASO made double violations of the procedure: First, assigning the enquiry to the KI instead of the Manki; and second, delivering the judgement on the basis of the above report only without constituting a panch. When Madhu Ho, the plaintiff, filed an objection, J.A. Craven, the SO, forwarded his complaint to the ASO on 11 June 1895. On 16 June, the latter directed Bandhu Manki of Pandrasali village in Lota pir to enquire and report. This corrected the lacunae of ignoring the village official. However, the parties raised an objection to Bandhu Manki’s award, presumably on the basis of a panch decision. This brought to the fore the issue of panch. On 2 July, the case was referred back to a fresh panch of Debra Manki of Purnia (Rajabasa pir) and Chakro Manki of Binj (Asantalia pir). They were directed to try the case in the presence of the parties and submit their award. When the case came for final judgement, Craven on 17 August thrashed out the issues of the exact role of the village officials and the composition of the panch. First, he objected to the KI being asked to enquire into the matter because ‘he does not understand the language (Ho) & (and) was therefore not likely to get a correct view of the circumstance of the case’ and ‘the orders are distinct that all such disputes shd (should) be decided by the Mankis & (and) Mundas’. This underlined that the Kolhan judiciary had to co-opt these officials. On these grounds, Craven abrogated the order of the ASO and directed Birga and Madhu, the contending parties, to reappear before him. On 26 August, Birga Ho contended that a fresh panch be constituted as his witnesses were not heard by the last panchayat. The new panch was composed of Saluka Manki of Lagia, being nominated by Madhu, Bagun Manki of Dopai

Governance of a village

151

nominated by Birga and Burhan Singh Manki of Kiarchalan to act as the sarpanch (head of a panch). Craven at the same time directed the panch to report within a week, and warned the contending parties that if they failed to appear before the panch the case would be decided ex parte. The court of the SO took up the case on 7 September when the majority decision of Saluka Manki and Bagun Manki in favour of Madhu Ho was accepted and it was ordered to record the disputed plots in the name of the plaintiff.164 More or less conforming to Wilkinson’s philosophy of expeditious justice, the entire case was decided between 1 April and 7 September 1895. In administering justice, village officials were therefore assigned two roles, first, conducting a local enquiry, which has been elaborated on above; and second, manning the panch. By citing different court cases, I would like to underline that the combination of village officials and the panch, or rather ‘Manki-Munda-in-panchayat’, actually ran the primary level of the Kolhan judiciary. It would therefore be interesting to know how the panch was composed and how did it function. The following details will show that while the operative part was more or less certain, the composition was not so. On the death of Pasing Ho of Purna Chaibasa, his four near-relatives divided up his lands and jointly supported his only heir, Sini Kolhin. When another relative lodged a complaint with the local administration against this decision, the matter was referred to a panch. The panch comprised several raiyats of Lupungutu and Purna Chaibasa. The decision was that Sini’s paternal lands should, as per Ho custom, be recorded in her name. But, as per custom, on her getting married or dying, these would go to the above four relatives.165 The panch composition in other cases was not unspecified as above. In one such case, when property was claimed for two minor sons, I.P. Singh referred the matter to a representative body comprising two Mankis and eight Mundas. The large number signified that devolution of property to a minor was an intricate social issue which, in official perception, could be resolved by a representative body only and the official head panch must obtain a more authentic and definite social opinion before delivering a judgement. As the panch in this case was not uniform in opinion, Singh based his judgement on the majority opinion.166 The case of Tirbhun Ho vs Ubga Ho provides more information. The case history was that Ladura Ho died leaving behind over 17 plots. About 18 or 20 years ago, he had invited his son-in-law Tirbhun to live with him, as he had no male heir. Tirbhun, who had left his village, looked after Ladura and on his death performed his last rites. So, when Ubga Ho filed a suit, the matter was referred to a panch of two Mankis and two Mundas. This settled Ladura’s lands with Tirbhun. In endorsing his judgement, W. Kelley observed: ‘I see no reason why Tirbhun should be deprived of the lands, he gave his ancestral holding & by a court of his own people was given these lands. I think his right is established’.167 Procedurally, therefore, the significance of ‘court of his own people’ was underlined; the composition of the ‘court’ was smaller and the award this made was decisive. The last point is further substantiated in the following case.

152

Governance of a village

The husband dying heirless, colonial courts legitimised the devolution of the entire property to the legitimately married wife and duly recorded the property in her name.168 But this was conditioned by a panch award in her favour. Therefore, when Turi Ho of Durirta died, the panch awarded his two plots to his widow.169 Reference to a panch was imperative when Durgui Kui of Barbil appealed to the court to allow her to formally bestow her property to her adopted son Tunia Ho. This resulted in the collateral issue of valid adoption being socially ratified. On the order of the court, a panch was constituted. This revealed that about ten years ago Durgui made a ‘committee’, where the nearest relatives agreed to allow Tunia to inherit the property of Durgui. As Tunia was closely related to the applicant, the panch submitted the report in his favour.170 In the function of Kolhan judiciary, colonial officials continued to play a major role in many different ways. As a judicial institution, the local administration reinvented and reinforced Manki-Munda-in-panchayat by assigning it specific rights and jurisdiction. But the system of checks and balances seemed to clearly function when the role of the body started only at court directive and superintendence; the number of panch was decided, and the panch was headed, by an official. Furthermore, often to internally collect more authentic and definite Adivasi customs, the content of the panch award was influenced by the officials. I cite the following instance to prove my point. The case related to Gonja (also Gunja), the adopted son of Jandoi, who was in possession of the latter’s land. But the near-relatives lodged a complaint praying for recovery of money and possession of land. The court first asked the Manki to file a report. Finding his report inadequate, Burrows, the judge, issued a set of questions for the Manki to appraise him about the social custom. These were: After Juna, the father of Gunja, died, was Gunja adopted by Jandoi with the consent of the relatives? Did Gonja perform the funeral rites and was he entitled under the custom to succeed to Jandoi’s land? Was there any panch over the land after Jandoi’s death; if so, who were the members and what did they decide? When from Manki’s reply Burrows found that the panch had not been properly constituted, he directed the Manki to reconstitute a panch comprising the Manki, Munda and substantial raiyats, whose number was not however specified. He then asked the panch to enlighten the following issues: Was Gunja adopted by Jandoi with the full consent of all the relatives who would otherwise have succeeded to Jandoi’s land? In whose presence and when did this adoption take place? Did Gunja always live in Jandoi’s house afterwards? Did the adoption take place after the death of Jena, the father of Gunja? Was the adoption made in accordance with custom? Last, was it that Gunja succeeded to land from his father paying Rs. 1–2-0 as rent?171 What becomes clear from a close reading of the Village Papers is that the help of the panch was widely resorted to by society and administration. But often a dispute spilled over beyond the domain of the socially constituted panch, requiring official intervention, as the following case evidences. When Rando Ho died, the traditional village panchayat allowed Sursingh to live in his house to help his widow Palo and two daughters Jobona and Kadoma in

Governance of a village

153

cultivating their lands. Due to the close relationship, the panch also allowed Sursingh to inherit the property after Palo’s death and Jobona’s marriage with Sursingh. The case crossed the social confines when Jobona wanted to bequeath her property to Bara Ho, her sister Kodoma’s son. Objecting to the social decision, Birsa, one of the relatives, took the matter to the British court. He contended that as Jobona had already been married to Sursingh, her property should devolve to him. The court constituted a fresh panch comprising the Manki and two Mundas for further investigation and report.172 The procedural role of the panch as an institution of dispute settlement reinforces the conclusion that at the village level, adjudication was a shared realm. But the fact cannot be denied that the original Ho idea of panch gradually mellowed, as the following case substantiates. The case was referred to a very large and representative panch, comprising Joseph Captain, the Manki of Kathbari, Daskan Munda of Sarkand, Kande Munda and Choya Gour of Barkand, Chamroo Tahsildar of Bharbharia, who was then the Manki of the elaka (area), Rengo Ho of Kathbari, Basta Majhi Santal of Kasea, and some others.173 The composition of the above panch clearly suggests that this transgressed the social idea of a panch, comprising the Munda and elders of the village, and practised the British-filtered official notion of a panch manned by the Manki, Munda and other social leaders of the community. In delivering justice, the British created a shared substantive order based on indigenous customs and British law. They generally reposed faith on indigenous customs. Wilkinson was first to spell out the official policy with regard to the deployment of custom (Sen 2012: 66). Much later, Section 76 of the CNT Act reiterated: ‘Nothing in this Act shall affect any custom, usage or customary right not inconsistent with, or not expressly or by necessary implication modified or abolished by its provisions’ (Datta 1928: 185). This made determination of the corpus of authentic custom and its repository necessary in court. Generally, village elders were considered the trustees of indigenous customs and traditions. In Sanchiru village, Dhanamasi Panna, the ASO, examined seven such old men of the village to find out who the founder of the village was.174 So their services were utilised by officials and judges in spelling out and interpreting indigenous customs in the courts. But they were not oblivious to the internal challenges made to the authority of old men. During khuntkatti enquiry both literate and illiterate villagers came to pose as the repository of village tradition and fabricated new ones. In Tholko village, seven Ho killis and Goalas claimed khuntkatti right. On enquiry, the AO found that Hembrom killi had founded the village. But two members of the founding killi, one of whom was a school teacher, contended that Hembroms and Goalas had been the founder. Faking the traditional history had sometimes a sinister motive. This is borne out of the following judgement: ‘I am convinced that Saluka Ho (school teacher) who is at enmity with the Munda & other Hemroms is trying to do them a bad turn by making out a case for the Gours’.175 So the courts often reposed faith on local officials, like S.J. Manook (Craven 1898: paras 129–30). Gradually, a Record of Rights (RR), which contained the powers and

154

Governance of a village

jurisdictions of the village/pir officials, assumed the status of another source of custom in respect of these offices (Bridge 1996: para 175; Sifton 1996: para 150). Likewise, during the twentieth century, case laws as recorded in the Standing Order Book came also to guide Kolhan officials (Sen 2012: 173–213). However, social custom was generally invoked in dispute settlement. This emerges out of a case registered by brothers over their share in paternal property. According to custom, such a property was to be equally divided among sons. On the death of Kande Ho, his lands were therefore equally divided among his four sons.176 Gradually, however, a series of provincial and central acts and regulations were introduced. The first purpose was to make the court system capable of shouldering the increased pressure of work and the new challenges. The second was to forge a link with the provincial and central levels. The provincial enactments were The Act X of 1859 or the Bengal Rent Act 1859, passed by the Governor General’s Council; the Landlord and Tenant Procedure Act 1869 or Bengal Act VIII of 1869, enacted by the Bengal legislature; and the Chotanagpur Landlord and Tenant Procedure Act, passed in 1879 by the Bengal Council for Chotanagpur excluding Manbhum. Other such acts were The Bengal Acts VI of 1897 and V of 1903 and India Act I of 1903, subsequently modified, followed by the landmark Chotanagpur Tenancy Act or Act VI of 1908 (Sen 2012: 68–73). The introduction of central acts was not, however, direct and spontaneous in scheduled areas. The Scheduled Districts Act or Act XIV of 1874 made it obligatory to invoke section 7 of the act to introduce an all-India act in scheduled districts like Hazaribagh, Lohardaga, Manbhum, as well as Dhalbhum, Kolhan and Porahat in Singhbhum. Accordingly, the Court Fees Act (Act VII of 1870), the Indian Evidence Act (Act I of 1872) and the Indian Contract Act (Act IX of 1872) were enforced after due notification in the Gazette of India. Moreover, ‘the system of Civil Procedure Code in a modified form, so far as it is not inconsistent with Wilkinson’s rules’ came into operation (ibid.: 98–9). CPC (Act VIII of 1859) was extended to the districts of Hazaribagh, Lohardaga and Manbhum under the condition that ‘no sale of land shall be made… without the sanction of the Commissioner’ (Reid 1912: para 58; Sen 2012: 68–73). The function of these acts often linked villagers with the mainstream adjudication system. I shall cite one representative instance to make the point. The issue was the legality of darraiyati (underraiyat) tenure, which emerged out of the issue of mortgage. This required the court to specify the legal status of a mortgagee. A collateral issue was whether under-raiyati was customary. Several cases were registered by Ho, Goala and Bhumij tenants with the Tanaza court under D.M. Panna. The cases were then referred to the court of A.D. Tuckey, the ASO u/s 83. On his disallowing the case of the objectors, an appeal was lodged before the Deputy Commissioner, the SO. The DC upheld the legality of dar-raiyati and referred the matter to the Director of Land Records and Survey, Bihar and Orissa for ‘perusal’ and approval (Sen 2012: 125–7).

Governance of a village

155

Criminal justice In respect of criminal justice, colonial rule introduced significant changes. These changes procedurally and substantively marginalised the prevailing indigenous mode of dealing with crime. In order to underline the change, I will seek to focus on the changed meaning of crime at indigenous and official levels and the new procedure of criminal governance. To recapitulate, murder, theft and plunder were the crimes committed in villages. But while in general perception these were considered criminal acts, Adivasis did not always subscribe to this view. This becomes clear when we examine the attitude to witch murder. Adivasis regarded witch killing, as related earlier, as a socially approved mode of dealing with the perpetrator of evil against individuals and the community and as a therapeutic treatment to illness. On the other hand, in official perception, irrespective of the fairness of motivation, murder or an attempt to murder was a crime committed against a person and was therefore punishable under law. The domain of crime was also differentially defined. Adivasis did not strictly distinguish between a murderer and an abettor in crime, as related above, while in official perception these were two distinct crimes with varying punishments. Furthermore, prevention and punishment of crime and illegal acts was deemed as the prime responsibility of the government in order to maintain peace and order, as well as dispensing justice in society. Accordingly, the procedural structure of administering criminal justice was rebuilt (Sen 2018: 29–30). Though the British administration theoretically maintained a separation between civil and criminal justice, the mode of administration that functioned in Adivasi-dominated Chotanagpur division in erstwhile Bihar made significant departures. The district administration governing Ho land, for instance, operated under the supervision and control of the Assistant Political Agent (later designated as Assistant Political Commissioner). The system he headed was based on unity rather than separation of powers. Therefore, the district head was both the executive and judicial head, where civil and criminal distinction was not rigidly maintained. More or less, this was the mode of function even after the establishment of regular thanas and police personnel headed by the district Superintendent of Police. Furthermore, throughout colonial rule, due to the inadequacy of both the thanas and policemen, the local administration remained dependent on the village and pir heads, signifying the creation of another shared realm. The district administration was linked, through the introduction of Thomas Wilkinson’s criminal rules of 6 June 1837, with the divisional administration and beyond. In 1861, the Indian Criminal Procedure Code (CRPC) co-opted Kolhan within the pan-Indian system.177 The process of delivering justice began after formal complaints were lodged to the district authority. After initial investigation, the Mankis and Mundas conducted local enquiry, apprehended the offenders and delivered them to the district administration. The procedure was:

156

Governance of a village On any crime being committed in his village, the Moonda informs the Mankee, and either one or the other, or both proceeded to Chyebassa to report to the Assistant. The deposition of the party is forthwith taken by the Assistant, and a Chuprassee (chaprasi i.e. peon, orderly) is deputed to hold an investigation assisted by the Mankee and the Moonda. The Chuprassees are now all Dhobassias (interpreter). Having made the investigation needful, the Chuprassee returns, bringing with him the complainant, the accused and the witnesses. The Assistant then records the evidence of all parties, if he considers the evidence insufficient acquits, if sufficient, if the case be murder he commits it for trial to the Agent and sends all the parties to Rainchee; if the crime proved be anything short of murder, he passes sentence himself, reporting for the confirmation of the Agent, if he awards above three years’ imprisonment, or a fine exceeding Rupees 200. (Ricketts 1854: 66–7)

Witchcraft trials reveal that the court deputed the chaprasi for collecting information about specific acts of crime. While this identified him as an important link in the trial process, what it implied was that the village and pir heads did not often perform their duties. During the troubled times of 1857–58, the laxity of the indigenous officials seemed to be rampant. In one case, the murder of a person with his family came to official notice in connection with the local investigation in a different case by the chaprasi of the court of the Senior Assistant Commissioner. On the basis of his report, another chaprasi was deputed to investigate further.178 He assembled two Mankis and Mundas each and also some local Hos. In the process, the chaprasi was able to learn the names of persons, the cause and place of crime.179 Understandably, on the basis of his local enquiry and report, the accused was apprehended with the help of the Manki and handed over to the district administration.180 The next stage of trial was conducted at the district court headed by the Assistant Commissioner. The accused and witnesses were examined, their statements were recorded and sentences were delivered. Wilkinson’s rules empowered the Assistant to order simple or rigorous imprisonment for a period of five years and impose a fine to the maximum of 50 rupees. Against his orders, appeals could be made to the Agent. Besides, sentences above two years awarded by the Assistant had to be sent for the Agent’s confirmation. As court of appeal, he had the authority to approve, annul and modify his subordinate’s orders. He was also authorised to award a death sentence or a sentence of 14 or more years of rigorous imprisonment and a fine of the amount of 500 or more rupees. But the death sentence, imprisonment over 14 years and fine over 500 rupees had to be sent for approval to the Governor General. Some procedural changes were made by the Criminal Procedure Code. Accordingly, under section 36 of the Code, the Assistant Agent, renamed as the Deputy Commissioner, was empowered as a magistrate to try all cases punishable with death or an award of up to seven

Governance of a village

157

years’ imprisonment. However, he had to send all sentences over three years for the confirmation of the Judicial Commissioner of Chotanagpur. This system operated until the end of British rule (Sahu 1985: 126–8). Village issues crossing its borders featured in criminal law administration in Singhbhum. On a charge of illegal labour recruitment u/s 188 of the Indian Penal Code against two women of Anandpur under Manoharpur thana, the sub-inspector of police reported the matter to the district administration. Dealing with the case, the DC directed the accused to leave Kolhan within one month. The accused then filed an appeal to the High Court for a revision of the order of the district head.181 This implied that a village issue could escalate through the district to provincial headquarters. The reinvented judicial system emerged as another potent mechanism to incorporate Adivasi villages into the Raj framework. An otherwise homogenous and isolated rural life was therefore progressively linked with the district, provincial and central administration. Rural boundaries stretched, and gradually became merged into the mainstream. Villagers therefore were compelled or they deliberately crossed the precincts of their villages and resorted to the district and divisional-level courts. Likewise, socio-culturally, a village was reinvented when its residents were drawn into relations with exotic laws and institutions, and also non-Adivasi pleaders and bureaucracy. The crystallisation of village governance consummated the process of village making. All the changes narrated in the earlier chapters combined to transform the landscape. This change was multi-faceted, entailing the modification of the natural space into a human one. The penultimate chapter underlines and details the nature and content of this mutation.

Notes 1 This formulation however excludes the indigenous communities ruled by their chiefs and kings. 2 Santals mention seven pairs of septs (Hunter 1975: 452–3; Bodding 1994: 7–8). 3 Wilkinson to Tickell, 13 May 1837, para 18. 4 See Sen (2018: Chapter VI) and the section on governing village resources – land, water and forest below. 5 For the Munda and Oraon, see Risley (Vol. II, 1998, 102–9, 113–4). 6 TSKP, Bhoya, 3–5, VN 7. 7 TS, Papers of cases u/s 83, Objection Case Nos. 235–45, Pandrasali, 22–3, VN 8. 8 For a discussion of the colonial practice, see Tickell (1840: 785–7) and its contemporary performance of local newspaper reporting during May each year. 9 Note by Sk. Abdul Hakim, 2 February 1924, para.1, Appended to DC’s letter to DFOs No. 909–11 R of 8 February 1924, vide Rules for the Pasturage of Cattle in government Protected Forests (Revision of the Protected Forest Rules), FL, DC’s Office, GD, RB, CN II, FN 16 of 1923 & 5 of 1924, FS 13, paras 5–6. 10 LRAR 1908–9, DCOS, GD, RB, CNXI Return, FN I0 of 1908–9, para 21ii. 11 See Chapter 2, section on sasandiri for references. 12 TSKP, Bara Chiru, 3–4, VN 12; CN III Settle, FN 5 of 1915, Note of B. R. Sulanki, paras 1–2 and Note of Bhim Ram Ho, Kolhan Inspector, paras 1–2. 13 LRAR, 1903–4, para 49A.

158 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

28 29

30 31 32 33

34 35 36 37 38 39 40

Governance of a village CSVNERR, Darbila, VN 526, 4; ibid., Jaldiha, VN 527, 4. GAR 1883–84, Singhbhum district, para 22. LRAR 1908–9, DCOS, RD, CN XI return, FN 10 of 1908–9, para 48. CSVN, Ho Balkand, VN 583, 5. A deity as the protector of the village had been a part of the Adivasi belief system in general (Remedios 1998: 63). TS, Cases u/s 83, Objection No 364–68, Amrai, 13, VN 9. TSKP, Iligara, 3–4, VN 16. He further added that ‘The Deori, Gobhari and Jomsins are nominated after consulting the spirit through the Sakhas’. ibid., Baruisai, 3–8, VN 32. For Oraon, see Roy (1972: Chapter V). For caste societies, see Dube (1955: 88–130). In fact, as Malinowski argued, the entire ‘physiological phases of human life, and, above all, its crises, such as conception, pregnancy, birth, puberty, marriage, and death, form the nuclei of numerous rites and beliefs’ (1948: 20). Wilkinson to Tickell, 13 May 1837, para 13. ibid., paras10, 14. Deposition of Latoo Mana, dated 7 February 1860, Case between Government and Mussamut Medoee (Madroee) vs Rortea (Rootea), Proceedings No.24, 3 November 1859, Judicial Department; Deposition of Latoo Mana, dated 7 February 1860, Case between Government and Musammat Sunee vs Mora, Barundia and Hoolsaee, Proceeding No. 41, 11 August 1859. Wilkinson to Tickell,13 May 1837, paras 12–3. Deposition of Moorgee Mato, Burunga mouzah, Anandpur, dated 26 May 1859, The Case of Government and Moorgee Mato vs. Samoo, 18 August 1859, Proceeding No 34; Remarks of Commissioner of Chotanagpur, ibid. 18 August 1859, Proceeding No 33. Depositions of Palee, dated 23 July 1859 and Pandoo, dated 3 May 1859, Case between Government and Mussamat Jema vs Pudna, Pandoo, Paloo and Sadoo, Proceeding No 66, 11 August 1859. For the Oraons, see (Roy 1972: 190–1). Deposition of Mora, dated 16 June 1859, Case between Government and Musammat Sunee vs Mora, Barundia and Hoolsaee, Proceeding No 41, 11 August 1859. See also Deposition of Hoolsaee, dated 4 June 1859, ibid. Deposition of Pudna, 3 May 1859, Case between Government and Mussamat Jema vs Pudna, Pandoo, Paloo and Sadoo, Proceedings No 66, 11 August 1859; Remarks of Commissioner of Chotanagpur, ibid. See also Depositions of Palee, dated 23 July 1859 and Pandoo, dated 3 May 1859, ibid. Deposition of Latoo Mana, Amjora, dated 7 February 1860, Case between Government and Mussamut Medoee (Madroee) vs Rortea (Rootea), Proceeding No 24, 3 November 1859, Judicial Department. Deposition of Moorgee Mato, Burunga mouzah, Anandpur, dated 26 May 1859, Remarks of Commissioner of Chotanagpur on the trial of Samoo, Proceeding No 34, 18 August 1859. Deposition of Hoolsaee, dated 4 June 1859, ibid. Deposition of Jola, 18 June 1859, Proceeding Nos 30, 31, 3 November 1859, Judicial Department. Deposition of Goora, dated 18 June 1859, ibid. Deposition of Bhurta, 20 July 1859, Case between Government vs Bhurta, Selaee, Proceeding No 145, 11 August 1859, Judicial Department. Deposition of Ona, 26 November 1859, The Case between Government vs Regga, Latoo Mana, Kochey and Ona, Proceeding No 33, 15 March 1860; Statement of Patur, dated 29 April 1859, the Case between Manduey and Government vs Patur, Lonkah and Captain, Proceedings No 92, 11 August 1859.

Governance of a village

159

41 Deposition of Beerul, 30 September 1859, Proccedings No 30, 31, 3 November 1859. 42 Deposition of Regga, 7 February 1860, The Case between Government vs Regga, Latoo Mana, Kochey and Ona, Proceeding No 33, 15 March 1860. 43 Remarks of Commissioner of Chotanagpur on the trial of Samoo, Proceeding No 34, 18 August 1859. 44 Deposition of Hoolsaee, dated 4 June 1859, The Case of Government and Musammat Sunee vs Mora, Barundia and Hoolsaee, Proceeding No 41, 11 August 1859. 45 Deposition of Derroo, 18 June 1859, Proceedings No 30–1, 3 November 1859; Deposition of Ona, 7 February 1860. 46 Remarks by the Commissioner, Proceedings No. 30–1, 3 November 1859; Deposition of Pudna, 3 May 1859, Proceedings No 66, 11 August 1859; Deposition of Patur, dated 31 May 1859, Proceedings No 92, 11 August 1859. 47 Wilkinson to Tickell, 13 May 1837, paras 8–9. 48 ibid., paras 11, 13. 49 Deposition of Latoo Mana, Amjora, dated 7 February 1860, ibid. For another instance of family murder, see Deposition of Madroee, dated 5 August 1859, Case between Government and Mussamut Medoee (Madroee) vs Rortea (Rootea), Proceeding No 24, 3 November 1859. 50 Deposition of Pudna, Palee, Pandoo and Jema, Case between Government and Mussamat Jema vs Pudna, Pandoo, Paloo and Sadoo, Proceeding No 66, 11 August 1859; Remarks by Commissioner of Chotanagpur, the Case between Manduey and Government vs Patur, Lonkah and Captain, Proceeding No 92, 11 August 1859; Deposition of Regga, dated 7 February 1860, The Case between Government vs Regga, Latoo Mana, Kochey and Ona, Proceeeding No 33, 15 March 1860; Remarks of Commissioner of Chotanagpur on the trial of Samoo, Proceedings No 34, 18 August 1859; Deposition of Hoolsaee, dated 4 June 1859, The Case between Government and Musammat Sunee vs Mora, Barundia and Hoolsaee, Proceedings No 41, 11 August 1859. 51 For more details, see Sen (2018). 52 See Chapter 5 and Sen (2018: 88). 53 TS, Cases u/s 83, Objection No 168/83, Kandegutu, 8–9, VN 20. 54 TSKP, Kolaisai, 3–4, VN 49. 55 ibid., Sini, 3, VN 16; ibid., Ukugutu, 3, VN 18. 56 ibid., Sini, 3. 57 ibid., Gundijowa, 3–9, VN 71. 58 ibid., Bunumda, 3, VN 11. 59 TS, Cases u/s 83, Objection No 275–79, Bara Guntia, 3, VN 10. 60 TSKP, Aita, 3, VN 14. 61 ibid., Serengbil, 3–5, VN 18. 62 ibid., Udajo, 3–12, VN 70. 63 TSVN, Vol. VI, Birsinghhatu, 111. 64 TSKP, Jampani, 3–6, VN 47. 65 ibid., Banspani, 3, VN 43. 66 ibid., Mahuldiha, 3–5, VN 49. 67 ibid., Kotegarh, 3–5, VN 71. 68 TSVN, Vol. VI, Goriaduba, 103. See also ibid., Vol. VI, Sonaposi, 150. 69 Roughsedge to Metcalfe, 9 May 1820, para 17. 70 Wilkinson to Tickell, 13 May 1837, para 4. 71 T. Wilkinson, Agent to the Governor General to R. D. Mangles, Secretary to Bengal Government, Fort William, letter no. 20, 6 June 1837, Bengal Criminal Judicial Consultants, 6th to 27th June, 1837.

160

Governance of a village

72 CSVN, FL, Mis Case No 235 of 1907–8, Goi Munda of Argundi tendered resignation of his Mundaship and prays that it should be accepted, FS 9, Argundi, 2–8, VN 758. 73 For details, see Sen (2018: 118–23). 74 For a detailed discussion of the concept of land, see Sen (2018: Chapters 4 and 5). 75 TSKP, Barusai, 3–7; Tirilpi, 3–8; Naranga, 3–6, VN 41. 76 ibid., Kusmunda, 3, VN 43. 77 TS, Cases u/s 83, Objection No 585–91, Gutuhatu, 17, VN 1. 78 ibid., Objection No 653–57, Ankalkuti,19–20, VN 5. 79 ibid., Objection No 832–35, 837–38, Argundi 5, VN 1. 80 ibid., Objection No 1519–53, 6–9, Baduri, VN 14. 81 TSKP, Lisimoti, 3–6, VN 68. 82 TS, Cases u/s 85, Objection No 403/85 (2) II, Hesabandh, 5–17, VN 58. 83 TSKP, Bara Chiru, 5–22, VN 22. 84 ibid., Lokesai, 3–4, VN 58. 85 Government of Bihar and Orissa, Revenue Department, FN S/6 of 1915, Nos 1–12, Resettlement of the Kolhan Government estate in the district of Singhbhum, Serial No 6, Letter No 17–215–5, dated the 14th December 1914, from the Board of Revenue, Bihar and Orissa, submitting proposals for the continuance of the resettlement operations under the provisions of the Chota Nagpur Tenancy Act, 1908, Appendix C, Copy of Memorial presented by the Hos at Chaibasa 9 July 1914, 28– 29, paras 4,7. 86 For more recent contest between custom and law, see Sen (2018: 186–203). 87 TS, Cases u/s 83, Objections No. 908–11, Naranga, 5–7, VN 2. 88 ibid., objection No 509/83, Guigan, 5–6, VN 3. 89 ibid., Objections No. 908–11, Naranga, 5–7, VN 2. 90 ibid., Cases u/s 83, Objection Nos 1478–88, Kaparsai, 6, VN 14. 91 TSKP, Garahatu, 22–3, VN 4. 92 TS, Cases u/s 83, Objection Nos 660, 669–71, Sonro, 11, VN 5. 93 TSKP, Binj, 3, VN 5. 94 TS, Cases u/s 83, Objection Nos 1437, 1439, 1441–45, 1475–77, Barijol, 13, VN 13. 95 ibid., Objection No 750, Dopai, 10, VN 3. 96 ibid., Objection Nos 908–11, Naranga, 5–7. 97 For an elaboration of the function of the process, see Sen (2012: Chapters I and IV). 98 TS, Cases u/s 83, Objection No 686, Binj, 10, VN 5; TSKP, Katepara, 3, VN 50; ibid., Iligara, 3–9, VN 51. 99 ibid., Objection Nos 1557–63, 1556–80, 1582–87, Bara Maudi, 11–16, VN 14. 100 ibid., Objection No 79/83, Kharband, 25, VN 33. 101 ibid., Objection Nos 480–93, 499, 500, Matkamhatu, 12, VN 3. 102 TSKP, Bara Chiru, 3–5, VN 12. 103 ibid., Popkoda, 3–4, VN 1 MT. 104 ibid., Rairowa, 3–4, VN 1 MT. 105 ibid., Danguaposhi, 3–6, VN 45. 106 ibid., Paral, 3–5, VN 1; ibid., Kulaiburu, 3–4, VN 1 MT. 107 ibid., Danguaposhi, 3–6, VN 45. 108 TS, Cases u/s 83, Objection Nos 660, 669–71, Sonro, 11, VN 5. 109 TSKP, Gobergaon, 3–7, VN 45. 110 TS, Class I, u/s 89, In the Court of the Settlement Officer of Chotanagpur, Suit or Case No 2/89 1915–16, Secretary of State for India in Council vrs Khuntkatti tenants of the village Kotsana, Kotsana, 7–8, VN 1. 111 TS, Cases u/s 83, Objection Nos 166–231, Kendusai, Nos 115–40, 142–64 Kumharlota, Kendusai, 6, VN 8. 112 ibid., Objection Nos 807–9, 811–12, 815, 817, 820–21, Bainka, 10–11, VN 1.

Governance of a village 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142

143 144

145

161

ibid. ibid., Objection Nos 908–11, Naranga, 5–7. TSKP, Baihatu, 3, VN 11. TS, Cases u/s 83, Objection Nos 843–88, 890–95, Loharda, 8–10, VN 1. ibid., Objection Nos 836, 839, Argundi, 24, VN 1. This section draws on ‘Water in Adivasi perception and the management of water resources’, in Sen (2018: 157–72). TSKP, Rengarbera, 3–8, VN 47; ibid., Bara Raikhaman, 3–5, VN 36, also CSVEP, Gitilpi, 5, VN 177. CSVEP, Khunti, 4, VN 58; TSVN, Pukhriakhas, 3–4, VN 284. CSVEP, Gara Rajabassa, 4, VN 74. ibid., Sarda, 6, VN 83. ibid., Khuntpani, 5, VN 16. Kanti Bhusan Sen, PA to the Commissioner of CNP (Chota Nagpur) to the DC of Singhbhum, No 2400R of 15 November 1912. FL, DCOS, GD, RB, CN VII, FN 20 of 1912–13, 13 of 1913–14, Irrigation Scheme of the District. ibid. S.S. Paul, Executive Engineer’s Report, dated 6 April 1907, Irrigation, Chotanagpur, vide Kanti Bhusan Sen to DC, Singhbhum. J.F. Grunning, Secretary to Government of Bihar & Orissa, Revenue Department to the Commissioner of Chota Nagpur, No. 2631R (A) III E-9, 9 August 1912, vide Kanti Bhusan Sen to DC, Singhbhum. For instance, the tank constructed by a Brahmin became village common property as he had left no heirs. CSVN, Diku Balkand, 3, VN 532. CSVEP, Gitilpi, 5, VN 177. TS, Cases u/s 83, Pandrasali, 3, VN 31. CSVNE, Kumardungi, 3, VN 382. CSVNERR, Amjora, 3, VN 580. CSVEP, Janambera, 3, VN 2. See also TS, Tanaza Papers, Case between Kul mouza (the entire villagers) vs Madhu Ho, Patahatu, 4–5, VN 28. CSVN, Barmita, 3, VN 521. LRAR 1911–12, DCOS, GD, RB, CN. XI, Annual Return, FN. 1, 16; TSVN I, 421. CSVNE, Sonaposhi, 3, VN 483. CS, FL, Mis. Case No 915 of 1911–12, Binj, 1, VN1. LRAR 1907–8, DCOS, GD, RB, CNXI Return, FN I6, para 13. From DC to Commissioner, No 1588R of 31 March 1913, Irrigation Scheme of the District, FS 11, para 2. Dr. W. W. Hayes, Deputy Commissioner of Singhbhum to the Commissioner of Chota Nagpur, no.30, 22 February 1867, Revenue Department, June 1867, no. 122, 129. ibid. Report of L.B. Burrows, Appendix to DC’s letter to the Commissioner, No 181R of 15 May 1912, vide Constitution of Kolhan Protected Forest Division, FL, DCOS, GD, RB, CN II Forests, FN I of 1915, FS 2, Annexure B, cases of Bara Chiru, Kodalbera, Hatimanda. This is true about other parts of India like Assam and Kerala (Worster 2003: 120–33). Of these, as a minor forest product sabai was an important item of trade in Singhbhum and Santal Parganas (Sivaramakrishnan 1999: 188). Letter from V.G. Pigott to H.F. Samman, DC, 22 April 1904, vide Application of Mr. V.G. Pigott for a prospecting lease for lime stone in the Kolhan, FL, DCOS, RD, CNXV Mining, FN 7/5 of 1904–5, FS13, para 10. Divisional Conservator of Forests (DCF) comments in the margin to the Note by H.D. Carey, Deputy Commissioner of Singhbhum, on the Preservation of Private Forests in the Chotanagpur Division, Singhbhum vide Protection of Private Forest, FL, DCOS, RD, CN II, FN 16 of 1908–9, FS 7, para 4.

162

Governance of a village

146 Report of L.B. Burrows, para 2, Appendix to DC, Singhbhum’s letter to the Commissioner, No 181R of 15 May, 1912, vide Constitution of the Kolhan Reserved Forest Division. 147 Report of L.B. Burrows, para 6. See also, Formation of the Kolhan Protected Forest Block, FS9, para 2. 148 This was recorded in the settlement reports (Reid 1912: para 293: Bridge 1996: paras 168–70, 173; Sifton 1996: paras 283–87). 149 W.B. Thomson to Conservator of Forest dated 23 April 1900, vide Leasing out the Sabai grass, FL, DC’s Office, RD, CN II Forests, FN 7 of 1900–01, FS 2, para 4; A. Forbes, Commissioner, Chotanagpur Division to Conservator of Forests, dated 15 July 1901, Leasing out the Sabai Grass, ibid., FS3, para 5. 150 Report of L.B. Burrows, 19. 151 DC, Singhbhum to the Commissioner, 2 November 1913, FS 61, paras 2–5, Constitution of KPFD. 152 Report of L.B. Burrows, 20. 153 For further details, see Sen (2018: 180–4). 154 Wilkinson to Tickell, 13 May 1837, paras 18–20. 155 ibid., paras 13–18. 156 We can form this idea from the British-day adoption of the customary practice as it operated in Kolhan. ibid., para 18. 157 Among the Mundas, Panhar, being either the village founder or the oldest representative of the original founder, was the real social elder, or head, or patriarch of the village family. As such, he performed the religious and social functions of the family, besides presiding over the panchayat for the settlement of disputes (Carnduff 1905: Appendix II, xxiv–xxv). 158 We get the corroboration from the latter-day system detailed by Majumdar (1937: 60–3). 159 These rules were introduced in Kolhan in 1837. 160 Wilkinson to Tickell, 13 May, 1837, paras 18–21. 161 CS, Form of Order Sheet, Land Dispute Suit no 86 of 1895–96 between Sridhar Kol & others of Rajabasa vrs Chara Kol of Goontia, Gara Rajabasa, 38–42, VN 74. 162 CS, FL, Mis. Case No 227 of 1907–8, Petition of Suna Ho of Tentera for partition of land with his father, FS 7, Tentera, 1–21, VN 242. 163 TS, Tanaza Papers, 16–7; TS, Case u/s 83, Khariaghar, 7, VN 27. 164 CS, Form of Order Sheet, In the Court of the Settlement Officer, Kolhan Government Estate, Land Dispute Suit No 42 of 1895 between Madhu Hoe vs Christ Piara Amir & others, Pandrasali, 32–41, VN 68. 165 TS, Tanaza Papers, The case of Birsa Ho vs Bura Ho & Sini Kolhin, Lupungutu, 6–7, VN 62. See also Tanaza Papers, Pancho, 6–7, VN 62. 166 CS, FL, Mis Case No 166 of 1908, Petition of Birsingh Ho & Sideo Ho minors for their mother & guardian Dasma Kui, FS 13, Gunda Pokhar, 2, VN 281. 167 TSKP, Bara Bankan, 1–4, VN 3 CT. 168 TS, Papers of Cases u/s 83, Pampara, 5–19, VN 15. 169 TS, Tanaza Papers, Durirta, 7–8, VN 58. 170 CS, FL, Mis. Case No 866 of 1905, Durgui Kui’s Petition, FS 13, Barbil, 1–8, VN 349. 171 CS, FL, Case No 304 of 1910–11, Petition of Jema Ho & others praying for recovery of money and possession of land, FS 7, Bhalandia, 1–10, VN 550. 172 CS, FL, Mis. Case No 10 of 1908–9, Petition of Jobna Kui for mutation, Goira,1– 14, FS 21, VN139. In another case the Manki reported: ‘I enquired into the case and found that the Defdt (defendant) Desing Ho according to the custom of the Hoes, he paid pan for the commplt (complianant) Suru Kui & married her’. CS, FL, Mis. Case No 500 of 1909–10, Petition of Suru Kui for maintenance, FS 10, Tentra, 1–5, VN 242.

Governance of a village

163

173 CS, Appeal No. 6 of 1907–8 between Chupat Kui, Appellant vrs. Bira Ho & Mani Kui, FS 5, 2–8; Mis Case No 242 of 1907–8, Musamat Mani Kui & Bira Ho, FS 4, Sarkand, 2, VN 337. 174 TSKP, San Chiru, 3–5, VN11. See also TS, Papers of Cases u/s 83, Dopai, 10, VN 3. 175 TS, Papers of Cases u/s 83, Tholko, 27–29, VN11. 176 ibid., Objection case No 120/83, Jonkojori, 3, VN 29. 177 For an elaborate study of the ideology and mechanism of governance, see Sahu (1985: 126–8). 178 Remarks by the Commissioner of Chotanagpur, Case of Government vs Regga, Latoo Mana, Kochey and Ona. 179 Deposition of Rajo, dated 15 October 1859. ibid. 180 Remarks by the Commissioner of Chotanagpur, ibid. 181 Ejectment of Dikus, DCOS, RD, CN XVI, FN 56 of 1908–9, transferred to FN I, CN XVI of 1910–11.

7

The changing rural landscape

Introduction Post-colonial village studies have critiqued the colonial ethnographic conceptualisation of an Indian village as an unchanging category (Marriott 1955: xx; Srinivas 1955: Introduction; Breman, Kloos and Saith 1997: 11; Madan 2010: 7–10). This chapter explores and critically examines the nature and content of change in the Adivasi rural landscape. The nature of change being the remaking of space into place, the focus is first on how the supposedly pure natural space or wilderness became a ‘man-made or man-modified’ place (Gerike 1979: 14; Taylor 2008: 1). But the reproduction of landscape studied through ‘the relationship between society and land’ (Cosgrove 1998: 1) also accompanied an equivalent transformation of the human systems (Turner 1990: 682; Cronon 1993: 12–14; 2003: 12–14). This is the subject of the second theme of this chapter. The final issue this chapter seeks to engage with is how the villagers responded to the diverse spatio-demographic mutations. These shifts have been studied under three headings: Transformation of the physical landscape, remaking of the socio-political ecology and social response.

Transformation of the physical landscape As we seek to explore physical change, the lack of adequate and ‘reliable’ information becomes, as Cronon points out, ‘the major issue’ (2003: 6–7).1 Due to the absence of precise knowledge about the undiluted physical area or the wilderness of Jharkhand, the study of the nature and extent of change remains problematic in the present case. We have to rely on the representation of the regional (Kolhan) landscape in colonial ethnography. Here also we face two major handicaps. First, this source captures the cultural rather than the unadulterated physical landscape. Second, the portrayal is area specific and variable in colonial ethnography. The north and north-eastern parts perceptively developed over centuries into a zone of culture, home to many prosperous and well-cultivated villages.2 A similar landscape change occurred in the more hospitable open and plain region (Craven 1898: 2). Despite the growth of human settlements in the dense forest-hilly parts, the natural landscape remained virtually undisturbed and impenetrable, as the following quote describes:

The changing rural landscape

165

roads there were none, only jungal-paths from village to village. Now and again the forest was so thick that it was almost impossible for one man to walk along, and a way through had to be cut as they advanced. Range after range of hills had to be crossed where progress was slow and difficult. (Bradley-Birt 1903: 91) This narrative necessitates a general understanding of the topography of Kolhan. The region was constituted by an upland varying in elevation between 750 feet to over 1,000 feet above sea level. Its north and north-east parts were open and undulating with a scattering of low isolated rocks. The Sanjay, Roro and Kharkai rivers, drained by many smaller streams, flowed through these parts. The southern part, bare of hills, was flat and open terrain with a richer quality of soil, being irrigated by the Kangira and Baitarani rivers. The southeastern portion was both forested and rocky, and also partly covered by hill ranges. Partly covered by the Singhasan hills, the eastern tract was open and undulating. The hilly and forested western and south-western parts contained hill ranges as high as 3,500 feet and the globally famous Saranda forests (Craven 1898: paras 6–8; O’Malley 1910: 10–11). How ecology impacted on the transformation of the physical and social landscapes will be discussed below. Transformation of the natural landscape started in a large way after the advent of the Saraks, a community of lay Jainas, during the eighth to ninth centuries, and of the Bhuiyans at a later point in time (Tickell 1840: 696–7; Bradley-Birt 1903: 84). They built their permanent villages in open and plain areas rather than in the densely forested and hilly regions. The multiplicity of villages in the northern and central parts of West Singhbhum district rather than the south and western parts is evidence of this preference (Craven 1898: 6–13). However, we have practically no knowledge of how the habitable zone, arable part, roads, water bodies and other public arenas were spaced out, nor do we know about their house structures. Globally, ruralisation was associated with the import of new plants and animals in the colonised territory. For instance, corn, wheat, grains and horses entered North America with the Europeans (Cronon 1992: 1350–1). In the case of Singhbhum, the Saraks and Bhuiyans planted and maintained numerous mango groves and banyan trees, though we are not sure whether these tree species arrived with them. Another feature was the excavation of tanks, known locally as surmidurmi or bonga pokharis.3 Often large and deep, these waterbodies virtually littered parts of the colonised domain and survived for centuries. However, the progress of ruralisation was hampered after the complete ousting of the Saraks from the sixteenth century, when abandoned villages relapsed into jungles. Colonisation-induced landscape change widened with the entry of the Hos from Chotanagpur plateau after the tenth century. This itinerant community gradually expanded across large parts of south Kolhan from their earlier northern bases. Here, from the seventeenth century they graduated to settled village and agrarian life compared to their earlier culture of living in

166

The changing rural landscape

temporary villages (Tickell 1840: 696–7; Bradley-Birt 1903: 85; Tuckey 1920: 17). This involved felling of the jungles, erection of huts and houses, conversion of untended forest land into arable plots and elimination of the natural fauna. The story of the change of the entire terrain is encapsulated in the following Ho song: Under the great tree we prayed and prayed to God – And shaped the Motherland with His blessings,…. Many a rock had to be removed and many forests felled, Tigers, bears and wild animals had to be driven away – To make the land in the hills and dales habitable… And through incessant and unceasing labour The uplands, slopes and glades were cleared of stones and jungles and took the shape of low or sloping fields. (Sen 2008a: Appendix III)

Quantifying and qualifying the recession of natural space The erosion of natural space caused by the setting up of villages and arable fields, as depicted in the above song, accelerated with the foundation of British rule in 1837. The itinerant Hos gradually adapted the British ideology and helped to expand the frontiers of the lived space. Consequently, the number of villages in Kolhan rose from 622 in 1837 to 910 in 1918. This was done first by splitting up larger villages into two separate villages. The second practice involved the repetition of the pre-colonial practice of colonising fresh forested tracts, which continued even though the Forest Acts of 1865 and 1878 largely restricted unhindered colonisation of the green land. That the second factor was more dominant becomes clear from the fact that in the densely forested Saranda pir, the number of villages rose from 43 to 78 between 1867 and 1895 (Craven 1898: Appendix A. x; Hunter 1976, Vol. XVI: 136). Conversion of the woodland into a habitable zone was accompanied by a change in the aquatic landscape. As narrated previously, initially villagers depended on natural sources such as springs, rivulets and rivers to meet their aquatic needs. The Saraks and Bhuiyans introduced the practice of excavating tanks to conduct the shift from nature to culture. These old tanks in Kolhan numbered 182 in the 1890s. These were numerous in Chiru, Cherai, Thoi, Bharbharia, Lalgarh, Aula, Bar and Kainua pirs. Of these, the greater number was located in Thoi, Bharbharia, Lalgarh, Aula and Bar (Craven 1898: 6–13). The highest number of these water reservoirs was 172 in Bar pir, followed by 150 in Thoi, 56 in Bharbharia, 42 in Lalgarh, while there was no tank/bandh in Rengra, Rela and Latua pirs (ibid.). The generic erosion of the green space due to human settlements cannot be fully estimated due to the absence of pre-Ho settlement data. Presumably, the number of Sarak and Bhuiyan villages reduced, even some of them relapsing into

The changing rural landscape

167

Table 7.1 Year

Cultivated area

1837–38 1855 1867 1895–97

127,700,000,000 square yards 290,825,000 square yards 406,275,000 square yards 342,452 acres (uncultivated area: 560,942 acres) 433,334 acres (uncultivated area: 441,386 acres)

1914–18 Source: Sen (2011a: 209)

jungle, as related above, after the Sarak exodus. Therefore, we should seek to qualify the nature of the loss, area wise. In the densely forested and hilly parts such as Saranda region, loss of the woodland was much less compared to the more accessible flat and open parts. Micro-level information may somewhat come to our rescue in aiding our understanding. To exemplify, practically no jungle survived in Amda, a small village located in an open area.4 On the other hand, situated in a forested area, jungle still survived in Dansori.5 Furthermore, denudation of forests was greater in areas contiguous either to an urban centre or a modern road. Dobrosai, located within one mile of Chaibasa town, the administrative headquarters and business centre, had ‘not a bit of jungle and waste’.6 Little waste or no jungle could be found in a village situated on the fourth mile of the Chaibasa–Dhalbhum road.7 The above micro-level data based on overall information enables quantification of the woodland, but precise detail is unavailable about its loss due to the building of huts and houses. We have, however, more data about the area under plough, which grew out of the forests. Extension of agriculture required much more deforestation than the space needed for forming the habitable zone. Agrarian communities like the Bhuiyans and Saraks had initiated settled cultivation in Kolhan-Porahat. But we have practically no information about what and how they cultivated and how much area they could carve out of the forests for this purpose. The itinerant Hos were initially a community of foragers and hunters. With the Ho adaptation of settled agro-rural life in Kolhan and Porahat, the arable spaces widened at the expense of the forests, as Table 7.1 shows.

Change in flora and fauna The modification of the flora and fauna was the other type of landscape change. Though virtually no information is available for the pre-British period, the clues provided by the early colonial ethnography help to approximate the original biotic composition of the Kolhan-Porahat region. The jungles of this region were infested with wild animals like tigers, gaurs, spotted and horned

168

The changing rural landscape

deer, nilgai (Dalmatis pieta) leopards, bears, hyenas, jackals, wild dogs, hares larger in size than that of Bengal, snakes of all varieties, scorpions, centipedes and white ants, while fish were abundantly available in the streams (Tickell 1840: 702–5; Dunbar 1861: 373). Wild ducks, pigeons, geese, snipe, partridges and quail were found in the low-lying areas (Hunter Vol. XVII 1976: 24). The scourge of the elephants on the ripe paddy, houses and human beings, a contemporary reality,8 had not reared its head in the 1840s. Tickell writes: ‘The elephant, which is numerous in parts of the Jungle Mehals, comparatively close to Medneepoor, is strange to say, unknown among the remote and wild regions of west Singhbhoom’ (1840: 702). But we have historic evidence of the rampant tiger menace, as related earlier. Villagers faced two other serious existential threats from the neighbouring jungles. The source of one was the deer, whose ‘depredations on the fields of gram, boot, moong, oorid planted near the jungles’ was a positive nuisance for rural life. Likewise, the fear of ‘retaliation’ of the wild dogs on their cattle deterred ‘the villagers from killing them’ (ibid.: 703). The ‘destruction of (by) wild beasts’ becoming a matter of concern during British rule, regular rewards were paid to the hunters. This was an obvious answer to the deaths of 16 people from wild beasts and snakes in 1869. The reward amounted to Rs. 2807.10. 0 [pound 284, 15 s. 3d] (Hunter Vol. XVII 1976: 24). Additionally, villagers and the administration combined to deal with the more rampant and devastating menace of the tigers by settling professional tiger hunters known as Baghmaras in the villages of Kolhan and Porahat.9 While they selectively dealt with the faunal menace, the anthropic threat to the wild was persistent in other ways. The Adivasi villagers, and also the Odiyas, were identified as ‘inveterate hunters’. Tickell is eloquent about the decimation of the wild animals ‘on an exterminating scale’ during annual sendra (hunting) in the month of May (1840: 785–6). Furthermore, it was a regular exercise of the Adivasis to ‘pursue, trap, hawk and shoot’ wild birds as entertainment and for food (ibid.: 704). The domestication and decimation of the animals went together. The former was accelerated after the Adivasis started keeping cattle to promote plough cultivation. Depending upon the socio-economic status of the family, oxen, buffaloes, cows, goats, sheep, pigs, cat, dog, fowl and ducks were a necessary presence in the countryside (Hunter Vol. XVII 1976: 83–4). But the Ho villagers left the cattle under the charge of the village cowherds. As related before, this often led to friction between the two parties. Besides, agrarian use, payment of cattle as gonong, was made to procure a wife (Dalton 1973: 192; Sahu 1985: 197–8). On the other hand, hens and ducks had a culinary role; hens were additionally used as offerings to propitiate their bongas. Interesting micro-level data is available about the names and numbers of animals of different varieties as items of family property. The list of cattle includes: cow with calves 251, bulls and oxen 254, buffalo 50, sheep 111 and goats 138.10 Simultaneously, we witness a change in the floral scenario. Colonial ethnography informs that two-thirds of the district of Singhbhum was covered with primeval jungle in the 1870s. We can therefore presume that the green space was

The changing rural landscape

169

much more expansive and dense before the onset of its domestication. The woodland, with the famous Saranda forests as the apex, had rich reserves of sal (Shorea robusta), palash, asan (Terminalia tomontosa), gamhar (Gmelina arborea), kusum (Schleichera trijuga), tun (Toona ciliata), piasar, sissu (Dalbergia sissoo), kend, jamun (Syzygium cumini), bamboo, wild mango, wild plantain, wild indigo and arrowroot trees, and also a variety of plants, shrubs and fungi (Tickell 1840: 702; Hunter Vol. XVII 1976: 23). People settled their villages after denuding large parts of the primeval forests, preserving a small part as their sarna. But their link with the forests continued, because villagers depended considerably on the village and adjacent forests. Grazing their cattle was one example. Foraging the woodland for firewood, herbs, leaves and fruits to meet their daily needs was another example, done mostly by women; while felling or the chopping down of trees for house building was the male responsibility. People gathered lac, beeswax and sabai grass from the jungle to meet their family needs, and later also to take to the market (Hunter Vol. XVII 1976: 23–4). The vital change that occurred over time was the domestication of the flora. This took the form of identifying some of the species of tree as more useful for village life. Mango, tamarind, jamun, jackfruit, mahua, kusum and neem belonged to this category. A list of trees found in one village provides the following details: mango 47, tamarind 79, jackfruit 1, mahua 208 and kusum 28.11 However, the records do not provide information on whether these were the remnant of the felled forest. This question is relevant because of the concept of athrop or self-grown trees, conveying the advent of the plantation of trees. Retaining or extending the greenery took on a completely new form with the growth of cultivation. As a consequence, almost every single village came to be demarcated into habitable and arable zones, a distinction that was missing when the terrain was wooded. From Siringsia we have the following details about the changed nature of the landscape: Cultivated land is 1479.1 bigha, i.e. 763.49 acres; waste land allotted to the villagers for the expansion of cultivation is 2,745.1 bigha, i.e. 1,417.93 acres; area excluded for protected forest is 1,139.14 bigha, i.e. 583.63 acres.12 Agriculture added the idea of cultural flora to the countryside. In the 1840s, rice was the principal agrarian product; other crops were mung (kidney-bean), urid (phaseolus radiatus), kurthi (dolichos biflorus), rahar (cytisus cajan); oil seeds such as til or sesamum, mahua (bassia latifolia) and other such items such as chunna, surguja, gundli (Panicum miliare), maize, cotton and tobacco as well as vegetables like jhingi, khukra, cucumber, pumpkin and baigan (Tickell 1840: 805). The list became longer with time by the addition of masur (lentil), khesari, tisi (linseed), matar (pea), while wheat and spices were produced selectively. This was the scenario not only in Kolhan villages, but almost throughout Chotanagpur.13 In sum, we visualise the slow and steady emergence of contrasting natural and cultural landscapes, coexisting yet conflicting, with the gradual shrinkage of the wild and the extension of the domesticated space. The domestication of the landscape came alongside the staged consolidation of the fundamental aspects of rural life, which in turn also diversely modified the socio-political landscape.

170

The changing rural landscape

Remaking of the socio-political ecology The story of change can best be understood through the study of a long timeframe. In the African context, it has been observed that as the terrain had undergone transformation over several millennia, it is essential for environmental historians to ‘employ a deeper timeframe in spite of the methodological limitations’ (Kwashirai: 2). Likewise, Leach and Mearns recommend the use of ‘historical’ and ‘time series data’ (1996: 443). In tandem, the present work therefore virtually conducts a journey through different temporal and cultural zones, which creates the semblance of different archaeological layers. This way, landscape as archaeology traverses distinct ‘layers of history, with every landscape as an accumulation of the past’ (Gerike 1979: 15). This represents ‘its own history, a history that can be understood only as a part of wider history of economy and society’ (Cosgrove 1998: 1). Marriott significantly observed that the changes combined to blur ‘traditional landmarks’ in Indian society or any great civilisation (1955: XX). The present section explores the process of socio-political transformation in three parts. The first part traverses the pre-colonial phase to understand how distinct politicocultural zones were delineated out of the pristine wild, followed by a slow and steady blurring of the distinctions. The second part portrays the emergence of a dominant ethnic (Ho) ecology, which created sovereign zones of polity and culture. The third part narrates how Adivasi autonomy and agency slowly faded with the advent of colonial rule; and how the interaction removed the earlier isolation of Adivasi villages and their inhabitants and influenced their moral and material widening. Consequently, the rural world had to respond to diverse accretions in their lives brought about by exogenous social groups, ideologies and institutions. I begin with the pre-colonial politico-cultural zones represented by the Saraks, Bhuiyans (Sahu 1985: 7–10), the Hos and non-ethnic outsiders. We do not have precise data on the early human settlements in the wilds of KolhanPorahat, except for those the Saraks and Bhuiyans set up. However, this early colonisation of the landscape brought about profound changes. Their settled agro-rural life was largely entrenched in Kolhan after the ninth century until their displacement by the Hos after the seventeenth century. This is corroborated by the tanks and mango groves. Sarak trade, commerce and more historically famous copper mining provide other evidence. Though their mining activities were concentrated in the Dhalbhum region of East Singhbhum, in West Singhbhum their political economy seemed to primarily thrive on their developed agriculture and commerce. The discovery of Roman coins in the neighbouring Bamanghatty region clearly indicates the extent of their commercial link. This was obviously carried out through the trade routes they carved out, one of which was the old Chaibasa–Jaintgarh road. Barampokhari village in Kolhan, which was formerly a Sarak village as corroborated by the presence of a Sarak tank with three banyan trees on its bank, was adjacent to the Chaibasa–Jaintgarh road.14 The trade routes embodied another definite shift: The

The changing rural landscape

171

introduction of bullock carts, which the Hos later adapted, to carry the merchandise to the nearest port of Tamluk. The Bhuiyans, ‘an inoffensive, simple race, but rich in cattle, and industrious cultivators’ (Tickell 1840: 696–7), were the other historic agents of transformation. They were known for their tanks and groves, besides the goddess Pauri who they worshipped. However, the advance of rural culture seemed to suffer with the ousting of the Saraks by the Hos, the areas of their control often relapsing into forest. Though the Bhuiyans survived, their exodus from a large number of villages during 1857–58 truncated their control over the geo-polity. This presaged the emergence of Ho dominance, the theme of the second part of this section, outlining the role of the community as historic agents. The dominance of Ho ecology began with their expansion into the major parts of West Singhbhum. This made them the most numerous people with control over its vast expanse. As a rough calculation, they constituted 85% of the total population of Kolhan in 1838–9 (ibid.: 700). This was the principal reason why West Singhbhum was virtually converted into a politico-cultural domain of the Hos, as the Ranchi and Hazaribagh districts ‘were peopled in the past almost with aboriginals’ (Mundas and Oraons). (Sifton 1996: para 31). Political dominance entrenched the indigenous culture across the region, the non-ethnic culture having a peripheral and insignificant presence. I will identify the basic tenets and institutions of the indigenous culture below. To return to the details provided earlier, the Adivasi world was basically patriarchal in nature, governed by their customs and regulated through the MankiMunda and parha-panchayat institutions. Their religion rested on a belief in a Supreme Being variously named as Singbonga, Dharmesh and Thakurji and a large pantheon of minor deities. This was complemented by an elaborate practice of prayer and propitiation. They carved out a portion of the primeval forest to locate their desauli or sarna, parallel to the temples, churches and mosques of the nonethnic communities. Their Maghe, Ba (Ho), Sarhul, Karma (Oraon), Baha and Sohrai (Santal) festivals, closely linked to their agricultural schedules, were different from the festivals celebrated by the Hindus, Muslims and Christians. The Adivasis founded a pre-literate culture (Sen 2016: 105–7) based on their colloquial language and oral pedagogic tradition. This carved out two distinct epistemic terrains, as a recent writing elaborates. In oral society, knowledge was more or less existence-centric derived through perception and intuition. The lived world to them was both physical and metaphysical, as constituted by benevolent and malevolent forces. In the absence of writing, knowledge was socially determined, orally retained and generationally transmitted. Moreover, at the ‘seminaries for moral and intellectual training of the youth’, elders familiarised boys and girls with the dos and don’ts of the society. The function of knowledge was to maintain inter-personal, familial and killi homogeneity, and also village peace and harmony. A large and significant part of it related to their understanding of the opaque and secret metaphysical domain governed by deori/pahan, dewan, ojha, wizards etc., who, as related before, were responsible for ensuring material and moral well-being through prayer and propitiation (ibid.).

172

The changing rural landscape

The ethnic groups generally preferred to be enmeshed in the autonomy, and to a large extent, in the isolation of their world. This prompted colonial ethnographers to underline the idea of a physical and cultural insulation. First, this was geographical; the hill and jungle-clad habitat naturally isolated them from the outside world and people (Bradley-Birt 1903: 85–6). Second, there was the notion of politico-cultural exclusion from the mainstream. Roughsedge observed: Not having any of the feelings of veneration for Bramins, cows which pervade Hindoos of every description they make no scruple of putting to death any man of respectable caste who presumed to enter their territory, nor is there I can venture to affirm a single Bramin, Rajpoot or Mussulman in any one of the numerous and well inhabited villages they possess.15 This seemed to continue late into colonial rule when Tuckey reported that the Hos shunned all intercourse with ‘Dikkus’ (1920: 8, 22–3). Added to this was the idea of linguistic segregation between Kol and languages of Sanskrit origin, as Dalton wrote: Ethnologically their position is singular and interesting; speaking themselves the Kol language only they occupy a basin whose barrier of hills restrains the flow and blending together of the three great Sanskrit derivatives Hindi, Bengali and Uriya which but for this obstacle of an insulated language would have formed a trijunction boundary point in the centre of Singhbhum. (1973: 179) The depiction in colonial ethnography of rigid social compartmentalisation, with a minor presence of non-ethnic peoples in the countryside, was one part of reality. Another aspect was the expansion of the area of diku presence and also the simultaneous play of fissure and fission. Porahat chiefs of Singhbhum held some control over the Hos,16 who continued to maintain political relations with local chiefs (Tickell 1840: 698). Adivasi villages had a close material link with the functional castes like ‘pahuns (weavers), gwallas, and conchus (potters) for the sake of being provided with cloth, pots and ghee (the former generally act as interpreters and accountants when occasion requires)’.17 Furthermore, the Ho villagers travelled all the way to Puri for salt and itinerant bead merchants bartered their trinkets with the local tobacco (ibid.: 805). During pre-British eras when the diku presence was small and subordinate, the Hos were politico-culturally more dominant. But British rule reversed the order, as described below. The onset of colonial domination was the sequel to the incorporation of the Adivasi-dominated villages of Kolhan-Porahat after 1837 into the British state system. The consequent changes that this inaugurated, as elaborated in the previous chapter, may be abstracted to conceptualise the nature and dimension

The changing rural landscape

173

of change. First, the British inflicted subordination and subjecthood to an independent community. Consequently, the autonomy of village governance was severely fractured. Furthermore, the Adivasi homeland was incorporated into the British district, divisional, provincial and central administrative network. Village natural and human resources came to be owned and regulated by the British with the help of exogenous rules, regulations and indigenous customs, the latter being interpreted and filtered by colonial courts and officials. Slowly and steadily, colonial administration subjected villagers to strange survey and settlement, qualitative classification of lands, regular payment of rent, the notion of private property, the Western mode of deliverance of justice and the colonial system of maintenance of law and order. Worst perhaps was the subalternisation of the Adivasi villages through land alienation and displacement. As broached in the introduction, this is the dominant and recurrent theme of historiographic and ethnographic writings on the colonial and post-colonial periods. Therefore, we have the overarching presence of studies on the kind of Sahariya landscape steeped in ‘unfathomable poverty and underdevelopment’ (Singh 2015: 1), with Adivasis suffering historical and contemporary ‘injustices, misappropriations, plunders, and displacements’ (Ricca 2018: 51). These foregrounded issues like land acquisition and the rural protest in Jagatsinghpur and Niyamgiri in Odisha state (Krishnan and Naga 2017: 1–17), a state attempt to acquire a large area of land under the Koel-Karo Project (Ghosh 2006: 502–6) and Adivasis being literally ‘thrown out’ of the forest and ‘pushed’ to the margins (Aufschnaiter 2008). However, more poignant and personal for village life was the transplantation of an exogenous socio-cultural structure to the countryside that caused the steady recession of ethnic cultural dominance and weaned villagers away from their traditional customs and conventions. Furthermore, in diverse ways, they began to look beyond the borders of their village and stay connected with the mainstream. This began with the large and steady growth of non-Adivasi population in the villages, as discussed earlier. I would like to further add that demographic change depended on whether a village was founded and occupied by the Adivasis or dikus. In the first type, two trends are evident. The first revealed a marked contrast in the number of communities. While the given village located a total of 80 Ho families, dikus were very insignificant in number, having a total of three Goala and Tanti families each and one Lohar.18 We can presume that in such villages, numerical superiority was reflected clearly in the quantity and quality of land possession and control over the key administrative posts, as described in an earlier chapter. This in turn invested an attitude of dominance among the ethnic group over the numerically inferior ones. But this was not the rule. In another village, although the numerical preponderance of the Hos was reflected in the total of 131 Ho families, the Hos could not assert similar dominance over others, due perhaps to the sizeable presence of others: Gour: 28, Oraon: 16, Tanti: 8, Mallah: 7, Kamar: 1.19 The second type was that the Ho presence in a non-Ho village was generally small, as shown by a Lakhirajdar village belonging to a Bhuiyan family. The

174

The changing rural landscape

numerical distribution was: Goala: 125, Bhuiyan: 27, Ghasi: 56, Tanti: 23, Dhobi: 16, Hajam: 6, Brahman: 7, Lohar: 5, as against Ho: 5.20 This meant that there existed an undercurrent of social tension between the Hos and others, which prompted the former to live in the midst of their own people. Another reason presumably was that due to their numerical increase, and the attendant rise in the land share of others disrupting the socio-political balance of the communities, the Hos put a premium on socio-cultural affinity for the selection of their place of habitation. To substantiate, Kochra was formerly a Ho settlement. But they later moved to Turipara, a tola of Jamdiha. The reason was that Kumhars and Goalas of the village could ‘not tolerate eating pork and beef and drinking Diang (Hanria or rice beer) by the Hos’.21 In another predominantly Ho village inhabited by Gour, Kumhar, Mallah, Tanti, Ghasi, Dhobi and Kamars, though other professional groups served all, such as in Angardiha village, Dhobis washed the clothes only of Gour, Kumhar and Mallahs.22 These two villages show that caste-type differences were maintained between a Ho and diku. Furthermore, despite the numerical superiority of the Hos in Kolhan region, their socio-cultural preponderance was challenged. The increasing presence of others severely fractured the uni-ethnic composition of villages. The following micro-level data will illustrate how Ho-dominated villages were transformed into multi-community villages (ethnic and nonethnic). The distribution of houses/families and the people in one village was as follows: Ho – 73 houses, 522 inhabitants; Magadha Goala – 6 and 44; Kamar – 1 and 12; Tanti – 10 and 48; Kumhar – 1 and 5.23 In another village, owned and controlled by the Hos,24 non-Hos constituted 62% of the population. The details are: Hos – 15 houses and 88 people; Magadha Goala – 2 and 24; Tanti – 6 and 26; Kamar – 1 and 5; Bhumijs – 14 and 71 and Gond – 3 and 18.25 The reverse trend of the shift of geo-political control from the dikus to the Hos was also noticeable in some villages.26 One of these villages provides the following details: Hos – 70 houses and 363 people; Tanti – 14 and 76; Magadha Goala – 1 and 3; Gond 2 and 22; Kamar – 1 and 13; Dom – 1 and 14.27 Simultaneously, with the reformation of village demography, Adivasi demographic control over the regional geo-polity eroded. This has been explored in Chapter 4. With the entry of outsiders, Jharkhand countryside developed into a shared cultural space. Though the Adivasi–non-Adivasi divide lingered, people could not remain apart and estranged for long. That this had a pre-colonial origin is substantiated by the following quote: The Hos, although totally distinct from Hindoos yet, being a simple race have suffered that crafty people to lure them in many ways into following their ceremonies, rites, festivals, and prejudices. Those near the boundaries have become as subservient to Brahmins as any Hindoos would be. (Tickell 1840: 803) Empiricists have underlined the process of the rural world forming ‘part of a wider social system and organised political society’ and their growing

The changing rural landscape

175

interrelationship (Marriott 1955: 182–91; Dube 1959: 2–7). I will elaborate on how the Adivasi villages, which were comparatively more remote and isolated, came under the throe of the mainstream culture and economy, and how the ‘widening of linkages’ caused a steady ‘erosion of village boundaries’ (Breman, Kloos and Saith 1997: 7). These cumulated to reinvent country life in diverse ways. The advent of markets was perhaps the first factor that profoundly changed the rural socio-economy. Immediately after the subjugation of Kolhan, Wilkinson visualised its immense modernising potential when he proposed the opening up of a weekly market, along with a hospital and school, in Ho land.28 From this point onwards, the movement to the near and distant weekly marts29 became a regular feature of country life. Sale of local agricultural and forest products and purchase of items of necessity brought villagers and merchants and traders from outside onto the same platform. Dumuria had a small weekly market (‘hatia’) held on a Sunday. This was visited by an average of 100 men and women. Dhan (paddy), rice, earthen wares, oil etc. were sold and bartered in the market.30 Another change was that villagers often visited different markets. Inhabitants of Kuira used the haats of Gamaria, Kharband, Jagannathpur, Jhinkpani, Dumuria, and Jaintgarh for selling or exchanging their necessities. The road from Jaintgarh to Chaibasa passing through the village facilitated the movement.31 Bhangaon haat was a fairly large one held every Friday. Since the village was connected by a fair-weather cart road, about 1,000 people frequented it for the sale and barter of such items as rice, gooja (a kind of oil seed), mustard seed, tamarind, castor seed, kurthi (Dolichos biflorus), salt, oil, cloth, spices, tobacco, milk and milk products, parched rice, tasser cocoon, lac, gur (Jaggery) and some sorts of grains in small measure.32 The early practice of bartering subsequently yielded to money exchange, and paseri (weight of five seers), seer and maund became the widely accepted measures of weight instead of the traditional mode of unmeasured hissa (bulk) exchange.33 The development of a gradual extension of the transport and communication network and also machine-driven vehicles and goods trains expanded the market of agricultural, forest and mineral products enormously. The economic remoteness of villages progressively waned and these were steadily included on the Indian trade and commercial map. Marketing of local products caused a break in the dominant tendency prevailing mainly among Adivasi villagers to produce and obtain goods for their family needs (Tickell 1840: 805; Craven 1898: 14).34 On the other hand, the market of local products considerably pulled traders and business men to Singhbhum, finally accelerating diku immigration as shown above. Principal weekly markets became the site of intense commercial activity where the villagers, especially the Adivasis, came into increasing contact with diku traders. Its other impact was the promotion of individualistic and acquisitive traits among an otherwise non-materialistic ethnic people. The onset of mining activities brought an all-round transition of the physical and social landscape. It was in the 1850s that the British learnt about the large deposits of copper and gold in Singhbhum. The survey and prospecting by

176

The changing rural landscape

foreign companies discovered rich reserves of iron ore, manganese, limestone and other minerals, leading to unprecedented mining activities in the forests (O’Malley 1910: 140–51). Large swathes of forest lands were leased out to individual and corporate Indian and foreign groups, such as the Tata Iron & Steel Company, Indian Iron & Steel Company, Messrs Bird & Company, Visanji Umarshi Company, Kasimbazar Clay Factory, Messrs Villiers & Company and Schroder Smidth & Company, besides several Marwari, Gujrati, Bengali, Parsi and other Indian entrepreneurs (Sen 2011: 69–75). Leasing out of these tracts and commencement of mining works followed. For instance, in Dhalbhum subdivision the Bengal Iron and Steel Co. got the lease for over 12,800 acres of land for 35 years with effect from 1908. Cape Copper Company Limited was given the lease of over 1,166 acres of land for 45 years commencing from 1905.35 As we enter the post-independence phase, alienation of forest and village lands in Jharkhand for mining and large industrial and hydraulic projects became a major official policy (Sen 2018: 187–203). The conversion of the remote and desolate primeval forests and countryside into a commercial zone made south Bihar an attractive place for investment and diku entrepreneurship. The rural distress that the official development policy caused converted Adivasi villages into a zone of confrontation and conflict. The peace and tranquillity of village life was therefore completely disrupted.36 The colonial and post-colonial development agenda converted the very meaning and purpose of village land. Districts such as Singhbhum, Ranchi, Hazaribagh, Palamau and Santal Parganas, where land was regarded as a community-controlled unsalable social resource, developed into a land market. As a result, considerable village land was transferred from Adivasis to dikus (Mohapatra 1990: 163–73). We can obtain a glimpse of the crisis of land alienation in a village in Kolhan from contemporary official records: ‘It may be remembered that half of the cultivated lands of Kurta were acquired last year & the other half this year’ (Quoted in Sen 2011: 70). The government introduced the practice of pecuniary compensation, a culture that still applies when Adivasi village land is exchanged in independent India. This has generated a debate about the appropriate amount of compensation, and also the right mode of rehabilitation, which villagers and the government often fail to resolve. No less influential was the near and distant migration that affected particularly the marginal groups. The impact was variable. On the one hand, this displaced them from their hearth and home; their life became precarious and uncertain when they had to adjust to an unfamiliar place and people. But this dispersion sometimes proved beneficial when through the process of migration physical and mental widening of the villagers happened. With this, the fear of the unknown and unfamiliar progressively waned among Adivasi villagers, paving the way to their movement to different states to aid their livelihood and career. This generated new aspirations in the rural world. Furthermore, the achievement of their kinsmen fostered their identity assertion, with examples of their friends and relatives holding high office was flaunted as an element of collective pride and a mark of their talent and competence. This in turn

The changing rural landscape

177

encouraged the educated and conscious among villagers to respond to the conditions of life differently. Before elaborating on this alternate vision, I will highlight how a pedagogic shift during colonial and also post-colonial times brought about a change in mentality. The diffusion of modern education through the expansion of the lower and upper primary school network in the Adivasi-dominated districts of Bihar imported and entrenched exogenous literary traditions in an oral world. In the process, the traditional system of education was steadily reduced into an ‘anachronism’ (Roy 1984: 124). Herdia village in Kolhan, with 266 inhabitants, had a lower primary school with 40 boys.37 In another village with 258 Hos and 91 dikus, there was an upper primary school with 70 students from this and adjoining villages, on the rolls.38 By the turn of the nineteenth century, almost every village sending boys and girls to the schools located in nearby villages and urban centres became the dominant trend. In 1882–3, 2,835 Ho and 162 Santal students were enrolled in the schools of Singhbhum, rising to 3,112 and 314 in 1883–4.39 Numerical growth was officially deemed as an ‘increased appreciation of the value of education by the Hos’.40 Of the students of Singhbhum, ‘a Ho boy won a middle vernacular scholarship, an Oraon girl an upper primary scholarship and a Ho girl and eight aboriginal boys each won a lower primary scholarship’.41 In response to people’s inclination for literate education, the number of schools continued to grow.42 Boys and girls took advantage of schooling as the village-wise figures of school-going children in the 1920s reveal.43 After independence, the number of schools of different grades perceptively increased and with it the number of pupils (Thakur 2019). Colleges were opened to lay the base of higher education, followed by the establishment of universities. Kolhan University was founded in 2009 directly to promote postgraduate teaching for the Adivasis and others of Kolhan. These institutions contributed to the emergence and growth of Adivasi literati as champions of their rights and aspirations. Schools exposed village children to exotic languages like English, Hindi, Bengali and Odiya. This greatly reduced the linguistic barrier Dalton had emphasised. Of these, Hindi and English were more in use in the courts and offices, though at a social level the former was more popular. This exposure made young villagers bilingual, a trend perceptible since the 1870s (Dalton 1973: 185). However, the Ho preference for Hindi prompted the local administration to make it the official language in Kolhan (Hunter XVII, 1976: 36–7). A group of literate Hos, with the capability to read, write and interpret the official orders and summons or interact with the government on matters relating to Ho life, made villagers more interactive (O’Malley 1910: 201–5).44 Knowledge of Hindi and English qualified villagers for employment with the district administration. A villager traversing the journey to the office either on foot or bicycle must have been a new phenomenon of village life. The comparative chart of the persons employed not only shows an enhanced total but also a gradual rise in grade. In 1900, in the lowest grade of ‘servants’, out of a total of 14 employees four were Hos. A marked change came with the

178

The changing rural landscape

creation of the post of Kolhan Inspector (KI), in 1899. Bagun Jarika was appointed as the first KI with a monthly salary of Rs. 50 and a Ho orderly peon to assist him.45 Mathura Ho, serving as KI in the 1930s, enjoyed an annual pay with horse allowance of Rs. 1016/8 annas.46 A change in grade occurred as we move one decade ahead. We find a Ho acting as Ministerial Officer occupying the post of peshkar (clerk, reader) with a monthly salary of Rs. 60 and four Hos employed as lower division clerks with a monthly salary ranging between Rs. 25 and 35 in the Deputy Commissioner’s office. Furthermore, a considerably enhanced number of Hos served as orderlies and peons in different departments of the local administration.47 People such as Joseph Captain Manki, a Christian Ho, Sadhu Manki and Dulu Manki were appointed to the post of Honorary Magistrates in the district judiciary.48 Official employment made a marginal change to the vocational pattern of villagers pursuing cultivation or occupation of agrarian, mining or forest labour. Ho government employees mostly from adjacent villages consolidated the literate administrative culture in the countryside and as collaborators of the government entrenched colonial rule in the region. There were other more enveloping additions to the rural world. The introduction of modern medicine changed rural attitudes towards health and hygiene and ideologically and institutionally linked the countryside with the outer world. In Singhbhum, the first hospital was opened at Chaibasa. The facilities and personnel to serve people were minimal, as was an initial popular allergy to Western medicine. But the situation changed with the establishment of dispensaries at Jagannathpur, Chakradharpur, Seraikela, Kharsawan and Ghatsila. Gradually, Adivasi perception of physical ailments as a physiological rather than metaphysical phenomenon started changing. They were introduced to Western medicine largely because of the recurrence of malaria, cholera, diarrhoea, smallpox, eye, ear and skin diseases and accidents, and also sex-related diseases. All these caused the death of 10,853 people during 1899–1900. In search of a cure, villagers turned to modern medicine provided by the above dispensaries. In 1901–2, Chaibasa Charitable Dispensary admitted 3,256 and 148 outdoor and indoor patients, respectively, compared to 2,660 and 100 during 1898–99.49 The number rose further with time. During 1908, the respective figures for the above dispensary was 5,256 and 300, while those for Jagannathpur Dispensary were 3,277 and 10.50 Another indicator was the positive response to vaccination as a possible cure for smallpox and cholera. Smallpox was the major killer, as revealed by 3,294 deaths in 1902 alone.51 As a precaution, the total numbers of people receiving a primary vaccination were as follows: Kolhan: 6,133, Chakradharpur: 3,906, Manoharpur: 552, Ghatsila: 5,188. In the process, the vaccinators covered 1,116 out of a total of 2,877 villages in Singhbhum.52 But graduation to modern medicine was delayed and hesitant. It is no easy matter to induce the people of the District to submit to vaccination. The Kols are particularly obstructive from their conservative and

The changing rural landscape

179

obstinate character and a habit they have of combining in opposition, it is especially difficult to overcome their prejudice.53 The advent of Hinduism, Islam and Christianity affected the socio-cultural modification of Adivasi rural world in no uncertain way. Of these, the demographic and ideological impact of Hinduism was more profound and extensive. As related before, the Hos had an initially strong aversion to Brahmanical faith and practices, as was the case with the upper castes. But they were more amenable to the influence of Hindu Ahirs, Kumhars, Nowas and other functional castes, who became the torchbearers of Hinduism in Jharkhand. Vaishnavism imparted a deeper influence in spreading many Hindu socio-religious ideas, practices and rituals, such as the concept of pap punya, use of ghee and incense during Karma puja, the chant of Radhe-Radhe or Hari Bol, sindur dan and use of turmeric during marriage, fasts and ceremonial ablutions (Roy 1970: 96–100). Oraons imbibed the belief in Devi Mai and Mahadev and also the practice of consigning charred bones of the dead into streams or pools of water from the Hindus. Santal households adapted the Hindu gods and goddesses such as Kali, Durga, Ganga, Laksmi, Ram and Mahadev (Troisi 1978: 250–60). Likewise, the remains of a temple and idols of Ganesha, Siva and Vishnu evidence the entrenchment of Hinduism in the remote forest-hill clad Singhbhum.54 Jotea Ho, the reputed founder of Khairpal, had found a broken image of Siva, while ploughing his fields. He repaired the image and ‘set up the idol & started offering Pujas & this has continued in the family’.55 Sadhu Manki, a resident of Khas Pukhuria, brought one priest from Sikharbhum to conduct the worship of Siva in the village.56 In Bara Kundrijor, Hos of Boipai killi inherited a horn from the earlier settlers of Dhora caste. During Ho festivals, they blew the horn in the desauli. This was admitted: ‘Blowing of horns in religious ceremonies is clearly a Hindu custom & most probably the Hos are keeping up this custom which they must have learnt from the dikus who were here’.57 It is pertinent to mention that the adoption of the Bhuiyan goddess Pauri was much more widespread. The discovery of the idol of Pauri in several villages of KolhanPorahat testifies its popularity. The socialisation of the process was complete when the Hos acculturated to the worship of the goddess.58 Naming a village and individuals marked the other area of Hindu influence. Tangar village, where the Hos later settled, derived its name from this link.59 Similar was the case of Mahuldiha.60 Kadwadih derived its name from the original Hindu name of Kaduadih.61 Likewise, the village name of Mouda was a corruption of Mahadev.62 Ho nomenclature also reflected diku influence. One classic example is presented by Damodarpur. While examining the origin of the village name, the investigating official observed: There are several instances of Hos assuming Diku instances are not wanting when a village name was purely Ho name into a Diku name, as for example diha are the names of the same village, the Hos call Dumardiha.63

or Hindu names and transformed from the Lowahatu & Dumarit Lowahatu & Dikus

180

The changing rural landscape

Adopting a diku name weakened the Ho nomenclatural tradition. Their tradition of naming a male child after the grandfather obviously changed when diku names came into use. Bagun Jarika, the KI, was obviously named after the Ho tradition, but the name of his successor in office, Bhim Ram Ho, showed a borrowing from Hindu legendary tradition. The Christian Missions of different denominations spread across the Chotanagpur plateau districts during British rule and influenced the Munda, Oraon and Kharias (Roy 1970: 144–6, 148–52). The Mission Schools played a key role, beginning from the 1860s in spreading modern education at the primary, middle and high school levels to boys and girls throughout tribal Bihar. The system of education was characterised by the foundation of boarding schools for boys and girls and the employment of largely converted Adivasis as teachers. In Kolhan, SPG Mission and Lutheran Mission School at Chaibasa and their churches carried the influence further. Christian missionaries played an exemplary role in the culture of the Mundari and Oraon languages and used their printing press to publish religious and educational books in Mundari, Oraon and Hindi. All these contributed significantly to the consolidation of a literate culture in place of the ethnic oral one. They also played a major role in the introduction and consolidation of modern medicine and treatment in Jharkhand. In the year 1890, a German Mission Hospital and Dispensary was established at Ranchi, and later at Lohardaga, with the facility of providing free medicine to the Adivasis. Their response was very favourable. In 1908, those who received medicines from different mission hospitals numbered more than 19,000 (ibid.: 146–8). The missionaries founded several rural units of the Co-operative Credit Society (ibid.: 185). They played a key role in the defence of indigenous land and forest rights from the avarice of feudal and other elements during Sardari Larai (Roy 1970: 150–204; MacDougall 1985: 39–95). With this, conversion of the Adivasis into Christianity also began. Though this did not happen as extensively in Kolhan as in other districts of Chotanagpur, some of those who adopted a non-tribal faith created both a religious and cultural dent in Adivasi society.

Social response To extend the discussion from above, exogenous influence brought about a heterogeneous trend in social attitude and worldview. Country life before the advent of British rule was more responsive to social governance by village elders and the Munda who enforced marriage, funeral, birth, naming and religious customs, signs and omens, socially ascribed roles for both males and females, and healthy balance between the sexes, creating the notion of a happy home and homogenous and egalitarian social order (Tickell 1840; Dalton 1973: 185, 192–4). Property was allotted individually among sons; it was divided equally, but significantly brothers lived together until the youngest became nubile. The drift from this social base had been in operation from the pre-colonial period itself. Some of these signs were writ on the wall. One such was generational

The changing rural landscape

181

cleavage over non-Ho languages and the rate of gonong. The other was the emerging problem of the solemnisation of a reputable form of marriage as evidenced by the presence of old spinsters and a growing amount of ‘immoral intimacy between sexes’ (Dalton 1973: 185–94). Society seemed to move away from an invariable balance of sexes and a happy home, as suggested by the following quote: Instances of infidelity in wives are very rare. I never heard of one, but I suppose such things occur as there is a regulated penalty. The unfaithful wife is discarded, and the seducer must pay to the husband the entire value of the pan. (ibid.: 194) By the turn of the nineteenth century and the onset of the twentieth century, an unprecedented challenge to gerontocratic and male dominance over society, family, killi and village solidarity became more evident. Intense property consciousness among people forced society to redefine the original concept of joint property represented by the family patriarch. The notion of private property, as promoted through the system of land tenure and registration, reinforced individual and family ownership of property. Growing attachment to family and individual self greatly supplanted the prized norms of communality and collectivity (Sen 2012: 185–98). This in turn encouraged people to assert their trans-customary rights through British courts in growing numbers (ibid.: Chapter IV). The change from introverted and emotional women to materialistic and extroverted ones was the other area of change. This was manifested by their claim to trans-customary post-nuptial rights over parental property; the wife leaving her husband’s house to stake a claim over her father’s property or declaring herself unmarried (ibid.). The subsumption of Manki-Munda-Village Council within the British administrative system promoted non-conformism. The helpless social leadership was forced to seek official intervention to enforce social discipline (ibid.: 195–7). The khuntkatti cases at the colonial courts among families and killis proved that communal homogeneity had been considerably disrupted. We begin with inter-familial disputes. Dirigo was arguably founded by Hembrom killi, which held the offices of Manki and Munda. Three witnesses named three of their predecessors as the original reclaimers. The investigating official commented: ‘Apparently there is no recognised tradition about the original reclaimer’.64 The Baris of Khunta were divided into three khunts (branches). Of these, descendants of one had been declared khuntkattidars. When the Attestation Officer initiated an enquiry, all the killi members furnished separate genealogical tables in support of their claim. After two days, when they learnt that this would debar them from pioneering status, all combined to file only one table to establish their lineage from the original founder.65 Inter-killi disputes were, however, more numerous. Like almost all the villages of Kolhan, Mahuldiha was a multi-killi village inhabited by five Ho killis. Two witnesses from one killi, which held the post of Munda, claimed that they had

182

The changing rural landscape

founded the village. But two members of another killi put forth their own claim.66 In another case, claims and counter-claims were more discrepant. Kusmunda was socially known as a Gagrai village. But disputes over the name of the village maker and of the founding killi muddled the original history. A Gagrai witness named his ancestor Kusnu Ho as the founder. But the witness of Sinku killi named Kusnu’s son Kundia as the maker. At the same time, he alleged that, not the Gagrais alone, but Sinkus, Hesas and Gagrais had together settled the village. Yet another witness added a new element to the dispute. He deposed that ‘this village was a Lakhiraj village of the Bhuian deoris during the time of the Rajas’.67 Another area of contest was inter-community in nature. In one village, while the Ho Munda claimed that his grandfather had originally reclaimed the village, the Goala residents contended that they had founded the village.68 The Naek (Gond) and Ho villagers were pitted against each other in another village.69 The contest took another form when Ho villagers distorted the pre-Ho history of Kolhan first by ignoring the presence of two surmidurmi tanks, signifying its Sarak origin and, second, re-excavating two such tanks and giving them such Ho names as Lupung Pokhari and Uli Pokhari.70 Not only the Saraks, but also Bhuiyans and Hindus had to face the denial of their past. On the former occasion, the Bhuiyan residents resisted this attempt by citing the plots of lands belonging to their predecessors.71 In Benisagar, when the Ho Munda and another member of his killi alleged that their grandfather was the original reclaimer, they glossed over the presence of a large tank called Benisagar and a temple with the idols of Ganesh and Siva, which evidenced prior Hindu presence. But significantly, the villagers did not support them.72 Furthermore, it was not always that the Ho villagers faked history. In one case, they acknowledged the existence of pre-Ho settlers and their historical remains.73 As a cumulative impact of historical forces, a more interactive world gradually took shape. Materially, market and barter economies co-existed with increasing use of money; weekly haats displayed exogenous and village products; exported goods like brass utensils slowly joined the earthen vessels in family use; locally spun clothes and machine-made dresses became the popular village wear; more robust and durable houses slowly emerged alongside more numerous mud huts; roads and rail-lines came into use alongside the earthen roads. The above and many other material codes of modernity slowly trickled to change the physical texture of rural life. While these additions were somewhat inventive and socially acceptable, others were not such as the intrusion of court and literate culture. Regarding the predicament of the traditional society, Guru Kolean lamented: The people of the country are not nice either. They do not inform the village headman, neither do they complain to the Pargana, and to the people of the country they do not appeal either. Also a quarrel between husband and wife these wretched fools at once bring in before the European magistrate. (Bodding 1994: 128–9)

The changing rural landscape

183

Another factor was the expansion of the exogenous information regime. To recall, their societies functioned on the basis of information preserved by village elders and in the case of the Santals, their teachers or old gurus (Sen 2012: 58–61). Colonial rule brought about fundamental changes. Village-related information collected and compiled under the annual district land revenue report and general administrative reports either replaced social traditions or created a shared realm of governance. Official reports and records of land rights for an ordinary villager and the Manki-Munda patta for the village officials therefore became more relevant than the oral mode of the social ascription of the above rights. However, often villagers were uncharitably forced into the dilemma of whether to draw legitimacy from social norms, such as Sasandiriko Horon hokoa pata (their burial stones are the title-deeds of the Munda race) or the official rule, such as title-deeds (Sen 2018: 123). The story of merging of streams may serve as an alternative, an instance, to use Ranajit Guha’s expression of ‘un-historical historiography’ (1986: 4), that created the erroneous understanding that ethnic and non-ethnic worlds were as if ‘hermetically sealed off from each other’ (ibid.: 6). This should inspire a different conceptualisation of the notion of Adivasi selfhood vis-à-vis other, and village, underlining areas of contact, especially the exercise of choice in the process of acculturation and syncretism. This may help correct the notion of a completely subordinated and hegemonised ethnic world. I will end this chapter by underlining some of the pronounced trends. During the period under review, an understanding of the changing historical reality prompted indigenous communities to reorganise their modes of protest from ‘masochistic migratory movements’ to armed militancy and finally to legal modes of resistance lodged through peaceful meetings, demonstrations and petitions (Sen 2014: 93–112). Second, during the contemporary period, a conscious attempt has been made to conflate two apparently conflicting pre-colonial and colonial codes as modes of self-expression. One has been the articulation of the historic link with their homeland, the time-honoured institution of village governance, customary status and sacred symbols to revive the memory of their sovereign pre-colonial identity. The other manifests in two different ways. The first is through the celebration of the 150 years of Santal Hul (Rycroft 2014: 51–71), revival of the memory of Poto Ho, the Ho leader of anti-British militancy, and converting it into a collective celebration (Nath and Kumari 2019: 93–112),74 annually recalling Kharsawan and Gua massacres to articulate social deprecation of state-sponsored brutality,75 and observing ‘Netarhat Field Firing Range Protest Day’ to celebrate the success of a popular movement against the project (Singh, unpublished). The second manifestation is through the reiteration of colonial codes such as Wilkinson’s rules, CNT and SPT Acts, and also different forms of their constitutional empowerment through special rights and privileges (Sen 2018: 50–6) as expressions of their collective aspirations as citizens of a free nation. These clearly underline the way they reinterpret ‘the dominant culture’ (Carrin, 2017: 2). Alternately, they invoke ‘local practice and rituals’ (Schulte-Droesch 2014: 155–6), and also their

184

The changing rural landscape

linguistic and religious revival to consummate their composite vision of selfhood. Last, I want to cite a recent instance of how time has intervened to reinvent the meaning of village boundary in Adivasi perception. As related before, the notion of boundary was very fluid when the outbreak of an epidemic caused a mass exodus from the Ho villages and villagers took shelter in the jungles. But the social response to the coronavirus pandemic manifested in Adivasi villagers rigidifying the village boundary by raising barricades to prevent the entry of outsiders, even of the village folks who had temporarily migrated from villages.76 This study of Adivasi rural dynamics therefore relates a different narrative, deviating from the ‘decolonizing’ discourse (Ricca 2018: 51) offered by mainstream historians and ethnographers.

Notes 1 For a general study of the reasons, see Leach and Mearns (1996: 443); Cronon (2003: 19–21). 2 Roughsedge to Metcalfe, paras 15, 17–8, 29. 3 TSKP presents several such instances. 4 TSKP, Amda, 3–5, VN 41. 5 ibid., Dansori, 3–6, VN 41. 6 TS, Papers u/s 83, Objection Cases No 1489–97, Dobrosai, 4–5, VN 14. 7 ibid., Objection Cases No 1519–53, Baduri, 6–9, VN 14. 8 Hindustan, 1 July 2005; Dainik Jagaran, 22 February 2006; Dainik Bhaskar, January 2015; Prabhat Khabar, 8 January 2020. 9 ‘The caste of Baghmara is a wandering race. They use to sell fuel at Chaibasa & Chakradharpore, and some of them live on alms. Some also use to kill tigers, and sell the skin.’ Regarding these people settled in Chitpil village under Chakradharpur police station, it was noted: ‘This village was held by many years by one Madhav Baghmara as a life grant for killing tigers in the Kera jungle to whom the Munda used to pay rents. Madhav Baghmara died about 15 or 16 years ago when the Thakur resumed the village and in 1303 sambat the Thakur granted a puttah in the usual form to Nati Munda for five years (1303–7)’ Porahat Settlement (1900–03), Chitpil, 4 (Chakradharpur thana). Furthermore, regarding such families, we have the following figures from one village in Kolhan: Kole 335 male + 326 female, Tamaria 31+24 Kamar 1+1 Kumhar 4+3 Baghmara 19+11, Tanti1 6+18. CSVN, Golkera, 3– 7, VN 762. 10 CSVNERR, Siringsia, 11–2, VN 222. 11 ibid., 7–8. 12 ibid., 13. 13 For the Kolhan region TSVN, for the Mundas (Roy 1970: 224–6) and the Oraons (Roy 1984: 73–4). 14 TSKP, Barampokhri, 4, VN 43. 15 Roughsedge to Metcalfe, 9 May 1820, para 13. 16 ibid., para 7. 17 ibid., para 16. 18 TSVN, Vol. I, Bainka, 4. 19 ibid., VN. II, Kokcho, 209–11. 20 ibid., VN. I, 540. 21 TSKP, Kochra, 3–12, VN 50. 22 TSVN, Vol. III, Khariatangar, 37. 23 ibid., Vol. IV, Haldia, 562–67.

The changing rural landscape 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61

185

TSKP, Sapramgutu, 3–4, VN 39. TSVN, Vol. IV, Sapramgutu, 617–23. ibid., Vol. V, Kumardih, 14–9; Vol. V, Kusnupur, 26–31; Vol. V, Garh Kesna, 38–43. ibid., Vol. V, Garh Kesna, 38–43. Wilkinson to Tickell, 13 May 1837, para 40. TSVNs give information about the markets and villages connected to the local marts. CSVN, Dumuria, 4, VN 514. CSVNERR, Kuira, 4, VN 619. CSVEP, Bhangaon, 3–4, VN 646. ibid., 4. For export items, see (Craven 1898: 15) and for an earlier trend, see (Tickell 1840: 805). LRAR, 1917–18, DC’s Office, GD, RB, CN XI Return, FN 2 of 1918, paras 15(VII), XXX. This conclusion is inevitable as the readings of Adivasi resistance movements cited elsewhere in this work amply bear out. CSVNE, Herdia, 5, VN 462. ibid., Dumria, 514, 5. GAR 1883–4, Singhbhum District (No further information, Top cover missing), para 134. DCOS, RD, Index No 179R, CN XIIIAR of 1902–3, FN, para 1, in LRAR 1903–4, DCOS, RD, CN XIII, Annual Return, FN 3. LRAR 1910–11, DCOS, GD, RB, CN XI, FN 3 of 1910–11, para 59. Singhbhum had in all 423 in 1908, including 400 primary schools. Zila School at Chaibasa was the only high school in the district (O’Malley 1910: 202). See TSVN for details. Tuckey Settlement Village Notes. Letter of Deputy Commissioner to The AG Bengal, Calcutta, dated 14/16 May 1900, in LRAR, DCOS, RD, Index No 185 R, CN XIII AR, FN 23 of 1900–1901, Subject: Detailed List of Establishment. LRAR, FL, DCOS, RD, CN XI, FN 16 of 1936, para 14 (IV-V). Detailed List of Permanent Establishment, FL of English Correspondence, DCOS, RD, CN XI, FN 24 of 1918. GAR, DCOS, GD, RB, CN XI, FN 20 of 1912–13, para VII (XXXV). Report of the Chaibasa Charitable Dispensary for the year 1899–1900, DCOS, RD, Index No. 187, CN XIIIAR, FN 14 of 1900–1,1; ibid., for 1900–1, RD, Index No. Nil, CN XIIIAR, FN 28 of 1901–2, 1–5. DC, Singhbhum submitting the Statement showing the Working of Dispensaries during the calendar year 1908, vide GAR 1909–10, DCOS, RD, CN XI Returns, FN 24, FS 40, XXX. Note on the history of Singhbhum district during the decade 1901–11, FL, DCOS, GD, RB, CN VII, FN 25 of 1911–2, para 14. Brief Report on Vaccination for the year 1900–1 in the Singhbhum District, RD, Index No. 5, CN XIIIAR, FN 28 of 1901–2, 1–5. GAR 1883–4, para 11. TSKP, Benisagar, 3, 38; ibid., Panduaburu, 3–4, 38; ibid., Sarda, 3–4, 39. ibid., Khairpal, 3–10, VN 44. TSVN, Vol. II, Khas Pukhuria, 373. TSKP, Bara Kundrijor, 3–5, VN 72. ibid., Diku Ponga, 3–4, 1 MT. See also ibid., Kulaiburu, 3–4, 1 MT; ibid., Kudriba, 3–4, 1 MT. TSKP, Tangar, 6, VN 34. ibid., Mahuldiha, 3–4, VN 34. ibid, Kadwadih, 3–5, VN 38.

186

The changing rural landscape

62 TSVN, Vol. III, Mouda, 146. 63 TSKP, Damodarpur, 3–6, VN 50. 64 TSKP, Dirigo, 3–5, 36. See also, ibid, Bara Raikhaman, 305, VN 36; ibid., Benisagar, 3, VN 38. 65 TS, Cases u/s 83, Objection No 160/83, Khunta, 6–7, VN 61. 66 TSKP, Mahuldiha, 3–4, VN 34. 67 ibid., Kusmunda, 3–9, VN 43. 68 ibid., Tarapai, 3–5, VN 41. 69 ibid., Tangar, 6–8, VN 34. 70 ibid., Bara Raikhaman, 3–5, VN 36. 71 ibid., Kusmunda, 3–9, VN 43. 72 ibid., Benisagar, 3, VN 38. 73 ibid., Bichaburu, 3–4, VN 42. 74 Prabhat Khabar, 2 January 2020. 75 In Kharsawan, Adivasi villagers organised a mass public meeting demanding a separate state for Adivasis in 1948, against whom Bihar Government resorted to firing which killed thousands of demonstrators. Popularly known as Gua Golikand, the event occurred in 1980, in which several agitators, who demanded a separate state and mitigation of their longstanding grievances, were killed. 76 See Prabhat Khabar and Hindustan for the period between 24 March and 5 April 2020.

8

Concluding remarks

The previous chapters have moved through pre-colonial times to explore how the Hos conducted their village making and how the idea of the Adivasi village was reinvented by the British. The central narrative of the advent and consolidation of rusticity has provided the crucial entry point to the study of change in Ho identity from pre-colonial agent to colonial subject, which is a factor in village making. Methodologically too, this has served to modify village studies in two ways, shifting the focus from synchronism to diachronism and from the centrality of caste in village studies to a focus on the Adivasis or indigenes. This has been accompanied by creative dialogues between the past and present, and also the region and nation and beyond. The reconstruction of Adivasi village history has moved through problems of different types: The lack of a scholarly tradition unlike the rich and long lineage of caste-based rural studies; the sparseness of historical information, particularly in colonial ethnography; the pronounced aversion to oral sources of information, a strategic source of information on village life, among a section of scholars; and the dominance of a genre that provides a lopsided synchronic and diachronic understanding of Adivasi rural life. To acquaint scholars with the historical approach to village making and appropriate methodology, the work has relied largely on recorded village-level oral information, together with conflating colonial ethnographic written and oral sources. The work has also juxtaposed historical and empirical approaches in comprehending the changing nuances of rural life. This methodology has helped, on the one hand, in crosschecking information, preparing the basic framework of village life, providing the broad themes for elaboration, narrating the ideological and structural basis of life in the countryside and understanding rural change during the pre-colonial and colonial periods. On the other, it has carved out a distinct approach for historical engagement with rural life. The changing idea of a village in the above two temporalities provides the backdrop for comprehending contemporary rural dynamics. Furthermore, by underlining new areas of research on the Adivasi rural world, the work has created the possibility of an alternative vision of Adivasi life, which differs from the one that dominates the scholarly world.

188

Concluding remarks

The story began with the very meaning of the village as an institution. A village was officially conceived as a physically defined human space, governed by the state to negotiate the management of the inhabitants and its resources. This did not correspond to the meaning Adivasis attributed to a village. In their perception, it was more cultural than administrative, a prolonged historical process rather than arising from the single act of its formal foundation. This was a sum of three intertwining events of conception, birth and coming of age, like conceiving and giving birth to a baby, followed by other subsequent activities to attain maturity. The complex and meticulous process of village making included site selection by the original founder(s) through ecological and ritual tests, demarcating and initially allocating village land to his/their associates, naming of the village, and determining early village demography and the logistics of village management. Furthermore, it involved the foundation of the primary or original village within a large forested tract. This was used as a base to form a politico-culturally killi-dominated village grid. This signifies the voluntary act of the itinerant Hos transitioning to an autonomous rural community. The conversion of this early cultural site into a full-scale social institution was the next stage. This was conducted through different formations of the village community. During the pre-colonial phase, there was a phased and protracted transition of the original family/killi settlement into a multi-killi ethnic one and then into multi-community settlement of the Hos, functional castes and others. What was done as a result of social initiative in the prefeudal/colonial phases accelerated when the colonial rulers promoted an influx of dikus to serve their politico-economic interests. This eroded Adivasi dominance and made determination of inter-community social relations more complex and tricky. Furthermore, the idea of a village as a socio-spatial institution expanded when a village was linked to the mother village and the killi-community networks to which villagers belonged. The study has significantly unravelled how in–out-migration singularly determined the course of village life. We have learnt how the nature of migration changed during the period under review and how this impacted the nature of demography and change in human response. The story began with the Munda and Oraon migration and their subsequent territorial control over the Chotanagpur plateau and their gradual adoption of rural life. This facilitated Munda entry into north Singhbhum and the transformation of the Ho community, which underwent later dispersion across southern parts of the district. This carved out their rural settlements that established them as a dominant politico-cultural force in regional geo-polity before the advent of the British. But after their subjugation by the British, particularly due to restrictions imposed on free movement across the forests after 1860, their movement remained confined within the village and pir. Yet another significant pre-British phenomenon in village life was the entry of the non-Adivasis, the dikus, initially at the invitation of the Hos. Later, British rulers promoted non-ethnic and ethnic migration into Kolhan-Porahat from the adjacent and distant provinces, which initiated the process of the demographic

Concluding remarks

189

marginalisation of Adivasis. While in-migration was one aspect of population movement, out-migration was the other. The indigent Adivasi and non-Adivasi villagers were forced to move to the adjacent districts of Odisha for land and jobs and to the collieries of Bihar and Bengal and the tea gardens of Assam and Bengal for employment. Patrilocality as a distinguishing feature of rural life took a dent. No less significant was the change in mentality, when villagers generally prone to homesickness were conditioned to accepting an unknown and uncertain life beyond their native land. This indeed presaged a much larger and regular post-independence drift of the rural population for employment and career opportunities to distant Indian states. The final act of village making was completed by the reinvention of the mechanism of governance under the Hos and the British. The system the Hos founded conflated sacred and secular functions. This was the product of a specific socialising technique, based on an informal mechanism of education and training. The governance of the metaphysical or sacred domain, constituted by benevolent and malevolent forces, was assigned to the village priests and exorcists, who practised their elaborate and socially sanctioned mechanism of prayer and propitiation to ensure village welfare and safety. The profane governance, being saturated by sacred ideas, rested on the divinely dispensed idea of the creation of a moral society, characterised by egalitarianism, social homogeneity and harmony. Accordingly, as god’s gift to humanity, land, forest and water were deemed as village common property to be frugally used and socially governed through the village head and panchayat on the basis of their time-honoured customs. The British introduced fundamental changes to the ideology and institution of governance. Governance became a secular function of the state rather than the village community; as such, the governing institutions were the owners and dispensers of resources. Properties these territoralised, quantified and qualified through a system of periodic survey and settlement. The notion of property was private rather than communal and as tenants of the state, a villager had to regularly pay a rent as determined by the quantity and quality of land holding. Commodification of land and forests led to the exploitation of underground resources and overground woodland to earn profit. Governance was carried out by officially framed laws and rules. The purpose was to maintain ‘equity and justice’ rather than the ‘multiplex’ social relations of earlier times. A practicable separation between civil and criminal justice was maintained. Justice was definite and impersonal, delivered on the basis of evidence presented at the court of law by personnel qualified to do so. Although the British inducted Munda, Manki and panchayat and also indigenous customs to create a shared realm of administration, the above changes ended the pre-colonial autonomy and converted Adivasi villages, as elsewhere in India, into the lower domain of the Raj framework, and the pan-Indian system after Indian independence. Village resources, human and natural, served more the needs of the colonial political economy rather than the village community. Villages also were governed with an exogenous literate system of education, market economy, medical system and road and communication network.

190

Concluding remarks

The making of a village ushered in memorable changes to the physical and social landscape that caused, as a recent study sums up, the ‘multiple recreation’ of a ‘region’ (Sen 2011: 79) during the pre-colonial and colonial periods. The inventory of changes has acquainted us with the nature and extent of the changes. First, the advent of human life in a forest-clad terrain was represented by huts and arable lands, domestic animals, artificial products, man-made aquatic sources, agriculture, trade and commerce, road and railway networks. Continued dependence on the forest and natural sources of water created parallel yet intertwined domains of the wild and civilisation, or rather nature and culture, in Adivasi rural life. Second, an insulated and unoccupied forested region witnessed diverse political entanglements when this came under the domain of mainstream empires and regional chiefdoms. This registered the advent and recession of Sarak and Bhuiyan control, saw the rise and recession of Ho village republican polity, and finally the inauguration of the British state system when pre-colonial Ho autonomy had to yield to colonial subjecthood. The diverse modification of social ecology was a simultaneous process. The composition of village demography changed from the Saraks and Bhuiyans to the Hos. Under the Hos, uni-killi villages were transformed into multi-killi formations to reinforce ethnic dominance over villages. But the reverse process that began during pre-colonial times was the influx of non-Adivasis from the neighbouring and distant provinces, which was an unprecedented increase during and after the colonial period. The locus of purely Adivasi culture, characterised by the supremacy of their rituals, practices and institution of governance, was gradually paralleled by an exogenous culture and value system. Other items of change were the advent of Hindi, Bengali, Odiya and English and gradual conversion of Kolhan, and the entire Adivasi-dominated parts of Bihar, into a multi-lingual domain; village life dominated by the Adivasi religious faith had to share ground with Hinduism, Christianity and marginally Islam; temples, churches and mosques co-existed with desaulis and exogenous socio-religious festivals being celebrated along with Adivasi festivals. Furthermore, the emergence and dissemination of modern education created circumstances for the mental regeneration of villagers and a weakening of Adivasi oral pedagogy and training. The countryside was slowly drawn into the modern system of health and hygiene, and finally was connected with the market economy. These changes accelerated rural dynamics profoundly. The village and the immediate neighbourhood ceased to be the only reference points of villagers’ lives when haats, government offices and courts, near and distant schools and dispensaries, mines, collieries and tea gardens became their daily or seasonal destinations. People were morally and mentally weaned away from their cultural mores, yet remained tied to their roots. This created an inflection in identity as reflected in their local (Kolhan centric), regional (Jharkhandi), national and global assertions. The rural community was called upon to simultaneously look inward and outward. Looking inward motivated them to interpret and internalise outer influences and reinvent their cultural codes such as religion and language to adjust with time. This tended to be extrinsic when the Adivasi rural world, once

Concluding remarks

191

forming the ‘frontier’, was slowly but steadily connected with the mainstream. Though the general impact was variable, what sharpened during colonial rule and later was the widening hiatus between the frontier and mainstream. This continually reappeared when the individual and corporate entrepreneurs, promoted by colonial and post-independence governments, cast their covetous eyes onto village resources. This revived the memory of colonial exploitation, historic and contemporary Adivasi subalternity, generating rural ferment and a state of perpetual confrontation, as we witness today. These variegated perspectives of the historical and contemporary village life open up the possibility for an alternate and revised approach to village life, and Adivasi life itself. A village may be studied in a longue durée perspective to fruitfully understand the progressive reinvention of the village as an institution. This may provide us with access to pre-colonial times when the Hos, like other Adivasi communities, as autonomous agents ideologically and institutionally organised their mode of life, a story awaiting to be reconstructed. I would particularly focus on the making of the village as the basic unit of the indigenous republican polity. This offers an alternate model of statehood as a politicocultural institution, rather than simply a politico-administrative idea. The historical study of the rural ambience may yet help us to grapple with the creative tension a community undergoes, where it reinvents its understanding of the self and landscape, makes collective efforts to face an identity crisis in diverse other ways than simply underlining and articulating their protests against denial and marginalisation. This approach may make the study of Adivasi rural life, and of Adivasi life in general, more nuanced and vibrant.

Bibliography

Primary sources Government records – manuscripts and reports District Record Room, Chaibasa Manuscripts Brief Report on Vaccination for the year 1900–1 in the Singhbhum District, DCOS, RD, Index No. 5, CN XIIIAR, FN 28 of 1901–2. DC, Singhbhum submitting the Statement showing the Working of Dispensaries during the calendar year 1908, vide GAR 1909–10, DCOS, RD, CN XI Returns, FN 24, FS 40. Diku Report Ejectment of Dikus, DCOS, RD, CN XVI, FN 56 of 1908–9, transferred to FN I, CN XVI of 1910–1911. Fly Leaf, DCOS, RD, CN II Forests, FN 7 of 1900–01. Fly Leaf, DCOS, RD, CNXV Mining, FN 7/5 of 1904–5. Fly Leaf, Protection of Private Forest, DCOS, RD, CN II, FN 16 of 1908–9. Fly Leaf, Note on the History of Singhbhum during the decade 1910–11, DCOS, CNVII, FN 25 of 1911–1912. Fly Leaf, Kanti Bhusan Sen, PA to the Commissioner of CNP (Chota Nagpur) to the DC of Singhbhum, No 2400R of 15 November 1912. DCOS, GD, RB, CN VII, FN 20 of 1912–13, 13 of 1913–14, Irrigation Scheme of the District. Fly Leaf, Constitution of Kolhan Protected Forest Division, DCOS, GD, RB, CN II Forests, FN I of 1915. Fly Leaf of English Correspondence, Detailed List of Permanent Establishment, DCOS, RD, CN XI Return, FN 37 of 1916. Fly Leaf of English Correspondence, Detailed List of Permanent Establishment, DCOS, RD, CN XI, FN 24 of 1918. General Administration Report, 1878–79, 1883–1884, 1909–10. Hakuknama (Record of Rights), Kolhan Government Estate, District Singhbhum, Settlement 1897. Land Revenue Administration Report. Report of Castes to accompany Census, sent by W.W. Hayes, Deputy Commissioner Singhbhum to the Inspector General of Registration, No. 577 dated Chaibasa, 29 Septemeber 1872, vide FL, DCOS, CN not mentioned, FS 3, Enclosure, Castes of Singhbhum.

Bibliography

193

Report of the Chaibasa Charitable Dispensary for the year 1899–1900, DCOS, RD, Index No. 187, CN XIIIAR, FN 14 of 1900–1. Report of the Chaibasa Charitable Dispensary for the year for 1900–1, DCOS, RD, Index No. Nil, CN XIIIAR, FN 28 of 1901–2. Revenue Department, Index No.185R, DCOS, CN XIIIAR, FN 23 of 1900–1, Detailed List of Establishment.

Village Papers Craven Settlement: Village Enquiry Paper. Village Note. Village Note and Enquiry. Village Note and Enquiry of Record of Rights. Tuckey Settlement: Khuntkatti Papers. Papers of cases u/s 83, 85. Tanaza Papers. Village Notes.

Commissioner’s Record Room and Library, Ranchi Printed Annual General Administration Report, Chotanagpur Division, 1886–7. Proceeding of the Government of Bengal, General Department Miscellaneous, November 187, File No. 155, File Serial 1–3. Proceedings of the Government of Bengal, General Department Miscellaneous, April 1911, Quinquennial Administration Report of the Chota Nagpur Division for the period ending the 31st March 1910, File 5-R/6, Nos. 11–12.

Bihar State Archives Manuscripts South West Frontier Political Despatch Register: Vol. 26 from 6 October 1819 to 10 November 1820. Vol. 27 from 20 April 1820 to 7 June 1821. Vol. 231 from 13 May 1837 to 1 December 1840.

Printed Resettlement of the Kolhan Government estate in the district of Singhbhum.Government of Bihar and Orissa, Revenue Department, FN S/6 of 1915, Nos 1–12. Amendment of the Chota Nagpur Tenancy Act with special reference to the Kolhan Government Estate, Singhbhum, Government of Bihar and Orissa, Revenue Department, File No. IIT-26 of 1931, Nos. 39 & 40.

194

Bibliography

West Bengal State Archives Judicial Department, Proceeding Nos. 15, 24, 30–31, 33–34, 41, 66, 92, 145, 1859–60. Judicial Department, Proceeding Nos. 30–31, May 1864. Revenue Department, Proceeding No. 122, June 1867. Revenue Department, File No. 16-S/2, Nos. 113–114.

Oriental and India Office Collections, London Extract of Political Letter from Bengal, 9 May 1823, F/4 800/21438 Bengal Political Department. Extract of Bengal Political Consultations, No. 106, 15 April 1820. Extract of Bengal Political Consultations, No. 38, 3 June 1820. Criminal Judicial Consultations, 29 April 1837–30 May 1837, P/141/12, Bengal Judicial Consultations. Criminal Judicial Consultations, 6 June 1837–27 June 1837, P/141/13, Bengal Judicial Consultations. Criminal Judicial Consultations, 6 July 1837–8 August 1837, P/141/14, Bengal Judicial Consultations.

Reports/Gazetteers Bridge, T.W. 1996. Final Report on the Survey and Settlement Operations in the District of Palamau (1913–20), in P.R.N. Roy and N.M. Rajpal (arranged), Manual of Chotanagpur Tenancy Laws. Vol. II. Allahabad: Rajpal and Company. Craven, J.A. 1898. Final Report on the Settlement of the Kolhan Government Estate 1897. Calcutta: Superintendent Government Printing Bihar and Orissa. Depree, G.C. 1868. Geographical and Statistical Report on that portion of the Chotanagpur Division which has come under the operation of the Topographical Survey Department. Calcutta: Surveyer General Office. Hakim, K.S.S.A. 1996. Final Report on Survey and Settlement Operations in the Saraikella State District Singhbhum (1925–1928), in P.R.N. Roy and N.M. Rajpal (arranged). Manual of Chotanagpur Tenancy Laws. Vol. II. Allahabad: Rajpal and Company. Hallett, M.G. 1917. Bihar and Orissa District Gazetteers: Ranchi. Patna: Superintendent, Government Printing Bihar and Orissa. Hutton, J.H. 1996. Census of India 1931: With Complete Survey of Tribal Life and System. Vol. III. New Delhi: Gyan Publishing House. McAlpin, M.C. 1981. Report on the condition of the Sonthals in the Districts of Birbhum, Bankura, Midnapore and North Balasore. Calcutta: Firma Mukhopadhyay. McPherson, T.S. 1906. Final Report on the operations for the preparation of a record of rights in Pargana Porahat, district of Singhbhum 1905–7. Calcutta: Bengal Secretariat Press. O’Malley, L.S.S. 1910. Bengal District Gazetteers: Singhbhum, Seraikela and Kharsawan. Calcutta: The Bengal Secretariat Book Depot. O’Malley, L.S.S. 1999. Bengal District Gazetteers: Santal Parganas. New Delhi: Logos Press. O’Malley, L.S.S. 1913. Census of India 1911: Bengal, Bihar and Orissa and Sikkim. Vol. V, Part I, Report. Calcutta: Bengal Secretariat Book Depot.

Bibliography

195

Reid, J. 1912. Final Report on the Survey and Settlement Operations in the District of Ranchi 1902–1910. Calcutta: Bengal Secretariat Book Depot. Ricketts, H. (ed.), 1854. Report on the District of Singhbhum: Selection from the Records of the Bengal Government. No. XVI. Calcutta: F. Carbery, Military Orphan Press. Roy Choudhury, P.C. 1958. Bihar District Gazetteers Singhbhum. Patna: Superintendent Secretariat Press. Sifton, J.D. 1996. Final Report on the Survey and Settlement Operations in the District of Hazaribagh Order cancelled (1908–15), in P.R.N. Roy and Rajpal (arranged), Manual of Chotanagpur Tenancy Laws. Vol II. Allahabad: Rajpal and Company. Taylor, F.E.A. 1996. Final Report on the Revisional Survey and Settlement Operations in the Districtof Ranchi (1927–1935), in P.R.N. Roy and Rajpal (arranged), Manual of Chotanagpur Tenancy Laws, Vol II. Tuckey, A.D. 1920. Final Report on the Resettlement of the Kolhan Government Estate in the District of Singhbhum 1913–1918. Patna: Superintendent Government Printing Bihar and Orissa.

Secondary sources Published Archer, W.G. 1984. Tribal Law and Justice: A Report on the Santal. New Delhi: Concept Publishing Company. Areeparampil, M. 1992. ‘Forest Andolan in Singhbhum’, in S. Narayanan (ed.), Jharkhand Movement, Origin and Evolution. New Delhi: Inter India Publications, 143–186. Areeparampil, M. 1993. ‘Socio-cultural and Religious Movements among the Ho Tribals of the Singhbhum District of Bihar’, in M. Miri (ed.), Continuity and Change in Tribal Society. Shimla: Indian Institute of Advanced Study, 396–436. Areeparampil, M. 1996. ‘Displacement due to Mining in Jharkhand’, Economic and Political Weekly, 31(24): 1524–1528. Arnold, D. and Guha, R. (eds.), 1999. Nature, Culture, Imperialism. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Assmann, J. and Czaplicka, J. 1995. ‘Collective Memory and Cultural Identity’, New German Critique, No. 65, Cultural History/Cultural Studies (Spring–Summer), 125–133. Attwood, B. 2005. Telling the Truth about Aboriginal History. Crows Nest, NSW: Allen Unwin. Aufschnaiter, C.C. 2008. ‘First you push them in, then you throw them out’: The Land Rights Struggle of the Adivasi Peoples in India with Special Reference to South India Indigenous Strategies and the (Inter)national Law Context. Vienna: Department of Social and Cultural Anthropology Vienna University. Baden-Powell, B.H. 1972. The Indian Village Community. Delhi: Cosmo Publications. Bailey, F.G. 1955. ‘An Oriya Hill Village’, I–II, in M.N. Srinivas (ed.), India’s Villages. Calcutta: Government of West Bengal Press, 110–131. Bailey, F.G. 1960. Tribe, Caste and Nation. Bombay: Oxford University Press. Bailey, F.G. 1961. ‘“Tribe” and “Caste” in India’, Contributions to Indian Sociology, No. V, October, 7–19. Bamba, J. 2010. ‘Self-Determined Development of Indigenous People’, Indigenous Affairs. Development and Customary Law, International Work Group for Indigenous Affairs, Copenhagen, 1–2, 29–37.

196

Bibliography

Bates, C. 1995. ‘Race, Caste and Tribe in Central India: The Early Origins of Indian Anthropometry’, Edinburgh Papers in South Asian History, No. 3, 3–35, www.ed.ac. uk/sas Downloaded on 22 February 2020. Bates, C. and Carter, M. 1994. ‘Tribal Migration in India and Beyond’, in G. Prakash (ed.), The World of the Rural Labourer in Colonial India. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 205–247. Bates, C. and Carter, M. 1999. ‘Tribal and Indentured Migrants in Colonial India: Modes of Recruitment and Forms of Incorporation’, in P. Robb (ed.), Dalit Movements and the Meanings of Labour in India. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 159–185. Baviskar, A. 2009. In the Valley of the River: Tribal Conflicts over Development in the Narmada Valley. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Behal, R.P. and Mohapatra, P.P. 1991. ‘Tea and Money versus Human Life: The Rise and Fall of the Indenture System in the Assam Tea Plantation 1840–1908’, The Journal of Peasant Studies, 19(1): 142–172. Bharat, G. 2019. In Forest, Field and Factory: Adivasi Habitations through TwentiethCentury India. New Delhi: Sage and Yoda Press. Bhukya, B., 2010. Subjugated Nomads: The Lambadas Under the Rule of Nizams. Hyderabad: Orient BlackSwan. Bloch, M. 2004. ‘The Long Term and the Short Term: The Economic Significance of the Morality of Kinship’, in J. Goody (ed.), The Character of Kinship. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 75–87. Bodding, P.O. (Translator), 1994. Traditions and Institutions of the Santals: Horkoren Mare Hapramko Reak Katha. New Delhi: Bahumukhi Prakashan. Bose, N.K. 1949. Hindu Samajer Garan. Kolkata: Visva Bharati Granthalaya. Bowen, J.R. 2000. ‘Should we have a Universal Concept of Indigenous Peoples’ Rights: Ethnicity and Essentialism in Twenty-First Century’, Anthropology Today, 16(4): 12–16. Bradley-Birt, F.B. 1903. Chota Nagpore: A Little Known Province of the Empire. London: Smith Elder & Co. Breman, J. 1997. ‘The Village in Focus’, in J. Breman, P. Kloos and A. Saith (eds.), The Village in Asia Revisited. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 15–76. Breman, J., Kloos, P. and Saith, A. (eds.), 1997. The Village in Asia Revisited. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Campbell, J. 1866. ‘The Ethnology of India’, Journal of the Asiatic Society, Supplementary Number. Vol. XXXV, Part II, 1–152. Carnduff, H.W.C. 1905. The Chotanagpur Landlord and Tenant Procedure Act with Notes. Calcutta: Bengal Secretariat Press. Carrin, M. 2013. ‘Jharkhand Alternative Citizenship in an “Adivasi State”’, in P. Berger and F. Heidemann (eds.), The Modern Anthropology of India: Ethnography, Themes and Theory. London: Routledge, 106–120. Carrin, M. 2017. Children of the Goddess: Devotion and Female Priesthood in Bengal. Delhi: Primus Books. Carruthers, J. 2004. ‘Africa: Histories, Ecologies and Societies’, Environment and History, 10(4), 10th Anniversary Issue (November): 379–406. Carstairs, G.M. 1955. ‘Bhil Villages of Western Udaipur: A Study in Resistance to Social Change’, in M.N. Srinivas (ed.), Village India. Calcutta: Government of West Bengal Press, 62–69. Cederlof, G. 2008. Landscapes and the Law: Environmental Politics, Regional Histories, and Contests over Nature. Ranikhet: Permanent Black.

Bibliography

197

Cederlof, G. 2013. ‘Narratives of Rights: Codifying People and Land in Early-Nineteenth Century Nilgiris’, in M. Rangarajan and K. Sivaramakrishnan (eds.), India’s Environmental History: From Ancient Times to Colonial Period, Vol. I. New Delhi: Permanent Black, 374–430. Cederlof, G. and Sivaramakrishnan, K. (eds.), 2005. Ecological Nationalisms: Nature, Livelihoods, and Identities in South Asia. Delhi: Permanent Black. Chandra, U. 2013. ‘Beyond Subalternity: Land, Community and State in Contemporary Jharkhand’, Contemporary South Asia, 21(1): 52–61. Chanock, M. 1985. Law, Custom and Social Order: The Colonial Experience in Malawi and Zambia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Chaudhuri, A.B. 1984. Witch-Killings amongst Santals. New Delhi: Ashish. Choksi, N. 2017. ‘Script as Constellation among Munda Speakers: The Case of Santali’, South Asian History and Culture, 1–24. doi:10.1080/19472498.2017.1411064. Clanchy, M.T. 2013. From Memory to Written Record: England 1066-1377. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell. Cohn, B.S. 1990. An Anthropologist among the Historians and Other Essays. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Comaroff, J. 1985. Body of Power, Spirit of Resistance: The Culture and History of a South African People. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press. Comaroff, J. and Comaroff, J. 1991. Of Revelation and Revolution: Christianity, Colonialism and Consciousness in South Africa. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press. Comaroff, J. and Comaroff, J. 1992. Ethnography and the Historical Imagination. Boulder, San Francisco and Oxford: Westview Press. Cooper, F. 1994. ‘Conflict and Connection: Rethinking Colonial African History’, The American Historical Review, 99(5): 1516–1545. Cornwall, A. 2018. ‘Acting Anthropologically: Notes on Anthropology as Practice’, Anthropologia Pubblica, 4 (2): 3–20. Cosgrove, D.E. 1998. Social Formation and Symbolic Landscape. Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press. Creese, J.L. 2013. ‘Rethinking Early Village Development in Southern Ontario: Toward a History of Place-Making’, Canadian Journal of Archaeology/Journal Canadien d’Archéologie, 37(2): 185–218. Cronon, W. 1992. ‘A Place for Stories: Nature, History and Narrative’, The Journal of American History, March: 1347–1376. Cronon, W. 1993. ‘The Uses of Environmental History’, Environmental History Review, 17(3): 1–22. Cronon, W. 2003. Changes in the Land: Indians, Colonists and the Ecology of New England. New York: Hill and Wang. Culshaw, W.J. 1949. Tribal Heritage: A Study of the Santals. London: Lutterworth Press. Cunningham, M. 2010. ‘“Living Well” The Indigenous Latin American Perspective’, Indigenous Affairs. Development and Customary Law. Copenhagen: International Work Group for Indigenous Affairs, 1–2: 52–59. Dalton, E.T. 1865. ‘Notes on a Tour Made in 1863-64 in the Tributary Mehals under the Commissioner of Chota-Nagpore, Bonai, Gangpore, Odeypore and Sirgooja’, Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, Part II – Physical Science, Vol. I, 1–31. Dalton, E.T. 1866. ‘The “Kols” of Chota-Nagpore’, Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, Supplementary Number, Vol. XXXV, Part II: 153–198.

198

Bibliography

Dalton, E.T. 1873. ‘Rude Stone Monuments in Chutia Nagpur and Other Places’, Journal of the Asiatic Society, No 2, 112–119. Dalton, E.T. 1973. Tribal History of Eastern India (original title Descriptive Ethnology of Bengal). Delhi: Cosmo Publication. Damodaran, V. 2002. ‘History, Landscape, and Indigeniety in Chotanagpur, 1850–1980’, Journal of South Asian Studies, 25(2): 77–110. Damodaran, V. 2005. ‘Indigenous Forests: Rights, Discourses, and Resistance in Chotanagpur, 1860–2002’, in G. Cederlof and K. Sivaramakrishnan (eds.), Ecological Nationalisms: Nature, Livelihoods, and Identities in South Asia. New Delhi: Permanent Black, 115–150. Damodaran, V. 2006. ‘The Politics of Marginality and the Construction of Indigeneity in Chotanagpur’, Postcolonial Studies, 9(2): 179–196. Dasgupta, S. 2011. The Adivasis and Raj. Hyderabad: Orient BlackSwan. Datta, S.N. 1928. The Chotanagpur Tenancy Act (Bengal Act VI of 1908) with Notes, Judicial Rulings, Rules, Notifications. Patna: The Students’ Emporium. Denney, J. 1975. Ho Grammar and Vocabulary. Chaibasa: Xavier Ho Publications. Dewey, C. 1972. ‘Images of the Village Community: A Study in Anglo-Indian Ideology’, Modern Asian Studies, 6(3): 291–328. Dube, S.C. 1955. ‘A Deccan Village’, in M.N. Srinivas (ed.), India’s Villages. Calcutta: Government of West Bengal Press, 180–192. Dube, S.C. 1959. Indian Village. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Dube, S.C. 1963. India’s Changing Villages: Human Factors in Community Development. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Duby, J. 1989. ‘Land and Labour’, in M. Aymard and H. Mukhia (eds.), French Studies in History, Vol. I. Hyderabad: Orient Longman, 141–167. Dumont, L. 1966. ‘The “Village Community” from Munro to Maine’, Contributions to Indian Sociology, Vol. IX: 67–88. Dumont, L. and Pocock, D. 1957. ‘Village Studies’, Contributions to Indian Sociology, Vol. I: 23–41. Dunbar, W. 1861. ‘Some Observations on Manners, Customs, and Religious Opinions of the Lurka Coles’, Journal of the Asiatic Society of Great Britain & Northern Ireland, 18: 370–377. Elwin, V. 1968. Myths of the North-East Frontier of India. Shillong: North-East Frontier Agency. Elwin, V. 2002. The Baiga. New Delhi: Gyan Publishing House. Evans-Pritchard, E.E. 1940. The Nuer: A Description of the Modes of livelihood and Political institutions of the Nilotic People. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Evans-Pritchard, E.E. 1965. Theories of Primitive Religion. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Evans-Pritchard, E.E. 1976. Witchcraft, Oracles and Magic among the Azande. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Flores, D. 1999. ‘The Great Plains “Wilderness” as a Human-Shaped Environment’, Great Plains Research: A Journal of Natural and Social Sciences. Paper 466, 343–355. http://digitalcommons.unl.edu/greatplainsresearch/466. Fuller, C.J. 2010. ‘Rituals of the Village’, in V. Madan (ed.), The Village in India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 271–297. Funkenstein, A. 1989. ‘Collective Memory and Historical Consciousness’, History and Memory, 1: 5–26. Gadgil, M. 1985. ‘Towards an Ecological History of India’, Economic and Political Weekly, Vol. XX, Nos., 45–47, Special Number, November: 1909–1918.

Bibliography

199

Gadgil, M. and Guha, R. 2002. This Fissured Land. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Gay, J. and Cole, M. 1967. The New Mathematics and an Old Culture: A Study of Learning among Kpelle of Liberia. New York; Chicago; San Francisco; Toronto; London: Holt, Rinehart and Winston. Gedi, N. and Elam, Y. 1996. ‘Collective Memory – What is it?’, History and Memory, 8: 30–50. Gerike, C. 1979. Reading the Land: An Introduction to Cultural Landscapes. Anthropological Studies Center, Sonoma State University, Rohnert Park, CA. https://scahom e.org/publications/…/Proccedings.10. Downloaded on 21 December 2016. Ghosh, K. 2006. ‘Between Global Flows and Local Dams: Indigenousness, Locality, and the Transnational Sphere in Jharkhand, India’, Cultural Anthropology, 21(4): 501–534. Gluckman, M. 1960. Custom and Conflict in Africa. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Goubert, P. 1971, ‘Local History’, Daedlus, Winter: 113–127. Gough, E.K. 1955. ‘The Social Structure of a Tanjore Village’, in M. Marriott (ed.), Village India: Studies in the Little Community. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 36–52. Graham, W.A. 1987. Beyond the Written Word: Oral Aspects of Scriptures in the History of Religion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Guha, R. 2008. ‘Colonialism and Conflict in the Himalayan Forest’, in R. Guha (ed.), Social Ecology. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 275–302. Guha, Ranajit. 1983. Elementary Aspects of Peasant Insurgency in Colonial India. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Guha, Ranajit. 1986. ‘On Some Aspects of the Historiography of Colonial India’, in R. Guha (ed.), Subaltern Studies I: Writings on South Asian History and Society. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1–8. Guha, Ranajit. 2003. History at the Limit of World-History. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Guite, J. 2018. Against State, Against History: Freedom, Resistance and Statelessness in Upland Northeast India. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gupta, D. 2005. ‘Whither the Indian Village: Culture and Agriculture in “Rural” India’, Economic and Political Weekly, 40 (8): 751–758. Guzy, L. 2014. ‘Landscape as Resistance – The Gandhamardan Environmental Movement of the Bora Sambar Region’, in K.K. Misra and N.K. Das (eds.), Dissent, Discrimination and Dispossession: Tribal Movements in Contemporary India. New Delhi: Indira Gandhi Rashtriya Manav Sangrahalay and Manohar, 149–159. Halbwachs, M. 1992. On Collective Memory. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press. Hallpike, C.R. 1979. The Foundations of Primitive Thought. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hardiman, D. 1987. The Coming of the Devi: The Adivasi Assertion in Western India. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Hardiman, D. 1999. ‘Power in the Forests: The Dangs 1820–1940’, in D. Arnold and D. Hardiman (eds.), Subaltern Studies VIII. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 89–147. Hardiman, D. 2010. ‘Farming in the Forest: The Dangs 1830–1992’, in V. Madan (ed.), The Village in India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 391–416. Hebbar, R. 2011. Ecology, Equality and Freedom: The Engagement with Self-Rule in Jharkhand. Mumbai: Earthworm Books. Hoberman, L.S. and Socolow, S.M. 1996. The Countryside in Colonial Latin America. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press.

200

Bibliography

Hobsbawm, E. 1997. On History. New York: The New Press. Hoffmann, J. and Emelen, A.V. 1998. Encyclopaedia Mundarica. Vol. XIII. New Delhi: Gyan Publishing House. Hunter, W.W. 1975. The Annals of Rural Bengal. Delhi: Cosmo Publications. Hunter, W.W. 1976. A Statistical Account of Bengal. Vols. XIV, XVI, XVII. Delhi: Concept Publishing Company. Inden, R.B. 1990. Imagining India. London: Hurst & Company. Jha, J.C. 1987. The Tribal Revolt of Chotanagpur (1831-32). Patna: K. P. Jayaswal Research Institute. Jodhka, S.S. 2000. ‘Sociology/Anthropology, Nation and the “Village Community”’, Knowledge, Institutions and Practices: The Formation of Indian Anthropology and Sociology, National Workshop, 19–21 April, Sociology Unit, Institute of Economic Growth, Delhi, 1–23. Kansteiner, W. 2002. ‘Finding Meaning in Memory: A Methodological Critique of Collective Memory Studies’, History and Theory, 41, May: 179–197. Karlsson, B.G. 2003. ‘Anthropology and the “Indigenous Slot”: Claims to and Debates about Indigenous Peoples’ Status in India’, Critique of Anthropology, 23(4): 403–423. Karlsson, B.G. 2005. ‘Indigenous Natures: Forest and Community Dynamics in Meghalaya’, in G. Cederlof and K. Sivaramakrishnan (eds.), Ecological Nationalisms: Nature, Livelihoods, and Identities in South Asia. Delhi: Permanent Black, 170–198. Kennedy, J.J. and King, L.P. 2009. ‘The Sociology of Insurgency in Indigenous Communities: Moral Economy, Class Analysis, Geopolitical and Political Economy Explanations of “Naxalism” in Chhattisgarh, India’, Faculty of Politics, Psychology, Sociology and International Studies, University of Cambridge, Working Paper Series, 9 March, 1–61. Krishnan, R. and Naga, R. 2017. ‘“Ecological Warriors” versus “Indigenous Performers”: Understanding State Responses to Resistance Movements in Jagatsinghpur and Niyamgiri in Odisha’, South Asia: Journal of South Asian Studies, 1–17, doi:10.1080/ 00856401.2017.1375730. Kumar, S. 2017. ‘The Face and Mask of “Autonomy”: Reinvigorating Customs among the Ho Adivasis of Jharkhand’, Studies in Humanities and Social Sciences, 24 (1): 95–116. Kwashirai, V.C. ‘Environmental History of Africa’. World Environmental History’, Encyclopedia of Life Support Systems, 5: 1–30, www.eolss.net/EOLSS, Sample all chapters.aspx. PDF of pages 1–13. Downloaded on 21 December 2016. Leach, M. and Mearns, R. 1996. ‘Environmental Change and Policy’, in M. Leach and R. Mearns (eds.), The Lie of the Land: Challenging Received Wisdom on the African Environment. Oxford: James Currey, 440–475. Lewis, O. 1955. ‘Peasant Culture in India and Mexico A Comparative Analysis’, in M. Marriott (ed.), Village India: Studies in the Little Community. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 145–170. Linkenbach, A. 2005. ‘Nature and Politics: The Case of Uttarakhand, North India’, in G. Cederlof and K. Sivaramakrishnan (eds.), Ecological Nationalisms: Nature, Livelihoods, and Identities in South Asia. New Delhi: Permanent Black, 151–169. Ludden, D. 1985. Peasant History of South India. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. MacDougall, J. 1985. Land or Religion? The Sardar and Kherwar Movements in Bihar 1858–95. Delhi: Manohar.

Bibliography

201

Madan, V. (ed.), 2010. The Village in India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Majumdar, D.N. 1937. A Tribe in Transition: Study in Cultural Pattern. Calcutta: Longmans Green & Co., Ltd. Majumdar, D.N. 1950. The Affairs of a Tribe. Lucknow: Universal Publishers. Majumdar, D.N. (ed.), 1955. Rural Profiles. Lucknow: Ethnographic and Folk Culture Society. Malinowski, B. 1948. Magic, Science and Religion and Other Essays. Glencoe, IL: Free Press. Man, E.G. 1983. Sonthalia and the Sonthals. Delhi: Mittal Publications. Mandelbaum, D.G. 1955. ‘Technology, Credit and Culture in a Nilgiri Village’, in M.N. Srinivas (ed.), India’s Villages. Calcutta: Government of West Bengal Press, 93–95. Mandelbaum, D.G. 1955. ‘The World and World View of the Kota’, in M. Marriott (ed.), Village India: Studies in the Little Community. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 223–254. Mandelbaum, D.G. 1970. Society in India: Change and Continuity. Vol. II. Berkeley; Los Angeles, CA; London: University of California Press. Mantena, K. 2010. Alibis of Empire: Henry Maine and the Ends of Liberal Imperialism. Princeton, NJ; Oxford: Princeton University Press. Marriott, M. 1955. ‘Little Communities in an Indigenous Civilization’, in M. Marriott (ed.), Village India: Studies in the Little Community. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 171–222. Martin, C.E. 1996. ‘Indigenous Peoples’, in L.S. Hoberman and S.M. Socolow (eds), The Countryside in Colonial Latin America. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 187–212. Miller, E.J. 1955. ‘Village Structure in North Kerala’, in M.N. Srinivas (ed.), India’s Villages. Calcutta: Government of West Bengal Press, 39–50. Mines, P.D. and Yazgi, N. 2011. Village Matters: Relocating Villages in the Contemporary Anthropology of India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Mohapatra, P.P. 1985. ‘Coolies and Colliers: A Study of the Agrarian Context of Labour Migration from Chotanagpur, 1880–1920’, Studies in History, 1(2): 247–303. Mohapatra, P.P. 1990. ‘Land and Credit Market in Chotanagpur 1880–1950’, Studies in History, 6(2): 163–203. Mohapatra, P.P. 1991. ‘Class Conflict and Agrarian Regimes in Chotanagpur 1860–1950’, The Economic and Social History Review, 28(1): 1–42. Morrison, K.D. 2010. ‘Dharmic Projects, Imperial Reservoirs, and New Temples of India: An Historical Perspective of Dams in India’, Conservation and Society, 8(3): 182–195. Munda, R.D. and Manki, R.S. 2009. Aadi Dharam: Bharatiya Adivasion ki Dharmik Asthayen. New Delhi: Rajkamal Prakashan. Nath, S. 2016. ‘Schooling the Tribe and Chybassa School: Advent of Primary Education in Kolhan Government Estate in Singhbhum (1841–51)’, Journal of Adivasi and Indigenous Studies, August, V (2): 18–27. Nath, S. and Kumari, R. 2019. ‘Remembering Poto Ho: The Leader of Adivasi AntiBritish Resistance in Kolhan (1836–37)’, Journal of Adivasi and Indigenous Studies, August, IX (1), February: 1–25. Nilsen, A.G. 2016. ‘“Real, Practical Emancipation”? Subaltern Politics and Insurgent Citizenship in Contemporary India’, Focaal – Journal of Global and Historical Anthropology, 76: 31–45.

202

Bibliography

Nilsen, A.G. 2018. Adivasis and the State: Subalternity and Citizenship in India’s Bhil Heartland. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Nora, P. 1989. ‘Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Memoire’, Representations, 26, Spring: 7–24. Orans, M. 1965. The Santal: A Tribe in Search of a Great Tradition. Detroit: Wayne State University Press. Padel, F. 2014. ‘Resisting Cultural Genocide in an Age of Investment-Induced Displacement’, in K.K. Misra and N.K. Das (eds.), Dissent, Discrimination and Dispossession: Tribal Movements in Contemporary India. New Delhi: Indira Gandhi Rashtriya Manav Sangrahalay and Manohar, 73–92. Papers relating to ChotaNagpore Agrarian Disputes. 1890. Calcutta. Parker, J. and Rathbone, R. 2007. African History: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Patnaik, N. 2002. Folklore of Tribal Communities: Oral Literature of the Santals, Kharias, Oraons and the Mundas of Orissa. New Delhi: Gyan Publishing House. Pattnaik, B.K. 2014. ‘Tribal Resistance in Odisha: Studies in New Social Movements’, in K.K. Misra and N.K. Das (eds.), Dissent, Discrimination and Dispossession: Tribal Movements in Contemporary India. New Delhi: Indira Gandhi Rashtriya Manav Sangrahalay and Manohar, 113–148. Prakash, G. 1990. Bonded Histories: Genealogies of Labor Servitude in Colonial India. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Prins, G. 1991. ‘Oral History’, in P. Burke (ed.), New Perspectives on Historical Writing. Oxford: Polity Press, 114–139. Pye, O. 2012. ‘Editorial: Changing Socio-Natures in South-East Asia’, ASEAS – Austrian Journal of South-East Asian Studies, 5 (2): 198–207. Rangarajan, M. 1999. Fencing the Forest: Conservation and Ecological Change in India’s Central Provinces 1860–1917. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Rao, B.E. 2011. ‘Taming “Liquid Gold” and Dam Technology: A Study of the Godavari Anicut’, in D. Kumar, V. Damodaran and R. D’Souza (eds.), British Empire and the Natural World. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 145–159. Rappaport, J. 1994. Cumbe Reborn. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press. Rappaport, J. 1998. The Politics of Memory: Native Historical Interpretation in the Colombian Andes. Durham and London: Duke University Press. Remedios, A. (ed.), 1998. The Mythos and Logos of the Warlis. New Delhi: Concept Publishing Company. Ricca, M. 2018. ‘Earthly Indigeneity: The Cognitive and Ethical Implications of a Disregarded Cosmic Occurrence’, On Culture: The Open Journal for the Study of Culture, 5: 2–25, http://geb.uni-giessen.de/geb/volltexte/2018/13658/. Risley, H.H. 1915. The People of India. Calcutta and Simla: Thacker, Spink & Co. Risley, H.H. 1998. The Tribes and Castes of Bengal, Vol. I. Calcutta: Firma KLM Pvt. Ltd. Rosaldo, R. 1980. Ilongot Headhunting 1883–1974: A Study in Society and History. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Roy, S.C. 1935. ‘Ethnographical Investigation in Official Records’, Journal of the Bihar and Orissa Research Society, Vol. VII, Part IV & Vol. XXI, Part IV. Roy, S.C. 1970. The Mundas and their Country. Calcutta: Asia Publishing House. Roy, S.C. 1972. Oraon Religion and Customs. Calcutta: Temple Press.

Bibliography

203

Roy, S.C. 1984. The Oraons of Chotanagpur. Ranchi: Man in India Office. Roy Chaudhury, P.C. 1958. Singhbhum Old Records. Patna: Superintendent Secretariat Press. Rudolph, L.I. and Rudolph, S.H. 1965. ‘Barristers and Brahmans in India: Legal Cultures and Social Change’, Comparative Studies in Society and History, 8 (1): 24–49. Rycroft, D.J. 2006. Representing Rebellion: Visual Aspects of Counter-insurgency in Colonial India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Rycroft, D.J. 2014. ‘Reinterpreting Adivasi History: Memory of the Santal Revolution in Village Bhognadih’, in K.K. Mishra and N.K. Das (eds.), Dissent, Discrimination and Dispossession: Tribal Movements in Contemporary India. New Delhi: IGRMS and Manohar, 51–71. Rycroft, D.J. and Dasgupta, S. (eds.), 2011. The Politics of Belonging in India: Becoming Adivasi. London and New York: Routledge. Sabean, D.W. 1984. Power in the Blood: Popular Culture and Village Discourse in Early Modern Germany. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sahu, M. 1985. Kolhan under the British Rule. Calcutta: No publisher. Samaddar, R. 1998. Memory, Identity, Power: Politics in the Jungle Mahals (West Bengal), 1890–1950. London: Sangam Books. Schmitthenner, P.L. 2011. ‘Colonial Hydraulic Projects in South India: Environmental and Cultural Legacy’, in D. Kumar, V. Damodaran and R. D’Souza (eds.), British Empire and the Natural World. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 181–201. Schulte-Droesch, L. 2014. ‘Fertility or Indigeneity? Two Versions of the Santal Flower Festival’, Asian Ethnology 73(1–2): 155–180. Sen, A.K. 1999. Wilkinson’s Rules: Context, Content and Ramifications. Chaibasa: Tata College. Sen, A.K. 2003. ‘Writing Local History and the District Record Room’, Proceedings of Indian Historical Records Commission containing papers presented at the 58th Session, 81–89. Sen, A.K. 2006. ‘Tribe-Peasant-Tribe Continuum: The Dynamics of Ho Identity’, in S. Gopal (ed.), Colonial India: A Centenary Tribute to Prof. K. K. Datta. Arrah: Veer Kunwar Singh University, 299–309. Sen, A.K. 2007. ‘Constructing a Different World: Pages from the Diary of Raisaheb Sashi Bhusan Sarkar’, Manwa Katha, 1(1), October: 33–41. Sen, A.K. 2008. ‘Collective Memory and Reconstruction of Ho History’. Indian Folklore Research Journal, Chennai, Issue 8, December: 87–103. Sen, A.K. 2011. Representing Tribe: The Ho of Singhbhum during Colonial Rule. New Delhi: Concept Publishing Company. Sen, A.K. 2011a. ‘Collaboration and Conflict Environmental Legacies of the Ho of Kolhan (1700–1918)’, in D. Kumar, V. Damodaran and R. D’Souza (eds.), The British Empire and the Natural World: Environmental Encounters in South Asia. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 202–227. Sen, A.K. 2011b. ‘Reconstructing an Event: The Great Rebellion of 1857–58 and the Singhbhum Indigenes’, in D.J. Rycroft and S. Dasgupta (eds.), The Politics of Belonging in India: Becoming Adivasi. London and New York: Routledge, 82–96. Sen, A.K. 2012. From Village Elder to British Judge: Custom, Customary Law and Tribal Society. Hyderabad: Orient BlackSwan.

204

Bibliography

Sen, A.K. 2014. ‘Changing Modalities of Ho Social protest in Colonial Singhbhum’, in K. K. Mishra and N.K. Das (eds.), Dissent, Discrimination and Dispossession: Tribal Movements in Contemporary India. New Delhi: IGRMS and Manohar, 93–112. Sen, A.K. 2015. ‘Reconstructing Adivasi Village History: Problems and Possibilities’, Journal of Adivasi and Indigenous Studies, 2 (2), August: 16–37. Sen, A.K. 2016. ‘Faltering Steps to Modern Education: The Ho Adivasis of Colonial Singhbhum’, in A.K. Singh (ed.), Education and Social Empowerment: Policies and Practices. London and New York: Routledge, 104–125. Sen, A.K. 2018. Indigeneity, Landscape and History: Adivasi Self-fashioning in India. London and New York: Routledge. Sen, A.K. 2018a. ‘Witchcraft Trials and the Great Rebellion of 1857–58’, Journal of Adivasi and Indigenous Studies, 8 (2), August: 20–36. Sen, A.K. 2020. ‘Manki-Munda System of West Singhbhum: Historical Overview of Village Governance and Development’, in V. Bhagat-Ganguly and S. Kumar (eds.), India’s Scheduled Areas: Untangling Governance, Law, and Institutions. London and New York: Routledge, 27–45. Sen, P. (ed.), 2003. Changing Tribal Life: A Socio-Philosophical Perspective. New Delhi: Concept Publishing Company. Sen, P. 2003a. ‘Conceptualising Time in a Changing Agrarian Tribal Society’, presented at the Seminar organised by The Asiatic Society, Calcutta on the Changing Scenario of the Tribals and Indigenous People of Jharkhand, Bihar, West Bengal and Orissa, January. Sen, P. 2006. ‘Understanding Tribal Cosmology and the Creation Myths of the Adivasis of Jharkhand’, in S. Gopal (ed.), Colonial India: A Centenary Tribute to Professor K.K. Datta. Research Publication Series 4. Arrah: Veer Kunwar Singh University, 310–320. Sen, P. 2007. ‘Philosophising Adivasi Ecological Perspective’, in C.K. Paty (ed.), Forest, Government and Tribe. New Delhi: Concept Publishing Company, 48–59. Sen, S.K. 2008a. Tribal Struggle for Freedom: Singhbhum 1820–58. New Delhi: Concept Publishing Company. Sengupta, N. 1980. ‘The Indigenous Irrigation Organisation of South Bihar’, Indian Economic and Social History Review, 17(2): 157–190. Shah, A. 2010. In the Shadows of the State: Indigenous Politics, Environmentalism, and Insurgency in Jharkhand. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Shah, A.M. 2002. Exploring India’s Rural Past. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Singh, A.K. 1995. ‘The Cultural Construction of Home and School Knowledge in Tribal India’. Prospects, 25(4): 735–747. Singh, A. 2017. ‘Many Voices, One Reality: “All India Tribal Women Writers ‘Meet’ in Ranchi”’, Journal of Adivasi and Indigenous Studies, 7(2), August: 54–62. Singh, A. 2018. ‘Linguistic Politics and Kurukh Language Movement of the Oraons in Jharkhand’, Journal of Adivasi and Indigenous Studies, 8(2), August: 37–50. Singh, A. 2019. ‘Many Faces of the Pathalgadi Movement in Jharkhand’, Economic & Political Weekly, 54(11), March: 28–33. Singh, A. 2020. ‘Pathalgadi Movement and Conflicting Ideologies of Tribal Village Governance’, in V. Ganguly-Bhagat and S. Kumar (eds.), India’s Scheduled Areas: Untangling Governance, Law and Politics. London and New York: Routledge, 180–198. Singh, A. Unpublished. ‘State, Forest and Adivasis at Crossroads: Netarhat Field Firing Range and Contestations Over Rights’. Singh, B.P. 2015. Poverty and the Quest for Life: Spiritual and Material Striving in Rural India. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Bibliography

205

Singh, C.P. 1978. The Ho Tribe of Singhbhum. New Delhi: Classical Publications. Singh, (K).S. 1966. The Dust-Storm and the Hanging Mist. Calcutta: Firma K.L. Mukhopadhyay. Singh, (K).S. 1969. ‘Pattern of Agricultural Changes in Tribal Chhotanagpur’, in N. Ray (ed.), Trends of Socio-Economic Change in India 1871–1961. Simla: Indian Institute of Advanced Study, 652–661. Singh, (K).S. 1969a. ‘Tribal Land Organization in Chhotanagpur and its Development’, in N. Ray (ed.), Trends of Socio-Economic Change in India 1871–1961. Simla: Indian Institute of Advanced Study, 547–558. Singh, (K).S. 1971. ‘State-Formation in Tribal Society: Some Preliminary Observations’, Journal of Indian Anthropological Society, 6: 161–181. Singh, Y. 2009. ‘Social Praxis, Conceptual Categories, and Social Change: Observation from a Village Study’, 58(2), May–August, 178–195. Sinha, S. 1962. ‘State Formation and Rajput Myth in Tribal Central India’, Man in India, 42(1): 35–80. Sinha, S. 1965. ‘Tribe, Caste and Peasant Continua’, Man in India, 45(1): 57–83. Sinha, S.S. 2006. ‘Adivasis, Gender and the “Evil Eye”: The Construction(s) of Witches in Colonial Chotanagpur’, The Indian Historical Review, 33(1), January: 127–149. Sinha, S.S. 2008. ‘On the Margins of a “National” Uprising: Dynamics of 1857 in Chotanagpur’, in S. Bhattacharya (ed.), Rethinking 1857. Hyderabad: Orient Longman Private Limited, 120–142. Sinha, S.S. 2015. ‘Culture of Violence or Violence of Cultures? Adivasis and Witchhunting in Chotanagpur’, Anglistica AION, 19(1): 105–120. Sinha, S.C., Sen, J. and Panchabhai, S. 1969. ‘The Concept of Diku among the Tribes of Chotanagpur’, Man in India, 49(2): 121–137. Sivaramakrishnan, K. 1999. Modern Forests: Statemaking and Environmental Change in Colonial Eastern India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Skaria, A. 1999. Hybrid Histories: Frontiers and Wildness in Western India. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Socolow, S.M. 1996. ‘Introduction to the Rural Past’, in L.S. Hoberman and S.M. Socolow (eds), The Countryside in Colonial Latin America. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 3–18. Srinivas, M.N. (ed.), 1955. India’s Villages. Calcutta: Government of West Bengal Press. Srinivas, M.N. 1955a. ‘The Social System of a Mysore Village’, in M. Marriott (ed.), Village India: Studies in the Little Community. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1–35. Srinivas, M.N. 1975. ‘Village Studies: Participant Observation and Social Science Research in India’, Economic and Political Weekly, 10(33/35), Special Number (August): 1387+1389–1394. Srinivas, M.N. 2010. ‘The Indian Village: Myth and Reality’, in V. Madan (ed.), The Village in India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 51–70. Stewart, P J. and Strathern, A. 2004. Witchcraft, Sorcery, Rumors and Gossip. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Stuligross, D. 2008. ‘Resources, Representation, and Authority in Jharkhand, India’, Asia Pacific Viewpoint, 49(1), April: 83–97. Sundar, N. 2006. ‘Village Histories: Coalescing the Past and the Present’, in P. Chatterjee and A. Ghosh (eds.), History and the Present. Delhi: Permanent Black, 144–182. Sundar, N. 2008. Subalterns and Sovereigns: An Anthropological History of Bastar (1854–2006). New Delhi: Oxford University Press.

206

Bibliography

Sundar, N. 2009. ‘Framing the Political Imagination: Custom, Democracy, and Citizenship’, in N. Sundar (ed.), Legal Grounds: Natural Resources, Identity, and the Law in Jharkhand. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 189–215. Sundar, N. 2011. ‘The Rule of Law and Citizenship in Central India: Post-Colonial Dilemmas’, Citizenship Studies, 15(3–4): 419–432. Taylor, K. 2008. ‘Landscape and Memory: Cultural Landscapes, Intangible Values and Some Thoughts on Asia’, Icomos Open Archive, 1–14, www.international.icomos.org/ quebec 2008/cd/. Downloaded on 21 December 2016. Thakur, V. 2019. Singhbhum me Schooli Siksha ka Vikash: Sarakari Monobritti ka Adhyan 1837–1947, Ph.D. thesis, Kolhan University, Chaibasa. Thomas, K. 1984. Religion and the Decline of Magic: Studies in Popular Beliefs in Sixteenth and Seventeenth-Century England. London: Penguin Books. Thompson, P. 1978. The Voice of the Past: Oral History. London: Oxford University Press. Thompson, P. 2005. The Edwardians: The Remaking of British Society. London and New York: Routledge. Tickell, Lt. S.R. 1840. ‘Memoir on the Ho Desum’ (improperly called Kolehan)’, Journal of Asiatic Society of Bengal, Vol. XI, Part II, 694–709, 783–808. Troisi, J. 1978. Tribal Religion: Religious Beliefs and Practices among the Santals. New Delhi: Manohar. Turner, B.L. (ed.), 1990. The Earth as Transformed by Human Action: Global and Regional Changes in the Biosphere over the Past 300 Years. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press with Clark University. Uddin, N., Gerharz, E. and Chakkarath, P. 2017. ‘Introduction: Exploring Indigeneity’, in E. Gerharz, N. Uddin and P. Chakkarath (eds.), Indigeneity on the Move: Varying Manifestations of a Contested Concept. Oxford and New York: Berghahn Books, 1–25. Vail, L. (ed.), 1991. The Creation of Tribalism in Southern Africa. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Vansina, J. 1985. Oral Tradition as History. London: James Curry. Vasan, S. 2005. ‘In the Name of Law: Legality, Illegality and Practice in Jharkhand Forests’, Economic and Political Weekly, 40(41) (Oct. 8–14): 4447–4450. Wolf, E.R. 2010. Europe and the People without History. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Worster, D. (ed.), 2003. The Ends of the Earth: Perspectives on Modern Environmental History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Xaxa, V. 1999. ‘Transformation of Tribes in India: Terms of Discourse’, Economic and Political Weekly, 34(23), June: 1519–1524. Xaxa, V. 1999. ‘Tribes as Indigenous People of India’, Economic and Political Weekly, 34(51), December: 3589–3594. Yazgi, N. 2011. ‘Villages on the Campaign Trail’, in P.D. Mines and N. Yazgi (eds.), Village Matters: Relocating Villages in the Contemporary Anthropology of India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 53–86. Yorke, M.P. 1976. ‘Decisions and Analogy: Political Structure and Discourse among the Ho Tribals of India’. Ph.D. Thesis submitted to the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London, October. Young, J.E. 1997. ‘Between History and Memory: The Uncanny Voices of Historian and Survivor’, History and Memory, 9: 47–58.

Bibliography

Newspapers Dainik Jagaran. Hindustan. Prabhat Khabar. Dainik Bhaskar.

207

Index

Acts, central, provincial 80, 134–5, 138, 144–5, 149–50, 153–5, 183 Adam, W. 103 ading, bhitar 110 Adivasi/s 3–10, 13–14, 16, 18, 20–2, 26–9, 32, 34–5, 37–41, 45, 48–52, 54–8, 61–9, 72–5, 80, 82, 85–7, 89, 91–3, 98–100, 102, 104–5, 110, 112, 114–15, 119, 121–4, 127–9, 131–5, 137–48, 152, 155, 157–8, 161, 164, 168, 170–7, 179–80, 183–91; see also tribe/s, tribal/s administration, governance, governmentality 3, 6–10, 14–15, 21, 29, 58, 61–8, 94, 96, 98–9, 103–5, 109–10, 115, 122–9, 133, 135–7, 139–48, 151–2, 155–7, 163, 167–9, 173, 177–8, 180, 183, 189–90 Africa, African/s 9–10, 34, 49, 61, 120, 123, 126, 129 agnate/s 60, 63, 102, 122, 126, 129–30 agrarian, agricultural, agriculture, cultivation 3, 7–8, 25, 29, 31, 35–6, 48, 53, 65, 73, 76–7, 80, 82–3, 89, 91–2, 102, 108–9, 119, 133–4, 137, 139–40, 144–5, 165, 167–9, 178, 190 akhara 126, 146 Andean 134 animorphism, shapeshifting 114, 117–18 anthropologists, anthropology 1, 3, 7, 9, 56, 75, 113, 121 anti-British, activism, militancy, movement, popular protest, rebellion 12, 17, 40, 67–8, 74, 115, 125–6, 145, 180, 183 arcadia/n 9, 98, 100, 102, 106 archaeology, archaeological 12, 14, 19, 22–4, 170 arithmetic 103–4 Arjun Singh 17 arkati, decoy 92–9

Aryan/s 32, 46–9, 86, 75 Austro-Asiatic 50 Azande 110, 113, 119–20 Baden Powell, B.H. 1, 34–5, 45–50 Baiga/s 105, 116, 120, 129 Bailey, F.G. 1–2, 6, 11, 34, 48, 53, 57–8 bala/s 48, 54, 78 Baleswar 88 Banaras 2 Bankura 83, 88 Bastar 35 Bedouin 60 belief system, prayer, propitiation 30, 35, 110, 112–13, 117, 124–6, 128, 158, 171, 189 benevolent 110–13, 171, 189 Bengal 8, 13, 15, 68, 82, 88–92, 94, 96, 115, 154, 168, 176, 189 Bengali 55, 87–8, 103, 172, 176–7, 190 Bhil/s 28, 31, 57, 73 Bhuinhari 35, 134 Bhuiyan/s 20–1, 23–4, 40, 81, 90–1, 125, 140, 166, 173–4, 179, 182, 190 Bihar, Bihari 8, 54, 56, 67, 73, 81–4, 87–9, 91, 134, 140, 154–5, 176–7, 180, 186, 189–90 Birch, Lt. 74 black art 102 Bombay 88 Bonga/s, spirits 23, 30–1, 40–1, 107, 110–13, 116–17, 120–4, 128, 132, 143, 168 Borneo 102, 105 boundary 128–30, 132, 143, 148, 172, 184; see also village Bradley-Birt, F.B. 15 British, British rule, colonial rule, empire, period 1–15, 17, 20, 24–5, 31, 35, 37,

Index 46, 49, 55, 66–7, 72–3, 75, 80–1, 83, 85–91, 94, 98, 100, 103, 106, 108–9, 114–15, 123, 125–7, 129, 132–4, 137, 140–2, 144, 147, 153, 155, 157, 162, 166, 168, 170, 172–3, 175, 177–8, 180, 183, 187–91 Burdwan 84 Burke, P. 20 Buxar 75 Campbell, J. 94 caste/s 2, 6, 23, 45, 54–7, 60–2, 64–9, 86, 89–91, 106, 122, 158, 172, 174, 179, 184, 187–8 Chaibasa 7, 15, 57, 66, 82–3, 87–8, 90, 92, 103, 110, 151, 167, 170, 175, 178, 180, 184 Chanock, M. 31 Chattisgarh 102 Cheros 75 Chotanagpur, district, plateau 8, 13, 32, 37, 40, 48–50, 55, 60, 67, 69, 72–3, 75–6, 91–2, 94, 115, 124, 126, 133, 140, 144–5, 147, 154–5, 157, 165, 169, 180, 188 Chotanagpur Tenancy Act, CNT Act 56, 135, 138, 149–50, 153–4 Christian/s, mission, missionary 68, 75, 178, 180 Christianity 68, 179–80, 190 cognate/s 48, 63, 102, 122, 129 Cohn, B.S. 1, 12 collieries 8, 90–1, 189–90 colonial administrators, bureaucrats, officials 7, 13–15, 17, 19–25, 29, 43, 46–7, 55, 62, 65, 70, 73–4, 87–8, 90, 125, 127–8, 134–6, 138–40, 144–5, 148–50, 152–4, 156–7, 173, 178, 181 colonial ethnography, ethnographers 1–2, 10, 13, 46, 49–51, 54, 60, 64, 69, 75, 77, 86, 106, 113, 120–1, 123, 127, 145, 164, 167–8, 172, 184, 187 colonialism 3, 115, 144–5 coolie, labour depot 65, 67, 73, 82, 84–5, 88, 91–4, 109, 157, 178 core, periphery 60–2 corporate groups 56, 88 country life, side 2, 10, 17, 119, 134–5, 175, 180 court, cases, system 18, 50, 54, 63, 87, 94, 116, 118, 126–7, 130, 132, 139, 141, 146–54, 156–7, 182, 189; see also judiciary cradle 50, 76

209

Craven, J.A. 14, 54, 150 Craven Settlement 55, 89, 94, 145 crime 93, 103, 119, 122, 155–6 culture, cultural 2, 5, 10–11, 17, 27, 38, 40, 49, 93, 101, 116, 120, 133–4, 164–6, 170–1, 175–6, 178, 180, 182–3, 190 custom 15, 22–3, 32, 49, 58–9, 62, 70, 78, 99, 107–9, 125–6, 132–6, 138, 142, 146–7, 151–4, 160, 162, 179 Cuttack 88, 90 Dalton, E.T. 13, 15, 22, 34, 49, 54, 69, 93, 107, 144, 172, 177 Dan, Dakans 113, 120 Dang/s, Dangi/s 32, 73, 76, 100, 120 Danhri, mati 115, 120 dead ancestors 65, 110, 112 demography, demographic 8, 45, 50, 55, 86, 91–2, 188 deori 21, 25, 30–1, 33, 35, 39, 58–9, 62, 64, 66, 70, 109, 111–12, 125, 130, 132, 136–8, 158, 171 desauli 20–2, 24, 30–1, 33, 59, 68, 111, 117, 123, 137–8, 143, 171, 179 development 1, 3–4, 88, 104–5, 108, 144, 175–6 Dhumkuria 102–3 diaspora 46 Diku, foreigners, non-ethnic, outsiders 19, 24, 42, 45, 54–7, 64–8, 72–4, 79, 86–7, 89–90, 92–3, 112, 130, 170–2, 174–6, 179–80, 183–4, 188 dispersion 12, 74–5, 77–8, 80, 176, 188 displacement 3–4, 73, 75–6, 80, 85, 134, 170, 173 dispute, litigation, settlement 14, 18–9, 29, 31, 34, 36, 58–9, 61, 106, 126, 130, 134, 142, 145–50, 152–4, 162, 181–2 distance 66, 72–5, 77–80, 96, 111 diviner 113, 121 dominant caste/s 6, 60–1 Dravidian 28, 47–8 Dube, S.C. 1, 57 Dumont, L. 7 Durkheim, E. 104 ecology, ecological 2, 31–2, 37, 46, 56, 82, 91, 117, 140, 143, 164, 170–1, 188, 190 education, pedagogy 99, 103, 113–15, 120, 177, 180, 189–90 Edwardians 15 Elwin, V. 105, 123 empirical, empiricism 2, 6–7, 11, 28, 35, 42, 45, 47, 57, 60, 113, 123, 187

210

Index

endogamy/ic 60, 105–6, 143 England 47, 104, 113, 116–17, 133, 147 entrepreneurs 88, 176, 191 epidemic, disease, sickness 80–2, 102, 111, 113–14, 116–17, 121, 138, 184 ethnic, community, ethnicity, group 4, 6, 8–9, 12, 15, 22, 28, 31–2, 34–5, 41, 45, 50–1, 53–5, 57–61, 63–4, 66–8, 72, 77, 92–3, 98–9, 106, 108–10, 112–14, 116–17, 120, 122, 129, 131, 133, 135, 145, 170, 172–5, 180, 183, 188, 190 ethnocentrism 20 ethnography, ethnographic, post-colonial 1, 2–3, 5–7, 9, 13, 15, 101, 173, 184 Eurasians 66 Europe, Europeans 7, 31, 46, 49, 110, 165 Evans-Pritchard, E.E. 113, 116, 120 evil 111–16, 120–1, 155 exogamy/ic 63, 105–6 famine, drought 67, 73, 85, 88, 91, 140 fauna, flora 7, 38, 40, 105, 166–7, 169 festival 15, 58–9, 62–3, 68, 70, 73, 100, 108–9, 111, 136, 143, 171, 174, 179, 190 feudal, chiefdom, chiefs, system 24, 51–2, 72, 75, 86, 123–4, 126–7, 129, 132–4, 144, 160 fiction 18–19, 37 fission, fusion 45, 60, 63 172 floods 73 folklore, songs, stories, 12–3, 75, 100–1, 144 forest, jungle, woodland 4, 8, 22, 25, 29–35, 37–9, 41–2, 50, 52, 58, 76, 79, 81–2, 86, 90, 102, 109, 114, 117, 128, 130, 132, 135–9, 142–5, 157, 161, 164–9, 171–3, 175–6, 179, 184, 189–90; Acts, policy, rules 80, 85, 133, 144–5, 166; community 144; contractors, labour 55, 65, 82, 88, 178; protected, reserved 52, 73, 80, 85, 138, 145, 169; right 4, 144–5, 180 Gangetic plains 73 gender 63, 108, 120, 148 genealogy/ical, kursinama, tree 15, 20–1, 74, 139 generation/al, scale, transmission 2, 18, 21, 26, 41, 74, 101, 108, 123, 144 geography 7, 45, 103–4 Ghana 100 ghosts 112 Ghotul, gitiora 102 Goilkera 37

gonong, bride price 63, 106, 146, 168, 181 grazing taxes 109, 145 Greece 104 group, mass exodus 26, 79–80, 82, 85, 114, 184; see also migration Gujarat, Gujarati 31–2, 73, 76, 88, 100, 129 Guru Kolean 33, 116, 119, 182 haga 21, 35, 54, 61–3, 78–9, 130 Halbwachs, M. 16, 26 Hallpike, C. R. 99, 105 Haram 106, 128 haat/s 71, 90, 175 Hatu 29, 31, 35, 37, 48, 60, 63, 103, 124; see also village Hayes Settlement 33, 55, 81, 93, 130 Hazaribagh 10, 32, 82–4, 88, 91–2, 154, 171 health, hospital, hygiene 87, 115, 175, 177–8, 180, 190 hide, dealer 66–8, 88, 90 Hill Kharias 101 Himalayan region 32 Hindoo, Hindu, castes, gods, temples, 2, 21, 23, 54–6, 64, 68, 73, 86, 89, 106, 134, 172, 174, 179–80 history 6–9, 12–8, 20–1, 23–7, 37, 39, 49–52, 54, 57, 64, 66–9, 72, 75–6, 86, 101, 104, 126, 134, 151, 153, 170, 182, 187 Ho/s 2, 6, 8–9, 15, 17–20, 22–5, 27, 29–33, 35, 37–42, 49, 51–6, 58–60, 64–8, 70, 72, 74–81, 84–5, 88–93, 101–3, 105–9, 111–17, 120–1, 123–7, 130, 136–41, 143–4, 146, 149–56, 165–7, 170–5, 177–84, 187–91 Hobsbawm, E. 21 Hodesum 51–2 homogeneity, homogenisation 36, 42, 53, 57–9, 63, 102, 125, 128, 131, 142, 171, 181, 189 Horkoren Mare Hapramko Reak Katha 13 Hunter, W.W. 1, 13, 15 identity, identitarian 30, 32, 50–1, 57, 68, 74–5, 77, 93, 101, 118, 122, 134, 142–3, 176, 183, 187, 190–1 Ilongots 101 India, Indian 1–4, 6, 8–11, 13–14, 28, 31, 46–50, 52, 54, 57, 60–1, 63, 73–5, 82–3, 85, 88, 99, 102, 105, 110, 113–14, 116,

Index 120, 123, 129, 134, 140, 142–4, 154–5, 157, 161, 164, 170, 175–6, 189 indigenes, indigeneity, indigenous 2–3, 5–6, 8–10, 14, 20–2, 29, 31, 34, 37–8, 41, 45, 49–51, 58, 60, 64, 68, 72, 93, 98–110, 113–15, 121, 123–5, 127–8, 132–4, 137, 140–1, 143, 147–8, 150, 153, 155–7, 171, 173, 180, 183, 189, 191; see also Adivasi/s Indo-Aryan 46 industrialisation 4, 9, 123 Jharkhand 2, 6, 8, 10, 22, 27, 29, 31–2, 35, 49–50, 55–6, 63, 65–6, 68, 72, 75–6, 80, 84–8, 91–2, 100–1, 108–9, 112, 123–4, 128, 133–4, 140, 142–3, 146, 164, 176, 179–80 judiciary, court 18, 63, 87, 94, 116, 118, 126–7, 130, 132, 139, 141, 146–54, 156–7, 182, 189 justice, civil, criminal 55, 99, 103, 121, 123, 128, 145–8, 151, 153, 155, 173, 189 Ka-ani, Kahani 101 Kelly, W.G. 36–7, 130, 139 Keonjhar 24, 81, 85, 89, 91 Kharia 84 Kharsawan 11, 52, 55, 76–7, 82–3, 86, 127, 178, 183, 186 Kharwar 75 Khuntkatti 8, 14, 18, 20, 22, 24–5, 33, 35–6, 39, 41, 48, 57, 60–2, 70, 130–1, 134–9, 153, 181 Khuntkattidars, kayemi, original settlers 8, 60–3, 131, 143 Khuntkatti enquiry 16–7, 19, 22, 25, 29, 34, 57, 61, 66, 85 Khuntkatti Papers 15, 18, 51, 95 killi 17–9, 21–2, 25, 30–1, 33–6, 38–42, 45, 50–4, 58–63, 66, 69–70, 74, 76–81, 85, 93, 99, 103, 107–10, 112, 114, 119, 122, 124–6, 129–32, 136–9, 143, 146–8, 153, 171, 179, 181–2, 188, 190 Kishenpur 103 knowledge-making, system 13–14, 98, 104 Kolarian 49, 72–3, 107, 128, 144 Kolhan, Kolhan Government Estate 7–8, 13, 15, 17–18, 23–5, 32–3, 35, 37, 40–2, 52, 54–6, 68, 70, 72–3, 76–92, 96, 107, 109, 127, 133–5, 137–8, 140–1, 145, 150–2, 154–5, 157, 162, 164–72, 174–82, 184, 188, 190 Kond/s 33–5, 41, 48, 60–2, 73, 77

211

Kondmal 35 Kpelle 99, 102, 117, 119–20 Kumayun 144 Kunbis 73 labour, traffic 58, 65–7, 73, 82, 84–5, 88, 91–4, 108–9, 118, 140–2, 157, 178 Lambardars/Nambardar 46 land/s, administration report, tenure 2, 4, 10–1, 13–14, 19, 24, 29–30, 32–8, 41, 46–8, 51, 55–6, 61–2, 64–5, 67–8, 73–4, 77–94, 96, 102, 107, 113–14, 118–19, 121, 123–4, 127–39, 140–1, 146, 148–50, 152, 154, 157, 164, 166, 169, 173–6, 180–1, 183, 188–9 land alienation 3, 4, 67, 91, 94, 134, 148, 173, 176 land revenue 1, 13, 15, 25, 46, 73 land rights 8 landscape 3, 8–9, 40, 54, 92, 98, 101, 123–4, 128, 134, 140, 157, 164–7, 169–70, 173, 175, 190–1 language, grammar 31, 49, 103–4, 116, 150, 171–2, 177, 180–1, 190 Latin America 9–10, 73, 105, 134 law/s, justice 4–5, 46, 49, 59, 87, 99, 102–3, 115–16, 121–3, 128, 134–5, 138, 145–8, 151, 153–5, 157, 160, 173, 189 law and order 115, 127–8, 132, 173 lawyers, vakeels 55, 87 literary, literate, pre-literate 8, 13, 16, 21, 25, 100, 103, 114, 148, 153, 164, 171, 177–8, 180, 182, 189 local informants 13 Lohardaga 32, 87, 154, 180 Madagascar 120 magic, magicians 104, 112–13, 115–16, 120–1 Mahalwari 46 mainstream 2–4, 14, 16, 18, 20, 72, 99, 104, 135, 145, 154, 157, 172–3, 175, 184, 190–1 Majumdar, D.N. 1, 101 malady 113, 115, 117 malevolent, maleficent 110–13, 115–16, 171, 189 Malinowski, B. 112, 158 Manbhum 84, 88, 90–1, 154 mango grove 20–1, 23, 165, 170 manjhi, manjhithan 124, 126, 146 Manki/s, pir heads 65, 80, 87, 89, 107, 114, 119, 126–8, 132, 134, 142, 145, 147, 149–53, 155–6, 162, 178, 181, 183, 189

212

Index

Manki-Munda system 136, 151–2, 171, 181 Mantra 60 Marang Buru 75 market 58, 83, 87, 96, 100, 169, 175–6, 182, 185, 189–90; see also haat/s marriage/s 15, 39, 53–4, 58–9, 62–3, 73, 91, 106, 108, 140, 145, 148–9, 153, 158, 179–81 Marwari 88, 176 Mayurbhanj 24–5, 52, 55, 65, 68, 77, 81, 83–6, 89–91, 124, 127 measure, measurement 73–4, 96, 109, 121, 133, 175 medicine/man, vaccination 34, 113, 178, 180 Meghalaya 142 memory, collective, social memory 13, 15–22, 26–7, 33–4, 66, 74, 79, 100, 132, 183, 191 metaphysical 110, 113, 115, 122, 171, 178, 189; see also supernatural Metcalfe, C. 46 Midnapur 82, 88 migration, influx, demographic, population movement 8, 50, 54, 66, 69, 72–95, 101, 119, 144, 176, 188–90 mining, miners, minerals 55, 65, 82, 87–8, 123, 170, 175–6, 178 Mohammedan, Muslim, Mussulman 55–6, 64, 66, 87–8, 90, 171 money, loans, paddy lending, 55–6, 64, 66, 87–8, 90, 171 moral society 105, 129, 189 Munda/s (tribe) 8, 10–1, 15, 27, 31–4, 48–51, 53, 60, 69–70, 73, 75–7, 83–4, 91–2, 94, 101–3, 107, 123, 126–8, 134, 143, 146, 156, 162, 171, 183, 188 Munda/s (village head) 17–9, 21, 25, 27, 30–1, 35, 39–40, 50, 58–9, 62, 65, 68, 74, 79, 81, 85, 87–90, 92, 109, 111–12, 114, 125–8, 130, 132–3, 137–9, 142–3, 145–7, 149–53, 155–6, 180–4, 189 Munger 84 murder 93, 115–16, 118–19, 122, 125, 144, 146, 155–6, 159 myth, creation, mythology 15, 20, 34, 51, 58, 60, 75, 100–2, 105–7, 115 Narmada region 75 native, nativity 13, 49, 93, 134, 146, 189 nature, natural 38, 40, 45, 47, 58, 70, 73, 76, 104, 113, 123, 128–9, 132, 139–44, 157, 164–9, 173, 189–90

New Guinea 117 Nilgiri 13 Northern Rhodesia 118 Nuer 41, 74 occult art 113 Odisha, Orissa 2, 33–4, 54, 57, 68, 81–2, 88–90, 94, 101, 123, 135, 173, 189 Odiya 87, 177, 190 ojha, bhagat, janguru 34, 113, 120, 147, 171 omens 34, 106, 180 oral, information, society, tradition 7–8, 12–13, 16–7, 20–1, 37, 52, 75, 103, 137–8, 147–8, 171, 177, 180, 183, 187, 190 Oraon/s 5, 32, 34, 49, 55, 58, 60, 67, 70, 73, 75–6, 83–4, 89–92, 102–3, 113, 115–16, 120, 123–5, 127, 134, 146, 157–8, 171, 173, 177, 179, 180, 184 other/s, otherness 30, 48, 53, 55–7, 59 paila/poila 109, 122 Palamau 10, 56, 75, 83, 84, 176 Parsee 88 pater familias 33–4 Pathalgadi movement 35 Pauri 21, 23–4, 138, 171, 179 Pocock, D. 7 peasant/s, peasantry 3, 10, 31, 67, 73, 81, 84, 133 petition/s 136, 145, 183 pir, pargana, parha 10, 24, 66, 73–4, 77–9, 82–4, 89, 92, 107, 109, 119, 122, 124, 126–8, 132, 134, 143, 145–7, 150, 154–6, 188 police 85, 87, 132, 155, 157, 184 population 8, 10–1, 25, 41, 49, 56, 59, 62, 66, 73, 76–7, 80, 83, 90, 92, 96, 109, 112, 171, 173–4, 189 Porahat, dynasty 8, 17, 24, 37, 42, 51–2, 54–5, 69, 73, 76–7, 79, 83, 85–6, 96, 124, 127, 145, 154, 167–8, 170, 172, 179, 184, 188 post-colonial 1, 3–4, 14, 35, 98, 117, 134, 164, 173, 176–7 praja 35, 60–1, 63, 79, 85, 143 Prakash, G. 12 pre-colonial 14–25, 29–42, 50–5, 58–62, 64, 72–3, 75–81, 86, 94, 98, 108–9, 114, 123, 127, 129, 140–1, 166, 170, 174, 180, 183, 187–91 primitive 5, 99–100, 104–5

Index property, common, private 18, 29, 32, 46–8, 51, 61, 63, 68, 102, 107–9, 113, 121, 124, 126–30, 132–3, 138, 140–1, 143–4, 146, 148–9, 151–4, 161, 167–8, 173, 180–1, 189 Punjab 28, 85 Puri 82, 172 Purulia 83 race 46–50, 102, 106, 134, 171, 174 183–4 railway/s 82–3, 85, 190 raiyat/s, raiyatwary 18, 29, 46, 57, 65, 70, 79, 81–2, 119, 127, 130–1, 140–2, 145, 148, 151–2 Rajasthan 5, 31 Ranchi, district 10, 38, 75–6, 82–4, 87–90, 92, 134, 139, 171, 176, 180 Rappaport, J. 12, 20 record, written 133, 147, 149, 151, 153 region, regional 2, 7–9, 11, 13, 15, 17, 32, 35, 37, 50, 55, 57, 62, 66–7, 72–3, 75–8, 81–3, 85, 87, 91–2, 115, 124, 133, 142, 145, 164–5, 167, 170–1, 174, 178, 184, 187, 190 rent 55, 57, 69–70, 91, 94, 127–8, 133–5, 140, 149, 152, 154, 173, 184, 189 resources, natural, village 113, 123, 128–9, 132–4, 139, 141–4, 157, 161, 173, 188–9, 191 revenue, land 1, 13–5, 25, 29, 46, 67, 87, 125–8, 132, 135, 140, 149, 183 rice beer, hanria 109, 136, 142, 174 riddles 100–1, 103 Risa Munda 48, 50, 76–7 Risley, H.H. 13, 49 roads 82–3, 165, 182 Rohtas, Ruhidas 73, 75 Rome 104 Rosaldo, R. 12 Roughsedge, E. 66, 172 Roy, S.C. 30, 34, 48–9, 53, 69, 75, 101 rural, ruralism, rurality, rusticity 1–3, 5–15, 21, 31–2, 38, 40, 48, 50–2, 54, 63, 67, 72, 87, 92–3, 108, 112, 115, 117, 123–4, 127, 134, 136, 138, 140, 145, 157, 164, 167–71, 173–6, 178–80, 182, 184, 187–91 sai, hamlet, tola 30, 33, 35–6, 38, 52, 102, 111, 131, 174 sale, mortgage 55, 67–8, 91, 94, 127, 142, 148, 154, 175 Samaddar, R. 12 Sanskrit texts 75

213

Santal/s 5, 13, 15, 33–4, 36, 49, 51–2, 55, 58, 60, 64, 68–70, 73, 75, 89, 91, 101–2, 106–7, 109, 116, 119–20, 125–7, 129, 140, 146–7, 153, 157, 171, 177, 179, 183 Santal Pargana 55, 72, 82, 84, 161, 176 Sarak/s 15, 19–20, 23, 25, 39, 41–2, 51, 76–7, 79, 86, 137, 139–41, 165–7, 170–1, 182, 190 Saranda 32, 37–8, 81, 165–7, 169 Sarna, jahira, religion 22, 68, 139, 143, 169, 171 sasan, sasandiri 20–2, 58–9, 62, 84, 107, 109–10, 137–8 schools 55, 87, 103, 177, 180, 185, 190 self, collective, selfhood 57, 99, 181, 183–4, 191 seminaris 102, 171 sendra 108, 168 sept/s 49–51, 53, 102, 106–7, 157 Seraikela 11, 51, 55, 76–7, 83, 86, 89, 126, 178 shifting cultivation 31, 76 Sikharbhum 90, 179 Singbonga 35, 51, 98, 105–6, 128, 171 Singhbhum 2, 8, 11, 15, 24, 31–2, 37–8, 51, 55, 67–8, 72–7, 83, 86–8, 91–2, 109, 114, 121, 123–4, 127, 133, 145–6, 154, 157, 165, 168, 170–2, 175–9, 188 Skaria, A. 12, 100 socialising process 99–104 Sociologists 1, 3, 7, 56, 113 sokha, witch finder 112, 120 Sonua 37 sorcerer, sorcery 112–13, 115–16, 118–19, 121 space 6, 8, 28, 33, 36, 45, 58, 62, 70, 73, 76–7, 111, 124–5, 128, 135, 142–4, 157, 164, 166–9, 174, 188 Srinivas, M.N. 1–2, 11, 45, 48, 57, 61 status distinction 60 stone memorials 75 story 6, 8, 12, 19, 23, 26, 31, 39, 41, 50, 58, 72, 74–5, 90, 100, 125, 166, 170, 183, 188, 191 supernatural 110, 115, 122 taboo/s 62–3, 104, 112 Tallensi 99, 120 Tanganyika 49 teachers 55, 87, 147, 180, 183 tea gardens 8, 72, 90–1, 189–90 Thakur/ji 69, 106, 171 Thomas, K. 113, 116, 119 Thompson, P. 5, 12, 15

214

Index

Tickell, S.R. 13, 15, 17, 25, 80, 93, 111, 114, 168 tiger, menace 18, 34, 79–81, 89–90, 114, 117–18, 168 time/s, marker, timeframe 1, 8–9, 16–7, 21–3, 25, 28, 31–2, 34, 36, 39–40, 45, 47–9, 52–4, 59, 61, 68, 72–7, 79–81, 86, 92–3, 99–100, 103, 106–13, 116, 122, 130, 134, 149, 156, 165, 169–70, 177–8, 182–4, 187, 189–91 totem/ic, totemism 40, 104, 112, 143 trade, commerce, traders 54–6, 65, 67, 82, 84, 87–8, 90, 93, 161, 170, 175, 190 tribe/s, tribal/s 2–3, 5–6, 11, 19, 31, 35, 41–2, 47–51, 53, 56–7, 62, 68, 75, 82–3, 87, 102–3, 105–6, 114–15, 121, 130, 143, 180; see also Adivasi/s, indigene Tributary and Feudatory States 84, 88 Tsongas 34–5 Tswana 61, 109, 116, 119–20, 123 Tuckey, A.D. 14, 16, 135, 154, 172 Tuckey Settlement 55, 59 Turner, V. 119 United Provinces 82, 84, 88 urbanisation 4, 9, 133 Vail, L. 9 Vansina, J. 17, 26 village: boundary 30, 34–5, 37, 58, 130, 132, 143, 148, 184; community 2, 8, 45–52, 54, 63, 65, 87, 109, 114, 126, 128, 131–3, 141–3, 148, 188–9; elder/s, old men 2, 12, 16–17, 21, 66, 99–101, 106, 120, 126, 139, 146, 153, 162, 171, 180, 183; founder, maker, originator, pioneer, reclaimer 8, 18–19, 21, 23–4, 31, 33–40, 51, 53, 61, 66, 74, 79, 81, 85, 124–5, 130–2, 136, 139, 162, 181–2; grid 41, 51, 188; history, past, traditional

history, 12–4, 17–18, 21–2, 66, 75–6, 93, 99, 101–2, 123, 125, 132, 135, 138–40, 144, 153, 171, 180–1, 187; making 6, 8–10, 26, 33, 35, 37, 42–3, 45, 94, 98, 124, 128, 157, 187–9; mother village 22, 32–3, 36, 41, 109, 188; naming, nomenclature 37–40, 131, 143, 179, 180, 187–8; officials 58–9, 70, 158 see also Manki/s, Munda/s; panch, panchayat 126, 146–53, 162, 171, 189; papers 16, 21, 32–3, 41–2, 55, 60, 63, 74–5, 77, 79, 84, 97, 141, 152; priest 30, 125, 146, 179, 189; site/s 8, 29, 31–2, 38–9, 74, 77, 79, 107, 130; studies 1–6, 29, 164, 187; tradition/s 18, 20–1, 31, 33, 132, 139, 147, 153; unity 1, 57–8, 60, 69, 147 see also fission, fusion villagers 7–8, 12, 14–23, 25, 28–30, 33, 37–8, 40–1, 48, 55–8, 65–8, 73–4, 78–82, 84–7, 89–91, 93, 109–10, 112, 116–19, 121–2, 124–8, 131–6, 138–45, 147–9, 153–4, 157, 164, 166, 168–9, 172–3, 175–8, 182–4, 186, 188–90 Warlis 120, 147 waterbodies: bandh, rivers, springs, tank 7, 20, 23, 25, 37–9, 76, 79, 109, 132, 139–42, 148, 165–7, 170–1, 182 Wilkinson, T., rules 15, 115, 121, 147–8, 151, 153–6, 162, 175, 183 witch, witchcraft 15, 34, 64, 104, 112–22, 156 witch-hunt, killing 116–17, 146, 155 witch trial/s 117, 119, 121 wizard/s 115–16, 121–2 women 11, 33, 63, 68, 91–2, 100, 103, 114–15, 120, 146, 157, 169, 175, 181 Zamindar/s, revenue farmer, settlement 46, 67, 133 Zande 116, 120