Religious conversion in India : modes, motivations, and meanings 9780195663297, 0195663292, 9780195689044, 0195689046

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Religious Conversion in India Modes, Motivations, and Meanings

Religious Conversion in India Modes, Motivations, and Meanings

Edited by Rowena Robinson Sathianathan Clarke

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.19. Ganagalu, Sayyed Qasim, (n.d.). Hindu-Muslim Unity in the Person o f His Holiness M a ulana Siddique D eendar Channabasaveswara, Hyderabad. * Ghai, R.K., 1990. Shuddhi Movement in India. A Study o f its Socio-Political Dimensions; New Delhi: Commonwealth Publishers.

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Hussain, Siddiq, 1996. Deendar Cbannabasveswara, Hyderabad: Deendar Anjuman. ____ , Siddiq, (n.d.). A ’ada-i-Islam, Hyderabad: Deendar Anjuman. ____ , Siddiq, (n.d.). World Teacherjagat Guru Sarwar-i-Alam, Hyderabad: Deendar Anjuman. ____ , Siddiq, 1398 a h . Hidayat Namab Banam Ghayr Muslim Salatiti, Hyderabad: Deendar Anjuman. Muhammad, Nur, (n.d.). The Deendar Anjuman, Delhi, published by the author. Nairang, Ghulam Bhik, 1925. Ghubar-i-Ufaq, Delhi: Almas Press. Nizami, Khwaja Hasan, 1923- Da ’i-i-Islam, Amritsar: Roz Bazar Burqi Press. Seunarine, J.F., 1977. Reconversion to Hinduism Through Suddhi, Madras: Christian Literature Society. Siddiqui, Abdul Halim, 1923. Asbab-i-Irtidad, Delhi: Jami’at Markaziya Ulama-i-Hind. Sikand, Yoginder, 1997. ‘The Fitna of Irtidad: Muslim Missionary Responses to the Shuddhi o f the Arya Samaj in Early Twentieth Century India ’, Journal o f Muslim Minority Affairs, vol. 17, no.l. ____ , Yoginder, 1998. The Origins and Development o f the TablighiJama 'at 1920-1990s: A Cross Country Comparative Study, unpublished Ph.D. thesis, Department o f History, University o f London. Thursby, G.R., 1975. Hindu-Muslim Relations in British India: A Study o f Controversy, Conßict and Communal Movements in Northern India 1923-28, Leiden: E.J.Briil, p.151.

Section Two Conversions to Jainism, Sikhism, and Buddhism: Past and Present Rowena Robinson

he four papers brought together in this section explore conversions to Jainism, Sikhism and Buddhism in ancient and modem times. Two important ideas have given form to this volume. These are the need to show the differences across time in conversion to a particular religious tradition or its variants and the need to look generally at all types of conversion movements in India in terms of the historical, social and political contexts of their occurrence. There are, therefore, at least two ways to read the volume. One can read it for a particular religious tradition and this has, by and large, been the basis for the division into sections. One can also decide to read the volume in another way: chronologically, across religious traditions. In this case, one could look at conversions in the very early period of Indian history, conversions during the pre-British and British periods and then the post-colonial period.

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In this volume, several chapters, including those dealing with Jain and Sikh conversions talk about conversions over time, rather than restrict the discussion to one particular point of time. For this reason, and for the fact that the presence of multiple chapters on Islam and Christianity made it realistic for them to be grouped together for comparative purposes, the sections have been formed as we find them. Jainism and Sikhism have been each explored in a chapter and Buddhism has two chapters, one tracing ancient

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conversions and one on Neo-Buddhist conversions. The constraint of space and, partly, the question of demography were responsible for these decisions. The intent to separate ‘internal’ from ‘external’ (i.e. Islam and Christianity) was definitely not the basis for the demarcation. I make this explicit because it might appear a logical conclusion. However, the book should make it clear that modes and patterns of conversion more often than not cut across religious traditions, rendering the insider/outsider divide irrelevant. Jainism, just like Islam in the southern state of Kerala, proceeded along the routes of trade, capturing particularly the attention of mercantile groups. The intimate merging of traditions that persisted despite conversion is something that is seen as much among Fenech’s Sikhs as among Khan’s Shi’ite Muslims. The attempt to link religion with existing cultural and social patterns is typical of conversions to Islam in Bengal and is also seen among Kerala’s Syrian Christians, in 16th century conversions to Christianity in Goa and in conversions initiated by Jain teachers. The element of exclusion appears to have become a much more critical part of the construction of religious boundaries from the 19th century. This is the period when Sikhism, Islam and Christianity manifest increasing concern with defining their limits much more rigidly (see, for example, Viswanathan 1998; Bayly 1989; Fenech and Sikand, in this volume). In other words, an overall historical view sometimes reveals patterns that remain invisible if one is restrictively focused on one particular religion. Many of those reading this book are likely to be specialists, perhaps of sub-continental Buddhism or of south Asian Islam. Even so, it is strongly suggested that an attempt be made to focus not just on trends and shifts within and across conversions to Islam, for instance, in different regions and at different points in time. A further attempt to assess general patterns across historical periods on the subcontinent might make known connections and points of comparative interest. These may be of considerable value for revealing insights and dispelling myths. I turn now to the four papers in.the section. Dundas’ paper is a fascinating account of conversion to Jainism. It traces conversion patterns in the north and south of India. The paper argues that it is appropriate to speak of conversion in the context of Jainism, despite the fact that adherence to the faith did not preclude the possibility of

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a layperson also worshipping a Hindu deity such as Hanuman or Bhairunji. The closest word in Sanskrit in Jain texts for conversion was pratibodhita (awakening). Conversion or ‘awakening’ to Jainism implied strongly the rejection of the authority of the Vedas and of the Brahmans. Conversion among Brahmans, therefore, typically involved an element of intellectual consent, formal obeisance to a new human source of authority and the abandonment of outward signs of one’s earlier mode of life. Brahmans were not the only converts, however. There is even a record about a monk of ‘untouchable’ origins. More recently, though, such conversions have begun to be less acceptable. Jainism, Dundas reveals, moved along trade routes in north India and it did not oppose the local religion so much as try to accommodate it at some level. Jainism did, however, imply rejection of earlier bases of authority. How did it, given this negative stance, gain support among the people? Dundas argues that perhaps the heroism of Mahavira and his disciples in the face of all kinds of physical difficulties appealed to a society in which the ‘warrior ethos’ was of considerable importance. Further, he argues, the idea of ‘dana’ in which the gift of food to a holy man guarantees spiritual merit to the donor blended and compressed both Indian notions of hospitality and a reworked Brahmanical ritual of sacrifice. In the medieval period, many Rajput clans came under the influence of charismatic Jain teachers. This was partly perhaps because of the promise of protection of the clan by the spiritual teacher and its possible glorification. By the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, though, there was a decrease in numbers and, in recent times, Jains have not shown much interest in converting others to their faith. Most contemporary Jains are bom into the faith and they marry accordingly. Fenech’s piece on Sikhism locates conversion differently. He argues that early Sikh history does not allow us to speak of conversion in the strong sense of the term. While markers of Sikh identity were clearly present, secure boundaries were not. There was a much more fluid relationship between Sikhs and non-Sikhs. In other words, despite the presence of particular requirements such as rising during the last watch of the night to bathe and recite compositions of the Sikh Gurus, Contemplating the Divine name, visiting the dharamsala

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for congregational singing and charity, such obligations often saw shifts in the fluid environment in which Sikhism was evolving. The enactment of ‘Sikhism’ did not require the abandonment of nonSikh modes of worship or ritual markers. Conversion must be located in the context of a Sikh society that was basically kinship-based, rather than religion-based and in which membership of groups was decided by birth rather than by any particular baptismal rite. Conversion meant, ‘a transformation of natural substances and moral codes of conduct through ritual’. Consequently, Sikhs have not, in any serious way, had on their agenda the persuasion of non-Sikhs to convert to their faith. They have more often been concerned with the reform of Sikhs themselves, by making them conscious of their past, the ‘proper’ Sikh rituals and teachings. The late nineteenth century witnessed a significant shift. In this period, categories such as Hinduism, Sikhism and Islam began to crystallize, become conscious of numbers and harden their bound­ aries. The Sikh reform movement or the Sangh Sabha initiated action to curtail the perceived decline in numbers by educating Sikhs about the ‘true’ ( ‘proper’ or Khalsa) Sikh tradition of Sikhism. The decline was perceived to have been brought about by the work of Christian missionaries. Hence, the focus was on strengthening the loyalty of those already within the framework of the tradition, rather than on conversion of non-Sikhs. However, there was nothing in the movement to oppose such conversions and converts were wel­ comed to the Khalsa Panth. The mode of conversion underwent an important transformation. Allegiance to a human agent of conversion or Guru was replaced by initiation through a more abstract procedure. The human Guru was removed and replaced by the veneration of the Guru Granth Sahib. The Guru was said to be present in mystical and eternal form in the sword, the Gurbani and the Guru Panth (the presence of five Khalsa Sikhs) who administered the initiation rite. Brekke’s succinct paper uncovers history to focus on conversion to Buddhism in ancient times. Taking the example of the Buddha himself and of those who joined the sect of Buddhism, he argues persuasively that the concept of conversion, if it implies a radical

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break with an individual’s past, cannot be said to apply unambigu­ ously here. Buddhism was clearly a novelty in relation to the caste society against which it established itself, but it was also one among other routes available at the time. It would appear that all of these would have had certain modes of life in common and were there­ fore radically opposed not so much to each other as to the general Vedic social and cultural worldview. Brekke argues that there is a discrepancy in the way in which the paradigmatic Buddhist conversion is conceptualized and the actual manner in which people joined the sect of the Buddha. While the model of Buddhist conversion visualizes the individual reaching the overwhelming conclusion that life is suffering and a dramatic break with life in the world is necessary to seek salvation, the early conversion stories indicate that people who joined the Buddha experienced no such staggering theological crisis and were already members of other religious movements and had broken all ties with the world long before they became Buddhists. The solution to this discordance is to be found in the fact that individuals who went in and out of different sects at the time of the Buddha belonged to a large milieu of religious seekers. For them, the critical rupture occurred at the moment when they left worldly life and become religious wanderers. This seems to concur with what is known about the life-story of the Buddha. His conversion resulted in his joining a number of different religious teachers before deciding to find his own way to salvation. The significant moment of shift is the movement from the life-in-the-world to life as a religious wanderer and seeker. Once that crucial step had been taken, people seem to have gone in and out of religious movements, which diverged fundamentally from Vedic society but less from one another. Tartakov’s important paper looks at modern conversions to Buddhism. He argues that conversion to Buddhism under Ambedkar was quite explicitly initiated less out of theological or metaphysical considerations than as a political and social statement. His argument rests crucially on the idea that Ambedkar’s Buddhism is not a replication of ancient Buddhism or even one of three accepted variants found in different places: Mahayana, Theravada or Vajrayana. It is Buddhism reshaped by Ambedkar himself in accordance with his social and political agenda— the creation of a just and equal society

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and the negation of caste and the ideology that decides a person s social position by birth. The paper analyses the reasons for the choice of Buddhism by Ambedkar. Tartakov argues that Ambedkar’s Buddhism was Navayana Diksha, a new path. It included his own version of the Pancha Shila and his carefully framed oaths rejecting the basic tenets of Brahmanical Hinduism. Navayana Diksha, unlike other versions of Buddhism makes no space for the Four Noble Truths. There are clear indications, however, that the adherents o f Ambedkar’s Buddhism are accepted as legitimate followers of the faith by other Buddhists. It is Tartakov’s contention that while the Four Noble Truths focus on and attempt to resolve the problem of individual desire, Ambedkar’s main concern was with the social world and its ills and the ways in which these can be transformed.

References Bayly, Susan, 1989. Saints, Goddesses and Kings: Muslims and Christians in south Indian society, 1700-1900. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Viswanathan, Gauri, 1998. Outside the Fold: Conversion, Modernity and Belief, Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Conversion to Jainism: Historical Perspectives Paul Dundas

he nature and mechanism of conversion to the Jain religion are subjects which have not seriously been treated by scholarship. Lack of specialist reflection no doubt explains why there is no reference to Jainism in the recent collection of Lamb and Bryant (1999) on conversion which otherwise manages to find room for examples in six religious traditions. However, the omission is hardly justifiable.

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Certainly, Jainism is not today associated with any large-scale conversion project, particularly one involving the reception of westerners into its ambit. Yet the dynamics of Jainism’s growth and spread within India suggest that for certain periods conversion must have been an obvious and vital concern.1 From its very start as a soteriological path with historical origins in what was a relatively small association of world renouncing ascetics, or ‘bondless ones’ ( nirgrantha), Jainism was engaged in the classic sectarian scenario o f competition for recruits. Although there does not exist any significant statement on the part of Mahavira (c. 5th century ce) , the twenty-fourth tlrthankara or saving teacher of Jain tradition, urging his ascetic followers to go forth and spread the word, as there famously does for the Buddha, the beginnings of Jainism must have involved the regular exercise of charismatic and intellectual influence which effected the reorientation o f individuals or groups of individuals and their ensuing induction into an expanding community

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in such a manner as to render them supporters with diminished or non-existent ties o f allegiance elsewhere. Furthermore, the trajectory of Jain history over the first millennium or so reflects the transformation of this community into a civilisational religion with an elaborate social and cultural infrastructure into which large numbers of adherents were integrated. I intend to delineate some of the more striking aspects of this development and the role of conversion within it. But firstly we need to clarify the nature of religious identity in South Asia, the manner in which Jain teachings have conceptualized religious realignment and the vocabulary used by Jains in the context of conversion.

Religious Identity in South Asia Centuries of exposure to religiosity as mediated by the western Asian monotheisms of Judaism, Christanity and Islam have led westerners to a view of religious identity as a largely hard and fast category, with movement from one religious community to another interpreted not just as a turning, a conversion towards something new, but often also, more drastically, as a necessary abandonment of what has preceded, not infrequently expressed in harshest terms by the description ‘apostasy.’ One should not pretend that religious identity in India cannot be represented in this way, for there have always been psychologi­ cal and social contexts where adherence to one particular religious community or tradition can and must be demarcated from adher­ ence to another. Thus in Jainism the Cheda Sutras, the medieval texts prescribing monastic law and behaviour, forbid Jain monks paying homage to members of other sects, their deities and temples, while, specifically, medieval Jain intellectuals very seldom strike a conciliatory or inclusivist note with regard to Buddhism.2 However, in India religious identity has not invariably had a fixed, ‘all or nothing’ exclusivity attached to it and there can be identified consistently throughout history a commonality of religious culture which has operated across what are ostensibly sectarian boundaries (Dundas 1992: 3-6; Granoff 2000). In assessing the modem situation

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from a largely Digambara Jain perspective, Carrithers has referred to ‘spiritual cosmopolitanism’ as characterizing religious life in India. He makes clear how, ‘the very existence of a complex civilization must rely ... on a plurality of identity for its members alongside a corresponding breadth of differing social relations’ (Carrithers 2000: 860). So, for a Jain layperson to worship occasionally or regularly a markedly Hindu deity such as Hanuman or BhairunjI does not betoken abandonment of Jainism and consequent conversion to Hinduism, but rather an easy participation within and desire to confirm linkage to a South Asian religious world richly populated with figures redolent of power, prosperity and transcendence.

Jain Teachings concerning spiritual types A further issue which problematizes discussion of conversion in the context of Jainism is the structure of the religion’s soteriology and the manner in which human beings of disparate attainments fit into it. Two linked aspects of this are relevant, the first relating to human beings as spiritual types and the second to the relationship between false and true belief. First, by the early centuries of the common era, Jainism had formulated the position that all human beings fall into one of two types: the bhavya, the one who is innately amenable to receiving the message of the Jain teachings of right knowledge, right faith and right practice (albeit not necessarily attaining the final goal of religious deliverance) and the abhavya, the one who because of innately negative disposition activated over endless rebirths is incapable under any circumstances of fully responding to these teachings. Significantly, each of these categories can include both Jains and non-Jains, so that, in other words, the propensity towards ‘innate’ (to use the Jain term, bhava) religiosity cuts across what might appear to be firm religious boundaries (Dundas forthcoming). Second, Jainism posits moral attitude and spiritual attainment as being structured in the form of a continuum of fourteen states called gunasthana (Jaini 1979: 272-3). Like the distinction between bhavya and abhavya just mentioned, we may locate the first full articulation

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of this path structure around the beginning of the common era, although many o f its component elements are earlier. The gunasthanas chart an idealized passage in which an individual progresses, in a manner effected by successive modifications of his soul’s karmic state, from false belief through the attainment and cultivation of true Jain values ( samyaktva) as both layperson and ascetic to culmination in a state of omniscience and the final cessation of all mental and physical activity prior to deliverance. Significant here is the fact that the first gunasthana, ‘false view’ ( mithyadrsti), in Jainism; a combination of superstitious beliefs and practices and adherence to non-Jain religious paths, is an integral, albeit initial and inadequate part of the Continuum, not something decoupled from it. Even in this state, an individual need not be completely bereft of correct religious impulse. Furthermore, the third gunasthana, ‘correct and false knowl­ ed g e’ ( samyakmithyatva), the state prior to ‘ correct v ie w ’ (samyakdrsti), the fourth gunasthana, which marks the real begin­ ning of receptivity to the Jain path which is subsequently enacted in the roles of layperson and ascetic, is in actuality morally ‘mixed’ ( misraka) and ambiguous. The fact that this point on the moral con­ tinuum, in effect a moment of moving from a supposedly flawed religious world-view to an engagement with the Jain path, is slightly blurred may explain why traditional Jain teachers felt able to evade intensive discussion of the theoretical issue of conversion.3

Terminology The terminology employed by Jain texts suggests that the nearest equivalent to ‘converted’ might be the Sanskrit expression pratibodhita, ‘awakened’, or a vernacular equivalent o f it. (Babb 1996: 168) This is certainly the term used to refer to the alignment towards Jainism by medieval kings whose background might otherwise be described as Saiva Hindu (see below). ‘Awakening’, I would suggest, implies here a less radical transition than the term ‘conversion’, the reemergence of what has been temporarily obscured, rather than a turning to what is completely new. A frequent textual theme, but perhaps one relating more to those already lay

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members of the Jain community and so not pursued below, is the arising of vairdgya, that direct understanding of the impermanence of worldly life which leads an individual to attain samyaktva, correct religiosity, which in turn impels the move towards world renunciation and the formal adoption of the ascetic role. In what follows, I will for convenience utilize the term ‘conver­ sion’ to refer to the various ways in which individuals and groups throughout history in India have either become Jain or have attempted by a process of ‘reaffiliation’, to use the terminology of Stark and Finke (2000: 114), to shift their Jain sectarian identity.

The Early Period What is perhaps the earliest Jain scripture, the first book of the Acaranga Sutra, presents Mahavira in his pre-enlightenment state as a solitary ascetic wanderer. In this admittedly idealized depiction, avoidance of others rather than the active courting of potential followers characterizes his mode of life. Jain tradition came to link Mahavira with a group of principal disciples (ganadhara), eleven former brahmans who after conversion were to head ascetic lineages and become responsible for the transmission of the Jain teachings in scriptural form. The standard account o f their conversion is unquestionably late, but is nonetheless worth referring to here as representative of how medieval Jains envisaged this process in Mahavira’s time and after. The specific source is the ‘Debate with the Chief Disciples’ ( Ganadharavada) written by Jinabhadra (6th7th cens. ce) . In this work, we are given an account of how the eleven brahmans, after realizing that the Gods were ignoring their sacrifice in order to hear Mahavira preach, thereupon individually confronted the tlrthankara in debate concerning a variety of ontological and ethical issues. Mahavira’s omniscience repeatedly established the inadequacy of his opponents’ positions and redefined the various brahmanical perspectives in terms of Jain teaching. Conversion to Jainism is thus here strongly related to rejection of the authority of the Veda and the brahmans. Anachronistic though the account of the ‘Debate with the Chief Disciples’ may be, there can nonetheless be little doubt that the

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substitution of a new set of views, established through argument, for the ritualist Veda-oriented world view of the brahmans (or a significant sector of them) must have represented a major dimension in the spread of Jainism from the sixth century BCE. As much as a millennium later, according to the hagiographies, some of the greatest medieval Jain teachers, such as Haribhadra and Siddhasena Divakara, were converts whose previously held brahman knowledge had been exposed as inadequate.4 The early Buddhist conversion stories analysed by Bailey show a similar concern with both confronting and adapting brahmanical culture. Yet, although we are hardly well informed about the demography involved, by no means all of those joining the nascent Jain community could have been brahmans. At least one early example refers to a monk of untouchable background, suggesting no social restriction of admission in ancient times to the ascetic community, although this has not proved acceptable in more recent times.5 The question remains: how did a soteriological path which had rejection of the world built into it from the outset gain recruits ? Here we may do little more than speculate both about the ability of Jain teachings to provide a coherent explanation for the human condition in tune with contemporary preoccupations and also about the heroic image which ascetics like Mahavlra and his disciples would have projected, an imperturbable fortitude in the face of physical difficulty of appeal to an early Indian society in which the warrior ethos was a significant component. (Dundas (forthcoming): 31-2) The blending of Indian conventions of hospitality and the reworking of the ideology of brahman sacrificial ritual in the form of the institution dana which guaranteed the gaining of (unseen) merit by the donor of food to a holy man must also have, as with early Buddhism, provided a dynamic for the gradual formation of a Jain community with its own patterns of routine and authority.

Conversion in the Early Jain Textual Sources The Jain scriptural tradition (specifically, those texts accepted as authoritative by the Svetambara sect) evolved over a period of time until the semi-conclusive version produced by monastic conclave at

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Valabhl in the fifth century c e . Many of its components go back to a time not too far from Mahávira, albeit subjected to editorial redaction, whereas other portions are markedly less ancient. Allowing for an element of chronological uncertainty, we may inspect some of this textual material as the earliest sources available for the phenomenon and mechanics of conversion to Jainism. Even if the personalities and contexts involved are overlaid with narrative invention and the individual psychological issues originally at stake irretrievable, we can identify two significant areas of concern: the reaffiliation of followers of the early Jain teacher Pársva to the teachings of Mahávira and the conversion of those outside the Jain community. Scholarship accepts the veracity of the existence of an ascetic teacher called Pársva who lived two and a half centuries or so before Mahávira and founded a community based on the principles of non­ violence and restraint which lie at the basis of developed Jainism. Jain tradition came quickly to see Pársva as the twenty-third tirthankara of this era of time and the predecessor of Mahávira. There is no haid textual evidence for Mahávira having entered Pársva’s ascetic community, although that is the assumption which scholarship has often made. What does not seem to be in doubt, since Buddhist sources provide the relevant corroborative evidence, is that followers of Pársva adhering to a so-called fourfold vow (involving non-violence, not taking what has not been given, non­ lying and non-possession) were to be found at the same time as Mahávira who taught a fivefold vow (the aforementioned fourfold vow along with celibacy) (Dhaky 1997: 1-43). Speculations as to what extent Mahávira may have been the reformer or adapter of a preexisting ‘proto-jainism’ is not necessary here. It is clear, however, that the early Jain sources held that the followers of Pársva had to be assimilated into Mahávira’s ascetic community through a demonstration of the insufficiency of the earlier teachings. The locus classicus for this process of reaffiliating conversion is the twenty-third chapter of the Uttarádhyayana Sütra. This describes a debate between two monks, Kesin, a follower of Páráva, and Gautama, one of Mahávira’s chief disciples concerning the correctness of the brand of Jainism each of them had espoused, the fourfold vow or the fivefold. Both of these individuals are presented as upright and learned and with their own disciples, but

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only Gautama is described as enlightened. The debate between them is highly public, witnessed not just by human beings of all sects but also by many superhuman creatures. Kesin is presented as not so much as defending a particular position as having doubts about the apparent bifurcation of the teaching o f the Jinas. Gautama removes these doubts firstly by explaining how there come to be two types of Jainism, even though the aim of both is identical. The reason is that there has been a decline in ascetic aptitude since Parsva so that Mahavira had specifically to enjoin a vow of celibacy, otherwise taken for granted in former times, in the same way as the very first Jina had done. The fourfold vow was thus now inadequate. Gautama then proceeds to answer a series of questions posed by KeSin about the nature of the passions, their control, the path across rebirth taught by the Jinas and the final result for those who follow it. KeSin acknowledges that his doubts have been removed by an individual who has none. The Uttaradhyayana Sutra (128-9, slightly emended) does not stress in triumphalist manner his abandonment of the fourfold vow but rather his adoption of the fivefold equivalent: ‘After his doubt had been solved, Kesin, o f enormous sanctity, bowed his he^d to the famous Gautama. A n d ... sincerely adopted the Law o f the five vows, which was proclaimed by the first tirthankara, according to the teaching of the last tlrthankara.’

A further example of the conversion of an ascetic follower of Parsva, a certain Udaka, can be found in the concluding chapter of the Sutrakrtanga Sutra (2.7). The trajectory of this is rather different. Gautama instructs Udaka at length on a variety of doctrinal issues, only for the follower of Parsva to stop paying attention to him and set off back where he had come from. However, Gautama forestalls him by saying that whoever hears even one ‘noble religious truth’ (ariyam dhammiyam, suvayanam.) from any sort of holy man and thereby gains an excellent state of well-being will worship that individual. Udaka then states that he accepts everything Gautama has said and expresses the desire in his presence ( tubbham amtie), ‘to move from the religion of the fourfold restraint to the religion of five vows and expiatory practice.’ This reaffiliation is consummated in the

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presence of Mahàvïra himself whom Udaka circumambulates three times in worship and asks for acceptance. Mahavlra is not described as making any response, thus setting the seal on the event.6 If we are to look for examples of the conversion process in early Jainism, as opposed to reaffiliation, in the sense of those not already members of the community being persuaded of the truth of the Jain teaching and altering their sectarian identity as a consequence, then the accounts of Mahavlra’s encounters with brahmans and those belonging to alternative ascetic groups ( annautthiya) given in the Bhagavati Sütra are particularly instructive. The template description of the ‘awakening’ of a brahman by Mahavlra is that of Skhandaka Kàtyàyana found at Bhagavati Sütra 2. 1 (85-8; Lalwani 1973: 153-66) This learned mendicant is por­ trayed as being unable to answer a series of questions about extra­ sensory matters posed by a Jain layman. He therefore travels to the Chatrapalâsaka caitya outside the city of Krtangalà where the omni­ scient Mahavlra was staying in order to question him. Delighted by his outward appearance, Skhandaka circumambulates Mahavlra in worship. The tirthankara who through his pow er knows Skhandaka’s questions without being told, answers them fully. The text describes the process by which Skhandaka changed from men­ dicant brahman to Jain monk: Skhandaka of the Kàtyàyana gotra, being enlightened, paid homage to the ascetic ... and said, ‘I assuredly wish, sir, to hear the dharma promulgated by the omniscient ones from you.’ Mahavlra replied, ‘As you please, beloved of the Gods. Do not hesitate.’

Skhandaka then hears Mahàvïra preach in public and after circumambulating him three times in delight, utters a profession of faith in the teachings of Jainism. After paying homage to Mahàvïra again, Skhandaka goes to the northeast and in a solitary spot abandons his brahmanical ascetic accoutrements, including triple staff, rosary, parasol, sandals and saffron robe. On returning to Mahàvïra and once more circumambulating him three times in homage, Skhandaka makes a declaration about the morally dangerous nature of the world and the need to protect the self. He finally asserts:

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‘So I desire, beloved of the Gods, to be initiated by you, to be tonsured by your hand, to be trained in spiritual practices by you, to be taught the sutras and their implications by you, to be directed by you in conduct, alms-seeking, humility, purification o f conduct and food, extent o f food intake etc., all in the practice o f restraint.’ (Lalwani 1973: 167, slightly emended).

Mahavlra then initiates Skhandaka and instructs him in the rigorous behavioural requirements of the Jain monk, which the former brahman duly adheres to, thus fully changing his mode of life and embarking upon a new spiritual path. On the basis of the foregoing, it appears that in the ancient period brahmanical conversion to the Jain ascetic order was envisaged as involving elements of intellectual assent, formal homage to a new human source of authority and abandonment of the outward signs of the previous mode of life.7 This conversion account provided a textual model for descrip­ tions of other conversions, as can be seen from Bhagavatt Sutra 7. 10 (312-4; Lalwani 1980: 80-8). This describes how Kàlodàï, one of a group of non-Jain ascetics domiciled near a shrine dedicated to a yaksa (see below), interrupts one of Mahâvira’s sermons to ask for clarification about the Jain teachings on ontology. He is enlightened (sambuddha) and utters the conversion formula, ‘I certainly want, sir, to hear the law from you’, after which he renounced as a nonJain, ‘like Skhandaka.’ Other descriptions of conversion to Jainism can be found in the narrative portions of the scriptures. Of particular note is an example of conversion to the lay state. Chapter fourteen of the Jnàtradharmakathàh (236-50) recounts how Pottilâ, the wife of minister Teyaliputra, approached some Jain nuns to obtain magic potions in order to regain her husband’s affections. Instead, under the influence of their preaching, she became a Jain laywoman. The conversion formula used in this example is virtually the same as that for ascetics, as exemplified above in the example of Skhandaka.8

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The Spread o f Jainism in the North The conventional interpretation of the spread of early Jainism posits on the basis of archaeological and inscriptional evidence a gradual move along well-established trade routes towards the north-western city of Mathura and the far south of the subcontinent, a geographical region broadly in conformity with the political reach established by the expansion of the Mauryan empire in the third century c e . (Sahgal 1994: 216-7; Peterson 1998: 166). I do not propose to dissent from this model, but it leaves major questions unanswered. What were the dynamics of this move? Did it involve ascetics alone, committed to the wandering life as they were? Or were the protagonists also lay converts from a mercantile, and therefore travelling background? And how was the conversion of such people effected? For while the emergence towards the end of the pre-common era of a code of lay practice centring around the ‘lesser vows’ ( anuvrata) must have facilitated the appearance of a self-aware Jain laity, there is no evidence o f Jainism at this early period having achieved any significant royal patronage of the sort which seems to have been so advantageous to early Buddhism which had expanded in roughly the same manner.9 One area of religiosity which must have been highly relevant during this period of sectarian expansion was the attitude adopted towards yaksas and yaksints, male and female spirits living in trees and lakes, frequently malign and violent of habit, which required constant propitiation. The large number of early terracotta images of these beings found in north India makes clear their hold on the early Indian imagination, and it cannot be accidental that most of Mahavira’s sermons are depicted as taking place at sanctified spots or shrines where there was a tree associated with a yaksa or a stone votive tablet ( ayagapata.) dedicated to such an entity. There can be little doubt that accommodating these spirits, converting them, as it were, and thus their devotees, was at the outset a necessary strategy for proselytising religions like Jainism and Buddhism which could thus become more firmly embedded in regional communities. (Sahgal 1994: 215; Cohen 1998: 377). In this light, it is noteworthy that there exists a clear contrast in the narrative accounts between the Jain and Buddhist treatment of local deities.

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Buddhist narratives demonstrate a clear interest in the confron­ tation and mastery of these demiurges; the taming of the yaksini Hariti and her conversion to tutelary deity and lay Buddhist is a famous example (Cohen 1998:380-1). The Jain sources, on the other hand, as Granoff (forthcoming) has pointed out, do not refer to any turmoil or conflict involved in this process, which is frequently associated with Mahàvïra himself. Indeed, they do not in any way suggest compelled conversion of yaksas, but rather peaceful coexistence with them. In Jain stories, the stress is upon the rela­ tionship between Mahàvïra and the yaksa in previous lives. As a result of the yaksa's awareness of the past connection, Mahàvïra has no need to employ violence to tame and convert. Such smooth accommodation with local deities, signalled by narrative, was clearly necessary for the speedy social integration of a religious path whose ascetic members increasingly required regular lay support. Thef archaeological evidence from Mathurà makes clear the existence from the second century BCE of aJain lay community drawn from the bourgeois professional classes. If this evidence is read in conjunction with portions of the Jain scriptural corpus, then we may also identify another component of a conversion strategy. Mathurà was at this time strongly associated with Vaishnavism and, in particular, the cult of Krishna. Jain stories attempt to show how this deity was related by birth to the twenty-second tirthankara Nemi and was in actuality a pious, if morally slightly flawed Jain layman. This appropriation and reworking of elements o f Vaishnava mythology must have facilitated the movement towards the Jain community of erstwhile Hindus or at least allowed the maintenance of a complex religious identity by such ‘converts’. No doubt the rewriting of the Mahabharata story in the Jhàtradharmakathàh in a Jain idiom centering around the primacy of nonviolence, according to which the Pandava brothers and their wife Draupadi experience the karmic consequences of their actions in a moral universe defined by Jain ethics, was part of the same process. In succeeding centuries, Jain writers were to rewrite the story of the hero Rama in similar vein. Rather than interpret this narrativé recasting as some sort of Hinduisation of Jainism, an alternative perspective would be to see it as an appropriate means by which potential converts could be allured into an imaginative world reassuringly similar to that of early

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Vaishnavism and then sensitised to specifically Jain moral values (Dundas 2000).

The Spread o f Jainism in the South Jainism gradually became indigenised in south India over a period of centuries, with the foundation of the Drâvida Sangha in Madurai by the Digambara teacher Vajranandi in 470 ce marking for Jain historians the formal institutionalization of the ascetic community in the Dravidian area. This process in the early stages cannot be easily localized to specific cases of conversion and there are very few references to Jainism in the Tamil sangam literature of the early common era. However, by the middle of the first millennium ce the evidence of Tamil literature makes clear how Digambara Jain ideals, in certain respects foreign to indigenous southern religiosity, had gradually become acculturised, and the ease with which Jainism spread in the south suggests a situation of complementarity with other traditions, whether in the areas of theology or incorporation of tutelary deities. (Peterson 1998: 166) Most notable in this respect is the epic Cilappatikâram written in the fifth century ce by Ilanko Atikal, whose name suggests that he was a Jain ascetic. Although this poem is by no means exclusively Jain in theme and not intended to promote Jainism at the expense of other religions, it is permeated by Jain ethical values, in particular those of karma which, through the explanation of the nun Kavunti, provides the moral clarification for the difficulties experienced by the protagonists. At the heart of the Cilappatikâram is the promotion of the cult of the goddess Pattinï. This deity, in the past taken to be Hindu, has been conclusively shown by Obeyesekere (1984: 51116) to be of heterodox, specifically Jain-Buddhist origins. Although it is not necessary to think of Dravidian religiosity to be exclusively ‘Hindu’, it would appear that a deity of this kind provided a vector for the reception of Jain (and Buddhist) ideas in the south. In the words of Véllupillai (1997:70), ‘the Cilappatikâram can be said to be the first Tamil narrative in which Jainism was popularized. ’ Inscriptions of various sorts document from the fifth century the attraction which Jainism held for warriors, aristocrats and kings in

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medieval south India. This may seem paradoxical in the light of Jainism’s emphasis on nonviolence. However, it can be suggested that the religion has always maintained an ideology of martial vigour transposed into the ascetic realm of struggle against the senses and the passions. Moreover, Stein has argued that Jainism played an important ideological role in the extension of warrior control over the southern plains in the period of the rule of the Kalabhras, an invading dynasty of northern origins, from the third to the sixth centuries and in the construction of a particular style of polity which did not derive its legitimacy from brahman authority or a Hinduism largely practised by peasants. (Stein 1980: 79-80; cf. Peterson 1998: 174-6) Elements of this interpretation remain uncertain. For example, there seems to have been nothing at this time which hindered peasant agriculturalists from becoming Jains, while the category ‘Hindu’ is hardly clear in terms of early common era religiosity in South India, involving as it did Tamil, Vedic and Puranic elements. Furthermore, the notion of an exclusively Jain religious identity might not be totally compelling at this period and no sense is conveyed of the extent to which the aristocrats described by Stein converted to Jainism in the sense of consciously abandoning their ancestral faith or rather were bom into Jain families. Nonetheless, the extent to which Jainism became embedded in medieval south Indian aristocratic society cannot be questioned. If inscriptions offer little obvious clue as to the motivations of those who espoused Jainism beyond the statement of their receptivity to the influence of monks, then the evidence of the songs of the Saaiva saints can help to fill out the picture. These poems, dating from the Pallava period in the seventh century, are of course famous as intense witnesses to faith in the God 6iva, but they also record highly personal accounts of the initial espousal of the later-to-bedespised Jainism (Peterson 1998: 168). Indeed, the bitterness of the invective of Appar, a former Jain monk, against Jainism seems to derive from remorse at having succumbed to the blandishments of that religion in the first place (Dundas 1992:108-9)- Campantar’s criticisms of Jainism indicate what the religion’s attractions for some may have been, namely publically practised asceticism, a propensity for both intellectual argument and magic feats, along with the

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supposed promotion o f social justice. (Velupillai 1997: 344) Conversion away from Jainism involved a Siva-inspired awareness of false doctrine publically enacted in the form of conquest of the Jains in debate and the resumption not just of Saaiva but also Tamil identity.

The Awakening o f Kumarapala A consistent theme of Jain narrative is the tempering of the political power invested in kings by the restraining teachings of monastic advisers. This has naturally led to the claim that some monarchs were actually converted to Jainism and attempted to run their kingdoms according to Jain principles. Literature in this vein is most abundant in western India, where members of the Caulukya dynasty, founded in the mid-tenth century, seem to have proved highly susceptible to Jain teachers. There is of course a danger of confusing historical actuality, be­ yond exact reconstruction, with the claims of monastic hagiography and Jain theorizing as to what idealized kingship ought to involve. In fact, inspection of the sources in question makes clear that the Jains did not specifically represent Mularaja, the founder of the Caulukya dynasty, and one of his successors Jayasimha Siddharaja (r. 1094-1143) as being exclusively devoted to Jainism. At the same time, however, the strong Saiva identity of these monarchs, most notable in their lavish patronage o f temples and institutions dedi­ cated to Siva, apparently did not prevent them from employing Jain ministers or, in Jayasimha’s case, supporting Jain ascetics and con­ vening a famous debate between rival representatives o f the Svetambara and Digambara Jain communities. Such individuals were, to use Cort’s expression, ‘Jainized 3aiva kings’(Cort 1998b: 94), who, while sometimes deferring to Jain ascetics and promoting the inter­ ests of the Jain community, did not attempt to integrate the values of Jainism into their respective polities which remained based upon the requirements of brahmanical and puranic ideology. A much more difficult case is that of Kumarapala, Jayasimha’s grandnephew and successor who is unanimously held by the sources,

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Hindu and Jain, to have been influenced by the great teacher Hemacandra to the extent of adopting Jainism as his personal religion and applying its principles to the running of his kingdom. A large scale literary work by the monk Somaprabha completed eleven years after his death and entitled ‘The Awakening o f Kumarapala’ (Kumarapalapratibodha) signifies clearly, albeit in conventionalized form, that this king was regarded as having converted to Jainism, formally signaled by his taking the twelve lay vows ( anuvrata) from Hemacandra. The number of Jain temples in Kumarapala’s capital, Anahillapattana, and elsewhere attributed to him testify his desire to memorialize his promotion of the Jain religion. Two occasions prompting Kumarapala’s conversion are given in the narratives. One describes him worshipping a tirthankara image and gaining victory in an ensuing battle. The other has his teacher Hemacandra conjuring up a visualization of the God Siva who testifies to the truth of the Jain path. Both these events represent interaction with the divine rather than engagement with the doctrinal tenets of Jainism as responsible for Kumarapala’s ‘awakening’, and the hostility of later brahman sources can be regarded as corroboration of its broadly genuine nature. (Cort 1998b)10. We may be, however, justifiably sceptical about invoking conversion in the case of the Moghul emperor Akbar (1556-1605) who was held to have been ‘awakened’ by two celebrated Jain teachers, Hiravijaya and Jinacandra. Akbar’s awakening, for all the overt interest he genuinely displayed in Jainism, did not stray much beyond temporary banning of hunting and forbidding butchery of animals on Jain holy days. As in the case of his attitude towards other religions which he unquestionably treated with respect, Akbar can be seen as a pragmatist who had a vested concern in not alienating any of his subjects (Dundas 1992: 125-6).

Caste Conversion in the Medieval Period One of the most significant examples of conversion to Jainism can be located in Rajasthan from the twelfth century onwards. During this period, many Rajput warrior clans abandoned their local ancestral

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religious cults and under the influence of charismatic Jain teachers, who, in the case of the Svetambaras, were at the head of newlyemerging subsects (gaccha), adopted Jainism. This process is consistently put in an emphatically miraculous context by lineage chroniclers, with the monastic teachers described as promising to effect the protection or aggrandisement of the clan in question in return for it becoming Jain and abandoning violent ways in favour of a complete moral and ritual realignment. Total loyalty to the teacher’s subsect was enjoined and exclusive rights to perform ritual had to be given to the monk and his lineage descendents (Babb 1996: 138-40 and 168-73; Granoff 1989:198-200). On frequent occasions, the conversion of the clan took place with the aid of Goddesses already friendly towards Jainism or involved the conversion of the clan’s own tutelary deity. Rajput clan deities ( kuladevata) were frequently protectresses of a fierce and carnivorous nature, representing values at variance with non-violent, vegetarian Jainism. The most famous example of the conversion of such a deity is Sacciyamata at the famous shrine of Osiari. This goddess was originally a form o f Durga-Mahisamardini whom tradition represents as having been compelled to abandon her meateating habits by the monk Ratnaprabha Suri, thus confirming the conversion of the Osval clan to Jainism (Babb 1996: 143-8 and 1627; Meister 1998: 125-31). Weaning potential lay converts away from such powerful beings was a major task for medieval Jain sectarian leaders in competition both with Hindus and other Svetambara Jain sectarians for a restricted pool of patronage. The ‘Collection of Doubts’ (Sandehadolavall: 1367), a series of answers to questions supposedly posed by a lay follower to Jinadatta Suri (1075-1154), one of the first and greatest of the clan-converting Jain teachers, highlights the potential dilemma entailed in abandoning longstanding family custom and attempting to sever relations with kuladevata. Such a deity, it is said (w . 1467), will attack the person who does not worship it, while someone who continues to follow such a deity within his clan forfeits his claim to be a Jain layman. Jinadatta’s response is to the effect that as a general rule a layman should certainly not worship a deity of this sort, the absolute position being that if it does kill him, then it might as well continue and kill his entire family as well. However, the fact

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that in exceptional circumstances such Goddesses can still be worshipped by Jain laymen is indicative of the tenacity of ritual habit, at least in the early stages of clan conversion,11 and what was in actuality only a ‘gradual conversion and initiation into Jain practices and rituals’ (Meister-1998: 131).

Conversion to Jainism in the Modem Period The most striking demographic feature of Jainism from around the sixteenth into the nineteenth centuries is a marked shrinkage of numbers. No hard statistics are available, but the obvious decline of the ascetic lineages, Svetambara and Digambara alike, as evinced by their grossly diminished membership in the middle of the nine­ teenth century, makes clear that Jainism was hardly reactivating itself through a process of recruitment and conversion. In fact, as far as western India was concerned during this period, a more note­ worthy feature was the move by many members of the Svetambara community away from Jainism towards expanding Vaishnava sects such as the Vallabha Sampradaya and the Swaminarayans with which they shared many ideals. A similar relocation of identity by Jains had taken place in Karnataka in the thirteenth century when many mem­ bers of the Digambara community converted to Virashaivism in the wake of violent proselytizing by that Hindu sect. Also noteworthy in this period is the reaffiliation in the form of sect-switching which took place within the Jain community.12In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, two sects appeared among the Svetambara community which aimed to reform religious practice, particularly in the context of rejecting image worship. The first of these, the Sthanakvasis, was responsible for many image worshipping Svetambaras adopting a style o f Jainism which centred on devotion to ascetics. The Terapanthis, who emerged from the Sthanakvasis in the eighteenth century, inducted many Sthanakvasis into what was a more intensely aniconic and ascetic variety of Svetambara Jainism with a different socio-religious infrastructure. Both of these sects have up to the present day displayed a relative openness to accepting Hindu converts, sometimes from a low-caste background. (Fliigel

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1994:449-54). One of the most famous Svetambara monks of recent times, Atmaramji (1836-96), originally came from a rural Hindu background in Punjab and took initiation as a Sthanakvasi monk under the influence of his contact with members of that sect. He later reaffiliated to the image-worshipping Svetambara subsect, the Tapa Gaccha, in 1875, taking the name Vijaynanda Suri, having been persuaded by his study of the scriptures that the Sthanakvasi stance was historically incorrect. (Jain 1989) Some senior Svetambara Jain ascetics today regard it as their duty to proselytize amongst what are viewed by urban Indians and government agencies as socially backward ‘tribal’ communities. Prominent among the advocates o f this proselytization is Vijayaindradinna Suri (b. 1924) who comes from one such commu­ nity. A recent account refers to 200.000 ‘conversions’ to Jainism in the Vadodara area of South Gujarat, a region where Christian missionar­ ies have also been active.13The original aim would appear to have been social and moral uplift through promulgating vegetarianism and abstinence from alcohol. Aspects of institutional Svetambara Jainism in the form of temples, school and renunciants are now appearing, and it may be that a genuine sense of Jain identity is emerging. However, it might be wise not to view this process as representing a formal conversion, as the case of the Raikas makes clear. The Raikas are semi-nomadic pastoralists living in north Gujarat and Rajasthan. They follow a pantheon of deities which can be described as Hindu, while also accepting the tirthankaras and the rituals of the sedentary mercantile Jains, so that, in practice, no real distinction is made between Jainism and Hinduism. The Raikas have, furthermore, assimilated the vegetarianism common to both Vaishnava Hinduism and Jainism and in recent years have provided renunciants to both Hindu and Jain ascetic lineages (Srivastava 1992: 126-30) This environment of regular ritual interaction between communities suggests the inappropriateness of viewing the Raikas as simply having ‘converted’ to Jainism.

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I n d ia

Conclusion In actuality, Jains have in recent times been rather more interested in the, sometimes spectacular, transition from the lay to ascetic roles effected by individuals already within the Jain community than they have been in the possibility of the community being joined by those from a non-Jain background. Virtually all Jains today have been bom within the Jain community, inducted into its culture and values in a manner not dissimilar to that found in other religious traditions and from marriage alliances determined by social background. While Jainism in its ethical, intellectual and cultural amplitude is indeed a universal religion, it may be said in conclusion that the Jains are not so much oriented towards converting non-Jains to their faith today as to promoting in society at large what they see as its core values of nonviolence, vegetarianism and compassionate interaction between all beings.

References Acàrànga Sufra, \%8.Jaina Sutras: Parti, translated by Hermann Jacobi, New York: Dover Publications. Babb, Lawrence A., 1996. Absent Lord: Ascetics and Kings in a Jain Ritual Culture, Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University o f California Press. Bailey, Greg, 1998. Problems of the Interpretation of the Data Pertaining to Religious Interaction in Ancient India: The Conversion Stories in the Sutta Nipâta. In Geoffrey A. Oddie, ed., Religious Traditions in South Asia: Interaction and Change, pp. 9-28, Richmond: Curzon. Balbir, Nalini, 1993. Avasyaka-Studien. Introduction générale et traduction, Stuttgart: Franz Steiner. Bhagavati Sütra, 1974. Viyâhapannattisuttam Ed. Bechardas J. Doshi.JainaAgama-Series Vol. 4.1, Bambaï: Sri Mahàvïra Vidyàlaya. Bryant, M Darroll and Christopher Lamb, eds, 1999- Religious Conversion: Contemporary Practices and Controversies, Cassell: London and New York. Carrithers, Michael, 2000. On Polytropy: Or the Natural Condition of Spiritual Cosmopolitanism in India: The Digambar Jain Case. Modem Asian Studies 34: 831-61.

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Cohen, Richard S., 1998. Naga, Yaksini, Buddha: Local Deities and Local Buddhism at Ajanta. History o f Religions 37: 360-400. Cort, a. John E. ed., 1998. Open Boundaries: Jain Communities and Cultures in Indian History, Albany: State University of New York Press. ____ b., 1998. Who is a King?Jain Narratives o f Kingship in Medieval Western India. In Cort a, pp. 85-111. Davis, Richard H., 1998. The Story o f the Disappearing Jains: Retelling the Saiva-Jain Encounter in Medieval South India. In Cort a, pp. 213-24. Deleu, Jozef, 1970. Viyahapannatti (Bhagavai): The Fifth Anga o f theJaina Canon, Brugge: de Tempel. Dhaky, M. A. ed., 1997. Arhat Parsva andDharanendra Nexus. Ahmedabad and Delhi: Lalbhai Dalpatbhai Institure of Indology and Bhogilal Leharchand Institute of Indology. Dundas, Paul, 1992. The Jains. London and New York: Routledge. ____ _ 2000. The Meat at the Wedding Feasts: Krishna, Vegetarianism and a Jain Dispute. In Joseph T. O ’ Connell: Jain Doctrine and Practice: Academic Perspectives, pp. 95-112, University of Toronto: Centre for South Asian Studies. ____ , (forthcoming). Haribhadra’s Lalitavistara and the Legend o f Siddharsi’s Conversion to Buddhism. In Olle Qvamstrom (ed.), Buddhist and Jain Studies in Honour o f P. S. Jaini. Flugel, Peter, 1994. Askese und Devotion: Das rituelle System der Terapanth Svetambara Jains. Johannes Gutenberg-Universitat Mainz Dr. Phil. Dissertation. Granoff, Phyllis, 1989. Religious Biography and Clan History among the Svetambara Jains in North India. East and West 39: 195-215. ____ , 2000. Other People’s Rituals: Ritual Eclecticism in Early Medieval Indian Religions. Journal o f Indian Philosophy 28: 399-424. ____ , 2001. Paradigms of Protection in Early Indian Religious Texts; Or an Essay on What to Do with Your Demons, Chicago: Association for Asian Studies Meeting. Harisena, 1943. Brhatkathakosa. Ed. A. N. Upadhye. Bambai: Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan. Hemacandra, 1998. The Lives o f theJain Elders. Translated by R. C. C. Fynes, Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press. Jain, Prthvi Raj, 1989- Punjab ke Mahan Jyotirdhar Nyayambhonidhi Jainacarya Vijaynanda Suri, Dilli: Mahattara Sadhvi Sri Mrgavatiji Phaumdesan. Jaini, P. S., 1979- The Jaina Path o f Purification, Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass.

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Jinabhadra, Ganin, 1966. Ganadharavada. Ed. and trans. Esther A. Solomon, Ahmedabad: Gujarat Vidya Sabha. Jinadatta, Suri, 1918. Sandehadolävaltprakarana, with the commentary of Prabodhacandra. Jetaran, Marwar: Sheth Chhaganlal Hirachandra. Jnätrdharmakathäh, 1989. Näyädbammakahäo. Ed. Muni Jambuvijaya. Jaina-Agama Granthamala Vol 5.1, Bambai: Sri Mahavira Jaina Vidyalaya. Lalwani, K. C., 1973. Sudharma Svami’s Bbagavat Sutra- Vol. 1 (Satakas 13), Calcutta: Jain Bhawan. ------, 1980. Sudharma Svami 's Bhagavati Sütra. Vol III ( Satakas 7-8), Calcutta: Jain Bhawan. Meister, Michael W., 1998. Sweetmeats or Corpses? Community, Conversion and Sacred Places. In Cort a, pp. 111-38. Obeyesekere, Gananath, 1984. The Cult o f the Goddess Pattini, Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Parthasarathy, R., 1992. The Cilappatikaram o f Ilanko Atikal. An Epic o f South India, New York: Columbia University Press. Peterson, Indira Vishwanthan, 1998. Sramanas against the Tamil Way: Jains as Others in Tamil Saiva Literature. In Cort a, pp. 163-85. Sahgal, Smita, 1994. Spread o f Jainism in north India between circa 200 b c and circa a d 300. In N. N. Bhattacharyya, ed .Jainism and Prakrit in Ancient and Medieval India, pp. 205-32, New Delhi: Manohar. Srivastava, Vinay Kumar, 1992. Religious Renunciation o f a Pastoral People, Delhi: Oxford University Press. Stark, Rodney and Roger Finke, 2000. Acts o f Faith: Explaining the Human Side o f Religion, Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University o f California Press. Stein, Burton, 1980. Peasant State and Society in Medieval South India, Delhi: Oxford University Press. Sütrakrtänga Sütra, 1968. Jaina Sutras: Part II. translated by Hermann Jacobi, New York: Dover Publications. Uttarädhyayana Sütra, 1968. Jaina Sutras. Part II. translated by Hermann Jacobi, New York: Dover Publications. ____ , 1997. H istorical Background o f the Manimekhalai and the Indigenization o f Buddhism. In Peter Schalk, ed., A Buddhist W om an’s Path to Enlightenment, pp. 53-94. Uppala: Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis.

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Notes '‘Jainism’ is used throughout as an expression o f convenience. The term Jaina, ‘follower o f the Jinas’ does not in fact appear until the early common era. The two main sects, the Svetàmbaras and Digambaras, emerged formally around the same period. 2Although medieval sources provide evidence of an occasional Jain empathy for aspects o f Buddhism, more normally they bear witness to a world of tense inter-sectarian relations, where conversion may have caused traumatic clashes o f loyalty even within families (Dundas 1992: 208-9 and forthcoming). Haribhadra (c. eighth cen.) tells the story o f a young Buddhist who converted to Jainism but was compelled by his parents to give alms to Buddhist monks, as a result of which he was possessed by a malevolent deity, eventually exorcised. He also describes how a Jain lured away by Buddhists eventually returned to Jainism, a reconversion process later to be associated with Haribhadra himself who supposedly brought a lapsed monk back to the Jain fold (Balbir 1993: 191 and Dundas forthcoming). Jain narratives frequently present conversion from Buddhism to Jainism in terms of abandonment; cf. Harisena’s (tenth century) BrhatkathàkoSa (story 156, verse 7) for a Buddhist ‘giving up’ his religion ( Buddhadharmam vihàya) to become a Jain layman. ^The third gunasthàna is in certain respects more significant as a state to which an individual can regress rather than one through which he progresses. 4Dundas 1992: 11 and 112-13- Note also the story of the conversion of the brahman Sayyambhava who is told by his teacher that the sacrificial ritual in which he is engaged is a sham, given value only by the presence of the image of a tlrthankara buried in sacred enclosure. (Hemacandra 1998: 116 for a 12th cen. Version). sUttaràdhyayana Sütra chapter 12 refers to aJain monk o f untouchable background. 6For examples given in the Bhagavati Sütra o f the reaffiliation o f Parsva’s followers to Mahavlra's teachings, see Deleu 1970: 85, 92, 117 and 162-3. 7Compare Uttaràdhyayana Sütra ch. 25 (136-41) which describes the former brahman Jayaghosa who took to the performing of the Jain restraints. He converts another brahman Vijayaghosa by convincing him that the true brahman, namely the Jain monk, becomes so through morality, rather than ritual. 8See Jnâtrdharmakathâh-. 242 which refers to Pottila taking the lay ‘lesser vows’ ( anuvrata) and the ‘precepts’ ( siksâpadas). Note also the use o f the expression dhammam padivajjittàe/padivajjai for the adoption of Jainism.

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9The case of Kharavela (Dundas 1992:97) is too vague to justify serious consideration here. The story o f the Jain affiliations of the fourth century b c e Mauryan emperor Chandragupta is a later fabrication. 10It is possible to be slightly sceptical about the completeness o f Kumarapala’s conversion. Why do the Jain texts record the miracle o f Siva proclaiming Jainism as the true religion if he was not in fact susceptible to Saivism? "Prabodhacandra commenting on Sandehadolavati w . 149-50 refers to six exceptions prescribed by the early common era teacher Bhadrabahu (cf. Balbir 1993:190-1) to the general rule about following correct Jain belief (samyaktva) at all times, which include the threat imposed by a deity. 12Cross-sect conversion from Svetambara to Digambara and in the opposite direction was clearly an occasional feature of the medieval period. Banarsidas provides an example o f a Svetambara reorienting himself towards the Digambaras under a spiritual impulse. See Dundas 1992: 165-8). 13Indian Express, March 9,1999.

Conversion and Sikh Tradition Louis E. Fenech

Conversion and Fluidity An attempt to analyse religious conversion in early Sikh history is difficult: not only is the concept of conversion which we understand today a category which emerges out of the Semitic religious traditions but it is also a product of modernity.1This last point underscores the existence of both stable categories and fixed identities.2Such secure identities were not present in the early history of the Sikhs; there existed a more malleable relationship between those groups we today identify as Sikhs and non-Sikhs, Hindus and Muslims. The fact that early Punjabi Sikh society was essentially kinship- rather than religionbased (a feature seen to this day) ensured this fluidity. This is not to say that there were no early markers of Sikh identity and that a Sikh’s character was ‘fuzzy’. Indicators exist in the form of the various requirements demanded of the Sikh in the Adi Granth, the sacred Sikh scripture which was completed (according to tradition) in 1604, and the vars or odes of its amanuensis the celebrated Bhai Gurdas Bhalla (d. circa 1637), a relative of the third Sikh Guru, Guru Amar Das. These included such conditions for membership as rising during the last watch of the night ( amrit-vela) to bathe and recite various compositions o f the Sikh Gurus; contemplating the Divine Name ( nam), visiting the dharamsala for congregational singing ( kirtari.), and charity.3 Often these early requirements were referred to collectively as nam dan isnan, an easily remembered formula which dates back to the time of Guru

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Nanak (1469—1539), the founder and first Guru of the Sikh faith, and which finds ample expression in the earliest hagiographies of the Guru.4 Such requirements were also present in the mid to late eighteenth-century, but by this time these had been supplemented by the rahit-nam as, works which are said to contain the final instructions to the Sikh Panth of the tenth Sikh Master, Guru Gobind Singh (1666-1708). In these texts we find the earliest references to khande d ip a h u l (also, khande da a m rit or amrit-sanskar) the ritual of Khalsa (rather than Sikh) initiation which today involves sipping water that has been stirred in a vessel with a double-edged sword as well as what will eventually become standardised as the five Ks, the five external symbols that must be worn by the Khalsa, the martial order of Sikhs believed to have been founded by the tenth Guru in 1699-5 But all these obligations were unfolding in the culturally fluid environment in which Sikhism was evolving and growing. It was a time in which, ‘the category “Sikh” was still flexible, problematic, and substantially empty.’6 The fulfilment of the specific ‘Sikh’ requirements did not necessarily mean the abandonment of other demands we can only today identify as non-Sikh such as the reverence for various Hindu Gods and their idols, the privileging of a lifestyle involving world renunciation ( samnyasa ), the veneration of living human gurus after the death of the tenth Guru, as well as the donning of both the sacred thread (Janeu ) and frontal mark (tila k ).7

By the late nineteenth century, however, the fluid nature of the Sikh tradition was no longer normative. Categories such as Sikhism, Islam, and Hinduism had begun to crystallise and to ultimately form the stability which generally characterises their contemporary manifestations. For the Hindu tradition the organisations often mentioned in this process of stabilisation are the Brahmo Samaj and the Arya Samaj, while South Asian Islam’s contemporary religious boundaries are a product of various ‘modem’ Islamic groups such as those led by Sir Sayyid Ahmad Khan, the scholars of the Deoband schools, and the various Anjuman-i Islamias.8 For Sikhism this reification was due in large part to the Sikh ‘reform’ movement, the Singh Sabha.

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Confronted by what they understood as the decay of Sikhism, a rot evinced by what they and the colonial masters saw as a sharp decline in Sikh numbers due in part to Christian conversion, members of the Sikh intelligentsia took it upon themselves to curtail this decline by educating the Sikh masses and British authorities about Sikhism.9 By the end of the 1870s they established an organisation dedicated to the dissemination of true Sikhism. This was to be a Sikhism drawn from the Sikh past but commensurate with general nineteenthcentury European ideas about religion and religious boundaries, a Sikhism formed through what Harjot Oberoi calls, after Bakhtin, a dialogic process.10 To this end the Singh Sabha assumed and developed (albeit unknowingly) many of the essentialisms associated with Western Orientalism and began to explore past Sikh texts and traditions in their light. Gradually, they constructed a hegemonic definition of Sikh identity and practice based, in large part, upon their interpretation and interpolation of these sources. For them true Sikhs were Sikhs of the Khalsa and it was this identity, the principal Sikh identity amongst the multitude of Sikh identities that existed in the late nineteenth century, which they privileged and refined. In the process of establishing the horizons of the Sikh tradition and the identity of the Sikhs, the Singh Sabha differentiated Sikhism and ‘genuine’ Sikhs from both Hinduism and Islam and Hindus and Muslims in novel ways. These were on the one hand adapted from Orientalist constructions o f both Hinduism (exclusionary, casteridden) and Islam (intolerant, forced conversions) and, on the other, from earlier Sikh tradition.11 Within the writings of the Singh Sabha both these groups became the ‘other’, their exclusionary and violent natures opposed to the universal message of the Sikh gums and the righteous agenda of the Khalsa. Through narratives dealing indirectly with both conversion to Sikhism from Hinduism and attempted conversion from Sikhism to Islam the Singh Sabha further delineated the modem, national identity of Khalsa Sikhs. It was thanks to the Singh Sabha that a limited degree of clarity was imparted to the concept of conversion as understood today. This partial degree o f clarity, however, did not lead to the implementation of a conversion mandate. With the Sabha’s concern for dwindling Sikh numbers one would imagine that a formal programme for the conversion of non-Sikhs to Sikhism would have

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been put into place. There is no doubt that the Singh Sabha utilised the new communication technologies established by the colonial authorities to spread their messages of Sikh history, tradition, and reform. But while an agenda to educate Sikhs about their tradition was firmly entrenched, which included traveling to places as distant as Sindh to instruct Sindhi Sikhs in contemporary Sikhism and even going as far as the United States and Canada, an agenda to convert non-Sikhs to Sikhism was never formalised. This lack of a conversion programme stems from one of the principal reasons for the Singh Sabha’s foundation. The group was formed to deal with Sikh losses to Christian missionaries.12 Its aim was to strengthen and intensify the loyalty of those who had an allegiance to a Sikh tradition (whether an earlier form of Khalsa Sikhism or non-Khalsa Sikhism)13 rather than bolster diminishing numbers with new converts from non-Sikh faiths.14 Nothing was put into place to discourage non-Sikhs from joining the Sikh Panth. Such ‘converts’ were wholeheartedly welcomed and many still are to this day. But this was and is a limited acceptance based on these non-Sikhs joining the Khalsa Panth through the khande da amrit ritual and adopting its Rahit, which today means a general acceptance of the rules put forth in the Sikh Rahit Maryadd, the code of conduct formalised by members of the Singh Sabhas in the early to mid twentieth century.15 That this is clearly a Khalsa code of conduct rather than a Sikh one is attested to by the fact that the Sikh Rahit Marydda contains no statements regarding either conversion to or a ritual of conversion for a non-Khalsa Sikh tradition. All other ways of becoming Sikh are thus ignored. This was also the case during the period of the Singh Sabha. In their publications and speeches other forms of initiation were either left unsaid; seen as earlier, displaced forms of initiation into the Panth; or simply derided.16 This may perhaps present us with another problem in our historical analysis of religious conversion and Sikhism. Although present-day Sikhs are adamant about the universal nature of the Sikh tradition they, like many Hindus,17 do not believe that conversion as it is understood today is a feature of their tradition. Indeed, to outsiders the situation is unclear as Sikhs have never really agreed to a comprehensible and concise statement of what conversion to

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Sikhism means to them. There are, I believe, two related reasons for this lack of clarity. The first has to do with the kinship-based nature of Punjabi Sikh society, a factor which engenders the ambiguous attitudes of Punjabi Sikhs towards non-Indian ‘converts’ to Sikhism, especially to members of the North America-based Sikh dharma of the western hemisphere organisation.18 The second we can extract from the following quote by one modem anthropologist: the issue o f religious conversion is something different for Punjabis than it is for Westerners. The spiritual rebirth which Westerners conventionally symbolize in ritualls] o f initiation, baptism, or confirmation is something other than the transformation o f the natural substances and moral codes for conduct o f the person which Punjabis effect in Sikh ritual practices.19

It is because the concept of conversion as understood by Punjabi Sikhs is in fact different from the one generally understood. And it is for this reason that educated Sikhs of the Singh Sahba, and those of the present-day normative Sikh tradition established by them, have such difficulty determining a position on conversion. It is clear that modem, Euro-Christian conceptions of conversion which underscore spiritual rebirth were understood by members of the Singh Sabha. Their readings of past Sikh texts often implement this understanding. Yet these men and women also understood conceptualisations of Punjabi personhood, and within this rubric ‘conversion’ indicates an ‘active transformation of natural substances and moral codes for conduct’ through ritual.20 From this perspective one must be bom into a Punjabi or at the very least an Indian family. Since these differing notions of conversion do not correspond, a clear and concise statement on conversion is difficult to formulate. What this means for scholars of the Sikh tradition is that there exists no formal claim that conversion to Sikhism has both a long history and important function nor is there an official agency whose agenda it is to persuade non-Sikhs to convert to Sikhism. The names of Sikh institutions such as the Dharam Prachar Committee of the Shiromani Gurdwara Prabhandak Committee (SGPC)21 and, especially, the Sikh Missionary College are misleading. These organisations do not concern themselves with the conversion of nonSikhs to Sikhism as their names imply but like the Singh Sabha whose

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agenda these modern-day groups have inherited, their concern is with ensuring that contemporary Sikhs are cognisant o f their history and o f proper Sikh rituals (that is, Khalsa Sikh history and rituals) as w ell as the ‘true’ teachings o f the Sikh Gurus; and to ensure that these teachings are disseminated to Sikhs throughout the world. The publications o f the Sikh Missionary C ollege provide a case in point. This literature often devotes an entire section to telling Sikhs what g o o d Sikhs should do and believe.22 And what g o o d Sikhs do is take am rit and becom e Khalsa Sikhs rather than Sahaj-dhari Sikhs or ‘ slow -adopters [o f Khalsa Sikhism ]’ , a label w hich is often appropriated to cover just about every other non-Khalsa Sikh identity today and one which also implies an acceptance o f the Khalsa Sikh as the premiere Sikh identity.23 This is no doubt the raison d ’e tre for the many messages one encounters around both the parikarm a or circumambulatory m arble w alk w a y within the G old en T em p le com plex in Amritsar and within just about every gurdwara in the Punjab, enjoining Sikh pilgrims once again to fo llo w a three-part formula: a m rit chhakko; singh sajjo; nose chhaddo, ‘Take amrit; b e co m e [initiated into the Khalsa as] a Singh; [and] abandon intoxicants’ (Figure l ) . 24

Figure 1 But a form o f conversion there most certainly was and virtually every popular history o f the Sikh people aligned with the Singh Sabha’s interpretation o f Sikh tradition implies and to a certain extent, celeb ra tes p roselytisation . A nd d esp ite ea rlier claim s about conversion and modernity this trend does g o back into the pre-Singh Sabha past and may be fleshed out from early Sikh sources.

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We must understand, however, what we mean by the term ‘conversion’ in this early, pre-Singh Sabha period of Sikh history. We have already noted that for Punjabi Sikhs the concept of conversion means something different from the idea we find in a western, Christian context. This was especially so prior to the Singh Sabha as conversion had not yet entered Sikh vocabulary since the vast majority of Sikhs had never envisaged a situation such as that conceived by many Jews, Christians, and Muslims. Indeed, Punjabi words often appropriated to indicate religious conversion today did not include in their eighteenth- and nineteenth-century semantic range many of the features of conversion which are explored, for example, in Gauri Viswanathan’s monograph on religious conversion in nineteenth- and twentieth-century India.25 In this early period ‘conversion’ to a tradition was by no means exclusivist. It does not therefore belong within the domain of cultural criticism and cannot contain contemporary understandings of religious conversion which argue that it is in fact a form of subversion of state or ecclesiastical power.26 This may become the case in the late nineteenth century with the rise and dominance of the Singh Sabha (despite their silence on the matter of conversion), but by no means does it describe the early Sikh situation. Nor does the idea of becoming a Sikh in this period encompass an explicit renunciation of one’s previous identity, a radical alteration of a person’s belief, behaviour, and affiliation, something for which conversion is well known in the Abrahamic religious traditions.27 We have already noted that early Punjabi society was not based on one’s religious affiliation but rather on one’s kinship group or biradari. Changes to various ritual practices or the addition of other practices (ritual is an important feature of conversion28) could be easily accommodated within the group as a whole without dislodging the individual in any meaningful way. What people ‘converted from’ was probably not substantively different from what they ‘converted to’. How then did one ‘become’ Sikh in this period? How did one ‘convert’ to Sikhism? If not by birth, one probably ‘became’ Sikh by undergoing the charan-amrit ritual after having come into contact with a Sikh Guru (whether of the normative or the heterodox lines) or some pious representative of the Guru during the so-called Guru

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period (1469-1708) or after the death o f the tenth Guru. During the eighteenth century and afterwards the ritual of khande da amrit would also have been available along with charan amrit, though the former was a strictly Khalsa Sikh ritual of incorporation while the latter allowed one to join the larger Sikh Panth. After initiation one would then begin to venerate the Sikh Gurus; listen to passages from the Adi Granth, the Dasam Granth, and the traditional biographies of Guru Nanak; one would, perhaps, loosely follow some of the injunctions laid down in the rahit-namas (especially if one took the nectar of the two-edged sword), occasionally visiting a dharamsala or gurdwara.29 In this way a potential ‘convert’ would, as Dusenbery notes in his perceptive ethnosociological analysis of Punjabi Sikh constructions o f personhood and conversion, incorporate into their person the coded substances of the Guru.30 It is unlikely that these new observances and incorporations would have ruled out practices one followed prior to ‘becoming’ a Sikh, despite the protests of many scholars o f Sikhism to the contrary.31 The evidence of the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century rahit-namas suggests that the amrit sanskar ritual of the eighteenth century did require the potential devotee to abandon some parts of his or her pre-Khalsa identity, but only some.32 For many Sikhs and non-Sikhs of the period, initiation into the Sikh Panth involved no formal change of identity at all. One took charan amrit or khande da amrit as a Hindu and probably remained a Hindu. An analysis of early Sikh literature allows us to sketch some gen­ eral tendencies with regard to this form of early ‘conversion’ (although this word is obviously problematic it is nevertheless the term we will continue to use— in inverted commas— to describe the processes of incorporation we have been narrating) and this will ultimately let us note how and why these trends were either marginalised, embraced, or altered by the Singh Sabha, our earlier comments about the Singh Sabha and conversion notwithstanding.

Conversion and Early Sikh History What we may easily discern from the popular history of the Sikh Panth as constructed by the Singh Sabha is that conversion to the

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Sikh faith begins with the travels and personality of Guru Nanak. On these travels the first Gum’s principal mission was to spread word of the Divine Name resounding throughout creation and to persuade people to intuit the nam by practicing an ‘interior’ religion of meditation and self purification ( nam simrari). Men and women initiated into the Nanak Panth through the ritual of charan-amrit would abandon external aspects of religion generally thought to deliver salvation such as rituals, texts, mantras, and religious personnel, and rise to ever higher levels of spiritual perfection.33 People throughout northern India, it is strongly implied, were attracted to Guru Nanak and Sikhism for these very reasons. Other reasons were the social, political, and moral environment in which the Guru preached. The decadence of the Lodi dynasty, for example, as well as that of the early Mughal empire are axiomatic in popular Sikh history, often supported by statements from the scripture itself. It is regularly implied that the breakdown of traditional morality precipitated a life crisis among a large number of sensitive north Indians in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. In this space is inserted Guru Nanak who is portrayed as lessening the anxiety of people with his powerful message of redemption. The message in combination with the character of the charismatic Guru enabled people to maximise the meaning and purpose of their lives. To this we may add another significant motivation for conversion to Sikhism to which contemporary Sikh tradition draws attention: many people became Sikhs in an attempt to escape the discriminatory Hindu caste system. Modem interpreters realise in Gum Nanak’s statements that caste status is irrelevant in matters concerning liberation from the cycle of existence, as the following oft-repeated couplet makes abundantly clear: Both caste and an illustrious name are worthless. For all of humanity only one refuge exists.34

Tradition maintains that the mission and empowering messages of Gum Nanak were continued in the persons of his nine successors who also saw a large number of converts to Sikhism from the dominant religious traditions of their day, Hinduism and, to a lesser extent, Islam. We are often told that Sikh numbers increased during the early period of the Panth, an increase which resulted from more

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than simply natural reproduction, and that the Gurus had to respond to this growth. Guru Amar Das thus founded a series of mahfis, delegated representatives of the Guru to scattered Sikh sangats while the fourth Guru, Guru Ram Das, transformed these m anjls into masands who would collect the contributions of these sangats and deliver them personally to the Guru and may have substituted for the Guru during the ritual of initiation.35 In regard to the tenth Sikh master, Guru Gobind Singh, tradition claims that membership of the Khalsa was made up of the lowest social orders, men and women who were attracted to the martial community through a combination of Guru Gobind Singh’s personal charisma, his critical attitude towards caste, and his emphasis upon the equality of all Khalsa Sikhs. Historical texts are used to reconstruct this traditional history. Historians of the Sikh tradition generally support the conversion theme by appropriating ‘evidence’ found in the earliest Sikh literature, the janam -sakhis or traditional biographies of the first Guru. In these seventeenth- and eighteenth-century texts we find, in a standard pattern reminiscent of the Sufi tadhkireh or hagiographic literature, that future disciples are invariably drawn to the charismatic Guru. Indeed, in the janam -sakhis Guru Nanak is represented in many diverse ways in an attempt, perhaps, to underscore his appeal to the many diverse peoples of sixteenth-century northern India. He is an ascetic in some instances and, in others, an eclectic personality who combines both Sufi and Hindu garbs. His is a ‘kaleidoscopic persona’ according to Harjot Oberoi.36 However he appears throughout the janam -sakhis , Guru Nanak is likened to the divine itself (an equation which contemporary Sikh scholars downplay to say the least, in the light of later developments). Men and women become Sikhs in these hagiographies after witnessing the Guru perform a miracle, hearing one of his sacred hymns, or even after merely glimpsing Guru Nanak’s exalted presence.37 In one sakhi a wicked thief is liberated by simply having the Guru view the smoke from his funeral pyre.38 The rivals of the Guru are also shown in the janam -sakhis to become followers after being defeated in debate or after having been bettered by the Guru in a display of magical prowess.39 Sources outside the Sikh tradition too are marshalled in support of a conversion mandate. The earliest include the mid seventeenthcentury D abistan-i M azahib, or ‘The School of Religions’, a Persian

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text which tells us that Guru Nanak had attracted many disciples through his piety and miracles, and implies that the successor Gurus had likewise scored great success, demonstrated by the obvious increase in Sikh numbers, particularly from the Jat caste.40 Along with the Dabistan we have the Persian memoirs of the Mughal emperor Jahangir, the Tiizuk-i Jahangiri which speaks of the fifth Master, Guru Arjan, in the following manner: They called him Guru and [several] ignorant [Hindus and Muslims] as well as those deluded by fools were attracted to [Guru Arjan] and came to him from all over India expressing complete confidence in him.41

Jahangir’s belief that Guru Arjan had supported the claims to the Mughal throne of the emperor’s recalcitrant son Khusrau has inevitably coloured his perception of the fifth Guru and his disciples.42 This fact notwithstanding, the passage may be understood as supporting a conversion theme. So too may the many Persian chronicles dealing with the life and message of Guru Tegh Bahadar.43 The late eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century dates of these works make them somewhat less reliable than the Dabistan or the Tuzuk. For Sikh tradition, however, the evidence in these texts underscores a general theme with which most interpreters agree. Indeed, according to popular Sikh history, like Guru Nanak and Guru Arjan the other Sikh Gurus are alleged to have converted the hearts and minds of many through their own personal charisma, spiritual power, hymns, and lifestyles.44 One could provide further examples. What is especially signifi­ cant about both the janam-sakhis and the Persian sources noted above in the context of religious conversion is their general agree­ ment on how people became Sikh: through the power and influ­ ence of Guru Nanak and the other Sikh Gurus. And it is this focus upon the charisma, power, and indeed identification between the eternal Guru and the personal Guru which generally carries over into the early literature o f the Sikh people and the literature of the many diverse Sikh groups which thrived in this sixteenth-, seven­ teenth-, and eighteenth-century period.

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Conversion and ‘Heterodox’ Sikh Groups in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries Of these diverse Sikh groups the most vilified are the Minas. Within the Miharban janam-sakhi, a Mina text produced by Sodhi Hariji, the grandson of the infamous Prithi Chand, the same influence of the Guru in regard to conversion is celebrated. According to tradition, Prithi Chand as the eldest son of Guru Ram Das disputed his father’s choice of Arjan as the successor to the guruship. Prithi Chand therefore set himself up as a rival to his brother and had his son, Miharban, prepare a number of hymns to bolster his father’s (and eventually Miharban’s) claims. A number of Sikhs accepted Prithi Chand’s assertions, an acknowledgement which prompted Bhai Gurdas to label them rriina ( ‘crooked’; ‘scoundrel’),45 an epithet they retain in popular Sikh lore to this day. Examination of the extant manuscripts of the Miharban janam-sakhi, however, demonstrates that the bulk of its material agrees with standard Sikh interpretations. There are deviations from today’s standard narratives, but such deviations are common in all early Sikh literature, orthodox and heterodox alike.46 In regard to the Miharban janam-sakhi the principal deviation is the acknowledgement of the guruship of the Mina line of Gurus. In Hariji’s janam-sakhi the first five Gurus are accorded a divine status: ‘My Guru, Baba Nanak, is the highest Brahma.’ We find as well that ‘Guru Arjan [was] the perfect descent of the divine (puranu avatara).’47 This last statement comes as a surprise since popular Sikh tradition claims that Miharban despised his brother Guru Arjan, actually plotting to have the Guru’s son, Hargobind, killed.48 Prithi Chand and Miharban are also mentioned in a similar exalted manner.49 Hariji also notes that the mere hearing of the narratives of the Sikh Gurus is enough to secure the pious listener salvation.50 The impression one receives from this text and from other Mina sources is that the personalities of these Gurus, both the orthodox Sikh Gurus and the Mina Gurus, were responsible for a large number of converts to Sikhism.51

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The importance of the human guru figure in regard to conversion may also be recognised in the writings and practices of other eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Sikh groups. Among these we would include the Udasi and Nirmala Sikhs. The various heads of the many Udasi establishments throughout the Punjab in the early nineteenth century for example were understood as gurus while the heads of the scattered Nirmala orders likewise possessed this status. Not only were these men the principal transmitters of early nineteenth-century Sikh tradition, they were also the main agents in the conversion of people to Sikhism. In their akhàràs or monastic establishments the Nirmala gurus would be visited by pilgrims keen on instruction about the teachings of the Sikh Gurus. In fact, one clause in a list of mid nineteenth-century rules or listed for an akhara in Patiala clearly states that the chief objective of the establishment is to disseminate the teachings of Guru Nanak.52 Pilgrims to the Nirmala akhara, however, sought more than mere instruction. They also wished to receive the guru’s darsan or privileged religious sight. It was very common to witness pilgrims, lay people, and even chiefs and rulers of pre-annexation Punjab prostrate themselves before these gurus to seek their darshan and their blessings. That many sought to be initiated into the guru’s panth through the charanamrit ritual is a strong possibility. There were times when lay Sikhs and potential converts to Sikhism did not need to take a trip to seek out these gurus, who would sometimes travel to bestow their instruction and darshan. ‘From their secure bases in central Punjab,’ Oberoi notes, ‘they ... fanned out into liminal zones, pilgrim centres and fair grounds to propagate the faith and recruit new adherents.’53 In these locations, the charisma and influence of the guru secured the convert. Udasi and Nirmala Sikhs are included within the category ‘traditional intellectuals’ in the list of the three groups which Harjot Oberoi outlines as the transmitters of the many early, ‘Sanatan’ forms of Sikh tradition. The other two were members of the guru lineages, a category to which both Prithi Chand and Miharban belonged technically, as well as holy men, and sants such as the renowned Sikh leader o f the nineteenth century, Bhai Maharaj Singh for example.54

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As the titles of Maharaj Singh indicate there is no doubt that these categories overlapped. One could be both a traditional Sikh holyman such as a bhai j i or a sant as well as a descendent of one of the ten Sikh Gurus and so on. These groups certainly proliferated in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries garnering funds for their establishments from both the devout and the state of Maharaja Ranjit Singh. But within all o f these categories o f Sikh holymen and descendents of the Sikh Gurus the same paradigm we have discov­ ered in the janam-sakbis and in regard to traditional intellectuals holds. The Guru is the central focus and may thus be understood as the principal agent of conversion. Men and women, moreover, were initiated into the Guru’s panth through the ritual of charan-amrit. All of this should elicit no surprise since in Sikh doctrine the emphasis upon the Guru is supreme. This is, I believe, the foremost reason why the conversion of non-Sikhs to Sikhism did not become a formal feature of the Singh Sabha project. The prominence of the human Guru in early Sikh conversion narratives, especially when the Guru is likened to Akal Purakh, would have placed the Singh Sabha on unsure ground were they to pursue a policy of religious conversion to Sikhism. Especially since one of the major popular practices of the nineteenth century which the Singh Sabha sought to eradicate amongst those with even a nominal allegiance to the Sikh tradition was the worship of human Gurus. Certainly the Singh Sabha argued incessantly that the role of the Guru of the Sikhs was exclusively reserved for the Adi Granth. And as such the Adi Granth, the tenth repository of the inner light or joti of Guru Nanak, the scripture within whose pages mystically dwells the eternal Guru, can be understood as possessing agency in regard to religious conversion.55 Trained gianis, granthis, baba jis, and even sants could expose the principles of the scripture— some more beautifully than others— but agency rests altogether with the Guru Granth Sahib. The Singh Sabha was very concerned that all varieties of late nineteenth-century Sikhs understood this idea. This concern is manifest in the 24 October 1899 diary entry of Mohan Singh Vaid (1881-1936), an eminent leader of the Taran Taran Singh Sabha, showing that he wrote to Ditt Singh, editor Khalsa Akhbdr, noting

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that an issue of N a u Javan Khalsa Bahadur, a journal from Amritsar, contained little other than praises of Thakur Singh and Sardul Singh. If this journal was to always keep doing this, Thakur Singh and Sardul Singh will begin to think o f themselves as Gurus and people will start worshipping them. In my letter I asked Ditt Singh to write a piece about this entire issue [of Nau Javan Khalsa Bahadur to ensure that Sikhs understand the Guru Granth Sahib to be the only Guru o f the Sikhs].56

Such censure was no doubt expressed to all those gia n is and granthis who felt that the medium was more important than the message. Sikh tradition records such reprimands even against such Sikh luminaries as Satta, the Dum and Balwand Rai, two of the most well-known bards of the Sikh gurus whose famous ¿wrcomposition, the Coronation Ode, is included within the Adi Granth.57 For Mohan Singh Vaid and all members of the Lahore Singh Sabha the Guru Granth Sahib was the only agency capable of converting non-Sikhs to Sikhism. Sikhs today would implicitly agree that non-Sikhs need only hear or read the Guru Granth Sahib (and, perhaps, the hymns attributed to Guru Gobind Singh within the Dasam Granth which are also understood as gu r-ban i, ‘sacred utterances of the Gurus’) with a pure heart in order to transform their lives and be converted to the path of Gurmat. But such agreement remains tacit and has never been formalised into a concrete programme. In the nineteenth century it was common for human gurus associated with the preSingh Sabha Sikh tradition to be the principal agents of conversion and thus occupy a central place in the lives of their Sikh followers.58 Today as well it is perceived in the many Sikh groups on the margins or outskirts of the normative Khalsa Sikh tradition (that is the tradition represented by the SGPC and the Akal Takht), groups such as the Radhasoamis, Nirankaris, and Namdharis, that the agent of conversion is the human guru. It is this guru who occupies a prominent place in the ritual of initiation, the ch a ra n -a m rit or the khande da a m rit ritual.59 The eleventh guru and other hymns noted as Gurbani could very well exercise this agency, and in theory do, but in practice the role of the Guru Granth Sahib as the agent of conversion is too abstract a doctrine for lay Sikhs and non-Sikh potential converts.

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Eighteenth and Nineteenth-century Sikh ‘Conversion’

*

But it was not so for all Sikhs. A number of Sikhs and non-Sikhs could comprehend the concept of Guru Granth as interpreted by the Singh Sabha and be motivated through the sole agency of Gurbani to foster a new interior life and convert to Sikhism. We possess a singular account of conversion to Khalsa Sikhism in the autobiogra­ phy of Bhagat Lakshman Singh, a principal publicist of the Singh Sabha Movement who began the English journal, the Khalsa in 1900 to spread Singh Sabha reforms. Lakshman Singh starts his account of initiation into the Khalsa one third of the way through his text: ‘About ... 1895,’ he begins, I felt the need for the solace of religion ... By chance my attention was drawn to the recitation of the Rah Ras by a sister of mine. I heard: “According as to their understanding tells them different people interpret thee, O Lord! Thy created work cannot be estimated neither can it be judged how Thou hast set up the Universe!”60 [sic] Why should I not, I said to myself follow the wake o f this unique teacher [Guru Gobind Singh] who is so catholic ... who elsewhere in his works, condemns the spurious belief in Divine Incarnation and whose divinity pervades, here, there and everywhere, and in all directions, in the form of love and harmony! The answer to this query was my formal baptism into the Khalsa creed.6'

The passage continues in the notes supplied by Ganda Singh: I began to study the Sikh scriptures with a Granthi of Rawalpindi and expressed a desire to be admitted into the Khalsa Panth. But Baba Sir Khem Singh Bedi hesitated to administer the Pahul to me till [Sardar] Sujan Singh and some other Sikhs assured him of my earnestness ... when S. Sujan Singh and other prominent Sikhs of the city accompanied me to the Gurdwara, the Baba was pleased to administer the baptism [of the double-edged sword] to me and I became a full-fledged Khalsa.

It is clear that the active agent in Lakshman Singh’s ‘conversion’, is Gurbani. Second, in his initiation ritual there is no human guru exercising agency. Baba Khem Singh Bedi was present and Lakshman Singh notes the reverence with which the Baba ji was received by

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his thousands of followers by virtue of his descent from the family of Guru Nanak (Bedi was Guru Nanak’s g o tr a and, as a direct descendent of the first Master, Khem Singh was often considered the 13th Nanak), but the good Bhagat makes clear that to him Baba Khem Singh Bedi was simply a friend and mentor.62 Third, Lakshman Singh was already a Sikh. The first hundred pages or so of the biography make it clear that Lakshman Singh was bom into a family situated within the Sanatan Sikh tradition which Harjot Oberoi has skillfully reconstructed.63 What we can see is that Lakshman Singh begins in a manner that is typically narrated in the janam -sakhis, that is conversion through personal contact with or hearing the hymns of the Guru. Such conversion experiences are not uncommon in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. Yet the fact that Lakshman Singh was already a Sikh before he became initiated into the Khalsa clearly departs from the standard set by the janam-sakhis. For this theme we have to look to the literature of the gur-bilas genre. The gur-bilas literature is mostly concerned with the struggles and mighty battles of the warrior Gurus, Hargobind and Gobind Singh, and their defeat of the forces of impiety. While the ja n a m sakhis deal with the fifteenth- and sixteenth-century history of the I nascent Sikh community, the gur-bilas focuses generally upon the martial Sikh Panth of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The spirit of the two genres is thus different, but in the area of religious conversion there are striking similarities between them. The concern with the importance of the personal Guru is unmistakable, for example, and so too is the Guru’s role in the conversion of potential disciples. Like the figure of the Guru in thejana m -sakhisboth Gurus Hargobind and Gobind Singh as well as the other Gurus who find mention in the texts are likened to the divine, become the divine in fact as illustrated by their epithets: Guru Gobind Singh is referred to as the Hindu God Vishnu in the Gur-bilas Patsahi 10 attributed to Koer Singh64 and as k a rta r (creator), p a ra b ra b a m (the highest Brahma), and param esar(\he highest Ishvara or Lord) in other g u rbilas texts;65 while Guru Hargobind is understood to be, among other signifiers of divinity, the twenty-fourth incarnation of Vishnu in a long list of Vaishnavite avataras supplied in the early nineteenth-century

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Gur-bilas Patsahl 6 attributed to the poet Sohan.66 Indeed, on almost

every page of these texts we recognise such identifications. And so within this literature are narrated incidents in which nonSikhs (sometimes deceitful, treacherous non-Sikhs) are converted to the true path through the charisma and message of the Guru. The G ur-pratap S u ra j G ranth , for example, a later, mid nineteenthcentury gur-bilastext prepared by the Nirmala scholar Santokh Singh, tells us of one pious Rajput Chaudhari named Manna who was a worshipper of the Muslim pir, Sakhi Sarwar. The Chaudhari had heard the hymns of Guru Arjan and, as a result, turned away from Sakhi Sarwar very much wishing to have the Guru’s darshan and become a Sikh. Upon finally meeting the fifth Master, Santokh Singh claims, Manna requested him for the gift of gur-sikhi and pleaded with him to liberate him from the terrors of transmigration and accept him as his servant.67 After a brief discussion with the supplicant Guru Arjan initiates him into the faith. The G u r-b ila s Patsah l 6 also relates a conversion narrative dealing with Guru Arjan. We are here told that through his charisma and proximity to the divine, the Guru had persuaded the emperor Akbar himself to take up the faith, administering to him the initiatory toe-wash.68 There are other such incidents relating to the Sikh Gurus as the principal agency in regard to conversion. Tradition claims that the notorious Hindu bandit, Bidhi Chhand Chhina, became a Sikh warrior and preacher only after an encounter with Guru Arjan. So too did the many highwaymen initially attracted to the martial sixth Guru for booty convert to Sikhism through the personality and charisma of the sixth Master and his righteous mandate. The gur-bilas examples above deal with non-Sikhs who con­ verted to Sikhism. This is in keeping with the standard set by the janam-sakhis. But while the janam -sakhis focus solely upon nonSikhs becoming Sikh, the gur-bilas includes sections narrating the conversion of those already Sikh to Khalsa Sikhism (with the excep­ tion of the G ur-bilas Patsahl (S)69, underscoring the importance of belonging to the Khalsa and relegating to a secondary, negligible status all Sikhs outside its fold and their rituals of incorporation.70 The most prolific and straightforward gur-bilas author privileging

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the Khalsa Sikh identity is Kavi Sainapati one of the legendary 52 ‘courtly jewels’ ( d arbd ri ratan ) in the entourage of Guru Gobind Singh. Sainapati’s Sri Gur-Sobha is one of the earliest examples of the gur-bilas genre. In this text, which was probably written only a few years after the death of the tenth Guru, the author demonstrates that the Khalsa of Guru Gobind Singh is the legitimate heir of the Sikh Gurus and as such is sanctioned by the divine command of the eternal Guru, Akal Purakh. Sainapati implies that the Khalsa has come into existence as a result of the hukam or divine order of the creator.71 The consequence is that all Sikhs outside of this august community are outside the hukam. Those who do not accept initiation into the Khalsa sanctioned by the divine command cannot therefore be understood as Gurmukhs, pious Sikhs whose faces are turned towards the divine, a claim which Sainapati later makes.72 These non-Khalsa Sikhs are to be recognised, rather, as those whose faces are turned away from the eternal Guru.73 Such attitudes towards non-Khalsa Sikhs are implied in other examples of the gu r-bila s genre.rs The clear connotation in such statements is that all true Sikhs must undergo khande da am rit, initiation through the ceremony of the double-edged sword. As Sainapati claims, The initiation o f the double-edged sword was given according to the order of the Creator and Lord. [People from all] the ten directions were made Khalsa and there was no one besides them ( avar na koi). The power and glory of the Khalsa was enhanced by the khande ki pdhul ritual ...7Ci

Ganda Singh in his introductory notes to Sri G u r Sobha claims that the first couplet in the passage above is here underscoring the impotence o f the masands whose individual positions as representatives of the Guru are now obviated as a result of the new a m rit ceremony.76 It is true that during the period of the first nine Gurus the masands were often noted as their representatives. And although there is no source which claims that the masands could exercise agency in regard to conversion to Sikhism it is safe to assume that this was the case when we consider the large numbers of sangats

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scattered throughout India during the Guru period of Sikh history and the rapid growth of the Panth during and after the period of Guru Arjan (late sixteenth century). Indeed, in the early period masands were highly regarded by the Gurus themselves and were well known for their humility and piety. By the time of the tenth Guru, however, the masands had become all but corrupt. The extant hukam-namas of the tenth Guru make this abundantly clear, making it mandatory that all true Sikhs must spurn the masands.77 Sainapati is obviously writing in this environment as his scorn towards the masands is easily detectable: The Creator and Lord delivered this command ( hukam): the Khalsa should remain far from the masands.78 With such passages in mind we can well see that Ganda Singh’s interpretation of the passage dealing with the Khalsa initiation ritual provides a very credible and, I believe, accurate understanding of it. I would, however, also interpret the passage to add further emphasis to both the exclusive nature of the Khalsa identity, the sole Sikh identity from Sainapati’s point of view, and its divine connection to the eternal Guru. The statement avar na koi ( ‘there is no other’) which completes the first couplet of the phrase in the passage works on both of these levels. It is an obvious claim that no Sikhs exist outside of the Khalsa. It is also well known that avara na koi is an expression which Guru Nanak and other Sikh Gurus often use in their shabads to describe the absolute unicity and uniqueness of the eternal Guru.79 Sainapati must no doubt be cognisant of this specific use and employ it accordingly as one more statement buttressing the divine origin and mandate of the Khalsa. The phrase in the context o f the Khalsa initiation ceremony, therefore, underscores the new importance of the Guru Panth doctrine (a doctrine which is first elaborated in Sri Gur Sobha)*0, that is the mystical presence of the eternal Guru whenever there is a gathering of five or more Khalsa Sikhs. For Sainapati the Khalsa is the manifest form of the eternal Guru. For him there can thus be no other variety of Sikh. Sainapati’s understanding of the Khalsa fits into our overall theme of conversion and Sikhism. Sainapati is writing only a few years after the death of the Guru in 1708,81 and he was no doubt aware of the

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situation which the death of the tenth Guru had engendered. There were many claims to the legitimate Guruship by descendents of the various Guru lineages, some of which were supported by the Mughal state, as well as what we can assume to be claims by the masands themselves to the esteemed position. The emphasis on the Khalsa of Guru Gobind Singh as the repository of divinity and its role in the khande da amrit ritual must be understood in the light of these claims. In this ritual the human Guru is removed and we have the symbolic presence of the eternal Guru in three distinct ways: the Guru as the sword so often deified in the works attributed to Guru Gobind Singh, the Guru in the form of Gurbani which is recited during the stirring of the initiatory amrit, and the Guru in the form of the Guru Panth as five Khalsa Sikhs who administer the amrit.62 The focus in the ritual remains the Guru and thus we can assume that the emphasis in terms of the agency of conversion also remains the Guru. During the lifetime of Guru Gobind Singh he would have obviously exercised this franchise. After his death, however, that agency shifted to the Guru in the mystical, symbolic forms noted above. It is this understanding of the Guru, we can be assured, which for Sainapati assumes agency after the death of Guru Gobind Singh. One can argue that for Sainapati the collective Khalsa as the Guru Panth is understood as possessing agency in regard to conversion. This could well account for the preparation of Sri Gur Sobha itself as Sainapati’s narratives on the Khalsa’s courage, bravery, and willingness to sacrifice all for the sake of righteousness may be an attempt to persuade both Sikhs and non-Sikhs alike to take amrit and become members of this elite order. Sikh tradition certainly claims as much, also noting that such narratives were attempts to intensify one’s commitment to the Khalsa tradition and encourage all Sikhs in the face of battles against overwhelming odds. Sainapati himself certainly knew the value of such edifying stories and the effect these have on readers and listeners: When the poet sings of battle all the warriors are filled with joy.83

Within Sri Gur Sobha then we do not only have the deification of the tenth Guru but also that same status transferred into the collective Khalsa after the former’s death in 1708. As the two are mystically one and the same, therefore, it comes as no surprise that

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the Khalsa can exercise the same agency as that exercised by the human Guru. The stories of the Khalsa’s death-defying heroism and righteousness, therefore, may be understood as one other way by which potential devotees incorporate into their persons the coded substance of the Guru. It is intriguing to note how close Sainapati’s views regarding the Khalsa and the eternal Guru are to later Singh Sabha interpretations. There are differences, of course, particularly in Sainapati’s identifi­ cation between Guru Gobind Singh and the eternal Guru, but it is Sainapati’s theological understanding of the Khalsa which the Singh Sabha will inherit and perpetuate. It is not a complete adoption, however, for the tone of Singh Sabha writings are not as negatively disposed towards non-Khalsa Sikhs as that in these earlier gur-bilas texts. The Singh Sabha did allocate space to non-Khalsa Sikhs, a secondary space (as the term Sahaj-dhari today implies) which made clear that the ideal Sikh identity was that of the Khalsa. Indeed, in their articles, pamphlets, and books the Singh Sabha laid a great emphasis on the heroic deeds of the Khalsa claiming in many pamphlets that such stories were meant to intensify Sikh commitment to the Khalsa ideal.84 To convert those leaning towards Sikhism, in other words, to the Khalsa tradition. Rarely, if ever, do we hear of Sahajdhari Sikhs in their ‘stirring stories from Sikh history’.85 One of the results of allocating such a superior status to the Khalsa and an inferior one to non-Khalsa Sikhs meant that all earlier rituals associated with the latter became negligible. This included, in particular, the ritual of initiation, charan-amrit. Although the charan-amrit ritual is featured alongside the ritual of the two-edged sword in other eighteenth-century Sikh texts (it should be noted that one could only be admitted to Sahajdhari status through the administration of charan-amrit), in particular the rahitnama of Chaupa Singh Chhibbar, it is utterly absent in the modernday Sikh code of conduct.86 For the Singh Sabha it seems safe to assume that the charan-amrit ritual implied the existence and the presence of a human Guru, the touch of whose foot sanctified the water used for initiation. The result of this is that a non-Sikh has no access to the Sahajdhari lifestyle which will be recognised by the normative Sikh tradition represented by the SGPC and the Akal Takht.

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From the normative Sikh point of view therefore a non-Sikh cannot become a Sahaj-dhari or a Kes-dhari Sikh, and nor can an initiated Khalsa Sikh revert back to a Sahajdhari status. One can only be incorporated into the Sikh Panth through the Khalsa ritual of initiation which, as we have seen, presupposes the presence of the eternal Guru in its mystical forms.

Conclusion With what are we now left in regard to Sikhism and religious conversion? Through early Sikh sources we can recognise why in part the Sikh tradition today is one which does not formally encourage the conversion of non-Sikhs to Sikhism. Let us repeat that since Sikhs are situated within and construct notions of personhood within a lineage-based society the conversion of non-Sikhs to Sikhism is not a major issue. As well, when reformers in the late nineteenth century sought to reify Sikhism one of the principal features of the ‘spurious’ Sikh traditions which confronted them in their period was the general Sikh reverence for human gurus. It was these gurus and their representatives who had influenced people in the past to join the Sikh Panth and played pivotal roles in the ‘conversion’ of non-Sikhs to Sikhism. For members of the Sabha, guruship ended with the tenth Master and all such gurus were to renounce their claims to guruship. A conversion agenda in the light of the Sikh history we recover from the janam-sakhis and the gur-bilas literature would have been difficult to sustain given this Singh Sabha attitude. There is as well the fact that conversion in Punjabi Sikh society does not and has never indicated the same notions which accompany the term in the Christian societies out of which the word originally evolved. The Singh Sabha clearly understood the idea’s Western connotations and may have at times used it in the modem sense, but they were unable to carry this understanding into the Panth as a whole. For the Panth generally conversion to Sikhism probably indicates the level of ‘coded Guru substances’ incorporated by the individual to which we referred earlier and which are explored in Dusenbery’s article. By no means did the understanding connote the exclusivity which we associate with conversion today.

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And so despite the Sikh reticence to provide a clear and positive statement of what conversion means to Sikhs the attitude towards religious conversion which many Sikhs of the normative Sikh tradition seem to possess is the one which we have pieced together in our analysis of the gur-bilas literature. Indeed, conversion is understood differently but Singh Sabha writings tell us clearly that the hymns of the Gurus and Bhagats as well as the deeds of the Khalsa (as narrated in katha or homily) acquire agency in regard to religious conversion as it is understood by both Punjabi Sikhs and non-Sikhs and that it would thus be these features of the tradition which would both influence non-Sikhs to convert to the tradition and persuade those already Sikh to intensify their commitment by imbibing the sacred amrit and joining the martial order.

Notes ’I am very much indebted to Hew McLeod, Van Dusenbery, and Pashaura Singh who graciously commented on earlier drafts of this paper. It is far better as a result. Its errors, however, are mine alone. 2This is undoubtedly the impression presented in Gauri Viswanathan’s, 1998. Outside the Fold: Conversion, Modernity, and Belief, Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press. Viswanathan discusses the themes manifest by conversion in the nineteenth century and the identities mapped onto converts by the colonial state, their new communities, and their previous ones. 3One amongst many such hymns is Guru Ram Das, Gauri kt var 11:2, AG, pp. 305-06. Also var 26:4 of the Vars of Bhai Gurdas. See Vir Singh, ed., 1997. Sri Guru Granth Sahib j i di kunji arthat Varam Bhai Gurdas Satxk Bhav Prakasarii Tika Samet Mukammal(Delhi: Bhai Vir Singh Sahit Sadan), p. 18 (hereafter BG). 4Guru Nanak, Siddh Gost 36, Adi Granth, p. 942 (translated from Gurmukhi by author): T h e o n e w h o faces the Guru [recites] the D ivin e Nam e, [gives] alms to the n eedy, [and] bathes [in the presence o f the d ivin e thus livin g a life of] purity.

5W.H. McLeod ed. and trans., 1987. The Chaupa Singh Rahit-nama, Dunedin: University of Otago Press. There are cases when a gur-bilas text provides a statement on the Rahit.

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AHarjot Oberoi, 1994. The Construction o f Religious Boundaries: Culture, Identity and Diversity in the Sikh Tradition, Delhi: Oxford University Press, p. 53- Oberoi notes that the label Sikh had yet to become hegemonic. There were a number of words designating allegiance to the Sikh movement: Nanak-panth, Gurmukh-panth, Nirmal-panth, Gursikh, and GurmUkh-mgrg. This view is challenged in J.S. Grewal, 1997. Historical Perspectives on Sikh Identity, Patialac Punjabi Univ. Publication Bureau, pp. 12-137In various early Sikh texts all of these features are derided. ®Kenneth W. Jones, 1989. Socio-Religious Reform Movements in British India, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 9Harjot Oberoi debunks the myth o f declining Sikh numbers in his Construction, pp. 207-16. 10Oberoi, Construction, pp. 277-9. "Given the fluid and lineage-based nature o f Punjabi society it seems unlikely that people converted to Sikhism to avoid caste discrimination, especially when we consider the traditional prevalence o f caste amongst Punjabi Sikhs which continues to this day. There are references in eighteenthcentury Sikh literature to low-caste Hindus becoming Sikhs and, later, Khalsa Sikhs but no explicit statements which claim that caste discrimination prompted them to do so. In these same works, especially the texts o f the gur-bilas and rahit-nama genres, there are also hostile attitudes towards Muslims and Islam and mention that Muslims were desirous of converting all Indians. But there is nothing explicit about forced conversion to Islam. Both the caste-ridden nature of the Hindu tradition as well as the idea of forced conversion to Islam are, I believe, later Orientalist attitudes which were accommodated by the Singh Sabha project. It was through an Orientalist lens that the Singh Sabha read the evidence of the gur-bilas and rahit-nama texts. For caste and Sikhism see W.H. McLeod’s, 1976. ‘Caste in the Sikh Panth,’ in his Evolution o f the Sikh Community: Five Essays, Oxford: Clarendon Press, pp. 83-104. A critique of Orientalist claims that caste was the essence of the Hindu tradition is Ronald Inden’s, 1990. Imagining India, Oxford: Blackwell. See also Gauri Viswanathan’s ‘Ethnographic Plots,’ in her Outside the Fold, pp. 153-76. An essay on skewed colonial attitudes towards Islam and so-called forced conversion is Peter Hardy’s, 'Modem European and Muslim Explanations of Conversion to Islam in South Asia: A preliminary Survey of the Literature,’ in Nehemia Levitzion, ed., 1979Conversion to Islam, New York: Holmes & Meier Publishers, pp. 68-99, esp. pp. 78-8. 12It is ironic that conversion from Sikhism precipitates the creation of the Singh Sabha, yet conversion to Sikhism has no role in the movement. Other reasons for the formation of the Singh Sabha include a desire to

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demonstrate the loyalty o f Sikhs generally in the light of the 1872 Namdhari or Kuka Sikh disturbances. ^Strengthening Sikhs meant persuading them that Khalsa Sikhism as understood by the Singh Sabha was true Sikhism. 14See Oberoi, Construction, p. 296. 'T h e Singh Sabha understood the term Sikh Panth as referring to the community of all Sikhs regardless o f their status. The Khalsa Panth, however, were only those Sikhs who followed the Rahit, particularly the donning of the Five Ks. Today these definitions retract or expand depending upon the historical and political circumstances in which the orthodox (that is, initiated Khalsa Sikhs o f the normative Khalsa Sikh tradition) find themselves. In other words, in heightened political conditions only those Sikhs who have undergone amrit sanskar are considered members o f the Khalsa while in less hostile times any Sikh who maintains the Five Ks and abstains from smoking may be included. These are of course generalisations. What the Khalsa Panth meant in the eighteenth century, however, is less dear. 16For example Kahn Singh Nabha, a prominent Singh Sabha ideologue, has this to say of the charan-amrit ritual (also known as cbaran-pabul, drinking water into which the toe o f the Guru had been immersed) in his Gurumat Maratand (Bhag Pabila), Amritsar: SGPC, 1992, p. 78 (translated by author): On the first day of the month of Baisakhi S. 1756 the tenth Guru administered the nectar of the double-edged sword [to Sikhs gathered at Anandpur] and created the heroic Khalsa. [At this time] the ritual of giving charan-amrit was stopped once and for all. I7J T.F. Jordens claims this for Hindu orthodoxy in his ‘Reconversion to Hinduism, the Shuddhi of the Arya Samaj,’ in Geoffrey Oddie, ed., 1977. Religion in South Asia, Delhi: Manohar, p. 154. mNon-Indian converts to the type of Sikhism prescribed by the SGPC and the Sikh Rahit Maryada are very rare. But the vast majority o f members o f the Sikh dharma of the western hemisphere (also known as the 3HO organisation) are North Americans with a European background. V.A. Dusenbery, ‘Punjabi Sikhs and Gora Sikhs: Conflicting Assertions o f Sikh Identity in North America,’ in J.T. O ’Connell et al, ed., 1988. Sikh History and Religion in the Twentieth Century, Toronto: Centre for South Asian Studies at the University of Toronto, pp. 334-55. ‘‘Verne A. Dusenbery, ‘The Sikh Person, the Khalsa Panth, and Western Sikh Converts,’ in Bardwell L. Smith, ed., 1990. Boeings andBullock-Carts: Studies in Change and Continuity in Indian Civilization (Essays in Honour o f K. Isbwaran) volume 4: Religious Movements and Social Identity, Delhi: Chanakya Publications, pp. 117-36.

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-"For a thorough analysis o f the Sikh ethnosociology in which the concept of conversion’ is situated see ibid. 21Among other things, the SGPC oversees all the Sikh gurdwaras in the Punjab. Its membership is drawn from Sikhs who have undergone the amrit sanskar ceremony. 22See, for example, the Sikh Missionary College’s English publication, Blood o f Martyrdom, Ludhiana: Sikh Missionary College, n.d., pp. 60-1. This list is presented in a fashion similar to the catalogue o f proscribed practices in the Sikh Rahit Maryada. The Punjabi version of this pamphlet Khun Sahidam da, however, does not include such a section. Like its English translation though it does note on the back cover the purpose ( udes) of the college in a list of 6 points. None o f these explicidy claim a programme of introducing Sikhism to non-Sikhs. 23As W.H. McLeod has often noted this understanding o f the term sahajdhan is the modem one. Prior to the prominence o f the Singh Sabha the term was used for many varieties o f Sikhs and was probably understood to designate those who accepted Guru Nanak’s teachings concerning sabaj, the ultimate stage of equipoise found at the height o f the ndm simran discipline. W.H. McLeod, 1995. ‘Sahaj-dhari,’ in his Historical Dictionary o f Sikhism, Lanham, Maryland: Scarecrow Press, p. 182. 24There are double meanings in the final two rules. The use o f the verb sajjana for example implies that it is only as a Singh that one appears beautiful while the Punjabi word nasa does literally indicate liquour and other intoxicants, but also figuratively means ‘pride’. Another three-part formula sums up the duty of all Sikhs: ndm japo, kirat karo, vand chhaka Repeat the Name, work, and give a share [of your earnings to the poor].’ 25Gauri Viswanathan’s Outside the Fold. The general understanding o f present-day Punjabi terms for religious conversion such as ulatau (to overturn, to put upside down), palata (to overturn), and parivaratan (to change) amor)g others were more literal than metaphoric in the period under discussion. 26Ibid., pp. x-xvii. These factors certainly come into play when we come to the period of the Singh Sabha, however. 27Note in this context the classic 1902 study of conversion by William James, The Varieties o f Religious Experience, Cambridge, MA: Harvard Univ. Press, 1985. “ See W.D. O ’Flaherty, 1988. Other Peoples’Myths: The Cave o f Echoes, New York: MacMillan. 29These conclusions are based on my readings o f eighteenth-century Sikh literature (the janam-sakhis, rahit-nama and gur-bilas accounts), Persian texts which mention the Sikhs, and early European narratives dealing with

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the Sikhs. For the janam-sakhis see below. For the rest see Ganda Singh, ed., 1988. Kaih Sainapati Rachit Sri GurSobhd, Patiala: Publication Bureau Punjabi University; Gursharan Kaurjaggi, ed., 1989- Gur-bilas Patsdbt 10 Bhai Sukha Singb, Patiala: Bhasha Vibhag Punjab; Kaykhusarau Isfandyar, ed., (1362 h/1983 c e ) , Dabistdn-iMazahibl, Tehran: Kitab-khanah-iTahuri, p p . 198-206; Piara Singh Padam, 1991. Rahit-name, Amritsar: Bhai Chatar Singh Jivan Singh, Shamsher Singh Ashok, ed., 1979- Guru Khalsa deRahitname (Amritsar); and Ganda Singh, ed., 1974. Early European Accounts o f the Sikhs and History o f Origin and Progress o f the Sikhs, New Delhi: Today & Tomorrow’s Print & Publishers. *JSee Dusenbery, Verne A., 1990. ‘The Sikh Person, the Khalsa Panth, and Western Sikh Converts, in Bardwell L. Smith, ed., Boeings and bullockcarts: Studies in change and continuity in Indian civilization (Essays in honour o f K. Ishwaran) Vol. 4: Religious Movements and Social Identity, pp. 11736, Delhi: Chanakya Publications. 3lGrewal, Historical Perspectives, p p . 12-1332Such as, for example, the veneration of brahmans or the wearing o f the sacred thread and frontal mark. Abandoning these last two, however, was the prerogative o f Sikhs who had undergone khande ki pahul alone. Sahajdharis were allowed to retain these emblems according to the mid eighteenth-century rahit-nama of Chaupa Singh Chhibbar. See W.H. McLeod, ed. and trans., 1987. The Chaupa Singh Rahit-nama, Dunedin, N.Z.: University of Otago Press, pp. 60,151. 33This standard narrative is reconstructed in a number o f texts. For one see Ganda Singh and Teja Singh, 1989. A Short History o f the Sikhs, Patiala: Punjabi University Publications Bureau, pp. 3, 5, 6-7. That earliest Sikh disciples were initiated after the ritual o f charan-amrit is mentioned in var 1:23 of Bhai Gurdas. See BG, p. 18: H avin g prepared

charan-amrit [to drink] b y w ash in g the G uru’s

fo o t in w ater according to the ritual serve the w ater to Sikhs.

v'Guru Nanak, Sin Rag 3:1, Adi Granth, p. 83. ^Fauja Singh, 1979. Guru Amar Das. Life and Teachings, New Delhi: Sterling, pp. 116-29; G.S. Mansukhani, 1979. Guru Ram Das. His Life, Work and Philosophy, New Delhi: Oxford Publishing House, pp. 37-8. ^Oberoi, Construction, pp. 55-6. A7In the janam-sakhis a potential devotee sometimes asks the Guru to become a Sikh. In the B40 janam-sakhi for example there is the sakhi regarding Guru Nanak’s encounter with a robber landlord ( bhumia chor). The thief meets with the Guru and realises that Nanak knows that he is a robber.

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That [robber] landlord then said to [Baba Nanak], ‘[Baba] ji please make me a Sikh (sikhu ktta). ’ Baba Nanak agrees and lays down a series of conditions which must be met, however. After a nocturnal misadventure the thief comes to realise the divine power o f Baba Nanak and, we assume, the truth that is Sikhism. Although there is no one word indicating religious conversion in the language o f the eighteenth-century janam-sakhis the verb kama or its derivatives after a term designating religious affiliation is often used to indicate what later interpreters refer to as conversion. We will see this also carries over into the gur-bilas literature. This wording adds support to the contention that conversion in this early period was not exclusivist. Piar Singh, ed., 1974. B40Janam-sakhi Sri Guru Nanak Dev ji, Amritsar: GNDU Press, p. 143. An English translation of the B40 is W.H. McLeod, ed. and trans., 1980. TheB40 Janam-sakhi, Amritsar: GNDU Press. Here, in fact, McLeod tides the sakhi about the landlord thief ‘A Robber Landlord Converted’ (p. 204). ^Piar Singh, ed., B40, pp. 142-3; McLeod, ed., B40, p. 203. 39W.H. McLeod, 1980. Early Sikh Tradition: A Study o f theJanam-sakhis, Oxford: Clarendon Press, p. 102 (hereafter EST). ^Kaykhusarau Isfandyar, ed., 1362 h/1983 c e , Dabistan-i Mazahib I, Tehran: Kitab-khanah-i Tahuri, esp. p. 206. In dealing with Guru Nanak the Dabistan states (p. 198): Several people became his [Guru Nanak’s] disciples. These statements can easily be interpreted to support a conversion agenda on the part o f the Sikh Gurus. 41The relevant Persian text from Jahangir’s Tuzuk-i Jahanglri appears in Ganda Singh, 1969. Guru Aryan’s Martyrdom (Re-interpreted), Patiala: Guru Nanak Mission, p. 10. 42For background see L.E. Fenech, 1997. ‘Martyrdom and the Sikh Tradition,’ in the Journal o f the American Oriental Society Vol. 117. No. 4, pp. 623-42, esp. pp. 626-8. 43J.S. Grewal, 1976. Guru Tegh Bahadur and the Persian Chroniclers, Amritsar: GNDU Press. ^A nineteenth-century work reiterating this claim at length is Santokh Singh’s, 1989-91, famous Sri Gur-Pratap Suraj Granth 14 vols., Patiala: Bhasha Vibhag Punjab. 45BG, 26:33,1. 5, p. 425: ‘Prithi Chand became a scoundrel and spread his crooked lies through scheming ways. ’ « ’EST, p. 102.

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47Kirpal Singh, ed., 1962.Janam-sakhi Sri Guru NänakDevfiLikhit Sri Miharbän f i Sodhi I, Amritsar: Khalsa College, p. 286. **M.A. Macauliffe, 1909. The Sikh Religion: its Gurus, Sacred Writings and Authors III, Oxford: Clarendon Press, pp. 35-46. 49Ibid. Prithi Chand is referred to as Sahib or Guru Sahib in virtually every Mina source. wSurjit Hans, A Reconstruction o f Sikh History from Sikh Literature Jalandhar: ABS, 1988, pp. 198-204. 51Other Mina sources are explored in Jeevan Deol, 1998. ‘The Minäs and Their Literature,’ in the Journal o f the American Oriental Society, Vol. 188, No. 2, pp. 172-84. 52Oberoi, Construction, p. 125. ^Oberoi, Construction, p. 130. S4Bhai Maharaj Singh is noted as a sant in W.H. McLeod, ‘“Sant” in Sikh Usage, ’ in Karine Schomer et al, ed., 1987. The Sants: Studies in a Devotional Tradition o f India, New Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, pp. 257-8. That thousands o f Sikhs flocked to Bhai Maharaj Singh is noted in Oberoi, Construction, pp. 121-3. '^Recently the Supreme Court of India has decreed that the Guru Granth Sahib is a ‘juristic person’. As such it can hold and use the properties given to it in charity by Sikhs. This judgment, claims Pratap Singh an advocate and member o f the SGPC, ‘would sound warning to all those who claim themselves to be a living Guru.’ See the 2 and 3 April 2000 on-line editions o f the Chandigarh Tribune (www.tribuneindia.com). %Munsha Singh Dukhi, Jtvan Bhäi Sähib Bhai Mohan Singh f i Vaid, p. 46 as noted in Oberoi, Construction, p. 299v ‘Balvand, Rai,’ 1992, in The Encyclopaedia ofSikbisml, Patiala: Punjabi University Publiation Bureau, pp. 269-70. wOberoi, Construction, pp. 113,115, 117. wFor the Namdharis see W. H. McLeod, ed. and trans., 1984. Textual Sources f o r the Study o f Sikhism, Manchester: Manchester University Press (Hereafter TSSS), p. 130. The Nirankaris are covered in John C.B. Webster, 1979- The Nirankari Sikhs, Delhi: MacMillan, pp. 14-15. Radhasoami ideas are noted in Markjuergensmeyer, ‘Patterns of Pluralism: Sikh Relations with Radhasoami,’ in J.T. O ’Connell et al, ed., Sikh History and Religion in the Twentieth Century, pp. 52-69. “ The Raharäs (also known as Sodar Raharäs) is a part of the modernday Sikh liturgical order sung everyday at sundown. It includes passages composed by the first, fourth, fifth, and tenth Gurus. The translation Lakshman Singh provides is o f the tenth Guru’s Benatt Chaupdi included

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in the Raharás. Ganda Singh, ed., 1965. Bhagat Lakshman Singh Autobiography, Calcutta: Sikh Cultural Centre, p. 102, n. (Hereafter BLSA). 61BLSA, p. 102. 62BLSA, pp. 15-18. ^'Oberoi, Construction. ^Shamsher Singh Ashok, ed., 1968. Gur-bilás Pátsáhi 10kritKuirSingh chapter 4, verse 108, Patiala: Punjabi University Press, p. 59. Koer Singh also equates the tenth Guru with Krishna in a number o f passages, pp. 68, 71, 79. 6sGanda Singh, ed., 1988. Kam Sainapati Rachit Sri Gur Sobhá chapter 5, verse 46, Patiala: Publications Bureau Punjabi University, p. 83 for example. See also 5:13 p. 78. ^Inder Singh Gill, ed., 1968. Kavi Soban j i Sñ Gur Bilás PátSáhi 6 Tipaniám Samet chapter 21, verse 485, Amritsar: Vazir Hind Press, p. 487. 7Vir Singh, ed., 1990. Kavi Chürámani Bhai Santokh Singh j i krit Sñ Gur Pratáp Süraj Granth—jild chhevim 2:43:7, Patiala: Bhasha Vibhag Punjab, p. 1815. 6sGill, ed., Sri Gur Bilás Pátsáhi 6 , 1:91, p. 22. ^Though when we consider that the author of this gur-bilas presents Guru Hargobind in the image o f Guru Gobind Singh it is plausible to suggest that the nineteenth-century Khalsa formed the backdrop o f his description o f the Sikh Panth of the sixth Guru’s day. Background on the text appears in Surjit Hans, A Reconstruction o f Sikh History from Sikh Literature, pp. 270-2. 7er in Eastern India, 1860-1995. Manuscript o f book. 2The arguments o f the following two paragraphs are elaborated in Saurabh Dube, Native Witness: C olonial W ritings o f a Vernacular Christianity. Manuscript of book. 3Gauri Viswanthan, 1998. Outside the Fold: Conversion, Modernity, and Belief, Princeton: Princeton University Press. 4In the Indian context, such processes emerge clearly in works such as Rowena Robinson, 1998. Conversion, Continuity, and Change: Lived Christianity in Southern Goa, New Delhi: Sage; and Robinson, (2000), ‘Taboo or veiled consent? Goan Inquisitorial Edict of 1736’, Economic and Political Weekly, 35, pp. 2423-31; Richard Eaton, 1993- The Rise o f Islam and the Bengal Frontier, 1204-1760, Berkeley: University of California Press; Susan Visvanathan, 1993. The Christians o f Kerala: History, Belief, and Ritual among the Yakoba, Madras: Oxford University Press; Carl Ernst, 1992. Eternal Garden: Mysticism, History, and Politics at a South Asian Sufi Center, Albany: State University o f New York Press; Dennis Hudson, 1993, ‘The first Protestant mission to India: its social and religious development’, Sociological Bulletin, 42, pp. 39-59; Saurabh Dube, 1992, ‘Issues of Christianity in colonial Chhattisgarh’ , S ociological Bulletin, 41, pp. 37-63, and Dube, 1995, ‘Paternalism and freedom: the evangelical encounter in colonial Chhattisgarh, central India’, Modem Asian Studies, 29, pp. 171-201.

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5Louis Dumont, 1980. Homo Hierarchicus: The Caste System and its Implications. Complete Revised English Edition. Trans. Mark Sainsbury, Louis Dumont and Basia Gulati, Chicago: University o f Chicago Press. 6For example, Nicholas B. Dirks, 1987. The Hollow Crown: Ethnohistory o f an Indian Kingdom, Cambride: Cambridge University Press; Gloria Goodwin Raheja, 1988. The Poison in the Gift: Ritual Prestation and the Dom inant Caste in a North Indian Village, Chicago: University o f Chicago Press; Declan Quigley, 1993- The Interpretation o f Caste, Oxford: Clarendon Press; Dube, Untouchable Pasts-, Dipankar Gupta, ‘Continuous hierarchies and discrete castes’, in Gupta, ed., 1992. Social Stratification, Delhi: Oxford University Press, pp. 110-141; Gerald Berreman, 1970, The Brahmanical view of caste’, Contributions to Indian Sociology (n.s), 5, pp. 16-25. 7Compare, for example, Sumit Sarkar, ‘The conditions and nature of subaltern militancy: Bengal from Swadeshi to Non-cooperation, c. 190522’, in Ranajit Guha, ed., 1984. Subaltern Studies IH Writings on South Asian History and Society, Delhi: Oxford University Press, pp. 271-320 and R. Blake Michael, 1992. The Origins o f Virasaiva Sects. A Typological Analysis o f Ritual and Associational Patterns in the Sunyasampadane, Delhi: Motilal Banarsidas, pp. 4-12. 8Richard Burghart, 1983- ‘Renunciation in the religious traditions of South Asia’, Man, (n.s.) 18, pp. 635-53; Peter Van der Veer, 1988. Gods on Earth: The Management o f Religious Experience in a North Indian Pilgrimage Centre, Delhi: Oxford University Press; Dube, Untouchable Pasts. ’ Louis Dumont, ‘World renunciation in Indian religions’, first published in French in 1959 and in English in I960, reproduced as Appendix B in Dumont, Homo Hierarchicus, pp. 267-86 (all further citations will be from this version); and Dumont, Homo Hierarchicus, particularly pp. 184-91. 10Dumont, ‘World renunciation’, p. 270. nIbid., p. 275. uIbid., p., 285, 275. nIbid., pp. 285-6. uIbid., p. 286. '“’Dumont, Homo Hierarchicus, pp. 186-7. i6Ibid., pp. 187-8. 17Ibid., pp. 187-91. For a distinct reading of the Lingayats see Ishwaran, 1992. Speaking o f Basava-. Lingayat Religion and Culture in South Asia (Boulder: Westview Press). "Dumont, Homo Hierarchicus, pp. pp. 201-12. 19Burghart, ‘Renunciation in the religious traditions of South Asia’; Van der Veer, 1995. Gods on Earth, pp. xii-xiii, 66-182; Dube, Untouchable

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Pasts-, Veena Das, C ritical Events: An Anthropological Perspective on Contemporary India, Delhi: Oxford University Press, pp. 34-40; David Lorenzen, ‘Kabirpanth and social protest’, in Karine Schomer and W.H. Mcleod, eds., 1987. The Sants: Studies in a Devotional Tradition o f India, Delhi: Motilal Banarsidas, pp. 281-303- See also, Veena Das, 1977. Structure and Cognition, Delhi: Oxford University Press, pp. 46-9; and Roland Lardinois, ‘The genesis of Louis Dumont’s anthropology: The 1930s in France revisited’, Comparative Studies o f South Asia, Africa, and the Middle East, 36,1996, pp. 27-40. “ Burghart, ‘Renunciation in the religious traditions of South Asia’; and Dube, Untouchable Pasts. 21For an elaboration of the issues at stake here see, Dube, Untouchable Pasts. 22Consider, for example, the emphases of works as distinct and diverse as Dipesh Chakrabarty, 2000. Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference, Princeton: Princeton University Press; Michel de Certeau, 1984. The Practice o f Everyday Life. Trans. Steven Rendall, Berkeley: University of California Press; and V. N. Voloshinov, 1984. Marxism and Philosophy o f Language. Trans. L. Mateija and I.R. Titunik, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. 23For a detailed examination of the issues broached here see Ishita Banerjee Dube, ‘Issues o f faith, enactments of contest: The founding o f Mahima Dharma in nineteenth-century Orissa’, in Hermann Kulke and Burkhard Schnepel, eds, 2001 . Jagannath Revisited: Studying Religion, Society and the State in Orissa, Delhi: Manohar, pp. 149-77. 24A critical analysis o f these processes is contained in Ishita Banerjee Dube, 1999- ‘Taming traditions: Legalities and hierarchies in twentieth century Orissa’, in Gautam Bhadra, Gyan Prakash, and Susie Tharu, eds, 1999. Subaltern Studies X: Writings on South Asian History and Society, Delhi: Oxford University Press, pp. 98-120. *lbid. 2AFor a discussion of the internally differentiated nature o f the Satnami community— focussing on the articulations of property and office, the ambiguities of gender and kinship, and the contrary engagements with a colonial modernity, which have shaped patterns of authority among the group— see Dube, Untouchable Pasts. 27A discursive description o f the ritual o f initiation into Mahima Dharma is contained in Biswanath Baba, 1977. G ruhasthasram a Subhakarmavidhana, Joranda: Mahimagadi, pp. 22-6. “ Out of the ten field diaries of Eschmann, six deal mainly with Mahima Dharma: field diaries No.l (1971-2), No.2 (April-May 1974), No.3 (May 1974),

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No.4 (May 1974), No.5 (June 1974) and No.6 (no date). Eschmann Papers, Munich. ^ o r example, interview with Sricharan Sahu, Khaliapali, 11 March 1992. ^Eschmann’s interview with Gauranga Nayak, Kuska, 27 April 1974. Field diary No.2, Eschmann Papers, Munich. ’ ’Interview with Nirmalprabha and Saudamini, both residents o f Bhubaneshwar, Khandagiri asrama, 16 March 1992. ^Interview with Shakuntala, Mahimagadi, 10 February 1989’ ’ Interview with Nirmalprabha, Khandagiri asrama, \1 March 1992. MFor details see, Ishita Banerjee, 1994. Religion and Society in Eastern India: Mahima Dharm a in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Unpublished Ph. D dissertation, University o f Calcutta, chapter 4. ’’Oral testimony of Kanhaiyalal Kosariya, Bhopal, June 1988. ’'’This account derives from Jai Singh, ‘Satnami Dharma’, manuscript in Hindi, Folder on Satnamis, M. P. Davis Papers, Eden Archives and Library, Webster Groves, Missouri, f. 5. 37Report o f the Ethnological Committee, Nagpur: Government Press, 1867, p. 104; J. W. Chisholm, Report on the Land Revenue Settlement o f the Belaspore District 1868\Nagpur: Government Press, 1868, pp. 50-1; Oral testimony o f Girja, Birkona, 25 February 1990. Oral testimony of Manru, Birkona, 18January 1990; Census o f the Central Provinces 1881, II, Bombay: Government Press, 1883, pp. 22-3; Lorenzen ‘Kabirpanth and social protest’, pp. 299-301. 38This contrast cropped up frequently in discussions with Panka and Suryavanshi (Chamar) Kabirpanthis in the village of Birkona near Bilaspur in January-February 1990. 39Central Provinces Ethnographic Survey XVII, D raft Articles on H ind ustani Castes, First Series, Nagpur: Government Press, 1914, pp. 54-5. 40The report on the census o f 1881 mentioned that the roughly 2000 non-Chamar members of the sect belonged to all castes ‘from Brahman downwards’, Census o f the Central Provinces 1881, p. 34. Report o f Land Revenue Settlement o f Belaspore 1868, p. 47; C.P. Ethnographic Survey, p. 50. Oral testimony of Pyarelal, Koni, 21 November 1989. 41Jai Singh, ‘Satnami Dharma’, f. 4. 42Ibid. 4J‘Note on Satnamis’, untitled and unsigned manuscript in Hindi, Folder on Satnamis, M. P. Davis Papers, Eden Archives and Library, Webster Groves, Missouri, f. 3.

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44An elaboration o f the implications and significance of secondary marriages in terms of caste-sect configurations and conversion is contained in Saurabh Dube, Stitches on Time: Colonial Cultures and Postcolonial Pasts. Manuscript o f book, chapters 3 and 6; and Dube, Untouchable Pasts. 45Census o f the Central Provinces 1881, p. 39 461Note on Satnamis’, ff. 3-6. 47Such overlaps between transformations of caste and sect and processes of conversion to Christianity in central India are discussed in Dube, Stitches on Time, chapters 2 and 3. 48Biswanath Baba, 1977. Gruhastbasrama Subhakarmavidhana, Cuttack: Satya Mahima Dharmalochana Samiti, pp. 22-61. Biswanath Baba belonged to the Balkaldhari order within Mahima Dharma. The Balkaldharis are the ascetics who wear balkal, the bark o f the Kumbhi tree and claim to be superior to the Kaupindharis, the wearers o f loin cloth. 49This account draws upon Ishita Banerjee Dube, Emergent Histories, chapter 5. ^Some o f these emphases are equally revealed in death rituals o f the community. Ibid. 5'This discussion is based on participation in the balyalila ceremony held at the Khandagiri asrama on 16-17 March 1992. 52Oral testimony of Suritram, Sakri, 11 December 1989. ,3‘Note on Satnamis’, f. 2. MOral testimony o f Sawaldas, Sakri, 12 December 1989. ,5Jai Singh, ‘Satnami Dharma’, f. 7. «'Ibid., f. 6. ^Reproduced in Der Friednsbote, 79, 20, 1928, pp. 309-15. ^Jai Singh, ‘Satnami Dharma’, ff. 4-5. S9C.P. Ethnographic Survey, p. 53; M. P. Davis, ‘Note on Satnamis’, Folder on Satnamis, M. P. Davis Papers, Eden Archives and Library, Webster Groves, Missouri, f. 7; Census o f the Central Provinces 1881, II, p. 38; Oral testimony of Jambai, Chhoti Koni, 11 November 1989. wJai Singh, ‘Satnami Dharma’, f. 6.

Assertion, Conversion, and Indian Nationalism: Govind’s Movement amongst the Bhils D a v id H ard im a n

though studies of the process of conversion in India tend to ocus on the change from one religious category to another, e.g. from Hinduism to Islam, or Hinduism to Christianity, it can be argued that many internal ‘conversions’ have also occurred, e.g. from Shaivism to Vaishnavism, or from one Bhakti sect to another. This rule may be seen to apply similarly in the case of transformations amongst the so-called ‘tribals’ of India. These were groups that were defined during colonial times as ‘primitive tribes’ or ‘animists’. They were seen by the colonial rulers as being ripe for conversion, the logic being that their ‘primitive’ beliefs were doomed and would be swept away and replaced inevitably by more ‘advanced’ forms of religious belief, such as those of the Hindus, or perhaps Christians. In time, many Indian nationalists, following this logic, came to believe that it was important that the ‘tribals’ be won to the ‘Hindu’ fold. They thus instituted a campaign of ‘conversion’ along such lines. The high caste nationalists, in their characteristically elitist way, assumed that the tribals would passively accept the advantages of a superior religious culture once they had received an education from their ‘betters’. After Indian independence, social scientists chose to adopt a rather different terminology to describe this process, arguing that what was involved was a process of ‘sanskritisation’.1 By this, they

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meant that certain castes and tribes that were considered low in the ritual hierarchy had sought to raise their status by reforming their way o f life in conformity with the values, practices and rituals of the higher castes. Although this formulation accorded more agency to these groups, it failed to bring out the way in which such reforms provided a challenge to the system itself. Many high caste people, as yet untouched by the new spirit of Hindu nationalism, considered such claims to be an affront to a hierarchy that was divinely ordained. This could lead to great social tension. As I have argued in a study of one such movement in the 1920s, these were in practice forms of self-assertion that followed a logic that was determined by the people themselves. There was no straightforward imitation of high caste values; rather, a synthesis was created from an eclectic appropriation of various elements of the cultures and beliefs of the politically dominant classes. Many members of the local elite were strongly antagonistic to the movement and sought to crush it ruthlessly. The only elite group that did not was that o f the Gandhians, who supported this as a case of ‘conversion’ to their own high caste Hindu values.2 In this paper I shall explore these issues further through an examination of Govind’s movement amongst the Bhils of western India in the early twentieth century. This movement began around 1911, when a Banjara called Govind began to preach to the Bhils, telling them not to commit theft, deception and adultery, to stop drinking liquor, to give up their arms and live by agriculture and in peace with others, to abandon their exorcists and spirit mediums, to wear a yellow turban and rudraksh beads around their neck, and to fly a special flag over their houses.3 The movement escalated suddenly in early 1 913, when large numbers of Bhils began to follow these commands. The main areas affected were Dungarpur and Banswara states in Rajasthan, and Sunth State and the British district of Panchmahals in Gujarat. The rulers o f these princely states were highly alarmed by this development, for they were generally suspicious of any form of self-assertion by the Bhils, and they also depended very heavily on the revenue from the tax on liquor.4 Their officials set about trying to suppress the movement by harassing followers of Govind and tearing down and defiling their flags and forcing them to drink liquor. When Govind tried to hold a meeting

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in Dungarpur, he was arrested and expelled from the state. He was then maltreated in the neighbouring Sunth state.5 Provoked in this way, Govind then declared that he and his followers would go to Mangadh hill, which lay on the border between Dungarpur, Banswara and Sunth, and establish an independent kingdom for the Bhils. In late October, thousands of armed Bhils gathered on Mangadh, determined to defend themselves by force if necessary. The princes viewed this as a provocative act and called in the British to help them suppress what they now classed as a revolt. The British sent regular troops, who on 16 November stormed the hill, shot those who resisted, and captured Govind. Although the British initially sentenced him to death, this was later commuted to ten years imprisonment.6 Despite the brutal repression of this movement, Govind contin­ ued to be revered by the Bhils of that area, with many still following his commands. The police of these states kept a close watch on his followers, often persecuting them.7 Govind was released in 1919 and went to live in the British Panchmahals, where he continued to attract a stream of followers up until his death in 1931. The sect continues to be popular in the area, being known now as the Govindpanth.

The Bhagat Movements amongst the Bhils Govind’s movement was by no means unique, being broadly in the tradition of what are known as the Bhagat movements of the Bhils. Bhagats were Bhils who had developed a faith in Vaishnavite or Shaivite deities, and had reformed their lives accordingly. Commonly, they gave up meat, fish and liquor. They generally followed the bhakti path of worship, singing bhajans that celebrated their devotion to their deities. They normally lived from the peaceful practise of agriculture and rejected the violence and thieving which was associated stereotypically with Bhil life. These were in other words Bhils who had already been converted to an alternative system of ethics.

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The Bhagat movement amongst the Bhils went back to at least the eighteenth century, when a Brahman Vaishnavite mystic called Mavji, had won many Bhil converts in the Banswara and Dungarpur regions.8 Followers became vegetarians; they refused to accept brideprice (as was the general practice among Bhils), and avoided remarriage. They wore white dress, symbolising their simplicity and truthfulness.9 The cultural values propounded by Mavji had much in common with those of the Baniya shopkeepers, traders, usurers and bankers who dominated the economic life of the region, and the movement can be seen to represent a response to the growing power of this class vis a vis the ruling Rajputs. With the decline in the central authority of the Mughals, the mercantile classes were the only group with the ability to command resources on an all-India scale. If a local ruler tried to harass them, they could threaten to take their business elsewhere, causing severe economic difficulties for that state. They began buying up tax-farming rights and other official positions. Some commercial magnates built up private armies to protect their trading caravans and bullion transfers.10 They were also extending their usury businesses into new areas, such as the hilly tracts dominated by the Bhils, in the process becoming the chief intermediaries between the Bhils and the state.11 It is hardly surprising that some of the more settled Bhils of the area began at that time to follow their cultural lead. Little is known about the Bhagat movement between the death of Mavji and the emergence of a new inspired leader in the 1860s called Surmal Das. He was a Bhil of Lusadia, which was in Idar state on the border between Gujarat and Rajasthan. In early life he had lived by robbery, but he later repented and spent thirteen years redeeming himself through hard penance, which it was believed gave him miraculous powers. He taught the Bhils to stop killing animals, drinking liquor, committing crimes, practising witchcraft, and to live by tilling the land, and to worship the God Ram. Surmal Das was reported in 1871 to have about four hundred Bhil followers who followed these precepts, by 1880 about double that number.12 He died in 1898. Apart from some success at Lusadia, which was also a result of the great famine of 1899-1900, conversion to Christianity was not a flourishing movement. The large majority of Bhagats continued to

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be hostile towards the missionaries and Bhil converts. For example, in Baulia in Idar state— where there was a mission school and a small group of converts— a Bhagat foretold all sorts of dire misfortunes if they did not renounce their Christianity. The local lay pastor who led these Christians eventually beat the Bhagat with a stick, leaving his congregation terrified lest this act bring the predicted disasters on their heads. However, weeks went by and nothing happened, which reassured the Christians in their faith.13

Govindgir Govind’s movement, which began around 1911, can be seen as fitting into this tradition, though it had its own particular idiosyncrasies. Govind Bechar was bom in 1858 in Bansiya village of Dungarpur state, and was a Banjara by caste.14 By tradition, Banjaras were owners of large herds of pack-bullocks on which they transported products all over India. Although some were wealthy merchants and money­ lenders, the majority carried on their business with credit from wealthy Baniyas, and were in this respect subordinate to the local mercantile elites.15 Being mobile, they were nonetheless compara­ tively independent, being the sort of group amongst which dissi­ dent religious doctrines have often flourished. Being in touch with poor people over a wide area, such people can become the carriers of new doctrines and ideas.16 With the decline of the pack-bullock trade during the colonial period, many Banjaras lost their living. At the same time, the extension of agriculture meant that they were losing their grazing lands. Many ended up as agricultural wagelabourers in the regions surrounding their home-villages.17 Govind himself earned his livelihood as a tenant farmer in different villages of the locality. He was married and had children. According to one account, Govind first began to reform his life after a passer-by told him that there was only one supreme deity. This deity could be served through living an honest life— for example, never telling untruths, even in situations of difficulty. He recited a verse of Tulsidas that made a deep impression on Govind:

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The root o f dharma is daya (compassion), The root of sin is abhiman (pride, arrogance), Tulsi, don’t shun daya. While you have life in you.

Govind was strongly influenced by these words, and decided to give up drinking liquor and eating meat, and to take a daily bath like a Brahman. He began to wear a necklace of rudraksh—a symbol of the Bhagats in that region— and remembered God daily.18 Later, so the account goes, he met Dayanand Saraswati, the founder of the Arya Samaj, when the latter was staying in Udaipur in 1880-81. He inspired him, it was said, to go amongst the Bhils of the region and teach them orthodox Hindu ways.19 If this was the case, then Govind’s project was one of a conscious proselytism inspired by the spirit of shuddhi, or ‘purification’, of a Bramanical sort. There is not, however, any other known connection between Govind’s movement and the Arya Samaj, and Govind himself never referred to this supposed contact.20 This story seems to be the invention of some of Govind’s modem devotees, who seek thereby to place him and his movement within the mainstream of the Indian nationalist movement. It is, furthermore, a link that accords with the sentiments of local representatives of the Hindu right, who seek to win votes for the BJP from the Bhils by appropriating the memory of Govind for their political cause. The only documented connection between Dayanand Saraswati and Govind relates to the fact that they were both involved at different times with the Dasnami Panth. This Shaivite sect was founded by Shankaracharya to spread his doctrine of Advaita Vedanta, which involved belief in a formless Supreme Soul. Over time many different orders had emerged within this sect, with some, such as the Giris and Puris, becoming fierce rivals.21 Dayanand Saraswati had become a Dasnami sanyasi of the Dandi, or stick-carrying order at the age of twenty-three.2' Once he founded the Arya Samaj he was, however, no longer associated actively with the sect. Govind styled himself as a sanyasi of the Dasnami sect There are several ways in which the Dasnami Panth appears to have influenced the ritual and practice of Govind’s own panth His followers often tended a smouldering fire— the dhuni—and carried

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a pair of iron tongs— chimta—which symbolised their tending of the sacred fire.23 This became a central feature of Govind’s own ritual. Dasnamis wore a rosary o f rudraksha seeds.24 A rare photograph of Govind25 shows him sitting in a reverential pose— hands held before him as for namaskar—with a chain of rudraksha around his neck and a long stick resting against his shoulder, which might be the dandi, which was considered an important symbol of ascetism for certain Dasnamis.26 Although it is popularly believed that Dasnami sanyasis either go naked or wear only a very scanty loincloth, and that they allow their hair and beard to grow long and matted, the majority in fact wear stitched clothes and shave their heads.27 In the photograph Govind is dressed in a dhoti and kurta, and his head is shaven. The Dasnamis of the akhadas were known to take ganja, bhang and liquor in great quantities.28 Govind was himself known for his smoking of ganja, though he abjured liquor. In one of the messages he sent to the British in November 1913, Govind stated that he had lived amongst ‘the poor and submissive wild people’, and had supported himself by begging for flour from them. He had advised them to behave like sahukars—that is the high caste, respectable classes, and in particular the Baniya trading community. He said that through God’s providence some of these nugars had expressed a wish to become sugar, and with this purpose in mind, they had accepted him as their guru. The scribe who rendered this passage into English gave translations in brackets, claiming that nugar meant ‘wild’ and sugar meant ‘well-formed’. The actual words must have been nugru and sugru, which in the local dialect mean ‘without a guru’ and ‘with a guru’ respectively, and are often given as contrasting pairs.29 Govind continued: Thereupon, I made them my chelasand. preached to them. I showed them the path of religion and truth; and preached them to worship God; not to commit theft, adultery, deception, etc.; not to cherish feelings of enmity with others but to regard all as the progeny of the same parents and to live peacefully with others; not to believe in Virs, Vantaras, Bhopas, etc.; but as a safeguard against them to establish dhunis and nishans and to worship these; I asked that those who were my disciples should wrap around their heads yellow coloured safas, should wear rosaries of rudraksh round their necks; should not carry dangerous weapons like swords, rifles,

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bows & arrows, etc; but only iron tongs; should bathe and wash themselves every morning; should not kill animals o f any kind. In this way I preached them the path of truth.30

This programme was made up of a congeries of injunctions common to the Bhagat-style movements of the area, along with elements of Dasnami ritual.31 The Dasnami elements were worship focussed on the dbuni, or fire-pit, and the carrying of cbimta, or fire tongs (which were also used to beat out a rhythm when bhajans were sung). Devotees were told to fly nisban, that is a flag or banner attached to a pole on or beside their houses, as a mark of their allegiance. This had parallels with the banners that were distinctive to each akhada, though similar flags are flown on temples of all sects. In this case, the flag, known to followers of Govindgir generally as the dvaja, was either white or red/saffron. The necklaces of rudraksh were also associated with the Dasnamis. The Bhagat-style injunctions related more to life-styles, such as stopping ‘criminal’ activities, ending internal disputes within the community, renouncing existing religious beliefs and shamanistic practices, non-violence towards animals, and daily bathing. Whereas the Dasnami-related injunctions related to the symbols of solidarity, the Bhagat-style injunctions required a transformation in the whole life-culture of the Bhils, and in this respect represented the radical heart of the movement. The demand that the Bhils stop robbery and the practice of ‘deception’ relates to their reputation as thieves. Bhils, stereotypically, were believed to have thieving in their blood, and it was a reputation that they themselves played up to. In the words of John Malcolm: ‘The common answer o f a Bheel, when charged with theft or robbery, is: “I am not to blame; I am Mahadeo’s thief’.’32 Malcolm, writing in the 1820s, anticipated that under the benign and civilizing influence of British rule: ‘they will be reclaimed to good order and industrious habits ..S In practice, this had not proved to be an easy task. The Bhils were organised in warlike clans that had, historically, prevented outside rulers from extending their control over the mountains. The British only managed to subjugate the Bhils with great difficulty during the first half o f the nineteenth century. They did this by establishing several ‘ Bhil Corps’ , composed o f loyal Bhils commanded by British officers. In many respects, these militias

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mirrored the older clan-structures of power, with a benevolent patriarchal officer commanding the loyalty of his own band. Being better equipped and trained, the Bhil Corps were able to impress their authority on the warring clans. Once subjugated, a process was set in, being in which the Bhils were encouraged to cultivate their land in a more intensive way and rely less on hunting, gathering and the collection of forest produce. In many cases, they were excluded from large tracts of forest that they had previously controlled, so that state foresters could exploit the timber wealth of the woodlands.33 Landlords, usurers and liquor dealers, who were protected by the colonial and princely states, then ruthlessly exploited those who became settled.34 This led to a series of Bhil revolts throughout the nineteenth century, all of which were crushed by the superior force of the British army and Bhil militias. Under British rule, and in princely states under British pressure, many practises and customs of the Bhils were criminalized, such as their violent and often murderous blood feuds and vendettas, their habit of rustling livestock from rival Bhil clans, or their collection of levies from travellers who passed through their territories. All such actions were likely to lead to a Bhil being arrested and tried before a court of criminal justice. Even what had in the past been regarded as legitimate forms of protest, such as the ritual shaming of tyrannical officials— an act which, by cleansing the realm of rotten elements, was considered to be a service to a ruler—were treated under colonial law as criminal assault and made liable to harsh punishment. The general rule was that the colonial state claimed for itself a monopoly over the use of violence of all sorts. It was able increasingly to enforce this claim as local warlords and chiefs were subjugated and the populace systematically disarmed, while at the same time it extended the power of the police into even the most remote areas. Any protest that involved violence, even of a relatively petty kind, was considered illegitimate, to be crushed with what were described as ‘salutary’ measures, which meant the use of an overwhelming violence however feeble the resistance might be. The level of violence used to suppress protest escalated considerably. The demands of the Bhagats that the Bhils stop acting in a way now considered ‘criminal’ represented a recognition that times had changed, that the old way of life was never going to return, and the

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Bhils would be better off if they learnt to act in a way which did not bring them into constant conflict with the law. Moral self-reform along such lines provided a potent means for a legitimate and effective form o f assertion within the new political order. The poor were able to advance their cause by adopting a position of superior morality— that o f non-criminality and non-violence— in a situation in which the rich and powerful routinely deployed forms of violence that were now, under the law, criminal acts. This allowed, potentially, for an appeal to higher authority over and against the representatives of the state at the local level, who tended to connive at the extra-legal violence of superordinate groups. The old politics of shame, honour and violence were thus in a process of being reshaped into a new politics of a moral commitment to non-violence. Hence the demand by Govind that the Bhils abandon their, ‘swords, rifles, bows -and arrows, etc’. Although the principle o f non-violence was hardly realised during the defence of Mangadh— for the Bhils fought back violently— this can be seen to have arisen from desperation. Their stated aim was eventually to be allowed to live in peace.35 The injunction relating to Virs, Vantaras and Bhopas— e.g. evil spirits, witches and exorcists— related to local systems of belief about the supernatural and ways in which humans sought to intercede with such forces. It was commonly believed that misfortune, illness and death were caused by the actions o f malevolent spirits, an evil eye or the spells of witches. In such cases, the services of an exorcist were required, either to propitiate the spirit, or to find the witch. Alleged witches were often tortured to force them to relinquish their spells, and they frequently died as a result. As a rule, there was a tendency for more marginalized women to be so accused, in particular the aged and widows of poorer families. The exorcists were supported in this by the wider society, led by the Bhil elders and patriarchs. The British, after their conquest of India, sought to outlaw the persecution of witches, a practice seen as barbaric.36 Those accused of killing witches were considered to have committed murder, and were punished accordingly. The Bhil patriarchs resented this, and as the belief in witchcraft continued to be maintained strongly, it tended to drive such practices underground rather than suppress them. It represented another area in which Bhil custom had been criminalized under colonial rule, and again, the Bhagat

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movement can be seen as providing a solution to this problem by seeking to make a whole corpus of belief and practice redundant. The demands that the Bhils change into industrious and sober peasant farmers also related to this agenda. Often, Bhils got into hopeless debt through purchasing liquor from the licensed liquor shops, which meant that their agriculture suffered, as they were unable to afford adequate inputs of seed, fertilizer, irrigation water, bullock-power and agricultural implements. Also, they were liable to have their land sold off by court order to realise their debts. By giving up liquor, they freed themselves from what had become an often-ruinous habit, so that through diligent and careful farming they were now able to maintain a comfortable and sufficient livelihood.

The Politics o f Bhil Assertion According to Captain J.P. Stockley, the Commander of the Mewar Bhil Corps, the local ‘Jains’, by which he meant Baniyas, were strongly in favour of Govind and his movement: I incline to think that it owes its origin to Jain teaching which has always been prevalent in these parts and that the desire to spread Jain doctrines and especially the preservation of animal life had much to do with it, for by all accounts the Baniyas who have much influence with the Bhils supported the Baba.37 In fact, there were only a few elements in common with Jain doctrines, and Vaishnavite and Shaivite influences were probably more important. What is significant, however, is that the local Baniyas were supportive of the movement, probably because it endorsed their own broad cultural values as against those of the Rajputs princes. Govind himself did not demonstrate any antagonism to the Baniyas, stating that: ‘We are Banjaras by birth. We are not so clever as the trading class. We are ordained to live by cultivation ... We only work for our livelihood in this world and the world to come.’38 He was being careful to stress that his movement posed no challenge to that class, and that he and his followers would confine themselves to the sphere of agriculture, leaving trade and usury to the Baniyas.

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Govind’s criticism of dominant groups other than the Baniyas were unsparing: The Hindus and Muhammadans have forsaken their religions. Hindus have become atheists. Rajputs have destroyed our worship, and forced us to eat flesh and drink. Muhammadans force us to eat beef and destroy our religion. For all these reasons we have gone to the hills as we are helpless. Rajputs are so cruel that they kill their girls so that they may not give in marriage to others. In the same way they have been so cruel towards the Bhils that they beat them without enquiry whether they are right or wrong. The Rajputs do not allow their young widows to re-marry, and if these girls become widows in young age the sin of infant widowhood is on their head because they remain unhappy in that life and are miserable. The Sarkar is also to blame for this shortcoming. No true Brahman is seen. The thread is now only mark of Brahmanism and whoever puts it on is a Brahman. They are as sinful as Rajputs, and their widows are also guilty o f miscarriage [sic— the meaning appears to be that they are also guilty of not re marrying]. These three castes dare not come to us. The Muhammadans are infidels and take interest on money and eat boar’s flesh which is prohibited in their religion. These people who are infidels destroy our worship. They do not like a religion which preaches good morality.39

Captain Stockley commented on this that Govind had travelled about ‘preaching to Rajputs and others for 19 years’, but it was only in the past two years, after he took his message to the Bhils, that he attracted a mass following.40 His critique of the Rajputs and Brahmans may have been fuelled by resentment that they had ignored his message. But also, he had observed with distress the way in which the Rajputs exploited and maltreated the Bhils. Although Govind’s strong criticism of the Rajputs and Brahmans for refusing to allow widows to remarry accorded with a contem­ porary middle class social reform agenda, its provenance was almost certainly otherwise. There was a strong and longstanding popular distaste throughout the region for the way in which Rajput patriarchs treated the women of their community, routinely murdering their female babies and forcing their widows to either commit sati or live the rest of their lives in conditions of extreme deprivation and humiliation. This revulsion was expressed in the popular cult of the bhakti saint Mirabai, who was revered by the low castes and Dalits

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of Rajasthan and Gujarat as a Rajput princess who had refused to bow her head before such oppression. As Parita Mukta has argued in her study of Mirabai and her devotees: ‘It is difficult to disaggregate the three main strands which emerge out of the community of Mirabai— the attack on Rajput political authority, the defiance of the patriarchal norms of marriage, and the attack on the caste system. All three co-exist within this community, and in fact co-exist within each articulation of community, through each bhajan.’41 Govind likewise combined his attack on Rajput political power with a critique of the treatment of Rajput women. In his attack on the ‘Muhammadans’, Govind was similarly voicing a popular grievance against a class that was known in these states for providing manpower for the state police and the militias of the Thakurs. They were sometimes known as ‘Sindhis’, as they came originally from areas now in Pakistan. They had a reputation for high-handed and violent behaviour, and were strongly disliked by the lower classes. Some o f them were also notorious as particularly oppressive usurers, who in contrast to the Baniyas, would mete out vicious beatings to peasants who were late in their interest-payments. Govind condemned these Muslims for being untrue to their religion in this respect, for the taking of interest was condemned in the Koran. Govind was far less critical of the British than he was of the Raputs and their henchmen, stating that: We take you to be just and fair ... The strong should not make a bad use o f their power and you should not destroy our devotion (fakiri). You are the monarch of the country ... Do not use force. Have some regard for our feelings. God will bless you ... You are the guardian saint o f our people. You are sensible people.42

In pleading in this way, Govind recognised that much of what he stood for was in line with the transformations that the British were trying to bring about in India, and he seems to have been trying to argue that they should act as his allies and back him and his followers against the local rulers. In another demand put at that time, he asked the British to appoint their own chief minister in Sunth and establish an armed force of two hundred of his followers to ensure that he and his disciples were treated fairly.43 As it was, imperial compulsions ensured British support for the Rajput princes and

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Thakurs, even though they were aware of their many misdemeanours and tyrannical practices.

Govind as Bhil Guru The capture of Mangadh hill by the British and the capture and imprisonment o f Govind represented a grave setback for his movement. Nonetheless, it did not destroy his reputation, for it was popularly believed that he had been betrayed by an act of deception. According to a song that became popular amongst his followers, the British had at first been repulsed by Govind’s supernatural force. The British had then sent a secret agent to Mangadh with a coconut filled with cows’ blood, which, when cast into the dbuni, destroyed its power. The British attacked with their machine guns, thousands fell dead, and the revolt was crushed.44 Fortified by the belief that Govind’s power had been eclipsed only temporarily, many continued to live the reformed way of life. In 1917 there was a resurgence led by Govind’s son-in-law and some Bhil disciples. They travelled around Dungarpur state, enjoining Bhils to stay true to Govind’s doctrines. Alarmed, the state authorities banned all gatherings of Bhil Bhagats and arrested some of the preachers.45 This had little effect. A year later, it was reported that Bhils in Banswara were flying Govind’s flag and erecting dhunis, or fires.46 At the same time it was reported from Dungarpur state that Govind’s disciples were telling the people to establish dhunis, fly his flag and to follow Govind’s precepts, and that many Bhils agreed to do this under the belief that it would protect them from illness and other misfortunes. According to one local police officer, their expectations in these respects were being fulfilled, so that faith in Govind had increased.47 Govind was released from prison in July 1919 on condition that he would not enter the states of Dungarpur, Banswara or Sunth and would refrain from carrying on any ‘agitation’.48 Despite this, he went to Dungarpur, where the Bhils flocked to see him in large numbers. He was later rearrested on the grounds that he had violated the terms of his release, and was in jail again from February 1921 to

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October 1923.49 He then settled in the Jhalod Taluka of the British Panchmahals, which was on the border with Banswara and Sunth States. Large numbers of Bhils from the Rajasthan states flocked to see him there. Many were sick, and came to him hoping to be cured. He now styled himself as ‘Govind Guru’, rather than ‘Govindgir’, suggesting that he was distancing himself somewhat from his earlier association with Dasnami doctrines and practices, though he retained some of its symbols, such as the dhuni. During the 1920s, the authorities of Banswara tried consistently to break Govind’s hold over the Bhils of that state. They knew that the movement had already undermined the legitimacy of the Maharaja’s regime in the eyes of the Bhils, and believed that so long as his influence continued their disloyalty would increase, perhaps to the point of revolt. Concerned by Govind’s malign influence, the Dewan of Banswara tried to persuade the British to have him removed further from their borders.50 The latter refused to do this, arguing that: ‘ ...he advises them [the Bhils] not to drink, commit crimes, tell lies etc., and urges them to bathe themselves daily and develop habits o f cleanliness. As long as he restricts himself to teachings of this kind he will be doing good not evil.’51

The Banswara state authorities stepped up the persecution of Govind’s followers. In a letter to the Maharaja, written in April 1927, Govind complained that his followers in the state were being forced to drink liquor and eat meat, thereby breaking their vows.52 In a petition to the Maharaja, the people of Singaria village made further allegations: We, the inhabitants of village Singaria, Tana Silopat, most humbly and respectfully beg to state that we follow our religion. We do not inflict loss to anybody and simply eat what we earn. But, the police harass us every now and then and forcibly take away our family & keep them in custody and also defile their modesty. We do not commit any offence, and therefore, when we go to request them to release our family, they also put us in custody and beat to the interior of our skin. Besides, they force us to drink wine and eat flesh, and take away property from our houses. If we go to report, nobody hears.53

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They went on to mention similar persecution of Govind’s followers in neighbouring villages. The state authorities were trying their best to break the movement, on the one hand by forcing them to break their vows and on the other by preventing them from benefiting from their new sober and diligent lifestyle by looting their property. In his letter to the Maharaja of Banswara of April 1927, Govind stated that he had no desire to undermine his rule. He pointed out however that if the Maharaja and his officials continued to undermine the religious activities ( dharmano karri) of the Bhagats, the latter were likely to migrate out of the state, and ‘everybody reaps the results of his action. ’ After his years in jail, Govind was careful not to make any public statements that could be taken as being ‘seditious’. In private, however, he seems to have been telling his followers that the Maharaja was an evil man and that in Sanvat 1984 (the Gujarati year which was to begin on 26 October 1927) there would be fire and destruction in the region and he would be removed.54 It was reported in April 1927 that one of Govind’s followers called Motia had returned from a meeting with Govind in Jhalod, after which he travelled around telling people that Govind had given him a book which prophesied that in Sanvat 1984 there would be a miracle, and that Sipahis (policemen), Sindhi’s (mostly employed as police and armed guards), Brahmans, Baniyas and Rajputs would all be destroyed and that only Govind’s disciples would be saved. Bhils who did not follow Govind would die also. A Bhil raj would then be established.55 It is impossible to know the extent to which Govind himself was responsible for generating these prophesies and rumours. His followers in Banswara were however doing their best to spread them and perhaps elaborate on them. It was said that the rule of the ‘evil’ Maharaja was about to be destroyed by the power of the bhakti, or devotion, of Govind’s disciples, and this would happen all the sooner if more people followed Govind. Devotees would be saved by God and become the new rulers.56 There was a rumour that the brother of the Maharaja had died as a result of a curse given by a follower of Govind who had been imprisoned by the state authorities.57 Such sentiments were voiced in a bhajan being sung in the state at this time:

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The Raja’s raj (rule) will soon end, Our raj will start. The raj will be destroyed by our bhakti, He will die. God will save us, We will rule. The Raja is evil, He does not sing bhajans, If you do bhakti, the raj will end quicker. If you do not do bhakti, You will die in the dhuni. You are nugri (without guru).58

There were however many Bhils who were still reluctant to change their way of life in the manner demanded by Govind. As the Bhagats generally refused to have any social relationships with such people, this caused severe social tension in many villages. As a rule, junior members of a family were expected to conform to the will of the family patriarch, whether a Bhagat or non-Bhagat. For example, Pema of Madaliya village in Banswara was forced against her wishes by both by her father and husband to follow Govind’s commands. Her father beat her with a washing-paddle and threatening to kill her if she continued to eat chicken. Her husband refused to give her any food or clothes so long as she held out against him. The severe beatings continued, and she eventually took refuge with her mother. Her maternal uncle was also, it seems, refusing to change his way of life. She stated later to the police that the followers of Govind ‘preach the breaking up of families’, meaning that those who did not conform were likely to be thrown out of their homes.59 Other such cases were reported from different villages; for example Kali of Chanapur, who was thrashed by her father— a man who regularly went secretly to see Govind—when she refused to become a bhakta of the guru.60 Some non-Bhagats complained that they were being prevented from using the village well by the Bhagats.61 The authorities in Banswara tried to organise a counter-offensive, encouraging loyal Bhils to announce that there would be ‘no roti-beti vyavhara' (that is, no eating together, exchange of daughters through marriage or other social dealings) with the Bhagats.62

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As it was, the prophesied demise of the ruler of Banswara did not come about in 1927 or 1928, and in the next two years, the state police reported that they had succeeded in breaking the movement.63 During this period, Govind’s health was deteriorating. He had a swollen leg that gave him great pain and he could no longer walk.64 He died at Kamboi in Jhalod Taluka in November 1931, where he was buried. A samadhi was erected over his grave, which became a place of worship for his followers.

The Conversion to Hinduism and Nationalism Govind saw himself as a person who had achieved an understanding of God, and who sought to teach this to the Bhils, as their guru. He stated in 1913 that he sought to provide such enlightenment to a people who were without any guru and that many became his disciples (chela). ‘I showed them the path of religion ( dharma) and truth (satya); and preached them to worship God This involved living in an honest way, without committing ‘theft, adultery, deception’ and to live peacefully with their neighbours. They should give up their fear of ghosts, witches and exorcists, and establish dhuni and fly flags as a protection against such supernatural forces. He called this ‘the path of truth’ and bhakti? He described the ‘one God’ whom he worshipped as ‘Malik’ (e.g. the Great Proprietor of us all).66 Govind and his followers referred to their new way of life as their dharma, a word usually translated in English-language government documents as ‘religion’. They also talked about their bhakti, translated as ‘worship’ or ‘devotion’. They did not speak in terms of any conversion to ‘Hinduism’ or assert that they were now ‘ Hindus’. This was however a claim made by the Gandhian nationalists who began to work in the area from 1919. In this section I shall examine the ways in which these nationalists sought to appropriate the movement to their own agenda, in the process redefining this as a movement for ‘conversion’, to both Hinduism and Indian nationalism. Nationalist involvement in the Bhil tract can be dated back to 1919. The monsoon of 1918 had failed in the area, and even though many Bhils were soon starving, government officials in the British

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Panchmahals confiscated their meagre possessions— even stripping the tiles from their roofs—to realise land-tax demands. When in early 1919 this state of affairs was brought to the notice of Gandhi’s prominent lieutenant, Indulal Yagnik, he went to investigate and then wrote an article on the situation that was published in the Bombay Chronicle. After reading this piece, a leading member of Gokhale’s Servants of India Society, Amritlal Thakkar, decided to help out. Yagnik and Thakkar raised funds from capitalists in Bombay to buy food that was then distributed among the Bhils.67 This initial work in the Panchmahals was consolidated during the period of the Non-Cooperation movement o f 1920-22. The nationalists of Dahod decided that the best strategy would be to win Govind to their cause, and they arranged a conference to be held on 6 February 1921, to which Govind was invited. He agreed to go, thinking that the meeting was being held to endorse his message. The nationalists failed to make clear to him the anti-British content of the function, even claiming that the Collector of the Panchmahals had given his permission for Govind to attend. He went not realising that such an act violated the terms of his release from prison in 1919The authorities arrested him the day before the conference started. As he was being led away to the Sabarmati Prison in Ahmedabad, he was reported to have abused the nationalists strongly, saying that they had deceived him.68 The conference itself went ahead next day, with Vallabhbhai Patel presiding. Large numbers of Bhils came, anticipating that Govind would be there. They were clearly angry when they found out what had happened, for on the night of 10 February Bhils robbed the houses of all except one of the Europeans in the district headquarters at Godhra. Only a few token items were taken, the aim being to register a protest at the arrest of their guru.69 A further Bhil conference was held in Jhalod in April. So as to ensure a reasonable turnout, the nationalists sent out messages that cloth and grain would be provided for those who attended. About 700 Bhils turned up, and many of them took a pledge not to drink liquor while bowing to a portrait of Gandhi.70 That year, food was again in short supply among the Bhils, and Indulal Yagnik once again sought to raise funds to purchase food for them. He decided that this work needed to be reinforced with a permanent institution for the Bhils of the Panchmahals, and established a ‘National Bhil Hostel’

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on land purchased through donations, which was modelled on similar hostels run by the government and Christian missionaries.71 Amritlal Thakkar, who joined him in this work in early 1922, put the project on a firmer footing. Another hostel was opened, called ‘ the Bhil Ashram’.72 Thakkar then established the Bhil Seva Mandal, which was in overall control of work amongst the Bhils. This organisation laid the foundations for his life’s work amongst the adivasis of India.73 Govind was released in October 1923, after the Non-Cooperation Movement had collapsed. The Gandhians persuaded him to stay at a new ashram they had established at Mirakhedi, between Dahod and Jhalod. Things did not however go well between them. Dahyabhai Nayak, who was in charge o f this ashram, tried to persuade Govind to keep full accounts of the donations that the Bhils brought to him. He proved highly unsympathetic to this request. Nayak also tried to persuade him to give up smoking ganja, again to no avail. The Bhils who flocked to see Govind were also disrupting the life of the ashram. After this, Govind was asked to leave the institution as his presence was considered to be having a bad influence on the children of its school.74 When a Bhil Parishad was organised by the Gandhians in April 1924, Govind refused to attend, and the turnout of Bhils was low.75 Two years later, it was reported that Govind was advising the Bhils to have nothing to do with the ‘white caps’ and he stressed that they should obey their colonial rulers.76 In April 1927, the Gandhians organised a conference for the Bhils of Jhalod and Banswara, presided over by Vallabhbhai Patel. Amritlal Thakkar gave a strong speech criticising the Rajput rulers for suppressing the Bhils. One of the main themes stressed in this meeting was that the Bhils were ‘Hindus’ and not ‘animists’. The Collector of Panchmahals interpreted this as an attempt to strengthen the Hindu community of the area against the Muslims.^ This may have been true for some of the nationalists of the area, for 1927 was a year of considerable Hindu-Muslim tension in Gujarat, in which competing communal assertions led to rioting in Ahmedabad and Godhra. The Congress leader of the Panchmahals District, Vamanrao Mukadam, was a notorious Hindu communalist, known for his inflammatory anti-Muslim speeches and writings. In September of that year a crowd of Ghanchi Muslims even murdered the President of the Godhra

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branch of the Hindu Mahasabha, P.M. Shah.78 Although the Gandhian workers associated with the Bhil Seva Mandal were not so crudely communal, they did seek to inculcate ‘Hindu’ values as a means to ‘civilize’ a people whom they considered to be ‘jungly’ and uncivi­ lised. Amritlal Thakkar, for example, stated in 1926 the Bhils were ‘hardly conscious of being human.’ He saw his task as being that of winning the community ‘back to the country and to humanity.,79 He and his associates clearly believed that the Bhils had to be won to a superior Hindu ethos. In 1928 the Brahman who ran the Gandhian ashram at Jhalod went so far as to describe the Bhil Seva Mandal as ‘a sort of Hindu missionary society.’80 The use of such a language seems to have had an effect on Govind himself, for in a letter to the Maharaja of Banswara of April 1927 he stated that: ‘The people involved at Mangadh were ignorant, but now they are Hindu dharamvalas. ’81 In the last three years of his life he appears to have become more sympathetic to the nationalists. This change of heart may have been brought about when he heard that some Bhil Seva Mandal workers who had gone to Banswara in 1927 were persecuted by the local police, just as his own followers had been.82 It was, perhaps, in such a spirit that he composed a song during the last days of his life in Kamboi village with a nationalistic tone not heard from him before. The refrain went: Bhuretia ne manu re ne manu re. You whites, I don’t believe in you, I don’t believe in you.83

The song is sung to this day, being regarded as one of Govind’s most important compositions84, no doubt because it helps to legitimise his movement as being an episode in India’s freedom struggle. The Bhils are thus considered to have been in the mainstream of national life from an early stage. Bhagvatilal Jain clearly seeks to convey such an impression in his book, Swatantrata Sangram me Bhagat Andolan ka Yogdan: Sadhu Govind Giri aur Bhagat Andolan (The Sacrifice of the Bhagat Movement in the Freedom Struggle: Sadhu Govind Giri and the Bhagat Movement), which was written in 1982. This work claims that Govind took part in nationalist demonstrations with the Gandhians.85 This is a figment of Jain’s imagination, for Govind never took any active part in the nationalist movement. A right-wing apologist for the Rajput princes,

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Jain seeks to displace these tyrants as Govind’s chief enemy, substituting the British in their stead.

The Govindpanth After Govind’ death, his followers split into a number of separate groups. One of his sons became the custodian of a dhurti associated with Govind at Lasodia in Dungarpur state, another looked after a dhuni at Limbdi, in the Panchmahals. The descendents o f a prominent disciple became the custodians of another such dhuni at Suranta in Dungarpur. The Suranta group continued to observe the Shaivite practices associated with Govind, while the Lasodia Bhagats followed Vaishnaivite practices, wearing white turbans, with a vermilion mark on their foreheads and a rosary of tulsi around their necks.86 Despite their differences, followers of the different groups meet together at functions associated with Govind. For example, two fairs are held each year at Govind’s samadhi at Kamboi. Devotees stay up all night singing bhajans attributed to Govind. People come and take vows to gain fulfilment for their wishes.87 The greatest of the annual functions is that held on Mangadh hill on the punam of the month of Magsar, which falls normally in late December. Devotees perform a yagna at Govind’s dhuni and then spend the whole of the cold winter night on top of the hill, listening to religious discourses and singing bhajans, some of which are attributed to Govind. The function was first organised in 1952 by a Bhil called Nathuram Patel of Bukhia in what was then Banswara district of Rajasthan state. The gathering was at first small, but over the years it expanded in size, especially after I960, when Nathuram built a small temple on the spot where Govind had supposedly maintained his dhuni. He also persuaded the government of Rajasthan to construct a road to the top of the hill.88 Although these functions demonstrate the overall unity of the Govindpanth, differences between the various groups are also played out at such times. In the 1980s, for example, a Bhil politician from the Panchmahals called Sashikant Mahida sought to gain electoral

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advantage on the Gujarat side by establishing a Guru Govind Trust, which he intended to control, to run the temple at Mangadh and the samadhi at Kamboi. Nathuram Patel, who had his own political ambitions on the Rajasthan side, opposed this. Mahida then claimed that the dhuni at the temple built by Nathuram was without religious power, as it had been desecrated in 1913. He erected an alternative dhuni in the ruins of an ancient fort on the hill. As it happens, the border between Gujarat and Rajasthan runs across the hill, with Nathuram’s temple lying on the Rajasthan side, and Mahida’s dhuni in Gujarat. During the Mangadh celebrations o f 1985, which I attended, there was an acrimonious tussle between the two, with each holding celebrations on their respective sides. There were other groups as well, who sat separately, singing bhajans by themselves. The Govindpanth can thus be seen to be a loose congeries of local devotional groups which share a common allegiance to Govind, but which also have sharp differences.

Conclusion In what way can we define this movement as one of ‘conversion? In India, the process of ‘conversion’ is normally associated with proselytising world religions, which originated outside India— notably Islam and Christianity. It is clear, however, that systems of belief and practice that were carried on within India frequently competed with each other to attract followers. Also, those who followed broadly Brahmanical rites often tried to popularise such practices amongst groups that were considered to be ignorant of them, such as the Bhils. As the whole way of life of such communities was intertwined with their existing beliefs and practices, they tended to resist such appeals strongly. This resistance did, however, begin to fracture after such communities lost their power through conquest. In the region dealt with in this essay, the alternative model that proved most attractive initially was that of a Vaishnavite-inspired moral self­ reform. The new way of life was seen in terms of achieving a better understanding of truth and moral duty through superior forms of devotion and practice. There was no talk of any ‘conversion’ to ‘Hinduism’. Although Christian missionaries saw an opportunity here,

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the moral path and the way of life that they demanded of their followers attracted very few adherents from amongst the Bhils. The first mass movement in this respect was that of Govind, which combined Shaivite ritual with Vaishnavite practice, along with a strong anti-Rajput thrust. This required a rejection of existing Bhil cultural and religious practices, and this often caused great social tension within villages and families. Such tensions were also commonly found when Bhils became Christians, so that there were parallels here to what we may describe as a process of ‘conversion’. This was however a local movement rooted in local concerns, representing a unique bricolage. First and foremost, it was a movement of Bhil self-assertion, started by a poor Banjara, but taken up and carried on by Bhils without any significant support from any class of non-Bhils. It brought them into sharp conflict with the Rajputs and Brahmans of the princely states, who understood the dharmic way of life as being rooted in caste hierarchy. From this perspective, the claim that Bhils were not only their spiritual and moral equals, but even their superiors, was a transgression which was not to be tolerated. Hence the campaign mounted by the Hindus to crush the movement. The claims of the Bhagats were nevertheless accepted in a largely passive way by the mercantile castes of these areas, who generally practiced more egalitarian forms of devotional faith and who had their own political tensions with the ruling classes. A more active support came from the Gandhian nationalists of Gujarat, who hoped thereby to extend their political constituency in the region. They claimed that the movement represented a ‘Hinduisation’ of the Bhils. Despite the tensions that existed between these largely high caste nationalists and Govind and the Bhils, Govind appears to have been won over to their programme in certain important respects in the final years of his life. He began to talk of converting the Bhils to ‘Hindu’ dharma, and started to become more critical of the British, whom earlier he had hoped would support him and his movement against the Rajput princes. Once the nationalists had gained power in 1947 and the Rajput princes were swept away, the heirs to Govind sought to incorporate their struggle within the history of the nationalist movement against

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the British, advancing a claim that the Mangadh rising was a part of the wider freedom struggle. This was despite the fact that the records show that Govind and his followers never envisaged their movement as being anti-colonial in any way at all before the late 1920s. The ‘conversion’ to ‘Hinduism’ and nationalism was a very late develop­ ment for Govind, though it subsequently became a central motif for the sect as it emerged after his death. It is only in retrospect, therefore, that this movement has been made to fit into a rubric of ‘conversion. ’ In such ways have narratives of assertion become entangled with the concept of ‘conversion’, which itself is now entwined with notions of Indian nationality.

Notes 'The seminal statement is by M.N. Srinivas, 1966, Chapter 1, ‘Sanskritisation’, Social Change in Modem India, Berkeley: University o f California. This is the argument of my book , The Coming o f the Devi: Adivasi Assertion in Western India, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1987. 3Govindgir to The Political Agent, Rewa Kantha, 12 November 1913, File 3 of 1914, Mewar Residency, New Delhi: National Archives of India (henceforth NAI). 4Kamdar of Banswara state to the Political Agent, Southern Rajputana States, 3 June 1913, NAI, Foreign Dept, (henceforth F.D.), Intemal-A.8.67, March 1914. SJ.P. Stockley to J.L. Kaye, 26 November 1913, NAI, Foreign Dept., Intemal-A.8.67, March 1914. 6Hari Sen, 1996. ‘Popular Protest in Mewar in the Late-Nineteenth and Early-twentieth Centuries’, unpublished Ph.D. thesis, University of Delhi, pp. 217-19. 7Mohanlal, Dewan of Dungarpur to Political Agent, Southern Rajputana States, 8 June 1917, Rajasthan State Archives, Bikaner (henceforth RSA), Dungarpur Mahekma Khas, R1426,1917. 8G.N. Sharma, 1968. Social Life in Medieval Rajasthan (1500-1800 a d ), Agra: Lakshmi Narain Agarwal, pp. 237-8. ’R.S. Mann, 1983. ‘Structure and Role Dynamics among the Bhils of Rajasthan: A Case of the Bhagats’, in K.S. Singh, Tribal Movements in India, Volume 2, New Delhi,: Manohar, pp. 315-16.

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“'David Hardiman, 1996. Feeding the Baniya. Peasants and Usurers in Western India, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, pp. 39-40. 1'David Hardiman, 1987. Th e Bhils and Shahukars of Eastern Gujarat’, in Ranajit Guha (ed.), Subaltern Studies V, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, pp. 27-37. u Gazetteer o f the Bombay Presidency, Vol. V, Cutch, Palanpur and Mahi Kantha, Bombay: Government Central Press, 1880, p. 366. ,JR.S. Heywood, 1915. ‘A Visit to Bhil Land’, The Bombay Church Missionary Gleaner, August, p.2. For a more detailed study, see my essay ‘Christianity and the Adivasis of Gujarat’, in Ghanshyam Shah, Mario Rutten and Hein Streefkerk, 2002. Development and Deprivation in Gujarat, New Delhi: Sage Publications, 2002. 1‘Nathuram Jorji Patel, Guru Govind kt Jivni, Nathuram Patel, Bavdi Dovara, Banswara, 1976, p.l. Vashistha puts his date of birth as 1863, though Nathuram Patel gives a very exact date, namely Margshirsh Shukla Pumima, Sanvat 1915, or 30 December 1858. See Vijay Kumar Vashishtha, 1997. Bhagat Movement: A Study o f Cultural Transformation o f the Bhils o f Southern Rajasthan, Jaipur: Shruti Publications, p. 22. 1'’Irfan Habib, 1964. ‘Usury in Medieval India’, Comparative Studies in Society and History, 6:4, July, p. 400. K>On this, see James C. Scott, 1985. Dom ination and the Arts o f Resistance: Hidden Transcripts, New Haven: Yale University Press, pp. 124 and 371. |7C.A. Bayly, 1983- Rulers, Toivnsmen and Bazaars: North Indian Society in the age o f British Expansion, 1770-1870, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, p. 221. '"Nathuram Patel, Guru Govind ki Jivni, p. 2. '^Nathuram Patel, Guru Govind ki Jivni, p. 3; also Sumanesh Joshi, Rajasthan mein Swatantra Sangram ke Senani, Jaipur 1973, p. 2. -“’According to Nathuram Patel, Govind spent two years with Dayananda at Udaipur. However, Dayananda only stayed in the city for six months, and he was employed most of his time there in giving a course of religious and moral instruction to the young Maharana, Sajjan Singh, the Maharana’s family and close advisers. He was not involved in any public work to any extent. J.F.T. Jordens, 1978. Dayananda Saraswati: His Life and Times, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, pp. 231-2. 2IG.S. Ghurye, 1964. Indian Sadhus, Bombay: Popular Prakashan, pp.86-7 and 102. --Jordens, Dayananda Saraswati, p. 20. -"'Ghurye, Indian Sadhus, pp. 106 and 143-

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2,Ghurye, Indian Sadhus, p. 91 “ Frontispiece to Vashishtha, Bhagat Movement. ^Ghurye, Indian Sadhus, pp. 71-2. 27Ghurye, Indian Sadhus, pp. 91-2. •*Ghurye, Indian Sadhus, p. 100. WI am grateful for Parita Mukta for pointing this out. ^Govindgir to C.W.M. Hudson, 12 November 1913, as quoted in Hari Sen, Popular Protest in Mewar’, pp. 197-8.1have omitted the explanatory statements in parenthesis. 3'This is what Claude Lévi-Strauss, 1974, has defined as a bricolage, that is an eclectic but practical gathering of odds-and-ends into a whole with a logic of its own. See The Savage Mind, London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson. 32John Malcolm, 1970. A Memoir o f Central India, Vol. 1, New Delhi: Sagar Publications (reprint), p. 526. ^On this, see in particular David Hardiman, ‘Power in the Forest: the Dangs, 1820-1940’, in David Arnold and David Hardiman, eds., 1994. Subaltern Studies VIII, New Delhi: Oxford University Press; and Ajay Skaria, ‘Timber Conservancy, 1998. Desiccationism and Scientific Forestry: The Dangs 1840s-1920s’, in Richard Grove, Vinita Damodaran, Satpal Sangwan, eds., Nature and the Orient: The Environmental History o f South and Southeast Asia, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1998. i4On usurers see David Hardiman, 1996. Feeding the Baniya: Peasants and Usurers in Western India, New Delhi: Oxford University Press; on liquor dealers see David Hardiman, 1985. ‘From Custom to Crime: The Politics of Drinking in Colonial South Gujarat’, in Ranajit Guha (ed.), Subaltern Studies TV; New Delhi: Oxford University Press. 3This paragraph owes much to Denis Vidal, 1997. Violence and Truth: A Rajastani Kingdom Confronts Colonial Authority, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, pp. 16-17. *Ajay Skaria, ‘Women, 1997. Witchcraft and Gratuitous Violence in Colonial Western India’, Past and Present, No. 155, May. 37JP- Stockley to J.L. Kaye, 26 November 1913, NAI, F.D. Intl.-A, 8-67, March 1914, p. 44. ^Message from Govindgir, 14 November 1913, NAI, F.D. Intl.-A, 8-67, March 1914, p. 39. ^Message from Govindgir, 14 November 1913, NAI, F.D. Ind.-A, 8-67, March 1914, p. 39. *'J.P. Stockley to J.L. Kaye, 26 November 1913, NAI, F.D. Intl.-A, 8-67, March 1914, p. 44.

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4IParita Mukta, 1994. Upholding the Common Life: The Community o f Mirabai, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, p. 41. 42Message from Govindgir, 14 November 1913, NAI, F.D. Intl.-A, 8-67, March 1914, p. 40. 43Hari Sen, ‘Popular Protest in Mewar’, p. 200. 44Giridharilal Sharma, 1956. Rajasthani Bhil-Git, Udaipur: Sahitya Sansthan, Rajasthan Vishva Vidyapith, pp. 103-094’Mohanlal, Dewan of Dungarpur, to Major A.J.H. Grey, 8 and 17 June 1917, RSA, Dungarpur English Records, SN 1426, file 23, basta 148, 1917. ^Dewan o f Banswara to Dewan o f Dungarpur, 18 April 1918, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file M/30, basta 19, 1918. 47Police Thanedar of Pratapgarh to Dewan, 5 April 1918, and Police Thanedar to Inspector of Thikana, 11 May 1918, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file M/30, basta 19,1918. 48Order of Government of Bombay, Judicial Department, 24 July 1919, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file 22/M, serial no.381, basta 14. 19The real reason for his re-arrest was, as we shall see later, that in early 1921 he attended a meeting in support of Gandhi’s Non-Cooperation Move­ ment. He was in fact jailed as a ‘non-cooperation prisoner’. Superintendent, Ahmedabad Central Prison to Collector of Ahmedabad, 22 September 1923, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file 22/M, serial no.381, basta 14. ’‘’Dewan of Banswara to H.R. Pritchard, 28 April 1924, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file M/30, basta 19, 1918. ” H. Briscoe to Dewan of Banswara, 7 June 1924, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file M/30, basta 19,1918. ’ 2Guru Govind to Maharaja Prithvisingh Shambhusinghji of Banswara, 23 April 1927, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file M/30, basta 19, 1918. ’ ’Petition from the people of Singaria village to Maharaja of Banswara, 21 May 1927, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file M/30, basta 19,1918. ^Evidence of Moti, 20 April 1927, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file M/30, basta 19,1918. ’’ Evidence of Kesa of Jespura village and Bala of Amarkhota village, 20 April 1927, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file M/30, basta 19,1918. In fact, the ‘book’ appears to have been a pamphlet on his life that Govind had given to several o f his followers from Banswara, asking them to give it to the Maharaja. His ostensible aim was to show that his work was merely ‘religious’ and should not be seen as a challenge to the power of the Maharaja. Govind Guru to Maharaja of Banswara, 22 April 1927, same file. v’Pema to Thanedar, 20 January 1927, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file M/30, basta 19,1918.

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^Evidence of Moti of Chanavala village, 21 February 1927, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file M/30, basta 19, 1918. ^Pema to Thanedar, 20 January 1927, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file M/30, basta 19,1918. v;Pema of Madaliya to Thanedar, 13 December 1926 and 20 January 1927, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file M/30, basta 19, 1918. “ Kali to Thanedar, 20 January 1927, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file M/30, basta 19,1918. 6,Evidence of Bala, Kela, Jamia, Kanji, Horinga, Girji, Raoji, Pirji and Belji of the villages of Amarpura, Tejpura, Dabli, Chikhli, Gamaia, Bhogapura, Ravaia, Panchol, 22 April 1927, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file M/30, basta 19, 1918. '’Thanedar to Superintendent of Police, 21 April 1927, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file M/30, basta 19, 1918. 6iFor example, Reports of the Thanedar of Shergadh, 1 December 1930 and the Tehsildar, 15 December 1930, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file M/30, basta 19, 1918. ^Govind mentioned this in a letter to the Maharaja of Banswara, 23 May 1927, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file M/30, basta 19, 1918. '’■Govind to the Political Agent, Rewa Kanthan, 12 November 1913, NAI, Mewar Residency, 3 o f 1914. ^’Statement to the court by Govind, 9 February 1914, Trial Proceedings, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file 22/M, serial no. 381, basta 14. 67Indulal Yagnik, 1970. Atmakatba, Vol.2, Ahmedabad: Gujarat Grantharatan Karyalay, pp. 158-61. “ NathuramJorji Patel, 1921. Guru Govind kiJivni, pp.9-10; Secret Police Abstracts o f Intelligence, Bombay Presidency, Bombay, p. 217. 69Secret Police Abstracts o f Intelligence, Bombay Presidency, Bombay 1921, p. 209. 70Secret Police Abstracts o f Intelligence, Bombay Presidency, Bombay 1921, pp.470 and 472; Yagnik, Atmakatba, Vol. 2, pp. 302-05. 71Indulal Yagnik, 1956. Atmakatba, Vol. 3, Ahmedabad: Vatrak Khedut Vidhalay, pp. 8-11. 72Yagnik, Atmakatba, Vol. 3, pp. 58-61. 73Yagnik, Atmakatba, Vol. 3, pp. 74-6.

^Interviews with Dahyabhai Nayak, Dahod, 24 May 1984, and Laxmidas Shrikant, Dahod, 29June 1985; Secret Police Abstracts o f Intelligence, Bombay Presidency, Bombay 1924, p. 210; Nathuram Jorji Patel, Guru Govind ki Jivni, p. 10.

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7SYagnik, Atmakatha, Vol. 3, pp. 273-5. 76Secret Police Abstracts o f Intelligence, Bombay Presidency, Bombay 1926, p. 168. ^D.G. Mackenzie to Dewan of Banswara, 18June 1927, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file M/30, basta 19, 1918. 78Secret Police Abstracts o f Intelligence, Bombay Presidency, Bombay 1927, p. 621. ™The Servant o f India, Vol. 6, no.26, 26 July 1926, p. 311. ^Ambalal Vyas to Dewan of Banswara, 8 October 1928, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file M/30, basta 19, 1918. 81Guru Govind to Maharaja Prithvisingh Shambusinghji, 23 April 1927, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file M/30, basta 19, 1918. 82Details in A. V. Thakkar to the Karbhari of Banswara, 10 July1927, RSA, Mahakma Khas, file M/30, basta 19, 1918. 83Bhagvatilal Jain, Swanantrata Sangram me BhagatAndolan ka Yogdan: Sadhu Govind G iri aur Bhagat Andolan, Udaipur: Sahitya Sansthan, Rajashtan Vidyapith, 1982, p. 63. ^Personal observation at the Mangadh mela, 27-8 December 1985. 8SBhagvatilal Jain, Swatantrata Sangram me Bhagat Andolan ka Yogdan, p. 62. ^’Vashishtha, Bhagat Movement, D.K. Publishers Distribution, pp. 10203. "’ Collective interview with Bhil elders at Kamboi, Jhalod Taluka, 23 May 1984. ^Vashishtha, Bhagat Movement, p. 89; personal observations on a tour of Mangadh arranged for me by Nathuram Patel on 14 December 1985 and attendance at the all-night function on 27-8 December 1985.

Section Four Conversion to Christianity Sathianathan Clarke

igion is not a separate arena of human life. It is not a province at can be isolated from the plethora of aggregate human living. Religion extends its reach to many constituents of Indian reality. Christianity exemplifies this feature of religion. With God at its center Christianity becomes related to various elements of the world in order to claim and activate it: the kingdoms of the world are claimed for the purposes of the kingdom of God. Of course, one must be careful not to take this to the extreme. There are dangers in pronouncing that religion is everywhere. Dumont may have managed to supplant the economic reductionism of Marx (I am referring to the more dogmatic Marx) with a version of religious reductionism. But to substitute economics with religion as the essence that ‘encompasses’ all dimensions of Indian reality or as the ‘base’ of eastern reality from which all others are merely derivatives falls into the Orientalist’s trap. The essayists in this section on conversion to Christianity walk skillfully and daringly on their respective interpretive tight ropes. Nonetheless, taken as a whole, they are largely successful in their attempts to reign in and release the phenomenon of religion. Thus, they neither fetishize religion, so as to be engrossed and captivated with it as if nothing else represents the richness of human life, nor do they trivialize religion, so as to be disinterested and annoyed with it as if it is a redundancy in India’s sojourn with modernity. The essays represent many facets and contexts of conversion to Christianity. Many important centers of Christianity are dealt with in

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this section: Punjab, Goa, Tamil Nadu, the North Eastern states and some of Kerala. Others could not be included because of constraints of space. Perhaps a separate chapter on conversions to Christianity in Kerala, Bengal and Maharashra would have added to the book. But we had to draw the lines somewhere! Let me get to the various essays included in this section as it stands. Rowena Robinson’s article on sixteenth century conversions to Christianity in Goa links Catholicism in Goa with Syrian Christianity in Kerala. Both of these regions witnessed, ‘significant conversions among the highest castes, including Brahmins.’ In both cases conversion to Christianity did not entail a dismantling o f the social system rooted in caste. Thus, the privileges of the Brahmanic caste communities that marked their existence within Hinduism continued to be operative even after their conversion to Christianity. Robinson gives the reader a lucid portraiture of the social, religious, economic and political life of the village communities that made up Goa before the Portuguese arrived in 1510. Against this historical backdrop Robinson presents the advent and expansion of the Portuguese and the rationale, modes and motivations of their conversion enterprise. Presiding over the theological compulsions of the Catholic Church to be agents in the mission of making disciples for Christ, the Portuguese expansion into India has to be seen in line with its desire ‘to gain complete control of its Asian trade routes’ so that it ‘could establish political and military rule’ in this region of the world. The local Hindu communities in Goa were already under the threat of being overcome by the Muslim rulers. They had to choose between Muslim and Portuguese rulers. Robinson suggests that ‘many [Hindu] groups accepted conversion to align themselves with the Portuguese.’ Religious conversion was thus thrust upon Goa. It came in the form of a political, economic and religious bundle. Through the sixteenth century the enterprise of religious conversion engineered by the Portuguese exhibited many faces: from compassionately taking care of orphans and using this as a means of converting minors to Christianity on to calculatingly setting in place a ‘system o f privileges’ to attract and retain groups of converts. The latter positively involved, assuring the social advantages of Brahmanic caste communities within Christianity and negatively involved, legally eliminating

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conventionally enjoyed privileges for the elite Hindu groups. And yet Robinson is able to underscore the various ways in which such Hindu groups altered and transformed the Christianity that the Portuguese thrust upon them. On the one hand, the ‘high castes’ were both able to adroitly transplant many of their religious and cultural beliefs and practices into their newly contracted religion and to judiciously preserve many of their socioeconomic privileges legitimated by the previous Hindu system. On the other hand, ‘lower castes’ used this major change in the overall social, economic, political, and religious structure in Goa’s community life to redefine their status. They gradually discarded the purity-pollution ideology and they took advantage of new employment opportunities that opened up in the new system. Thus the link between status and occupation within the traditional Hindu ideological system was weakened. After a historical introduction of multiple arrivals of Christianity to Tamil Nadu and a reconstruction of the caste-based workings of Tamil society in the nineteenth century, Clarke focuses on the central aspect of conversion to Christianity in Tamil Nadu. On the one hand, conversion had to do with the deliberate movement o f Dalit communities away from their traditional religions, which were in an intricate and ambivalent manner connected with local variants of popular Hinduism. This system of social and economic stratification left Dalit communities cumulatively and comprehensively margina­ lized and exploited, living in alienation beyond the borders of human society. On the other hand, conversion involved a conscious embrace by Dalit communities of a missionary-proclaimed Christianity. In the minds of the convert missionaries had the ability and the will to make economic and social capital available to such oppressed communities and could exploit their apparent positive relationship with the colonial powers that ruled India to aid the liberative activities of the Dalit communities. Clarke, however, goes on to problematize the paradoxical nature of the conversion of Dalits to Christianity. There is no doubt that the religious worldview that was being jettisoned by the Dalits was nebulously held together under a construed version of Hinduism. It did result in combified, systemic, and concrete discrimination and disabilities for non-Brahmanic caste communities, Dalits in particular.

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Nonetheless, Dalits’ entry into the new symbolic vision of Christianity did not eventuate into a real world of missionary-promised equality, freedom and dignity. Conversely, Dalits were still discriminated against by fellow caste Christians and English Church members. Why then did Dalits continue to convert to Christianity? At this point, Clarke offers a constructive and imaginative explanation. By resourcefully utilizing relevant theological resources from the newly embraced religion and by drawing upon the daring words and deeds professed and promoted by most missionaries and some elite Indian Christian caste leaders, Dalit communities were able to construe a different world vision. This may not yet have been concretely and definitively experienced but it did nonetheless have utopian consequences. The prospect of religious conversion thus does not lie only with the present but also in an anticipatory future. Conversion is a dynamic process; one in which the difference of the embraced world vision is assembled consciously and collectively in the spirit of a hope that lies in the future but which also impinges sporadically though concretely in the historical present. Webster’s article deals with the Chuhra conversion movement in Punjab. His methodological assumptions are clear as he sets out to study this Dalit movement between 1873 and 1914: to pursue a ‘convert-centered approach’, to do justice to the historical context within which conversions occur, and to hold together the ‘inward as well as the outward process’ of conversion. His findings after an in-depth study of the work of the United Presbyterian Mission and the Church Missionary Society among the Chuhras foreground the following important observations. First, the movement of Dalit conversion was, ‘initiated throughout by the Chuhras themselves rather than the missionaries’. Second, these conversion movements were local, sporadic and spontaneous. Thus, it will be difficult to construct general theories that are not contextspecific. Third, there were many different stages in the conversion movements through the period of study. Notably though, the stage at which the missions began to be systematically and organizationally involved with the converts marks a significant point in the successful growth of the movement. Fourth, this conversion movement among the Dalits cannot but be, ‘understood as a liberation movement among the oppressed. The measurable gains were indeed modest;

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but through the decades o f struggle ‘new emancipatory identities’ were forged. ’ Downs’ essay gives us a concise and comprehensive historical account of Christian conversions in North East India. Painting with broad strokes on the fragile and variegated North East Indian canvas, he appears to be deliberate about using more than one brush. However, similar findings emerge from the two historical epochs that he differentiates and investigates. In his analyses of the Christian conversion movement up to the middle of the twentieth century Downs fends off the arguments of ‘the political-imperial explanations’ and ‘the foreign missionary zeal explanations’. Instead Downs argues for a ‘cultural synthesis’ explanatory model. Thus, large-scale conversions among the numerous tribals of North East India are interpreted as collective choices for new world views, which made sense of and framed community living within a new context, which crystallized because of the traumatic changes that the British administration brought to this region. In the next part of his paper on the conversion movement in the second half of the twentieth century Downs suggests that the phenomenal growth of Christianity in North East India must still be interpreted along the lines of ‘cultural synthesis’. Except here conversion to Christianity helped to galvanize the cultural and political synthesis of the tribal world over and against the Indian nation state, which was associated with a kind o f peninsular Hinduism. Thus, Christianity is chosen as a potent and suitable religious, cultural, social and political worldview to resist the unified Indian nation state. Three thoughts strike me as I take stock of these essays dealing with conversion to Christianity in India. Let me start with a comment about religion itself. There is a certain dynamic dialectic in the functioning of religion in the process of conversion. Religion offers to its adherents an orientation of meaning and framework for collective living. This points to the integrative propensity of religion. On the other hand, religion also offers to its adherents a framework for resistance. This points to the subversive inclination of religion. While these tendencies do not mutually exclude each other, historical contexts appear to determine which of the dimensions come to the fore and which of the two is left somewhat dormant.

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Another raw insight must be placed on the conversation table. There is a tendency for Dalits and tribals to deliberately shun the inclusion of cultural and religious symbols of Brahmanic Hinduism whereas ‘high caste Hindu converts’ from Goa and Kerala incorporate much of this symbolic world into the framework of Christianity. Of course, Dalits and tribals will carry with them elements from their own indigenous traditions; but they would rather adorn themselves with alien western symbols and practices than engage positively with the Hindu worldview. This can be because of the long and deep association of these ideational, performative and material symbols with the inferior structural social and religious status of Dalits and tribals. But it could also be because these communities wanted to employ their own creativity to construe novel forms of contextual Christianities. My final comment has to do with a lacuna in our studies on conversion in India. If the phenomenon of conversion should include the psychic structure, developmental stages, and overall well-being of converts there needs to be much more work in the area of psychology of religious conversions. This need not be divorced from social psychology and ethno-psychology. Anthropology, sociology, and theology will be enriched by more conscious interaction with psychology; and the arena of religious conversion may be a productive field to start this collaborative adventure.

Sixteenth Century Conversions to Christianity in Goa Rowena Robinson

he Goan ‘moment’ in the history of conversion to Christianity in India is of singular import. The importance springs not from the infamy of the inquisition, popularly associated with conversion here. It has to do with certain other reasons, some of comparative interest. Catholicism in Goa and Syrian Christianity in Kerala account for the bulk of the pre-British presence of Christianity in India. Goa and Kerala are also the two major areas in which we find significant conversions among the highest castes, including Brahmins. In some respects, the situation in the two regions was radically different. The Syrian Christians of Kerala attribute their origin to the efforts of St Thomas who is believed to have arrived on the coast in a d 52 and travelled through the Malabar country evangelizing and building churches. They regard themselves as the descendants of the Nambudiri Brahmin converts of St Thomas (Visvanathan 1993a; Neill 1984). They have been a prosperous community, enjoying a long history of prestige and privilege under different local rulers. They negotiated their position through alliance with the local rulers and strict adherence to the codes of regional Hindu society. While Syrians had their brush with the Portuguese Padroado (see below) through the Synod of Diamper, which tried to bring their practices in line with Catholic orthodoxy, neither conquest nor colonization is directly written into their social history. In Goa, on the other hand, the context of conversion was very different. As

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examined below, the particular combination of ecclesiastical and political rule exercised over a small colonial territory created the conditions enabling mass conversions of both high and low castes. Despite these differences, it is interesting to see that in both cases, certain processes ensured that the privileges of the high-born were maintained after conversion. In Kerala, privilege was maintained through alliance with local rulers; in Goa, under quite different circumstances, high castes aligned with the Portuguese to protect their claims. The article begins by discussing the social, historical and religious dynamics and complexities of the Goa region before the entry of the Portuguese. The second section focuses on the Portuguese entry into Goa, their strategies of conversion and the wider implications of the processes of conversion with regard to the indigenous society and local culture. Conversion did not lead to a complete breakdown of the existing social structure; the converts incorporated the church, which came as a powerful force, into their own social order. In the context of the debate on so-called ‘forced conversions’, the final section returns to compare conversion in Goa with that in other regions, including India’s south.

Indigenous Society o f Goa Here I speak of aspects of the indigenous ‘Hindu’ society of the Goa region,1 the society that the Portuguese found when they entered in 1510. There were also Muslims in the region. Their population was, however, seriously decimated by the Portuguese.2 What is meant here by ‘Hindu? One should be chary of portraying Hinduism in essentialist or rigid terms (Bayly 1989; Fuller 1976,1992).3 There are many varied elements within Hinduism. Within an overarching Hindu pattern there could be marked differences and variety (Babb 1975; Mandelbaum 1966). Different caste groups could have different rituals and customs, different marriage practices and even access to different deities. The ritual practices of the higher castes tend to have greater Brahmanic content than those of the lower castes. In other words, there are both sanskritic or ‘high’ and non-sanskritic or ‘low’ elements

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in Hinduism. When I speak of the ‘Hindu’ in this description of Goa, I include all these diverse elements. Geographically, the region referred to here as Goa included both the Old Conquests taken over by the Portuguese in 1510 and the New Conquests taken over by them in the eighteenth century. It is believed to have been known as Gomantak or Gove much before the Portuguese took it over and was certainly known as Goa by the 14th century (Kamat 1990: 4; Goa, Daman and Diu 1979: 1). By the 16th century, Goa had its own caste structure and had developed its own patterns of village organization and ritual (De Souza 1990; Derrett 1977; D’Costa 1962, 1964). An important phase in the history of the region appears to have started around the eighth or ninth century a d when a number of Brahmin families are said to have come to Goa from the north, possibly pushed down because of Arab invasions there (Figueiredo 1963:173; De Souza 1990:91; Kosambi 1956: 307), and cleared some land and settled it. A myth narrated in the Sahyadri Khand of the medieval Skanda Purana tells of the settlement of the land by Parashurama, the sixth avatar of Vishnu, with Brahmin families from the north (Kosambi 1962; Kamat 1990: 5).

Village Communities By 1510, Goan villages were organized along the gauncari system, later known as the comunidade system.4 Each village community consisted of gauncars and service castes. It was administered by the gauncars, who claimed to be the original settlers of the village. Brahmins controlled and administered a large number of villages in the more fertile areas. This shows that they may well have been the first settlers and so gained control of the better lands. Other village communities were probably controlled by particular non-Brahmin twice-born castes. Groups of artisans and some tribal groups such as Kunbis and Gauddis may have also entered and settled in parts of Goa. The villages were administered by gauncars and, despite many changes brought about in the system by the intervention of the

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Portuguese, some of its features survived well into the twentieth century (D ’Souza 1975: 179; De Souza 1990:110). It is probable that the village communities developed under the influence of the Brahmins and spread through the region. Most of the communities had cults of mythical ancestors such as Purusha, Gramapurusha or Ektovir (the brave one). Such cults are, according to Kosambi (1962: 167), Brahminic in origin. Moreover, Brahmins also controlled the general assembly o f each province. This was an assembly o f representatives of the village communities of each province. It dealt with revenue and judicial administration (D ’Souza 1975: 29). While the Brahmins were not gauncars in every village, their influence was slowly established all over the region (De Souza 1990: 91). In contrast to Dumont (1980), who stresses the radical separation of ‘status’ and ‘power’, the material suggests that the higher, twicebom castes had both the highest social status and the greatest access to economic and political resources.5 The region was gradually knit together under a caste system with a common base in rice cultivation from the eighth or ninth century onwards. The cultivation of rice required a strict discipline revolving around a fixed agricultural calendar. The best use had to be made of the monsoon months, which provided the water resources for the main crop. Those who brought the cultivation of rice also established the systems of water storage (ponds and wells) and drainage required to make it successful. A system developed by which village land was claimed in common ownership by clans of gauncars, who were the male descendants, in the patriline, of the original clearers of the land (Baden-Powell 1900, 1908). These were mostly from the higher castes. The gauncars claimed hereditary rights in the land. Theirs was a kind of landed oligarchy organized into vangors (clans) of the original settlers of the village (De Souza 1990: 91-2). Those who cultivated the soil provided only the labour, the gauncars holding and maintaining the means of production. They held responsibility for protecting the fields from inundation by sea-water, maintaining public roads, demarcating places for common use and wards for servants and artisans. They looked to the digging of wells, the allocation of rights of use of waterways and the maintenance o f irrigation facilities (D ’Costa 1964: 22).

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The gauncars held the land in common but conducted auctions to lease separate fields among themselves individually for cultivation. Resident non-gauncars of the village could not bid in these auctions (De Souza 1990:95). The gauncars paid the taxes owed to the rulers, administered village expenses and then shared the surplus among themselves. The villages were not isolated and self-contained (Shah and Srinivas I960). Various forms of trade were common (De Souza 1990: 81-2). Weekly markets and seasonal fairs enabled villagers to dispose off their surplus produce, of agriculture or domestic crafts, and procure in exchange other provisions that they needed. Goa itself was a trade centre of some dimension. Muslims and Saraswats handled much of Goan trade, probably coming into contact with Arabs, Persians, Gujarati vanias (traders) and other mercantile groups both from India and outside.

Caste Organization In the regional social organization of the sixteenth century the Brahmins were at the top of the caste hierarchy and there were different sub-castes among them.6 Particular groups such as the goldsmiths may have claimed Brahmin status (Pereira 1978: 29). The Brahmins were generally characterized by higher learning and education, and some sub-castes followed the priestly occupation. Yet, Brahmins were also landlords and, in many cases, involved in trade, craft and mercantile activities (D ’Souza 1975:65). The Saraswat Brahmins were an important mercantile group. There is a considerable lack of consensus on which groups constituted the middle ranges of the caste structure. Below the Brahmin sub-groups, there were probably a number of other groups jostling for position. Various writers hold the view that they would have included some warrior and trading ( vania) groups (Pereira 1978; Gomes 1987; D’Souza 1975). The appellation Chatim, used by traders, has been found in the early church accounts of conversion in a few villages where such non-Brahmin groups were dominant (Pissurlencar 1934). Some

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writers speak of the existence of a warrior caste known as the Tssaddis who are said to have come from the north with or following the Brahmins. After conversion to Catholicism these groups seem to have merged into the Chardo (a distorted form of Tssaddi) caste. After these came the artisan and service castes such as the washermen, fishermen, carpenters, ironsmiths, barbers, leatherworkers, tin-smiths, tailors, toddy-tappers, agricultural workers, weavers and potters. Mahars (basket-weavers) and Chamars (leatherworkers) were among those who came at the bottom of the hierarchy (De Souza 1990: 101). Mahars removed and cleaned dead animals, while the leather-workers dealt with dead animals’ skins. The different castes and sub-castes functioned as endogamous groups. Certain castes had commensal relations, not always reciprocal. In general, the Brahmins would not eat at the houses of the lower castes (D ’Souza 1975: 64). The tin-smiths and the tailors would eat in the houses of the higher Brahmin and non-Brahmin castes but the latter would not eat with them. In general, eating with castes lower than one’s own was believed to cause ritual pollution and in some cases— eating with the very lowest castes or with nonHindus— a pollution so great that the person involved might be ostracized by his caste (D ’Costa 1964: 25). It is possible that a few of the service castes migrated to Goa at various points of time. Some may have been brought by the Brahmins and other incoming groups to work for them. This is certainly the case reported by Gough in her study of Brahmin migrations in south India (1981: 178). This possibility would be consistent with the fact that these groups were found serving the village communities in the sixteenth century. Many of them worked as tenants ( mundcars) in the fields of the gauncars, while also engaged in other agricultural and nonagricultural occupations. The various castes were linked together in a system of patron-client or jajmani relationships whereby the lower groups provided hereditary craft services or ritual pollution-removing services to their higher-caste patrons in return for a share in the harvest.

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Religious Organization In almost every village, the main temple had been established by the gauncars and they were its mahajans.7 The gauncars retained some of the best land in the village for the maintenance of the temple and paid for its servants such as the bhats (priests) and the kolvonts (dancing-girls) (D ’Costa 1964: 28). The mahajans controlled the main temple cult and the lowest castes such as the barbers or Mahars would have no access to the priest’s services (Azavedo 1890: 46). The main agricultural festivals and the zatras (festivals of the deity) were celebrated in the temple. In every village, gauncars enjoyed certain ritual honours and privileges in these festivities (Baden-Powell 1900: 265-7). In other words, ritual enacted hierarchy and inequality. Important deities in Goa were Shiva, Krishna, Ganesh and Vishnu. Lakshmi and Parvati were important female deities. Other deities were specific to the west coast region. Shantadurga, Mahadeva and Maruti were important village deities. To these deities, vegetable offerings were made. Usually Brahmins mediated between people and these deities. In some cases, perhaps, other gau near castes may have acted as priests for the village deities. Betall and Ravalnatha were popular deities who were said to preside over ruins and other vulnerable areas of the village (Pereira 1978: 31-6). Lower castes could act as priests for these deities and animal sacrifices could be offered to them. There were deities such as Purusha who was regarded as being either the ancestor of an important lineage in a village or a mythical ancestor who was supposed to have established the village (Pereira 1978: 35). There were also evil spirits ( mharus) such as those of dead persons and demons, who inhabited certain vulnerable areas in the village. The low-caste gaddhi (shaman) mediated between humans and such supernatural beings. Access to the central village deity and other higher deities was controlled by the mahajans. The lower castes probably had some role to play in temple rituals but it would have been a small one. Even so, they probably had access to deities such as Betall and the mharus or spirit deities which they worshipped separately, and to religious specialists such as the gaddhiwho cured illnesses and gave

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protection from evil spirits and demons. To all these deities animal sacrifices could be offered. Once rice had established itself as the major crop in Goa, social life organized itself around its cultivation. Ritual celebrations at the village level were linked closely to the cycle of agricultural activities.

Political Relations Goa came under the suzerainty of various dynasties at different points of time and to these the local communities paid taxes for military protection. The political situation was characterized by a degree of fluidity. The rulers collected revenues in return for protecting the area from invaders. They did not generally intervene in the life of the local communities. From the eighth to the tenth centuries, Goa is said to have come under the suzerainty of the Silaharas (Kamat 1990: 10) and possibly some tax was paid for military protection. The area came under the Kadambas from the tenth to the fourteenth centuries. Under their rule, the gauncars of a number of village communities had been forced to divide their income into shares that were issued in return for loans given by those who bought them. The money obtained for the shares was paid in taxes. The need to sell shares was created because the villagers had to bear a great deal of expense in the form of taxes due to the wars between their rulers and Muslim invaders. The sale of shares, however, was restricted to gauncars and residents of a village. Non-gauncars who bought shares obtained the privilege of participation in the income of the village communities but not in their administration. Under the Vijayanagar empire’s century-long rule (late fourteenth to fifteenth century), land revenue was imposed on the rice-growing communities. It amounted to one-fifth of the gross income of the village (De Souza 1979: 78; Kosambi 1956: 309). For palm groves, revenue was assessed at the rate of 5 tongas8 per year per hundred trees (De Souza 1979: 78). From about 1489, Goa came under the rule of the Adil Shah dynasty. Under these Muslims, two new taxes were introduced. The godde varado was a tax imposed to support

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the Muslim cavalry. Further, additional land revenue called the khoshi varado specifically taxing grasslands and forests was imposed (De Souza 1979: 67). These taxes placed a heavy burden on the village communities. The Adil Shahi rulers attempted to take over communal land from the villages. Their military made frequent marches into the vil­ lages attempting to take over communal land as their own. They also forcibly took away people to work as menials in their house­ holds (Kosambi 1962:158-9). This aggravated relations between the local Hindus, particularly the gauncars, and the rulers because it threatened the former’s position in the village communities. Per­ haps because of this the Hindus, particularly the gauncars, welcomed the Portuguese and supported them against the Muslims. The Portuguese themselves used this situation to their advantage. At first, while they kept the taxes of the earlier rulers, they agreed to preserve all local institutions, such as the gauncari system. Later, after 1540, when conversion started on a large scale, gauncars who converted were, in principle, allowed to retain their rights in the village communities. The rights of those who refused to convert, however, were taken from them (Kosambi 1962: 159).

Portuguese Entry into Goa: The ‘W hy’ o f Conversion By the sixteenth century a particular village organization character­ ized Goa, a largely Hindu region. The Muslim population of the region which was concentrated especially in and around its main city was to suffer significant losses because of a Portuguese massacre. On the eve of the Portuguese entry into Goa, relations in the village communities were being changed by the policies followed by the Adil Shah dynasty. In particular, the position of the higher-caste gauncars was being undermined. It is therefore possible that they supported the Portuguese against the Muslims in 1510 and converted to align themselves with the former (Pereira 1978:7). But why did the lowest castes convert? I shall try to answer such questions later. For the moment, let us describe the conversion process and try and examine why the Portuguese set out to make converts.

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In the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, Europe was in a phase of transition and great changes were taking place. Portugal’s maritime ventures show an advance towards mercantile capitalism. But, as Anderson argues (1980: 36), mercantilism in this period in Europe retained the ‘tell-tale’ medieval ‘fusion of political and eco­ nomic orders’. ‘Mercantilism was precisely a theory of the coherent intervention of the political State into the workings of the ‘economy’. The State ‘ sponsored colonial enterprises and trading companies’ (1980: 40-1) and was itself founded on the social supremacy of the aristocracy and confined by the imperatives of ‘landed property’. It was the noble class and within it particular lines or families that held maritime trade and overseas military activity within their grip. This is but part of the story. For the Portuguese viewed theirs as a mercantile and maritime empire cast in a military and ecclesiastical mould. Every male Portuguese who went out to the East did so in the service of the Crown or that of the Church (Boxer 1963). Religion, ‘mission’ was never separate from mercantilism, or conversion from commerce. Missionary activity under the Portuguese must be seen as being linked very closely to the establishment of military and political rule in Goa and in other regions taken over by them. The Portuguese king functioned as the Grand Master o f the Order of Christ and the Padroado which came into force as a result of the series of Papal Bulls passed between 1452 and 1456 gave him the authority to conquer, subdue and convert all pagan territories. In other words, he was the effective head of the Catholic church within the limits o f his overseas territories. He nominated bishops, endowed religious institutions with funds from the royal revenues, licensed the religious Orders and the individual clergy who sought passage to the colonies and often refused to permit them to stay on if they incurred his displeasure or had made their entry illegally (Diffie and Winius 1977: 335). Though not all the missionaries who came to Goa were Portuguese, they functioned under and by the orders of the King of Portugal. There were four major Orders operating in Goa during this period. The Franciscans arrived in 1517 and their work was limited to the northern district of Bardez. The Jesuits who arrived in 1542 were responsible for the conversion of Tiswadi and Salcete districts in central and southern Goa.9 The two other Orders of significance

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were the Dominicans, who came in 1548 and the Augustinians, who came a few years later. The Orders had their differences, but in their missionary activities in this period they functioned in broadly similar ways.10 Portugal’s Asian ventures may be viewed as an extension of the Crusades. From the eleventh century onwards, the history of the Iberian Peninsula was in large measure one of confrontation bet­ ween Muslim and Christian forces. With the First Crusade in 1095, Christians launched a series of attacks on Muslims to wrest from them the control of the eastern Mediterranean (DifFie and Winius 1977: 12). Subrahmanyam (1993: 30-2) points out that the conflict against Islamic forces shaped the mentalities of the medieval Portuguese. It entered into the creation of the nation itself, which took its most definite shape by 1250, and involved the defeat of the Muslims who had been ruling the area since the eighth century. The fourteenth century saw the creation of the Order of Christ. Portugal was charged with the responsibility of defending Christians from the Muslims whether in Europe or overseas. The sixteenth century also saw the rise o f the Counter-Reformation in Europe. In the mid-sixteenth century, with the Council of Trent, the church codified its laws and strengthened itself against the Reformation (Boxer 1969:67). By this time Portugal like the rest of Catholic Europe, according to Weinstein and Bell (1982: 161), was involved both in the Counter-Reformation at home and in the conversion of the people found in the territories of Asia, Africa and America. It was with this complex of influences that the Portuguese went forth on their Asian ventures. The Muslims controlled the spice trade with Asia and the battle to wrest control of it almost inevitably assumed religious dimensions for the Portuguese. With such ideas Vasco da Gama entered the waters of the Indian ocean, on the search for ‘Christians and spices’ (Boxer 1969: 18). Fed on vague notions that Prester John ruled India and that Indians were Christians, it is no wonder that he and his men paid homage to what they thought was the image of ‘Mary’ in Hindu temples.11 To gain complete control o f the Asian trade routes, the Portuguese found that they needed certain key posts where they could establish political and military rule. Goa was one of these posts and the Portuguese were keen to capture it. Boxer (1963,1969) and

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Pearson (1981, 1987) argue that the Portuguese had a ‘mixed motivation’, involving religious, political and economic aspects. It was in 1510 that the city of Goa and its surrounding islands of Tiswadi, Chorao, Vamsi, Jua and Diwar were taken over by Afonso de Albuquerque and his troops from its Muslim rulers. It is not surprising that Albuquerque’s first act on entering the city was a massacre of the Muslims (D ’Costa 1962: 162). The Europeans of the sixteenth century appear to have divided the world into two halves: Christians and infidels/heretics or pagans. The Portuguese treatment of the Muslims in Goa shows how clearly they identified with this world-view. It also explains their handling of the Hindu population of Goa. While these were not traditional enemies to be killed they were, nevertheless, ‘pagans’. Yet the Portuguese needed their help and support if they were to rule for any length of time in Goa. Since they identified themselves primarily in religious terms, their method of incorporating the local population into their political body and ensuring its support necessarily involved converting it to their own religion— Catholicism. Mass conversions, then, were a fundamental part of their charter, given the need to create a body of social allies (Houtart and Lemercinier 1981: 253). Conversion and the establishment of Portuguese rule in a foreign land came to be closely linked together.

Conversion: Modes and Motivations Though few in number,12 the Portuguese had at their command superior weaponry in terms of guns and cannons on their ships (Pearson 1987: 57) and a body of soldiers who, according to Diffie and Winius (1977:223-4), proved themselves fearless in battle against the Muslim rulers. Their forces were, thus, superior to those of the Muslim rulers they fought. The local Hindus were on occasion also threatened with this force. However, in the early stages, they supported the Portuguese against the Muslims. In fact, it is likely that many groups accepted conversion to align themselves with the Portuguese. While the methods of conversion were often based on enforce­ ment, Catholicism was in certain ways adaptable to local social needs.

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Moreover, it cannot be said that the people who converted were completely passive or helpless. Why, then, did they convert? Heras (1935) and Anthony D Costa (1965) argue that the conversions arose out of true commitment to the faith, not out of force or out of a desire to gain material benefits. Both write self-consciously from the perspective of the converting missionaries. Both hold that the mis­ sionaries were humanist in their approach, converting only when there was a genuine desire on the part of the person to be converted to turn to Christ. D ’Souza tries to demonstrate, using the available evidence, that people ‘asked’ to be converted. He interprets this to mean that the conversions were completely voluntary in character. In doing so he closes his mind to the social and political circum­ stances within which the conversions took place. Certain other writers such as Priolkar (1961), Rao (1963) and Pereira (1978) emphasize the opposite: that conversions were based on force, with the local population helpless in the face of the missionaries. They argue that though in theory it was enjoined that conversions should be based on free consent, in practice the instruments used were the lure of material rewards and the threat of violence. Debates between the temporal or spiritual motivations for con­ version raise a false problem. As various writers have shown (Caplan 1987; Guiart 1962: 123), for converts the two were inseparable; they saw the missionaries’ offerings as an undifferentiated ‘package deal’. The same is true for the missionaries, who set out with a clutch of motives wherein the religious was not separable from the economic or the political. Further, I would suggest that an exclusive emphasis on either constraint and coercion or election and intent gives an incomplete picture of the conversions. While the Portuguese closed in upon the Hindu world, choice was exercised by those tracked down, if only within the limits of the given situation. Generally, at first, the Portuguese used two methods of conversion: taking over the care of orphans and using a system of privileges to attract adherents to the faith.13 According to the first system, girls under the age of twelve and boys below fourteen whose fathers were no longer alive had to be given over to Christian guardians who would bring them up according to Christian principles. They received Portuguese education and were available

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for incorporation into Portuguese service. The second way of gaining adherents involved setting aside jobs and offices for those who converted, while denying them to those who refused to do so. This contributed to the building up of a force of administrative workers loyal to the Portuguese. This would have been important because, as I have noted above, the Portuguese were never numerically a very large force in Goa. Both methods succeeded only in small measure, though, and even in the late 1540s the pace of conversions was essentially quite slow (D ’Costa 1965: 49). It was around this time that the methods of conversion underwent a change. A stronger offensive was launched, which involved the elimination of places of worship and statues, the prohibition o f religious practices and the activities of priests and the manoeuvre, in various ways, of socio-economic and kin relationships by means of which society was organized. It was just before this change in methods that the Portuguese had consolidated their political position in Goa. Mormugao and the islands of Bardez and Salcete came under their control in 1543. This area, consisting of Tiswadi, Salcete, Mormugao and Bardez, referred to in the literature as the Old Conquests, was to constitute their colony until I960. Given that earlier attempts at drawing people to their faith had not brought great success, perhaps the new approach owed something to the recent strengthening of the hold of the Portuguese on Goa. At around this time (mid-sixteenth century), further, the Counter Reformation had grown in strength in Europe and, consequently, the attitude towards non-Christian faiths had begun to harden (Subrahmanyam 1990:111). It was also during this period that missionary Orders such as the Dominicans, Jesuits and Augustinians had begun to arrive in Goa to take control of the conversion effort. The area of the New Conquests, consisting of Pemem, Ponda, Bicholim, Canacona, Sanguem, Quepem, Mormugao and Satari, came under Portuguese control in the late 1700s. The fact that large-scale conversions were not undertaken in these areas may also have had something to do with the new political realities facing the Portuguese. As Subrahmanyam (1990,1993) points out, the overall power of the Portuguese in Asia underwent shifts between the sixteenth and the eighteenth centuries.

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By the 1700s, the Portuguese were living in a different political environment. In India, they had entered into situations of ‘contained conflict’ (Subrahmanyam 1990: 252-97) with the Mappilas of Malabar and other trading and local ruling groups in the south in the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Goa and the Konkan territo­ ries themselves had to be defended against the military threats of the Bijapur rulers, the Bhonsles and the Mughals. Portuguese pos­ sessions in Asia were threatened by the Dutch and the English (Subrahmanyam 1993: 213)- The confidence of the earlier period (1500s) therefore which may have spurred the Portuguese to ‘con­ quer and convert’, had given way to a quieter mood (Boxer 1969: 78). Perhaps because of this, when the new territories came into their possession, conversion was not undertaken on a massive scale. While some missions were set up, the scale was smaller. By and large, in these areas, Hindus were left to their own practices. To return to the initial phase of conversions, in the 1540s, a number of laws were enacted against the Hindus, particularly against those with socio-economic and religious dominance— the highercaste gauncars and the priests. These laws included the banishment of the Hindus from the Old Conquests if they did not convert (in which case they lost their property), the banning of the performance of Hindu religious rites, festivals and ceremonies and the prohibition of the religious activities of Hindu priests. Hindu gauncars were forbidden from convening a general council unless the gauncars who had converted to Christianity were present. It was declared that if they did so, their decisions in such a council would be considered null and void. They would, moreover, be subject to a fine. In villages where there were more Christian than Hindu gauncars, the latter were not permitted to enter the assembly and when the decisions were recorded, the names of all the Christian gauncars had to be written first (Wicki 1940-72 9:30506). Artisans who had served the village gauncars and fashioned the objects of worship required in temple rituals could not be employed to produce any objects of Christian worship unless they converted. The Inquisition which was instituted in Goa in the sixteenth cen­ tury to prevent recourse to non-Christian practices among converts, could also be used against the Hindus if it was proved that they had

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tried to prevent persons from converting (Neill 1984: 230-1).14 The Inquisition was established in 1560 in Goa and completely with­ drawn in 1812. It would have been quite effective (Subrahmanyam 1993: 119) for novices of various religious Orders kept an eye on the people and state forces and prisons could be used to detain those who disobeyed the laws. They could be fined or face jail sentences (Neill 1984: 31). While death at the stake was the most severe pun­ ishment possible, it appears to have been rarely enforced. It is pos­ sible, though, that a number of people died imprisoned without ever having their cases come up for trial (ibid.). The various methods effectively cut off the Hindus’ access to their old laws and placed severe limitations on their options. Yet, ways could be found to get around these measures. Violent resis­ tance to conversion came in the form o f attacks on missionaries. In 1583, five Jesuits were killed in Cuncolim village (De Souza 1990: 103). Though the response was swift and repressive, such acts o f resistance make it difficult for us to view the Hindus as completely passive. Even when people converted, some means of purification and re-entry into Hindu society may have been possible. Kulkami (1992) records that the situation of mass conversion called for hasty measures. The Brahmins of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries devised various simple methods of purification such as bathing in the sea on the occasion of particular festivals or being sprinkled with water from the sacred river Ganga. The success of Catholicism, witnessed by the fact that by the turn of the sixteenth century the entire area of the ‘Old Conquests’ had been converted (D ’Costa 1965), makes it probable, however, that people accepted conversion in many cases. We should try to understand the motives of the converts. Let us see how the gauncars of Carambolim discuss in 1560 the situation arising out of the increasing influence of Christianity. One spoke up and argued thus: ‘ ... We should go with our families to the mainland and live under our law because ... it seems to me that it is better to lose our property than our souls’. Another responded thus: ‘I do not think that the fervour of Christianity will last beyond the reign o f this Viceroy because it is his zeal that has led to all this. It appears to me that we should wait till he leaves and in the meanwhile sustain ourselves as best as we can in Goa’.

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Finally, the seniormost... raised himself and said: ‘I do not think it good to calculate when the Viceroy, Dom Constantino is going to leave for Portugal but rather when the fathers o f the Company of Jesus are going to leave. And it is clear that they will never leave or stop making Christians. It will not end with this Viceroy but will carry on with all the others. Therefore, let us commend ourselves to God and become Christians’. As a result o f this resolution, fourteen gauncars with their families became Christians (Wicki

4:658-9). On the one hand this decision to convert by the gauncars was totally pragmatic: they did so to avoid losing their property. Yet, there may have been other reasons. By aligning themselves with the new rulers through conversion, the gauncars could hope to re­ establish their position, which had recently been encroached upon by the Muslim military. Again, the gauncars, like other Hindus, faced the realization that since the missionaries would not leave, access to their own deities would remain cut off by the elimination of temples and religious images and the prohibitions mentioned above. In such a situation, they had little choice but to adopt the new religion. It may be possible that some time later such converts began to perceive that the new religion could be adapted to their own social and religious needs.15 According to Silva Rego (1947-58 1: 343), in 1543 in the village of Daugim in Tiswadi, a church was built on the site where a temple had previously stood. The temple was pulled down by the Hindus, who asked for a church instead. We know that by this time the removal of temples had already commenced. Images were being overturned and laws had came into force making the open practice of Hinduism virtually impossible. Under such circumstances, how might we understand the suggestion in the literature that the Hindus ‘asked’ for a church; volunteered, as it were, for conversion? We have other instances of Hindus asking to be converted. Wicki (1940-72 4:342-3) tells us: Near the church of St John ... dwelt an honest pagan man who out of fear o f shaming himself in front o f his relatives could not say that he wanted to become a Christian. He knew that one o f the provisions o f the King was the prohibition o f the celebration of Hindu festivals under the threat of punishment. One o f these was

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the festival of Shigmo. The man contrived to make it appear as if he was celebrating the festival, and then went to Father André Vaz and asked the latter to behold his action and, accordingly, arrest him and give him the punishment he merited. He asked Father Vaz to charge him before the Vicar General for his breaking of the law, so that he could then become Christian without fear o f his relatives.

Similar stories are to be found about the celebration of festivals such as Ganesh Chaturthi and of ceremonies such as marriage. Those who had attempted to perform such ceremonies or to celebrate such festivals in hiding, proclaimed their desire to be converted when caught in these prohibited acts. Why? Of course, there is an easy explanation: they wished to escape punishment. But our examination should go deeper than providing merely pragmatic answers. We must locate such stories within the context of the prohibitions placed on the practice of Hinduism. The option to convert can be appreciated against the increasing furtiveness that had to accompany any attempts at maintaining prohibited rites, which, in their original form, were being rendered less and less available, less recoverable. In parenthesis, I would like to suggest that the only mode of recovery, if partial, to become possible was within the context of the new religion and, perhaps, soon enough the converts were to realize this. The expediency that appears to underlie the simulated celebration of Shigmo must also be viewed in the light of the fact that the fitting modes of ritual observance were already increasingly inaccessible. I would argue, therefore, that the Hindus did not act either solely out of pragmatism or completely out of a sense of helplessness. A choice was clearly being made to adopt Catholicism. It would appear that the Portuguese had gained some idea of the centrality of the temple in the life of a village community. They were aware that lands were kept aside for those who served in the temple and of the link between agricultural processes and religious celebrations. In this respect the predominantly agricultural societies of Europe and India were similar. Indeed, wherever agriculture is important in Europe today, such similarities are found. Local churches played and still play an important role in village life in Portugal, as in other countries of Europe. Fairs are celebrated around the feasts of local patron saints and agricultural festivals are a part of the local church calendar (Marques

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1971:184). In fact, the Catholic calendar moves in harmony with the seasonal changes in Europe. Of course, Goa’s indigenous seasonal changes are very different from the European ones, but all these factors do seem to suggest reasons why the Hindus may not have perceived Catholicism as a completely alien religious tradition. Further, the missionaries also soon tried to learn Konkani, the local language, in order to communicate their religion to the local people. The missionaries encouraged the celebration of the feasts of various saints and the higher and lower social groups hosted these celebrations. In the Hindu pattern, the lower castes had access to their own deities within the Hindu pantheon but in temple-centred ritual, they probably had a more peripheral role. That with conversion the high castes gauncars did not lose their ritual privileges may provide some inkling as to why they may have asked to be converted. For the lowest castes, conversion promised a more positive position in that while they were still not as privileged as the high castes, they had some role in certain church celebrations. Clearly the Portuguese were not ill-disposed to the privileges of social rank. Many came from the top ranks of a hierarchically organized society themselves. This explains why they made considerable efforts to convert the high castes such as Brahmins (D ’Costa 1965), incorporate Brahmins into the priesthood (De Mello 1955) and grant administrative posts and offices principally to the higher castes. They also allowed the converted high-caste gauncars a variety of honours and privileges in the church-centred Catholic ritual cycle that came to prevail in the villages where the new religion was established. In a variety of ways, the missionaries and the local people, especially the higher social groups, colluded in a process whereby the church itself became a medium to express relations of hierarchy. There is another important aspect to the acceptance of conversion by the Hindus. The Portuguese required conversion as a basis for recognizing various groups within their political body. Accepting the new religion signified willingness on the part of the converts to come to terms with them and negotiate with them within the changed environment. It opened the way, particularly for the higher castes, to gain access to the new administrative jobs and offices generated by the Portuguese regime. Christianity was the religion of the rulers,

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and conversion was often viewed as the first step towards acquiring some o f the superiority o f their position (Ifeka-Moller 1974; Arasaratnam 1977). Let us now turn to look at the ways in which the Portuguese entered the space of the socio-economic and kin relations of the local Hindus. With respect to commensal relations between castes, the Portuguese were aware that eating food with strangers defiled the Hindu. It involved pollution so great that the person found guilty was rendered an outcaste and no social relationships could be entered into with him (D ’Costa 1964: 25). In a letter to King Sebastian in 1561, Provincial Quadros wrote: ... [Tlhose who eat from our hand cannot be Hindus any more nor mix with Hindus nor the Hindus with them... Once they experience our hospitality, those who eat our food and in our plates are incapable of being Hindus any more and lose all hope of re-entering their caste, and have necessarily to accept some other Law, since they have lost the one they had ... (D ’Costa 1965: 87-8).

Documenta Indica (Wicki 1940-72 4: 345-6) tells us the story of a woman who, when she found that her son had eaten beef at a Christian’s house, went to a priest and told him that she wanted to convert because her son had eaten beef and already become a Christian. A boy who had eaten food at a Christian’s house had, in effect, lost his caste and his place in the circle of kinship. For his mother, then, little remained but to follow suit. In this way, not just individuals but whole families, kin groups or local caste groups could be converted.16 We do have evidence that meat-eating was not a taboo among the lowest castes (Azavedo 1890: 37), whose deities were often honoured with animal sacrifices (Azavedo 1890: 37). For them, the adoption of a meat-centred diet would not have been a wrench. In our story, however, we are probably meeting with a Brahmin woman or one from some other high caste. What is interesting is that among Catholics today, beef, and even more particularly pork, are the festive foods par excellence. Moreover, the consumption of these are a sign of social status. ‘To cut a pig for a feast’ is a matter of pride and invokes admiration. It is possible only for the wealthy, who are usually of high caste. Yet,

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even the lowliest Catholic will try to purchase at least a kilogram of pork for a feast day. It is clear that the consumption of beef and pork (mas) are associated with the Portuguese. It is said that they brought the mass and meat (mis ani mas). No wonder that mass and the feast centred around mas are the principle activities of a festive celebration. It is probable that in the period of conversions, accepting mas was a crucial way of aligning oneself with those who ruled. Fiddes (1991: 22) argues that in medieval and late medieval Europe, meat was the food of rulers and the wealthy and powerful. Beef and pork, along with goat and mutton, were staple foods. Vegetables were the food of the poorer folk (Marques 1971: 22). According to Fiddes (1991), meat has, in western thought, always been associated with ideas of power, control or status. Braudel (1981: 105) mentions that the Europeans attempted to establish meat-eating civilizations in the new territories taken over by them. In these regions, as the food of the rulers and the rich, meat was clearly associated with status, power and authority (Braudel 1973: 67, 1981: 201). As he says, ‘Abroad, the lords and masters ate meat’ (Braudel 1981: 105). It is, therefore, possible to argue that the converts, who associated meat with the Portuguese rulers, may have adopted their meat-eating habits as a means of aligning themselves with them and gaining access to some of their superior power. In some cases, the network of social relations in the village communities may have been used to bring about conversions. Documenta Indica (Wicki 1940-72 4: 753) tells us of a priest who came to a village to pray over a Christian. When he had finished praying, the priest asked the man, since he was their gauncar and leader, to call together the Christians of the village ... so that he could talk to them about God. When they had come together he gave them a lecture which pleased them very much. He then told them to go and gather together all the 'gentios' so he could talk to them and make them Christians.

The priest initially uses the man to approach the people of the village because he is their ‘leader’. Does this spe^k of a missionary policy to convert the lower castes through their leaders, the landowners o f the village? There are other cases where the

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missionaries first persuaded the ‘elders’ of the village to convert, followed by the other caste groups (D ’Costa 1965). The vertical ties of socio-economic dependence which bound the lower-caste groups to their higher-caste landowning patrons may have been utilized to convert them. Those who did not convert could, in any case, not b e employed by the Christian gauncars and landowners. From the point of view of these groups, taking on Catholicism was probably both a way of aligning themselves with the new rulers and re-establishing, within the terms of the new regime, their relationship with their patrons in the village communities. Conversion of the lower castes may however have come about in a different way; one which undermined rather than re-established the village patron-client relationships. The entry of the Portuguese and the establishment of the church in Goa gave rise to certain new occupations such as wine-selling and baking. Their products would have been essential to Catholicism because they are used in the sacrament of the mass. It is probable that lower castes converted because they saw as positive the option of taking up such occupations associated with the Portuguese regime, in comparison to their position in Hindu caste society. It is true that the extent of such mobility was not very great. The groups remained at the bottom of the social hierarchy, only losing their ‘polluting’ occupations. However, the expectation of change may have been an important factor in conversion.

Sustained Evangelization Affiliation with Catholicism through conversion had its dramatic phase. Over the next two centuries and a half the Portuguese made concerted efforts to firmly establish the faith among the new converts. Recourse to Hindu sacred rites and modes of worship was prohibited. A multitude of indigenous cultural practices came to be viewed with suspicion and the Inquisition was used to eradicate them. An edict of the Inquisition published in 1736 gives us an indication of the practices that the'missionaries wished to forbid the converts.

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These included ceremonies in honour of ancestral shades, the maintenance of Hindu sacred rites, festivals, fasts and holy days, the use of the tullshi (tulsi) plant or of rice-flour, oil, flowers or leaves for ceremonial or ornamental purposes. The use of betel leaves and areca nuts in ritual exchanges, such as on the occasion of marriages, or as marks of social precedence was also prohibited. The singing of celebratory verses at marriages and other festive occasions and the employment of traditional musical instruments were forbidden. The use of garments such as the dhoti and the choli was frowned upon. The maintenance of particular pollution beliefs and practices considered inimical to Christian principles was prohibited (Priolkar 1961: 97-107; D’Souza 1975: 125-33). Among the converts Hindu religious rites and symbols came to be replaced by Catholic liturgical celebrations, feasts of Christian saints, church-centred solemnization of life-cycle rites and Christian symbols and prayers. The church and its missionaries clearly also influenced people through the slow process of teaching them about such religious practices (Comaroff and Comaroff 1986).17 Those who learnt about Catholicism became familiar with it through the liturgy of the mass and practices associated with various stages in the life­ cycle of the individual and elaborated in the annual calendar of the church. At first the missionaries attempted to stifle the local language and impose Portuguese on all classes of people (Priolkar 1961: 98). They soon realized, however, that learning and teaching in the local language, Konkani, was essential to propagate the faith. Catechism lessons were instituted for both adults and children in each village (D ’Costa 1965). Villages had their priests and church in which the community worshipped. Various kinds of religious literature had come out by the early seventeenth century in Konkani including stories about Christ and the lives of saints. These might have been read out to the faithful in the churches on Sundays and days of devotion (Stephens 1907: 43). Certain important questions are raised by the discussion here, which should be addressed. Why did the missionaries try to change practices which on the face of it seem to have nothing to do with religion and are purely cultural? In this respect, is Goa different from

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other parts of India or the world where conversion took place under colonial rule? Is this difference to be traced, as is popularly believed, to the presence of the Inquisition, which is regarded as having rendered conversion here more forceful than in other regions? In part, the answer to the last two questions must be in the affirmative. But we must explore the issues much more sensitively and deeply. Visvanathan (1993b: 12-13) speaking o f Protestant missionaries effecting conversions in south India says that they, ‘were earnest that there must be outward symbols of this change of beliefs. The missionaries wanted their Tamil converts to shave the kudumi, that tuft of hair which signified high status, and separated them from Muslims, Christians and low castes. The missionaries believed that this was a symbol of idolatry’. According to her: There were other customs which the missionaries abhorred ... the celebration o f puberty among Tamil Christian girls, the use of cowdung and rice flour for decorative purposes, oil baths on Saturdays and Wednesdays, chewing betel, expressing relationships o f honour through the use o f sandalwood, flowers and betel.

These prohibitions bear a startling resemblance to those found instituted in Goa. And there is no Inquisition to which one could attribute them. On the other hand, among colonial territories, the Inquisition was not unique to Goa. It functioned in many areas under Portuguese and Spanish rule. It was used in Africa and South America to eradicate so-called ‘pagan’ customs including menstruation rituals and ancestral rites. It was applied to Portuguese pockets in south India. With the Synod of Diamper, Portuguese missionaries in Kerala tried not only to bring about changes in the liturgy o f the Syrian Christians but also to eliminate all traces of Hindu belief and socio­ ritual practice found among them. In other words, across regional, temporal and denominational boundaries, missionaries seem consistently to seek visible signs o f religious change from their converts.18 The various historical examples reveal that conversion as a sociological phenomenon is rarely limited only to a transformation in religious beliefs. Social and cultural changes always accompany it. There is accommodation and negotiation though, rather than an elimination of indigenous ways.

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In Goa, we find mention, even in the colonial period, of visits by Catholics to Hindu religious specialists. One also finds evidence of a continuing familiarity with Hindu religious customs (Pereira and Martins 1967). In both Goa and Kerala, as I pointed out, despite the radical difference in conversion methods and political contexts, ways were found to protect the privileges of the high-caste local elites. There are therefore ‘limits’, as Mills (1994: 84) puts it, to so-called coercive evangelical methods. Missionaries do forge links with local practice and people themselves adjust to the limitations placed on them without giving up completely their own social and cultural modes.

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_____, 1991. Etnografía da India Portuguesa, 2 vols., Asian Educational Services, Delhi. Braudel, Fernand, 1973. Capitalism and Material Life 1400-1800, tr. Miriam Kochan, London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson. ____ , 1981. Civilization and Capitalism 15th-18th Century (1 ): The Structures o f Everyday Life, tr. Sián Reynolds, London: Collins. ------, 1992. The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age o f Philip II, tr. Sign Reynolds, London: Harper Collins Publishers. Caplan, L., 1987. Class and Culture in Urban India: Fundamentalism in a Christian Community, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Comaroff, Jean, 1985. Body o f Power, Spirit o f Resistance: The Culture and History o f a South African People, Chicago and London: University o f Chicago Press. Comaroff, Jean and John Comaroff, 1986. ‘Christianity and Colonialism in South Africa’, American Ethnologist, 13(1), pp. 1-22. Cunha Rivara, J.H. da, 1992. Archivo Portuguez-Oriental, 6 fascículos em 10 partes, Asian Educational Services, Delhi. D’Costa, Anthony, 1962. ‘The Demolition o f the Temples in the Islands o f Goa in 1540 and the Disposal of the Temple Lands’, Nouvelle Revue de Science Missionaire, 18, pp. 161-76. ------ , 1964. ‘Administrative, Social and Religious Conditions in the Goa Islands, 1510-50’, Indica, 1(1), pp. 1-10. ____ _, 1965. The Christianization o f the Goa Islands, Bombay: St. Xavier’s College. De Mello, C. Merces, 1955. The Recruitment and Formation o f the Native Clergy in India, Lisbon: Agéncia Geral do Utramar. Derrett, J.D.M., 1977. ‘Hindu Law in Goa: A Contact between Natural, Roman and Hindu Laws’, inJ.D.M. Derrett, Essays in Classical and Modem Hindu Law, vol. 2, E.J. Brill, Leiden. D'Souza, B.G., 1975. Goan Society in Transition: A Study in Social Change, Bombay: Popular Prakashan. De Souza, T.R., 1979. Medieval Goa: A Socio-Economic History, Delhi: Concept Publishers. _____, ‘Rural Economy and Life’, in T.R. De Souza, ed., 1990. Goa Through the Ages, Delhi: Concept Publishers, pp. 78-116. Diffie, B.W. and G.D. 1977. Winius, Foundations o f the Portuguese Empire 1415-1580, vol. 1, University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis.

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Dube, Saurabh, 1992. ‘Issues o f Christianity in Colonial Chhattisgarh’, Sociological Bulletin, 41(1 and 2), pp. 97-117. Dumont, Louis, 1980. Hom o H ierarcbicus: The Caste System and its Implications, Chicago and London: University o f Chicago Press. Estevâo, Thomaz, 1857. Gram m atica da Lingua Concani, Imprensa Nacional, Nova Goa. Fiddes, Nick, 1991. Meat: A Natural Symbol, London and New York: Routledge. Figueiredo, J.M.P., 1963- de, ‘Goa Pré-Portuguesa’, Studia, 12, pp. 141-259. Fuller, C.J., 1976. ‘Kerala Christians and the Caste System’, Man, 11(1), pp. 5370. ____ , 1992. The Camphor Flame: Popular Hinduism and Society in India, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Goa, Daman and Diu, 1979- Government of, Territory o f Goa, Daman and Diu, Government Printing Press, Panjim. Gomes, O., 1987. Village Goa: A Study o f Goan Social Structure and Change, Delhi: Chand and Co. Gough, K., 1981. Rural Society in Southeast India, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Guiart, J., 1962. ‘The Millenarian Aspect o f Conversion to Christianity in the South Pacific’ , in S.L. Thrupp, ed., M illennial Dreams in Action: Essays in Comparative Study, Mouton and Co., The Hague, pp. 122— 38. Gune, V.T., 1965. Ancient Shrines o f Goa: A Pictorial Survey, Government of Goa, Daman and Diu, Panjim. Heras, H., 1935. The Conversion Policy o f the Jesuits in India, Bombay: Indian Historical Research Institute. Houtart, F. and G. Lemercinier, 1981. Genesis and Institutionalization o f the Indian Catholicism, Louvain: Université Catholique de Louvain. Ifeka-Moller, C., 1974. ‘White Power: Social Structural Factors in Conversion to Christianity, Eastern Nigeria 1921-66’, Canadian Journal o f African Studies, 8(1), pp. 55-72. Kamat, P., 1990. ‘Historical Geography and Natural Resources’, in T.R. De Souza, ed., Goa through the Ages, Delhi: Concept Publishers, pp. 1-37. Kosambi, D.D., 1947. ‘The Village Communities in the Old Conquests of Goa ’, Journal o f the University o f Bombay, 15(4), pp. 63-78.

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____ , 1956. An Introduction to the Study o f Indian History, Popular Book Depot, Bombay. _____, 1962. ‘The Village Community in the “Old Conquests” of Goa: History versus The Skanda Purana’, in D.D. Kosambi, Myth and Reality, Bombay: Popular Prakashan, pp. 152-71. Kulkami, A.R., 1992. ‘Christianity: Proselytization and Purification Movement in Goa and Konkan’, paper presented at the Xavier Centre o f Historical Research, Seminar on Discoveries, Missionary Expansion and Asian Cultures. Mandelbaum, D., 1966. ‘Transcendental and Pragmatic Aspects o f Religion’, American Anthropologist, 68(5), pp. 1174-91Marques, A. H. de Oliveira, 1971. Daily Life in Portugal in the Late Middle Ages, tr. S.S. Wyatt, Madison, Milwaukee and London: The University o f Wisconsin Press. Mascarenhas-Keyes, S., 1988. ‘Sorpotael and Feni: The Role o f Food and Drink in Catholic Goan Ethnic Identity’, paper presented at the Institute of Social Anthropology, Oxford. Mills, K., 1994. ‘The Limits of Religious Coercion in Mid-Colonial Peru’, Past and Present, 145, pp. 84-121. Neill, Stephen, 1984. A History o f Christianity in India: The Beginnings to a d 1707, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pearson, M.N., 1981. Coastal Western India. Studies from the Portuguese Records, Delhi: Concept Publishers. _____, 1987. The Portuguese in India, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pereira, José and Micael Martins, 1967. A Sheaf o f Deknnis, Bombay: The Konkan Cultural Association. Pereira, Rui Gomes, 1978. Goa (1): Hindu Temples and Deities, tr. Antonio Victor Couto, Rui Gomes Pereira, Goa. ------, 1981. Goa (2 ): Gaunkari: The Old Village Associations, Rui Gomes Pereira, Goa. Pissurlencar, P.S.S., 1934. Contribuïçào ao Estudo Etnológico da Casta IndoPortuguesa Denominada à Luz de Documentos Inéditos Encontrados no Arquivo Histórico da India, Ediçôes da Primeira Exposiçào Colonial Portuguesa, Porto. Priolkar, A.K., 1961. The Goa Inquisition, Bombay: A.K. Priolkar. Rao, R.P., 1963. Portuguese Rule in Goa 1510-1961, London: Asia Publishing House.

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Shah, A.M. and M.N. Srinivas, I960. ‘The Myth o f Self-Sufficiency of the Indian Village’, The Economic Weekly, 10 September, p. 1376. Silva Rego, A. da, ed., 1947-58. Documentaqaopara a Historia dasMissdes do Padroado Portugues do Oriente, Vols.1-13, Agenda Geral das Colonias, Lisbon. Srinivas, M .N ., 1965.

Religion and Society among the Coorgs o f South India,

O x fo rd : C la ren d o n Press.

Social Change in M odem India, B e rk e le y : U n iv e r s ity o f California Press.

______, 1969.

Stephens, Thomas, 1907. The Christian Puranna, reproduced by Joseph L. Saldanha, Mangalore: Simon Alvares. Subrahmanyam, Sanjay, 1993- The Portuguese empire in Asia, 1500-1700: A political and economic history, London: Longman. Visvanathan, Susan, 1993a. The Christians o f Kerala: History, Belief and Ritual among the Yakoba, Madras: Oxford University Press. ____ , 1993b. Missionary Styles and the Problem o f Dialogue, Occasional Paper 6, Indian Institute of Advanced Study, Simla. Weinstein, Donald and Rudolph M. Bell, 1982. Saints and Society: The Two Worlds o f Western Christendom 1000-1700, Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Wicki, J., ed., 1940-72. Documenta Indica, 12 vols., Rome: Institutum Historicum Societatis Iesu.

Notes 'See Figueiredo 1963; Kosambi 1947, 1956, 1962; Kamat 1990; Pereira 1981; De Souza 1979, 1990 and Pereira (1978), De Souza (1990), Bragan^a Pereira (1991), D’Souza (1975) and Gomes (1987). There are archival sources dating from 1510 onwards in Arquivo Portugues Oriental(Bragan^a Pereira 1936-40), Archivo Portuguez-Oriental(Cunha Rivara 1992), As Comunidades de Goa (Azavedo 1890), Documentaqao para a Historia das Missóes do Padroado Portugues do Oriente (Silva Rego 1947-58), Grammatica da Lingua Concani(Estevo 1857) and Documenta Indica (Wicki 1948-60). They contain accounts and letters written by administrators and missionaries. There is a charter drawn up by the Portuguese in 1526 recording the customs of the region called the Foral de usos e costumes dos Gancares e Lavradores da Ilha de Goa, e outras anexas a ela. 2There were small numbers of tribals in Goa who were probably Hinduized over a time (Kosambi 1956), absorbed into Hindu society and

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adopting its customs and practices. Some writers view these tribes as autochthonous to Goa (Azavedo 1890). 5‘It is true that the term Hinduism is not a traditional concept but only gradually came to denote someone who adhered to the indigenous religion o f India (Hindustan). However, that does not nullify ‘an analysis that demonstrates that Hinduism is a relatively coherent and distinctive religious system (Fuller 1992: 10). 4Com unidade is a Portuguese term. The word was used for the indigenous gauncari system found in the village communities whereby all village lands were collectively owned and managed by the original settlers o f the village, the gauncars. In many places in Goa, the Brahmins were gauncars and, as such, landowners. While among them there was a division between lineages or sub-castes which followed the priestly occupation and those which farmed the land or traded (Pereira 1978: 28), Brahmins as a whole had both the highest ritual position and a great deal of secular power— as members o f the general assembly of the comunidades, for instance— and hence Dumont’s rigid division is not really acceptable. fiNone of the literature gives any glimpse o f caste mobility. Perhaps w e can accept the basic picture, reminding ourselves that flexibility and mobility, even if unrecorded, must have been possible (Srinivas 1969: 6-45). 1M ahajan is the title used by members o f Mazanias, religious associations consisting of the founders o f temples and their descendants (Pereira 1978:1). 'The tanga was a local silver coin, equal in value to about three rupees. 'The order of the Jesuits was disbanded in 1773 (Bayly 1989: 351) and most of their missions handed over to Franciscans or others. They returned to Goa some 60 years later. 10Weinstein and Bell (1982) point to the growing conformity o f the orders particularly after the Council o f Trent and the growth o f the CounterReformation. "When the mistake was realized, the Portuguese attitude towards the Hindus changed. When the ruler o f Calicut refused to expel the Muslims who came to trade there, Vasco da Gama opened fire on the city’s streets and killed several hundred fishermen along the coast (Diffie and Winius 1977: 224). '^According to Diffie and Winius, there were never more than 6000-7000 Portuguese in or subject to military service in the Orient at any one time during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. If one adds to this a figure

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of about as many clerics, European dependents, servants and half-bloods, who came under European law, the figure comes to 14000 at the most. And these were scattered from Mozambique to Macau (1977: 322). ,3There was also Albuquerque’s policy o f mixed marriages in the first few years after the Portuguese entry in 1510 (D ’Souza 1975:123). Portuguese soldiers who married the widows or daughters of the Muslim soldiers killed in battle, were given pieces of land to help them settle down. Nothing is more erroneous than the common conception that Catholics in Goa are of mixed blood like the Anglo-Indians. The mestigo (racially mixed) population even in 1866 totalled only 2240 (Boxer 1969: 305; Pearson 1987: 130). 14The Goan Inquisition was styled on that which then existed in Spain and Portugal to control apostasy among converts to Christianity from Judaism. The establishment of the Inquisition in Portugal took place in 1531 and in Goa, where it had jurisdiction over converts from Judaism (who had come from Portugal) and Hinduism, in 1561 (Subrahmanyam 1993: 83). ,sThis process may have been helped along by the missionaries, who were apparently prepared to allow church rituals to be adapted to local customs, as long as the object and means o f worship were Christian in content. Documenta Indica (Wicki 4:596-600) shows how the harvest festival may have come to be incorporated into the Catholic calendar in Goa. The people and gauncars o f the village of Diwar in north Goa requested the priest to come and bless their harvest as in the past the Hindu priest had done. They went to the field carrying a banner with the name o f Jesus and St. Paul on it. The priest came carrying his stole and surplice. The priest blessed them with holy water and blessed the sheaves. These were carried back to the church and laid on the altar-steps. The people o f other villages did the same. One might argue that it is from beginnings such as this that the Catholic calendar came to be adapted to indigenous social and religious needs. 16Braudel states that Europeans populated the New World with ‘herds from the Old’ (1981:105). There is no evidence that the Portuguese brought pigs to Goa. Wild and domesticated pigs were found in both north and south India. While all Hindu castes in Goa, including Brahmins, except on ritual occasions always ate fish (Mascarenhas-Keyes 1988: 4), the meat of pigs may have been consumed only by the lower castes. In south India, swine-herding was the occupation o f certain very low castes (Srinivas 1965: 28). Muslims would not have touched pig meat because o f the Islamic injunction against it. 17There were about 5-600 missionaries to attend to the Catholics at any one point of time in Goa (Subrahmanyam 1993: 223).

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I8Missionary acceptance o f particular indigenous modes, despite the stance of intolerance articulated most dramatically through the Inquisition, may not raise surprise. Here are reverberations of an ancient Catholic attitude. Incidentally, in practice, Protestants often proved less accommodating (see Comaroff 1985; Dube 1992).

Conversion to Christianity in Tamil Nadu: Conscious and Constitutive Community Mobilization Towards a Different Symbolic World Vision Sathianathan Clarke

I Christianity in Tamil Nadu has many points of origin. Let the legend of St. Thomas the Apostle of Christ, which stems from the narrative recorded in the third-century Apocryphal book called ‘Acts of Thomas’, rest in peace. But before dispensing with the legend let us merely iterate the outlines of the narrative, mainly to establish its connection with the Tamil region. The story has the disciple, with the reputation of a world famous carpenter, setting sail for India to build a palace for king Gundaphores. Thomas arrives on the Malabar coast in a town of Cranganore in 52 c e . Even though he is hired to build the king a magnificent palace, Thomas uses all the resources designated for this purpose to alleviate the suffering of the poor and the oppressed in that kingdom. Subsequently, towards the end of his life, because of persecution connected with his spreading of the Christian faith, Thomas flees to the Tamil region, where he is done to death on Saint Thomas Mount, which is now in the city of Chennai. Interestingly, even in the earliest legend pertaining to India, Thomas, the first propagator of Christianity, is depicted as turning the face of Christian mission to the poor and the oppressed.1

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Now let me turn to the realm of historical reliability. One can only talk about the advent of Christianity in Tamil Nadu from the 16th century onward. In general Christianity in Tamil Nadu involved two main players: the Roman Catholic Church and the Protestant Churches. The other main player in the South of India, the Syrian Orthodox, was confined to the Malabar Coast, mainly in the state o f Kerala. Roman Catholic mission activity emanated from a few identifiable locations. The first was centered in and around Tuticorin, extending as far down as Cape Kanyakumari (the southern most tip of India). Although the Portuguese started their missionary activity in both coasts on South India by the 1530s, the impact of Christianity was felt in a significant manner with the work of Francis Xavier, a Jesuit missionary, in 1542. ‘In less than a decade he had successfully converted more than 15,000 low-caste fishermen (Paravas and Mukkavas) on the Coromandal coast. ’2 The second locus of Christian conversion was Madurai. The Madurai Jesuit mission was started in 1600. However, it received its serious boost with the arrival of Roberto de Nobili in 1602. Somewhat embarrassed by the association o f Christianity with the Dalit and ‘low-caste’ communities, the Madurai mission sought to introduce Christianity to the ‘high-caste Hindus’. It also sought to delink its activity from the patronage o f the Portuguese colonial powers. As a reaction to the successful spread of Christianity primarily among the Shudra and Dalit communities, Roberto de Nobili experimented with indigenous methods to present Christianity to the twice-born caste communities (Brahmins, Kshatriyas, and Vaishyas). Gradually this notion of mission expanded through the 17th and 18th centuries to the regions of Ramnad, Pudukottai, Mysore, Tanjore and Arcot. It was hardly successful in making inroads into the caste Hindu communities. Thus, eventually it also attracted converts from mainly the Shudra and Dalit communities. The third location of Christianity in Tamil Nadu was the French colony of Pondicherry. Through the last quarter of the 16th century on to the first half of the 17th century Christianity in the areas in and around Pondicherry was mainly confined to pastoral care for the European and Eurasian communities. It was not until the 1870s that conversion in the Pondicherry area started to increase significantly. This period of ‘explosive growth’ was attributed to the

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fact that ‘for the first time in the history of the Pondicherry mission’ the Roman Catholic Church took efforts to concentrate on the Dalits. Thus, the number of communicant members in Pondicherry rose from 134,000 in 1873 to 205,000 in 1886.’3 A fourth geographical region where Christianity existed was around Mylapore (San Thome). This was known mainly as a pilgrim and administrative center of Roman Catholic Christianity. It must be noted that in the 1540s the Portuguese excavated the tomb of St. Thomas and set up a pilgrim center in Mylapore. Interestingly St. Thomas was extrapolated away from the Syrian Christians of the Malabar region and inducted into the heart of Roman Catholicism in Tamil Nadu.4 Mylapore served as a Roman Catholic mission station. However, it was taken away from the Portuguese by Pope Gregory XVI. He established a vicariate at Madras in 1883.5 Protestant mission began almost two centuries after the Roman Catholics. Furthermore, unlike the Portuguese-Roman Catholic mis­ sion partnership, it was not coterminous with colonial expansion into India. In this brief overview of the beginnings of Protestant mis­ sion, I shall confine myself to the two main centers of mission activ­ ity in Tamil Nadu: Tranquebar and Madras. Protestant mission began at Tranquebar in 1706. The apprehensions of the British East India Company to the possible repercussions that the Christian mission­ ary enterprise may have on its economic interests in India delayed the arrival of Protestant mission societies. It was thus predictable that the first Protestant missionaries were neither English nor sent out by the British mission societies. Bartholomew Ziegenbalg and Henry Plutschau arrived at the Danish settlement of Tranquebar in 1706. They were both German Lutherans sponsored by the Danish King Frederick IV. They were however supported by the Anglican mission societies, S.P.C.K (Society for Promoting Christian Knowl­ edge) soon after they arrived in India and later by the S.P.G (Society for the Propagation of the Gospel). Although mission work was di­ rected toward individual conversion, gradually it became character­ ized by community-based conversions, especially of the Shannars/ Nadars (and one of their sub-castes called Kalla-Shanars), Paraiyars and some other Shudra castes. Throughout the 18th century the Tranquebar mission was interdenominational in its working. It ex­ panded into Tirunelvelli , Trichchirappali and Thanjavur districts.

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By the middle of the 19th century the Tranquebar mission began to be dominated by the mission societies of Britain. This was also be­ cause the Danish Crown sold Tranquebar to the British in 1845. The community conversions around this region predominantly came from the Dalit and lower-end Shudra (Shannars/Nadars in particular) groups. Madras was another major center for Protestant mission. Three kinds of Christian activity evolved in Madras from its inception as a center of colonial presence. First, the British Christian community established its own religious institutions from the time in which it started taking control of Madras from 1639 onward when the English obtained permission from the Vijayanagar empire to erect a Fort. It was however only in 1647 that Issacson relocated from Surat to Madras as the first resident chaplain for the Anglicans working for the Company. It must be noted that the Anglicans through the 17th century; ‘confined their work to Englishmen and their families and dependents. Practically nothing was done by them in the way o f preaching Christianity to the Indians living under the jurisdiction o f the Company.’6 Second, the 18thcentury saw the mission gradually expand outward toward the native population. Primary education became the main instrument of mission among the Indians. The starting of a charity school was decided upon in 1715. This was followed by concerted efforts to establish schools in most places where there were native converts: ‘By August 1743, most of the villages around Madras, where there were Christians, had their own schools.’7 Hambye goes on to state that this educational expansion ‘attracted the dalits.’8 Third, Madras, because it functioned as ‘an important port city’ and because of ‘the cultural openness of its people’, became, ‘a natural magnet for missionary enterprise in the area, particularly along the trunk roads and railway lines.’9 Thus though the 19th century ‘Madras city finally developed more and more into the microcosm of Christian Tamil Nadu with starting bases, headquarters or pioneer institutions and/or migration communities of most mission agencies and Churches.’10

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II In the rest of this paper I shall focus on conversions to Christianity in Tamil Nadu that took place through Protestant mission during the nineteenth and first half of the twentieth century. Let us first of all note the kind of growth that was taking place in Christianity during this time. In 1801 there were 300,000 Christians in Tamil Nadu. By 1881 it grew to 487,000 and in 1901 there were 748, 000 Christians in Tamil Nadu. This figure reached 1,465,000 in 1951. Conversion to Christianity does indicate a doubling in the twentieth century (From 300,000 to 748,000 in a hundred years) and another doubling in the next half a century (from 748,000 in 1901 to 1,465,000 in 1951). And yet we must remember that this was still only between 3 and 6 per cent o f the population in Tamil Nadu.11 Thus, for all the high pitched intensity of the conversion debate through the colonial period it must not be forgotten that in numerical terms conversion to Christianity in Tamil Nadu was hardly successful. The most obvious and characteristic fact of conversion to Christianity during this period, which is in continuity with our summation of its beginning and early expansion in Tamil Nadu, must be categorically stated. No doubt this ‘truth’ has been somewhat embarrassing to western missionaries, Indian Christian converts and some Hindu Nationalists. Nonetheless, it has to be faced and explicated as fully as possible. Let me postulate my initial thesis concerning conversion in Tamil Nadu as succinctly as possible without glossing over its nuances. Conversions to Christianity in Tamil Nadu had to do with the movement of Dalit and not-so-pure ( asat) Shudra communities away from their traditional religions, which were in an intricate and ambivalent manner connected with local variants o f popular Hinduism, and towards a missionary proclaimed Christianity, which in the minds of the converts had a positive relationship with the colonial powers that ruled India. In the rest of this presentation I shall attempt to unpack the various dimensions of this affirmation, especially as pertaining to Dalits in Tamil Nadu. There are diametrically opposite views about the operational character of caste-based stratification in Tamil society during the colonial period. On the one hand, there is the suggestion that the

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system of caste was rigidified and reified as an organizing framework of Indian society by the colonial rulers. Thus, colonial agents in order to enumerate, segregate and govern the native populace inventively reconstituted caste. On the other hand, there is the argument that the caste system was under threat during the nineteenth and first half of the twentieth century because of the infiltration of a western egalitarian (colonial) view of human society. Thus, caste-based advantages and disadvantages were to an extent dismantled by the colonial powers: they gradually attempted to replace the traditional social worldview with one founded on individual rights of all citizens within the emerging Indian nation state.12 Whatever may have been the case, for our purposes it suffices to assert that Tamil society was divided along lines that had something to do with caste, even if not along the customarily established mode. The main contours of the Tamil social system during this period, which was attuned to some elements of the logic of the caste system, can be seen to have three distinct and distinguishable divisions. Thus, the conventional four­ fold caste hierarchy involving Brahmin, Kshatriya, Vaishya and Shudra, with the Dalits being a fifth out-caste grouping, does not apply to Tamil Nadu, mainly because of the absence of the Kshatriya and Vaishya communities. Let me sketch this three-fold caste segmentation in Tamil Nadu during the nineteenth and the first half of the twentieth century. First, there was a configuration of Brahmanic caste communities, which consisted of an alliance between the Brahmins and the purer caste communities from among the Shudras. These s«/-Shudras (pure Shudras), who were a land-owning class, were given ritual privileges; thus, appropriating the status of the Kshatriyas and Vaishyas (the other twice-born castes apart from the Brahmins), who for some reason were absent from the Tamil region. They also donated liberally to the upkeep of the priestly community (Brahmins). In return for these gifts the Brahmins legitimated their social, cultural, political and economic authority. Second, there was the coalition of the notso-pure Shudra caste communities. This consortium comprised of laboring classes who were within the caste society but who were ritually subordinate and economically dependent on the Brahmanic caste communities. These ¿zs«i-Shudras (impure Shudras) lived within the geographic confines of the caste society and were in social

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interaction with the Brahmanic caste community. And yet they suffered religious and economic restrictions that hindered their free and full participation in the functioning of Indian society. The Shannar/Nadars belonged to this division. Third, there was a category of communities that lived outside the borders of the Hindu caste society. Repulsed by and ejected from the Hindu caste society (both the Brahmanic caste communities and the asat-Shudra caste communities) they lived as out-caste peoples. They were cast out of society on the postulate that they were too polluted to live within the geographical and social space of caste Hindus. They were treated as objects. And they were economically exploited and socially exiled. Called by various terms (i.e., Exterior-Castes, Depressed Classes, Panchamas, Outcastes, Harijans, and Scheduled Castes) this community has lately taken on the name Dalits, which means ‘broken ones’, who simultaneously resist this oppression and brokenness. Conversion to Christianity in Tamil Nadu was mainly a form of collective mobilization of Dalit communities who were cumulatively and comprehensively marginalized by a system of traditional religion that found its rationale, even if somewhat ambiguously and loosely, in various renderings of a Brahmanic world vision. It is no wonder then that Christianity assumed the reputation of being the ‘Religion of the Pariahs. ’13 In a study of the nineteenth century, Oddie contrasts the attraction that Christianity had among the Dalits with its lack of appeal to the Brahmans. In his words, ‘While harijans [Dalits] and other castes at the base of the Hindu hierarchy begged and clamoured more and more loudly for admission into Christian churches the Brahmans in general remained aloof. ’14 Picket was one of the earliest scholars to study this feature of conversion in India. ‘For the Tamil areas ... we are assured that 60 per cent would be low, and 70 per cent not too high. One correspondent, preferring to be anonymous, says, ‘Accepting your definition of what constitutes a mass movement, I estimate that 80 per cent of our Protestant Christians of the Tamil districts o f British India are products of mass movements.” 15 These community-based conversions to Christianity primarily took place among the Dalits: ‘The greatest number of mass movements to Christianity in India have occurred among the depressed classes.’16 Specific to Tamil Nadu, along with Dalits this community-centered conversion to Christianity was also noted among the Shannars or

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Nadars, who were a low(er)/st rung of the not-so-pure-Shudra community in the South of the region. Bugge makes this point clear: ‘Another dimension of the new situation was that the majority of the new converts came from the ranks o f the untouchables: ... Chakkiliyans, Pariahs and Pallans in the Tamil areas. The earlier success story of the Protestant missions, the conversions o f the Shannars in Tinnevelly and Travancore, had taken place among a group whose members might have been low-caste but were not actually untouchable.’17 While we can accept the estimate of Picket that about 80 per cent of Christians in Tamil Nadu came from mass movements it must be noted that this figure includes conversions from Dalits, Shannars/Nadars (a lower-rung Shudra community) and, even, Vellalars, ( ‘a Sudra caste of considerable higher standing’).18 In terms of Dalit conversions to Christianity in Tamil Nadu it seems most reasonable to go with the estimate of Wingate, which is compatible with Pickett’s figures. He suggests that the Dalit proportion among the Christians even though it may have been as low as 28 per cent during 1871 rose to about 50 per cent during the later half of the twentieth century.19 Conversion to Christianity is part of a historical movement among Dalits that attempted to conceitedly eject the conventional and com­ prehensive Hindu world order while at the same time calculatingly reassemble an egalitarian religious world vision that is not obliged to the implications of the former worldview. Whatever may be the apologetics offered by the Hindu Nationalists’ theoreticians, there can be no denying that the religious world vision of Hinduism extensively marginalized Dalit communities. In Tamil Nadu, the Brahmanic caste communities, sometimes consciously but mostly uncon­ sciously, functioned as cosmic facilitators and overseers of an incongruously and nebulously conceived Hindu world vision, which attempts to order human society according to the original pattern embodied by the Divine One. The foundational myth for this is found in Rig Veda X.20 This Vedic text was interpreted in such a way as to sanction the establishment and maintenance of a comprehensive, systemic, hierarchical and unequal structuring of human society on the basis of vama. In accordance with the myth that all reality origi­ nates from the cosmic sacrifice of Purusha, (the primordial Man, who really is God) Hindu society was hierarchically divided into four

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vamas. the first three (Brahmin, Kshatriya, Vaishya) came from the mouth, arms and the thighs of the Purusha; while the fourth (Shudra) came from the feet. The actual castes are in the thousands, but they refer to this mythological scheme when questions of pan-Indian ordering emerge. Of course, in this myth the Dalits were not even accounted for. For Dalits, this has led to their being left out from belonging to Hindu human society for centuries. Social marginalization, economic slavery and religious exclusion, as expe­ rienced by the Dalits, marked Hindu organic views of reality. Let me reiterate that, as I view it, most Brahmanic caste communities’ internalization of this ideology is neither conscious nor cogent. Rather their praxis appears enigmatically rooted in a vague notion of Hindu visions for collective human living. In this context, the cumulative entitlements that this has procured for such caste communities in the economic, cultural, social and political realms over the course of centuries must be noted. The overall status that Brahmanic caste communities enjoyed through this lifetime may have had religious authorization, but the connections of how this is related to socio-economic privileges are mired in ambiguity. Such mythological privilege for Brahmanic caste communities justified a whole hierarchical world order that was conventionally worked out and concretely lived out in a real world of power relationships. Max Muller thus had strong reasons to purport, as long ago as 1869, that abolishing of caste; ‘would be one of the most hazardous operations that was ever performed in a political body.’ He further suggested that even if caste dies ‘as a religious institution’, ‘as a social institution, it will live and improve.’21 For our purposes, it is notable that Muller already uncovers the manner in which the economic and social aspects o f the caste system are more powerful than the religious one. This comprehensive advantage is the reason why the caste communities passionately and collectively guard and defend the privileges that they have appropriated. Religion presides over a host of disabilities in the economic, political, social and cultural arenas of Dalit life, which further contravenes the fundamental right of Dalits to construct their identity in freedom and dignity. Let me point to the functioning of some of the facets of this disability in relation to Dalit communities during the period in question.

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Outside the Gates o f the Temple-centered Caste Community The idea that there must be some consonance between land, settlement patterns of people and the residence of deities is intrinsic to various forms of Hinduism. Sacred Geography bespeaks the urge to represent a theologically acceptable design of community living. One can make an argument that the hierarchical socio-cultural status of various communities in rural Tamil Nadu was directly proportional to its distance from the Brahmanic temple. Thus, every homogenous Tamil community manifests a lived theology in the manner in which its various caste groups position their respective residing spaces in relation to the location of the temple: proximity to the temple implies higher status whereas distance from the temple connotes lower status. Let me not dwell on this point; leaving it instead to the attention o f future ethnographers. In tune with this line of thinking though, I am making another assertion: Dalit communities lived so far away from the caste Hindu temples that most often in Tamil Nadu they resided outside the contours of what was geographically accepted to be the village. Ritual disprivilege in this instance also involved geographical exclusion. Assessing the situation of the eighteenth and nineteenth century Tamil Nadu as a whole, John Webster writes extensively about the plight of the Dalits in the nineteenth century: They [Dalits] lived outside the village, segregated in a separate quarter known as the cberi. The Paraiyar were excluded from temples and the Brahmin section o f the village. Their touch and, even their shadow, were considered polluting. What references do exist indicate that both in their own eyes and in the eyes o f the others they were a ‘fifth category’ outside the vama system. Thus the trend towards a sharper boundary between vama and nonvama which Dubois noted [between 1792 and 1816] may well have intensified during the nineteenth century.22

Outside the Range o f Economic and Civil Rights The social and economic plight of the Dalits in the Tamil region was really wretched. This was a state of affairs that developed through

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many centuries. It was marked in the eighteenth century and changes initiated by colonial and missionary interventions in the nineteenth and early part of the twentieth century. Till the eighteenth century Dalits found their existence dictated by the mirasi system of land holding and use. In such a system the village mirasdars (members of the Brahmanic caste communities) owned land as a collective. There was no private property. And yet the mirasdars appropriated rights to all the land of the village and did not allow Dalits any rights even to the land they lived on. Dalits were cultivators of the lands and they were paid less than subsistence so that; ‘many of them were forced to sell themselves into slavery just to avoid starvation in bad times and acquire some ready cash for marriages in good times. ’23 During the nineteenth century the colonial powers changed the mirasdarsystem to the ryotwarirevenue settlement system. By giving property rights to individual Brahman caste landowners they transferred economic power to those who were already socially powerful. Thus, ‘In spite of the Slavery Abolition Act of 1843 [and the Caste Disabilities Removal Act in 1850] they [Dalits] continued to live for all intents and purposes in a state of abject bondage as servants of the landlords and the caste people.’24 Because there were no positive measures to empower the Dalits either with regard to their social (enforcement of equal and free social intercourse between the caste and the out-caste communities) or economic rights (redistribution o f land so that they are not only cultivators but also part-owners o f the land), the legal measures of the government could not be translated into concrete forms of emancipation. The following account documents the practice of manmortgage in Tamil Nadu even as late as in 1903. No year passes without some part o f the grievous burden borne by the despised pariah coming especially to our notice. This year in several places the terrible system o f selling themselves or their children to practical slavery has been a great barrier to our work. Of Palavanur near Tiruvallur Rev. D. David says, ‘The people here are the worst type of serfs I have come across. Each child as soon as it is born has a price paid for it in the caste village’. The unscrupulous caste-master knowing the terrible temptation o f a few rupees to the ill-fed pariah buys up the future labour of the child but newly bom, much as he would add a lamb to his flock.25

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The cruelty with which Dalits were treated is also recorded in 1910. It is explicitly stated that the Hindus did not regard Dalits as part of their conception of human society. ‘At the other end of the scale come the Pariahs, not regarded by the Hindus as part of society at all, and still treated in countless cases with heartless injustice and revolting cruelty’.26

Outside the Sphere of Autonomous Legal and Political Rights Dalit communities in Tamil Nadu suffered a lack of autonomy both in terms of legislating over their own community ethical and moral life and organizing and governing their own collective polity. Again the WMr(village), which was the habitation of the caste communities, functioned as the architect and arbitrator of the ethical code o f community conduct in the cheri (colony), which was the abode of the Dalits. This is clearly explicated by Webster when he says, ‘The council of the cheri, made up of a small number of its more important men, had a very restricted autonomy, being subordinate to the village munsiff (headman) in police matters and ... to the Desayi Chettis when moral offences were committed. ’27 No doubt the colonial administrators did attempt to permeate the Tamil region with an alternate political and legal system that was different from the local ones. This was not predominantly done to introduce a more equitable and just institutional structure for administrating rural Tamil Nadu. Rather it set in motion an efficient and professional mechanism in order to extract taxes from owners of property under the ryotwari system that the British introduced. Thus, in the end this alternate political and legal system merely strengthened the hold of the landowning Brahmanic caste on the landless Dalit communities. In a study of the rural economy of Tamil Nadu between 1880 and 1955, Baker contends that the British attempt; ‘to tighten up the systems of governance, which led to a consider­ able process of reorganization, centralization and professionalism of the upper levels of government’ in the nineteenth century, ‘stopped short of the villager.’ His judgement is important for my

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argument that in spite of British interventions Dalits were stifled within a system of legal and political governance that was deter­ mined by the conventions and conveniences of the Brahmanic caste communities: Government continued to deal with rural Madras through the agency of the local political elite, and as the superstructure of the government became more powerful, this merely tended to strengthen the position of these local elites and to give added emphasis to the local pattern o f political control.28

Such a lack of autonomy debilitated the effective formation of any political network and institutional base with which Dalit com­ munities could resist or confront the cumulative and comprehen­ sive mechanisms o f power that were exercised by the caste community. In the end the designs of Brahmanic convention and stratagem of caste status quo always seemed to prevail over the ways of Dalit life. The codes and mores of Brahmanic caste communities became the precedence for enacting justice for Tamil society and the village panchayats functioned as the main instrument for settling disputes among all segments of the people, including Dalit commu­ nities.

Ill It is against the backdrop of the above-described context of com­ prehensive disabilities of Dalit communities, legitimized by a mytho­ logical Hindu world vision, that Christian conversion in Tamil Nadu must be explicated. The point here seems quite clear. Dalits lived within the multiple constraints of an resourcefully construed Hindubased symbolic world vision: on the one hand, this was rooted in inchoate notions of a mythological world picture, which ejected Dalits from the contours of human caste community; and on the other hand, this nebulous religious vision was systemically and comprehensively converted into economic, social, and political privilege for the Brah­ manic caste communities at the expense of the Dalits. Religious con­ version thus can be interpreted to be one strategy whereby Dalits seek to pursue and secure release from the cosmically engendered

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and, more importantly, comprehensively and concretely actualized world vision of caste communities. Religious conversion to another symbolic world vision, in this case Christianity, was an effort at com­ munity-initiated bailing out from the constructs of the Brahmanic symbolic world vision and contracting of newer pictures of the world. In a sense this cumulative and comprehensive discriminatory treat­ ment at the hand of the Brahmanic caste communities that sur­ rounded them for many centuries must have been responsible for the stirring in Dalit communities to seek another symbolic world vision. No wonder then that the majority of converts to Christianity came from Dalit communities, the most disadvantaged by the Hindubased symbolic world view in Tamil Nadu. A Report of 1903 puts this aptly, ‘Among them [Dalits, ‘bound b y ... relentless social tyranny], during the year the Gospel won the largest number to the kingdom of God’.29 A crucial point must be interjected at this point about the con­ version of Dalits to Christianity: religious conversion was not merely the result of the inducement and the allurement of hapless and un­ thinking human beings. The whole emphasis placed on such popu­ lar discourse on conversions falls into the Orientalist’s pitfall, which accentuates the agency of the western agents, whether colonial or missionary, and devalues the instrumentality of the native subjects themselves in such historical events. Referring to the conversion in Tamil Nadu, Gunnel Cederlof highlights the agency of the local Dalit communities in ‘mobilizing’ themselves away from their traditional Hindu-identified religions and toward Islam and Christianity. In an interpretation of conversion movements in western Tamil Nadu during the first half of the twentieth century she concludes, ‘Such conversion movements were directed both towards the Christian missions and towards Islam. Characteristic of this kind of mobiliza­ tion for conversion was that the presumptive converts initially took the most active part, not the mission workers, the converting com­ munities acted consciously and collectively. Thus, the untouchable castes ‘encompassed the mission” 30 Using Cederlof’s quotation as a launching pad, three comments can be explored to further capture the dynamics of conversion to Christianity in Tamil Nadu. First, religious conversion was actively initiated by the converts themselves. Native and local agency must

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not be concealed or devalued in interpreting conversion movements to Christianity. Again Webster makes this point unequivocally: ‘the mass movements were Dalit movements initiated by Dalits and sustained by Dalit heroism in the face of persecution.’31 Here it is pertinent to recall that some of the early converts to Christianity were already in search for a different symbolic world vision within the larger Hindu framework. Thus, conversion to Christianity was a conscious choice in Dalit communities’ active search for more inclusive symbolic worldviews which ‘question the strictness of caste distinction’.32 Let me narrate the story of Maharajan, a Dalit convert to Christianity in the early part of the nineteenth century, who took on the name Vedamanickam: Before any Protestant mission was established in the Tamil district of Travancore, Vedamanickam, a Sambavar [Dalit] convert o f the village o f Mailady, from Cape Comorin, had interested many o f his neighbours in Christianity ... A Sambavar, and thus an outcaste, Vedamanickam in middle life developed an overpowering desire for personal experience of God. Forbidden access to Hindu temples, he nevertheless determined to goon a pilgrimage to the holy places o f Hinduism, getting as near as possible to the sites where caste Hindus were alleged to have found illumination and peace in a sense o f God’s presence and favour. He persuaded a nephew to join him ... At last they decided to visit the famous temple at Chidambaram. [There] Vedamanickam was rewarded with a strange experience, a trance or a vision in which a white-robed old man appeared and told him to return south where he would find enlightenment. He started homeward, visiting Christian relatives at Tanjore, who directed him to the Mission at Tranquobar. He and his nephew hurried to the mission, were instructed about Jesus, and became convinced and devoted Christians... They invited [the young missionary Rev. W. T. Ringeltaube] to come to Travancore, and while he considered they returned to their homes. After some initial trouble they interested a number o f relatives and neighbors in their message and organized a group for instruction and worship. Ringeltaube [eventually did] arrive in Travancore in 1806 ... and settled in Vedamanickam’s village o f Mailady. He found a small group ready to confess Christ, baptized them, and appointed Vedamanickam as their catechist.33

The agency o f this Dalit and his nephew in embracing of Christianity and encompassing of the mission is instructive. Not only

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is this agency prior to any tracking and targeting by any mission organization but the initiative of these Dalit converts is able to persuade the mission to come to where they were themselves working for the conversion o f their relatives and friends to Christianity. Thus, in keeping with the assessment of Firth; ‘it has often been the converts who sought out the missionaries rather than the missionaries who sought out the converts.’34 Second, religious conversion was also a conscious mobilization of disadvantaged communities. Religious conversion to Christianity was a community effort by the Dalits to denounce the symbolic worldview of conventional religion within which the legitimization of the all-encompassing caste-based social order works. The mean­ ing system that holds together the unequal, hierarchical, and closed social order is discarded with a view to disoblige Dalits from all its religious, social, cultural, economic and political requirements. In a way through this process Dalits are fracturing and fragmenting the notion of the Indian community as a unitary one. Under this con­ ventional worldview the Indian community, which is based in the Hindu world vision, is not seen as a voluntary or individualistic phenomenon. Rather it is projected to be an organic collective, which binds the members of the community to conform to certain beliefs and practices, which if they fail to fulfill entails punishment. In this context, Dalits facilitate a rupture of this cohesive and coercive organic entity referred to as Indian community. In doing so Dalits release themselves from the cumulative and comprehensive obliga­ tions that bind them to the authority of the elite caste leaders in all the spheres of community life, i.e. religious, social, economic, cultural and political.35 In such a situation Dalits as a community willfully en­ deavour to become outsiders, non-Hindus, heterodox, and defectors. It was precisely because of the ‘conscious’ and ‘collective’ nature of Dalit mobilization that caste communities most vehemently opposed religious conversion. The spread of Christianity among the Dalits acutely disturbed the Brahmanic caste communities in Tamil Nadu. They opposed conversion to Christianity primarily because it disrupted a conventional worldview that assured them religious, social and economic power. Oddie’s conclusions concerning Dalit conversions in Tamil Nadu between 1850 and 1900 are to the point:

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The spread of Christianity among the Pariahs greatly alarmed the mirasidars and provoked widespread and persistent opposition. Perhaps even more patently than in Bengal, missionary activity and the rise of the Christian movement seemed to threaten a social as well as an economic system— one in which the mirasidar s powers and economic position as landlord and master were bound up with and reinforced by his superior status within the caste system.v>

The Brahmanic caste communities, on the one hand, ‘deliber­ ately attempted to disrupt missionary operations’ by obstructing preaching of the Christian message, refusing permission to run schools in Dalit cheris, and threatening potential converts with legal entanglements. On the other hand, these caste communities utilized their status as employers; ‘to sign agreements that they would never become Christians or suffer their relatives to either be baptized or attend a mission school. ’37 And yet knowing well the disruptive char­ acter of conversion, missionaries continued to join hands with Dalit communities who wanted to embrace and live out the implications of their new found world vision. According to a Mission Report in 1923, ‘As a rule we find strong opposition on the part of caste people to parcheri folk becoming Christians. They fear they will lose their hold on them ... All along it has been our work to lead these poor folk to a more independent life. These caste people know it and often bitterly resent our coming.’38 Third, missionary objectives and approaches in the programme of religious conversion were transformed in accordance with the aspirations of the Dalit converts. The missionaries of the eighteenth and nineteenth century were clearly looking for model converts. The ideal candidate for baptism would have been an individual, who because of an experiential encounter with God inJesus Christ, wanted to believe wholly in his divinity and pledged to live deliberately in the world according to his example. Accepting Jesus Christ as personal Lord and savior thus was almost the litmus test of a genuine conversion to Christianity. No doubt Protestant missionaries went all out to prove the legitimacy of their mission endeavours by searching for such converts. And yet gradually missionaries accepted and affirmed Dalits’ community mobilization into Christianity. One must not overlook the commonality of social location that Dalit communities shared with the missionaries. Both of these

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collectives were outsiders to the various manifestations of Hindu society. Thus, their coming together appears to have been inevitable. But eventually their cooperation was not an auspicious omen to the Brahmanic caste communities’ symbolic and material world vision. The missionaries would not have been able to penetrate the cumulative and comprehensive world view of caste Hinduism; thus the Dalits’ embrace of Christianity and their encompassing of the mission brought together what always lay beyond the gates of caste Hinduism. ‘Mission stumbled on its best long-term project. Having set its heart on the conversion of Brahmins, it found, instead, that its future lay in the conversion of the outcastes and the tribals, exiled communities as they themselves were, fellow outsiders in India’s society.’39 Concretely missionaries collaborated with Dalit communities on two fronts, both of which pitted them against the land owning and socially powerful Brahmanic caste communities. On the one hand, Protestant missionaries committed themselves to join Dalits in a concerted assault against the caste system. From the early nineteenth century the leadership of the Protestant missionaries was gradually rallying around the opinion that caste distinction was not merely a cultural issue but an ethical and moral matter. Bishop Daniel Wilson’s pastoral letter of July 1 8 3 3 could not have put the matter more incisively and decisively: ‘The distinction of castes, then, must be abandoned, decidedly immediately, finally; and those who profess to belong to Christ must give this proof of their having really ‘put off’, concerning the former conversation, ‘the old, and having put on the new man’, in Jesus Christ.’40 According to Forrester, this unambiguous critique of and resistance against the discriminatory propensities of the caste system united the Protestant missionaries through the nineteenth century in their solidarity with the Dalits. Let me quote him at length: B y 1850 alm ost all Protestant m ission aries w e r e a g re e d that caste w ith in th e Church w a s an u n m itiga ted e v i l ... In th e s e c o n d h a lf o f th e cen tu ry a la rge m easu re o f a g re e m e n t w a s to b e re a c h ed in fa v o u r o f a hard line in d ea lin g w ith th e con tin u in g p ro b lem s relating to caste w ith in the churches and in fa v o u r o f Christians spearh ead in g a g e n e ra l on sla u gh t o n caste, usin g e v e r y to o l a v a ila b le — p o litica l pressure, edu cation , p u b licity— and enlisting as allies all w h o w o u ld

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co-operate in the campaign, without regard to their religious affiliation. A resolution of the Madras Missionary Conference in 1848 had laid it down that only those who broke caste by eating food prepared by a pariah should be entitled to baptism. But the consensus is best shown by the minute of the Madras Missionary Conference o f 1850 which was signed by nearly a hundred Protestant missionaries and supported by the Missionary Conferences of Calcutta and Bombay. This resolution jusdy claimed to represent ‘the view of nearly all the Protestant missionaries in Southern India’ that caste in the Church was a grave scandal, incapable o f being defended on Christian grounds.41

On the other hand, missionaries joined Dalits in bolstering their new religious meaning system with economic and social capital. In a sense this was something that they unconsciously had learnt from the comprehensive success of Brahmanic caste communities. The conjoining of religious privilege with socioeconomic entitlement was the genius of the Brahmanic caste communities. The logic was simple. Religious myths about the hoped for harmonious social order cannot survive solely on religious legitimization but must be armed with economic, cultural, social and political clout. Only then will such a religious worldview have a chance to materialize into a way of life. This was also true for the converts to Christianity. It was important for Dalit converts to embrace the religious idea that they were all equal before God and before all other human beings. Missionaries no doubt inculcated this non-hierarchical vision of the world as a counter to the Hindu world vision. And it did work for the Dalits. As Geetha and Rajadurai state, ‘It is certain the adi dravida[Dalit] convert acquired self-respect and pride in the course of his sojourn with the Church ... Christianity regarded him first and foremost as a ‘brother in Christ’ and ... tells him of the true dignity of his human nature ... and proclaims to him that he in common with the Englishman and the Brahman is a son of God and an inheritor of the kingdom of God. ’42 The Christian world vision of human social living offered Dalit communities a meaningful counter-worldview. This framework provides Dalits with copious religious resources in order to valorize the re-constructing and re-imagining of a free and favourable identity. Kancha Ilaiah puts this well: ‘The Dalits have suffered untouchability and atrocities within the Hindu social order and they need to enter

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into a religion that grants them full religious rights.’43 Conversion to Christianity in Tamil Nadu is a historical choice whereby Dalit communities have re-clothed themselves in a different symbol system. But this religious symbol system had to be tied up with some access to social and economic capital if this notion of equality and freedom can be lived out in this world. The chosen religious orientation needs social, economic and political resources in the search for concrete subjecthood. Empowerment of human identity depends on the collaborative working of internal ideas (religious, in this case) with external assets (socioeconomic, in this case). The missionaries and Dalits were well aware of this reality. Thus, they moved in instruments of social and economic capital close to the reach of Dalit communities. A word on education as a means of social capital for Dalit is in order. Traditionally education was denied to Dalits. Missionaries went into education in a big way. ‘By 1858, the Mission had some 500 schools in South India, with an enrollment of 38,607.,44 Most of these schools were in the form of Church cum schools located either within or on the border of the Dalit cheris. No doubt missionaries wanted to use schools as a means of evangelization, particularly to reach out to education-seeking Brahmanic caste communities. However, locating schools among Dalit communities was also conceived as an instrument of empowerment. Social capital was redistributed and brought proximate enough for appropriation by Dalit communities: ‘Each of these schools [in Dalit cherisi is most emphatically a ‘means of grace’ to the little children that are gathered into it at all hours o f the day and night, and their influence is marvelous.’45 Remarkably education of the Dalits along with empowering them concurrently also dismantled the structures of the traditional caste-based society. Thus, while education for the Dalits brought about resentment among the Brahmanic caste communities it generated self-esteem and independence among the Dalit converts. A1896 Mission Report puts this well: But perhaps the best proof of the value of the Pariah schools is the hatred the respectable Hindu shows towards them. He knows well enough that as soon as the bigger Pariah lads in his employ learn to read, they will cease to be stupid victims o f his rapacity that their

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fathers were ... [Therefore] caste Hindus regard the opening o f a school in the Pariah quarter o f their villages [as] a sign o f a revolution. Though his own sons may study in the Mission High School, the Hindu land-owner will do his worst to prevent his Pariah serfs from getting to the spring o f knowledge, for schools and Christianity and independence go together*

A further word on making economic capital accessible to Dalit converts must be added. Because of the economic backwardness of almost all Dalit converts there was a concerted effort by the mission­ aries to be involved with the converts’ urge to be economically selfreliant. This was best exemplified in the manner in which the missionaries led the struggle for economic rights of Dalits in the late nineteenth century. ‘Missionary activity in tandem with the good intentions of conscientious and sympathetic civil servants attempted to resolve what was increasingly becoming characterized as the ‘pariah question’.47 This endeavour consisted in pressing for Dalit’s economic improvements: ‘to see that he was given a secure house site, independent means o f support and, especially, land of his own beyond the reach and control of hostile landlords.’48 Apart from the employment that schools provided for educated converts as teachers and teaching assistants, the missionaries also began agricultural and industrial institutes. These institutes trained young men in modem methods of fanning and prepared them for jobs in the small-scale industries. Hospitals were also a significant means of training and employment. Nurses and health education workers were trained and employed in the many hospitals that sprang up in various parts of Tamil Nadu through the eighteenth and nineteenth century.

IV In this concluding section I wish to constructively and tentatively reflect on an aspect of religious conversion of Dalit communities to Christianity in Tamil Nadu that throws further light on this phenomenon. It must be acknowledged that while conversion did entail a movement away from a real world of cumulative and comprehensive disabilities, which were in a complex and ambivalent

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way connected with local variants of popular Hinduism, it did not involve a procession into a real world of equality, freedom and dignity, which was promised by missionary-proclaimed Christianity. Dalits still faced the disadvantages of the caste system since conversion to another religion did not change their outcaste status within the Hindu-based society. But more insulting and hurting was the fact that caste discrimination also found a foothold in the Christian community. Indian Christians from Brahmanic caste communities worked hard to keep caste practices within the Church. In most contexts this was implicit. Thus, social relations, outside the church, continued to function according to the traditional caste conventions that were well established. This included restrictions on commensality and marriage. When pressed to change such caste-based social practices within the Christian community there was open revolt from Brahmanic caste community converts. Two incidents can be quoted to support this assertion. Between 1820 and 1826 Vellalars of the SPCK congregation in Vepery, Madras, boycotted attending Church because a young missionary (Houbroe) in his enthusiasm to implement a casteless policy; ‘had seated the Christian children at his school irrespective of caste and in the church Adidravida [DalitJ boys near the pulpit in front of the Vellala children. ’49 Again in 1835 in Thanjavur, 1700 Vellalas left the Anglican Church because Bishop Wilson ‘pleaded for sitting in church and kneeling at the Lord’s table without caste considerations to show that all are one in Christ. ,5° Objecting to this request ‘those assembled claimed that they did love Pariahs, yet could never consent to being defiled through them by getting close to them. ’51 More unexpected and offensive for converts perhaps was the treatment they received from English Christians. The testimony of a recent convert in about 1909 expresses this issue squarely: ‘I was a new convert and had seen little of Christians. I had read in the New Testament the commandment of love and brotherhood ... I knew that all Englishmen were Christians, and the missionary who baptized me treated me as a brother. And so in my ignorance, when I met an Englishman, at first, I would go up to him and say ‘I am a Christian’; but I was received with cold looks and sometimes with abuse, and would be told to ‘get out.’ Here and there I met a true Christian; but

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the majority I have met seem to regard me as belonging to a lowercaste... It seemed just ‘caste’ over again. I have suffered slights harder to bear from those who should have been my brother Christians than from my relations who outcasted me.’52 From the Dalits’ viewpoint what then warranted and sustained religious conversion to Christianity? I want to suggest that religious conversion in the case o f Dalit communities involved entering a liminal world: a world of possibilities that is weaved out within a limbo between the real and the utopian. In the case of Dalit communities in Tamil Nadu such a conversion to Christianity also invoked the license to fabricate a new world-orientation from the utopias available in another religious world picture. This is done with the purpose both to subvert the world vision that was being discarded and set goals for a hoped for worldview in which the subjectivity of the converts was given a better chance to develop, if not thrive. What concretely gave such Dalit communities the expectancy that such a world of possibilities was not a mere illusion had to do with the words and deeds of many missionary forces from without and some native Christian leaders from within. We have already noted in detail the role of the Protestant missionaries in the movement to dismantle caste discriminations and work for the comprehensive removal o f caste disabilities. The powerful and decisive witness and exhortation of elite Indian caste converts was also testimony that the Christian community as a whole willed to incorporate an egalitarian world vision of freedom and dignity for all human beings. We can cite the example of Reverend S. Rajagopal, a Mudaliyar [member of a Brahmanic caste community] from a ‘respectable family’, who was converted to the Free Church of Scotland. Following his ordination in 1851, he began to work, ‘unaided by his mission,’ in a bigparacheriin Madras where ‘vast numbers of the outcaste poor are massed together. ’53 He wanted to exemplify that caste discrimination and division can be overcome by Christianity, his newly embraced religion. Rajagopal’s words were as daring and deliberate as his deeds: ‘If you admit caste to be true, the whole fabric of Christianity must come down; for the nature of caste and its associations destroy the first principles of Christianity. Caste makes distinctions among creatures where God has none; it attaches moral impurity where God does not; and makes one class

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of men clean and another unclean, in direct opposition to the word of God, to fact, and to the actual state of the world.’54 Professor S. Satthianathan, an eminent scholar teaching at the University in Madras, poignantly reaffirmed this social vision for the Christian community in India toward the end of the nineteenth century. It is sad to note that the system of caste, which is opposed to the very idea of brotherhood o f man, finds favour with a few Christians, especially in Southern India. And besides this, w e notice the cleavage brought about by social distinction and w orldly possession. The leaders o f the community must do their utmost to put a stop to these causes that prevent the realization o f a common brotherhood... Christianity is on its trial in India ... Let us resolve to bury at the foot o f the cross o f Him, Who, though he was God, took upon Himself the form o f a servant and Himself o f no reputation, all our egotism, our self-conceit, and social bigotry, and make an earnest effort to realize, in the heart as well as the outward life, our oneness in Christ. To us— resurrectionized Christians and Christians whose citizenship is in heaven, there is now no Pariah nor Brahmin, no ryot nor Zemindar, but one new Man.55

The ambiguity of conversion to the Christian symbolic world vision must not be ignored. As suggested, on the one hand, the religious worldview that was being jettisoned by the Dalits was nebulously held together under a construed version of Hinduism. It did result in combined, systemic, and concrete discrimination and disabilities for non-Brahmanic caste communities, Dalits in particular. On the other hand, as discovered in this essay, Dalits’ entry into the new symbolic vision of Christianity did not eventuate into a real world of equality, freedom and dignity. There were, however, theological resources in the newly embraced religion that could be used to construct such an alternate worldview. Additionally there were the words and deeds of most missionaries and some elite Indian Christian caste leaders that daringly professed and promoted this counter-symbolic world vision. By resourcefully utilizing these ideational and performative symbols Dalit communities were able to construe a different world vision even if this was not yet concretely and definitively experienced. The prospect of religious conversion thus does not lie only with the present but also in an anticipatory future. Conversion is a dynamic process; one in which the difference

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of the embraced world vision is assembled consciously and collectively in the spirit of proleptic hope: a hope that lies in the future but which impinges sporadically though concretely in the historical present.

Notes ’For further reading see ‘The Acts o f Thomas’ in New Testament Apocrypha, Volume II, Ed., W. Schneemelcher, (1965), London: Lutterworth, pp. 425-531 and A. M. Mundadan, (1984), History o f Christianity in India up to the Middle o f the Sixteenth Century, Bangalore: Church History Association of India (henceforth CHAI). ^Henriette Bugge, 1994. Mission and the Tamil Society, Richmond, UK: Curzon Press, p. 43. iIbid., p. 54. 'Ibid., p. 42. 5Hugald Grafe, 1990. History o f Christianity in India: Tamil Nadu in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, volume IV, Part 2, Bangalore: CHAI, p. 37. ^Joseph Thekkedath, 1982. History o f Christianity in India: From the Middle o f the Sixteenth Century to the end o f the Seventeenth Century, Volume II, Bangalore: CHAI, p. 206. 7E. R. Hambye, 1997. History o f Christianity in India: Eighteenth Century, Volume III, Bangalore: CHAI, p. 148. 8Ibid. 9Ibid., p. 51. 10Ibid., p. 53. “ I am making use of the statistics configured by Grafe, p. History of Christianity in India, p. 135. 12Andre Beteille gives us some idea of the discussion concerning the relationship between colonial governance and caste in the nineteenth and first half of the twentieth century. ‘The changes that have been taking place in caste since independence began at least a hundred years before independence, under colonial rule. If the constitution is a landmark in the history of caste, an earlier, though less conspicuous, landmark is the Removal o f Caste Disabilities Act of 1850. Until then a Hindu was so deeply embedded in his caste that expulsion from it amounted virtually to civil death.

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Colonial administrators, like administrators everywhere, were inclined to take more than their due share o f credit for bringing about beneficial changes in the country they administered. They exaggerated the rigidity and oppressiveness o f the traditional social order and their own role in establishing liberal ideas and institutions in India. Many of their acts did indeed lead to the weakening of caste, but some also led to its strengthening. On balance, however, the long-term consequence of colonial rule was the weakening rather than a strengthening of caste. It has now become increasingly common to represent colonial rule as the source and origin o f every economic, political, and social malady in contemporary India. Some smart American historians have even floated the idea that caste as we know it today is basically the creation o f colonial rule, and that idea has naturally found many subscribers among Indians. There is no need now to white-wash colonial rule; but there is no need either to deny the advances in Indian society that started under it.’ (Andre Beteille, ‘Caste and Colonial Rule’ The Hindu, March 4, 2002, p. 10.) 13L.S.S. O ’Malley, 1941. Modem India and the West: General Survey, London: Oxford University Press, p. 67314Geoffrey A. Oddie, 1991. Hindu and Christian in South-East India: Aspects o f Religious Continuity and Change, 1800-1900, London: Curzon Press, p. 140. 15J. W. Pickett, 1933. Christian Mass Movements in India: A Study with Recommendations, New York: Abingdon Press, p. 314. 16Ibid., p. 27. 17Bugge, Mission and the Tamil Society, p. 143. 18Pickett, Christian Mass Movements, p. 28. 19Andrew Wingate, 1997. The Church and Conversion: A Study o f Recent Conversions to and from Christianity in the Tamil Area o f South India, Delhi: ISPCK, p. 23XA few verses from Rig Veda X: 90 will suffice to reiterate my point. The translation is by R. C. Zaehner, 1966. The Hindu Scriptures, London: J.M. Dent & Sons Ltd. Purusha is this w h o le universe, W hat w as and what is yet to be, T h e Lord o f immortality, W h ich he ou tgrow s b y foo d . This is the measure o f his greatness, But greater yet is Purusha: A ll beings form a quarter o f him. Three-quarters are the immortal heavens ...

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W h en they d ivid ed Purusha, In to h o w m any parts d id they d ivid e him? W hat w as his mouth? W hat his arms? W hat are his thighs called? W hat his feet? T h e Brahmin w as his mouth? T h e arms w e re m ade the prince, His thighs the c o m m o n p eo p le, A n d from his fee t the serf was bom .

2,Max Muller, 1869. Chipsfrom a German Workshop, Vol. II, New York: Charles Scribner and Company, p. 353. “John C. B. Webster, 1992. The Dalit Christians: A History, Delhi: ISPCK, p. 2.5. 2iIbid., p. 26. 24G. A. Oddie, 1979- S ocia l Protest in In d ia : British Protestant Missionaries and Social Reforms, New Delhi: Manohar, p. 129. 2T h e Madras District Report of the Wesleyan Methodist Missionary Society (London, 1903), P- 70 26The Madras District Report o f the Wesleyan Methodist Missionary (London, 1910), p. 67 27Webster, The D alit Christians, p. 25. Christopher John Baker, 1984. An Indian Rural Economy (1880-1955): The Tamil Nadu Countryside, Delhi: Oxford University Press, p. 76. 2'rThe Madras District Report o f the Wesleyan Methodist Missionary (London, 1910), p. 67. ^Gunnel Cederlof, 1997. Bonds Lost: Subordination, Conflict and M obilization in Rural South India c. 1900-1970, New Delhi: Manohar Publishers, p. 163-164. ’ ’Webster, The D alit Christians, p.75. ,2Grafe, History o f Christianity in India, p. 27. ^Pickett, Christian Mass Movements, p. 38-9. ^Cyril Bruce Firth, 1976. An Introduction to Indian Church History, Madras: Christian Literature Society, p. 203. iSI draw upon ideas on religious conversion in a similar tribal context that are expressed in the following essay: Satyakam Joshi, 1999. ‘Tribals, Missionaries and Sadhus: Understanding violence in the Dangs’ in Economic and Political Weekly, September 11: 2667-75. v,O d d ie ,

Social Protest in India, p. 132.

r Ibid., p. 134.

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38The Thirteenth Report of the South Indian Provincial Synod (Mysore, 1923), p. 47. ^Anthony Copley, 1997. Religions in Conflict: Ideology, Cultural Contact and Conversion in Late Colonial India, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, p. 255 “ Duncan Forrester, 1980. Caste and Christianity: Attitudes and Policies on Caste o f Anglo-Saxon Missions in India, London: Curzon Press, p. 38. "Ibid., p. 42. 42V. Geetha and S. V. Rajadurai, 1999 Towards A N on-B rahm in Millennium : From Iyothee Thass to Periyar, Calcutta: Samya, p. 83-4. 43Kancha Ilaiah, 2001. ‘Shrinking Space o f Hinduism,’ The H indu (November 21), p. 10. ^Copley, Religions in Conflict, p, 185. 4VThe Madras District Report o f 1896 (London, 1896), p. 38. 46Ibid., p. 39. Emphasis mine. 47Geetha and Rajadurai, Towards a non-Brahmin Millennium, p. 84. ,48Oddie, Social Protest in India, p. 136. 49Grafe, History o f Christianity in India, p. 99. *>Ibid., p. 101. 51Ibid 52Eugene Stock, 1916. The History o f the Church Missionary Society. Vol. IV, London: CMS Press, p. 173,3S. Satthianathan, 1896. ed., Sketches o f Indian Christians, London: Christian Literature Society, p. 19-25. S4Forrester, Caste and Christianity, p. 127. ssS. Satthianathan, ‘ Introduction’ in Sketches o f Indian Christians, p. xiv-xv.

Christian Conversion in the Punjab: What has Changed? John C. B. Webster

ne of the major issues in the century-long debate about mass or group conversion, especially of Dalits, to Christianity in India has been whether or not these conversions have brought about significant changes in the lives of the converts. Christian evangelists argued that it did and J. W. Pickett’s Christian Mass Movements in India (1933) used survey research to point out what those changes were. Opponents of conversion argued that conversion really changed very little; apart from superficial changes in worship and perhaps life-style, the lives of converts went on pretty much as before. Originally that was a debate between religions framed in socio­ economic terms. The more recent Dalit Christian demand for inclusion among the recipients of Scheduled Caste benefits, which accelerated in the late 1970s and 1980s, resulted in an ironic reversal of that early debate. Christian Dalits argued that in fact conversion has brought about very little socio-economic change in their lives and so they are as much entitled to receive Scheduled Caste benefits as are other Dalits, while opponents of inclusion have said that Dalit Christians are more ‘advanced’ than other Dalits. Thus questions about the consequences of conversion have been very much a matter of public debate for a long time. Meanwhile, and especially in the past two decades, scholars have been taking a closer look at and asking new questions about the process of religious conversion and its consequences. While no clear scholarly consensus on the subject has been reached, four broad

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assumptions about the study of conversion and change, each of which poses its own methodological problems for historians, seem to have emerged. The first is that the study of conversion and conversion movements must be convert-centered rather than evangelistcentered. The question which the historian must address is not so much what the evangelists were hoping for and then what in fact they got through the conversion process as what the converts hoped to become and what actually happened to them as a result of con­ version. Conversion is a choice with consequences. The second assumption is that the context of conversion is crucial to understand­ ing change. Not only does one need to understand the converts’ situation prior to conversion in order to make a proper assessment of what did and did not change after conversion, but the context is also going to have as great an influence upon the changes, or lack thereof, flowing from conversion as upon the original conversion itself. In addition, there is the important question of what constitutes context, as context is multi-dimensional and the sources concerning it are often more abundant for the big picture of region, province or empire than for the dynamics of a particular village. A third assumption is that conversion is an inward as well as an outward process. Scholars tend to emphasize the outward changes in religious practice, in behaviour, in relationships, and in socio­ economic condition. The inward process is far more difficult to uncover and while the missionaries who produced the written sources were certainly interested in inward change, they generally inferred it from the outward changes they observed. This is probably the only course open to the historian as well. Finally, conversion is a long-term process contingent upon the nature of the follow-up after the formal change of allegiance and affiliation, e.g., through baptism. This, I believe, is one of the most important points about conversion emerging from recent discussions. Conversion could take more than one generation. Moreover, the inward and outward changes conversion brought about on the convert generation may be built upon, simply retained or even lost by their children or grandchildren. Consequently, the historian of conversion movements faces some difficult decisions. How long is the term of the conversion process and how is that to be decided? Does there come a point at which the historian must stop talking about conversion and begin talking about

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Christian nurture instead? What kinds essential to, this conversion process considered to be simply by-products analysis, theological questions, which the historian’s research.

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of changes are inherent in, and what changes may be of it? These are, in the last have a direct bearing upon

This essay seeks to revisit the issue of conversion and change in India with these assumptions and their methodological problems in mind. It examines one particular case of ‘mass conversion’ to Christianity and its consequences, that of the Chuhras in the Punjab, in the light of those assumptions and in the hope that this will move old public debates forward from the pragmatic and ideological points on the subject that have been ‘fixed’ in the public mind for some time. It is based largely on missionary sources because, with all of their inadequacies, these get closer to the illiterate converts than any other sources now available. It begins with a brief description of the Chuhras in the late nineteenth century when the conversion movements began. It then examines the records first of the Sialkot Mission of the United Presbyterian Church of North America and then of the Punjab Mission of the Church Missionary Society, as these were the missions most affected by the movements and comparisons between the two are instructive. After concentrating upon the ‘first generation’ of converts in these two missions between 1873 and 1914, it will look ahead at some of the later indicators of possible change and continuity in subsequent ‘generations.’ At the end it will offer some brief reflections on the Chuhra case study as well as on the study of conversion.

I In 1881 the Census Commissioner reported that there were over one million Chuhras in the Punjab, most of who were located in the central districts of the province. He described the Chuhras as the lowest of the menial castes whose duties included sweeping, making dung cakes, grazing cattle, and carrying messages. However, especially in the central Punjab, their main occupation was agricultural labour.1 Few owned land, some had annual or more long-term tenancy arrangements, but the vast majority worked as daily wage labourers

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for the village landowners. Their poverty and hunger were notorious. They were constandy indebted to and thus dependent upon the landowners. They also bore the stigma of untouchability. The religious life of the Chuhras displayed a combination o f accommodation to, acceptance of, and rebellion against their situa­ tion of lowness, ritual impurity, poverty, powerlessness and depen­ dency. At least outwardly, they tended to conform to the religious preferences of the dominant castes in their villages. Chuhras who became Muslims were called Musallis and those who became Sikhs were called Mazhabis. Chuhra life-cycle rituals and customs also resembled those of others in the village. In addition, Chuhras shared much of the same general religious outlook as other Punjabi villag­ ers: a belief in evil spirits, ghosts, omens, and auspicious and inaus­ picious times. In their view, the world they lived in was unpredictable and uncontrollable, arbitrary in bestowing good and bad (usually bad for the Chuhras) fortune upon its inhabitants. These invisible forces at work in their world had to be respected, appeased and bargained with if one were to survive. What was predictable was the force of social custom, which weighed particularly heavily upon the Chuhras. It is in the Chuhras’ own caste religion, focused upon the worship of Bala Shah, that one sees signs of resistance to and rebellion against the social order and social custom. This is particularly evident in two features of their religion. One is the myth of their own caste origins, which is included in the prayers, songs and poems used for worshipping Bala Shah. There were four Brahmin brothers whom God ordered to remove a dead cow from a field. Only one, Jhaumpra, agreed to do so on the condition that God would be merciful to him and to his descendants at the time of their death. He also asked his brothers to restore him to their company after he had completed the job; this they agreed to do after four days. However, when Jhaumpra had removed the cow, they changed their minds, saying that they would restore him only after four ages had passed. Thus the Chuhras were actually high caste people who had been unjustly outcast because of their willingness to do what God had commanded; they therefore rejected the notion that their present place at the bottom of the caste hierarchy was somehow divinely ordained. The other feature was their belief that at the time of death and judgment, God

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would be merciful to them but consign their Hindu, Muslim and Sikh detractors to hell. Thus, in the end the Chuhras would be vindicated. It should be noted, however, that the resistance and rebellion built into these beliefs was passive rather than active. The social order would be reversed only after the resurrection; until then God offered the Chuhras neither assistance nor guidance for changing the circumstances of their lives in this world.2 While British rule was intended to have a minimal impact upon the Punjab countryside, it did in time create some instability. The initial land settlements following annexation in 1845 and 1849 were designed to win over the peasantry by granting them land ownership rights and a light (but regular) land revenue assessment. Nonetheless, by the 1880s it was becoming apparent that large amounts of agricultural land were passing from peasant to moneylender hands, especially in the central Punjab. The British administrative system also undermined the absolute judicial authority of village panchayats by placing it in the hands of the magistrates; this gave those unhappy with local justice a court of higher appeal, at least in theory. Also contributing to the increasing rural turmoil of the late 19th and early 20th centuries was the government decision to supply canal water to large tracts of hitherto uncultivable land in the western Punjab and then make these lands available to farmers, especially from the central Punjab. This resulted in considerable movement within the rural population in search either of land or of agricultural work on terms more favourable than offered in the central Punjab. All of these developments in the countryside did produce signs that the old order was under stress, but aside from that had no discernible impact upon the early stages of the Chuhra conversion movements in the central Punjab. Only in the later stages did these developments make their impact felt upon the conversion movements.

II It has long been customary to attribute the origins of the Chuhra conversion movement in the Punjab to Ditt; a lame, thirty-year-old dealer in hides from the village of Shahabdike, about thirty miles east of Sialkot. Ditt first heard the Christian message from a convert

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named Nattu who was the son of a lambardar in a neighbouring village. When he learned what he could from Nattu, Ditt decided to become a Christian without consulting his family. He persuaded Nattu to introduce him to the missionary at Sialkot and the Rev. Samuel Martin was soon convinced that Ditt understood enough and was sincere enough to be baptized. There is nothing in the record either about Ditt’s motives for conversion or about why he found Christianity so attractive and convincing, but he did become a committed and effective volunteer evangelist when he returned to his village. In August 1873, three months after his own baptism, he brought his wife, daughter and two neighbours to Sialkot for baptism. Then in February 1874 he brought four more neighbours, one of who joined him in voluntary evangelism. From these modest beginnings the news of Jesus, ‘Saviour of sinners, Friend of the poor’ spread along caste lines through the surrounding villages by word of mouth.3 Ditt, however, was not the sole initiator of the Chuhra conversion movements. At least two others are credited with starting similar conversion movements in their own areas quite independently of Ditt’s. Little is reported about the movement initiated by Karm Bakhsh who lived near Gujranwala. However, the religious quest of Chaughatta, who lived in the village of Awankha near Dinanagar in Gurdaspur district, is described in some detail. It started with dissatisfaction with ‘idol worship’ as providing no inner rest or comfort. Chaughatta then sought out faqirs and gurus, but this also left him unsatisfied and he now wished to find a true guru. While he had heard about missionaries and had wanted to meet one, it was through conversations with an Indian preacher in Dinanagar that he finally found in Jesus Christ what he was looking for. After baptism he helped lead other Chuhras in Awankha and the neighbouring villages to convert as well.4 It is very difficult to tell from the reports and published corre­ spondence of the United Presbyterian missionaries what Chuhra inquirers and converts were seeking at this early stage of the move­ ment. One missionary reported on the low caste people he met on his tours of the villages that; ‘People ask, how can we obtain salva­ tion? What sins should we avoid? What duties should we perform in order that we may obtain the favour of God? They never ask what service can you procure us? What support can we obtain if we

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become Christians?’5 Moreover, once the missionaries recognized that a conversion movement was in progress, they deliberately left it to Chuhra initiative and confined their own activities to providing further instruction to those who had already made a profession of faith.6 Thus the movement was, at this stage, very much in the hands of local Chuhra leaders like Ditt, Karm Bakhsh, and Chaughatta; their motivations and presentations of Christianity were what attracted the early Chuhra converts. It was at the outset, and was to remain throughout, a Chuhra-initiated rather than a missionary-initiated movement. For a dozen years the movement was to remain within the territorial confines of the Sialkot Mission of the United Presbyterian Church o f North America. The mission’s reports and printed correspondence during those years indicate that there were no clear patterns of motivation, decision-making, growth or immediate consequences other than that the movement spread primarily among men and along caste lines. Inquirers approached missionaries and Indian evangelists with a wide variety of concerns ranging from the genuinely religious shaped by the evangelists’ message, as in the questions listed above, to the desire for assistance in dealing with harassment and oppression they faced in their villages.7 Most made decisions as individuals, nuclear families, or small clusters of families within the same village, but there were cases in which caste leaders made a collective decision to convert.8 In some villages a few would convert initially and others followed later on. The rate of conversion fluctuated from year to year but the numbers in the 1880s were consistently higher than in the 1870s. The question of immediate consequences is more complex. Ditt himself became so engrossed in evangelism that he gave up his business in hides and accepted a stipend as a full-time evangelist. By 1895 he was an elder in the church at Mirali.9 Karm Bakhsh became an ordained pastor and evangelist. These cases were not unique. As the movement expanded, the mission had increasing need for full-time evangelists and catechists who could prepare inquirers for baptism. However, the vast majority of Chuhra converts remained in their villages, working in the same menial occupations, and as economically dependent upon the same landlords as before baptism. Although illiterate and with little leisure time to spare for Christian

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instruction, the converts did show signs of growth in their new Christian faith and life. Missionary reports contain examples o f converts continuing to cling to such old customs as eating carrion, ‘loose marriage relations,’ and working on Sundays. Some converts were even suspended from church membership for such actions.10 A woman missionary reported that women were reluctant to be baptized because they feared that if they did so, their children would be unable to find marriage partners.11 This, however, was confined only to the early stages of the movement; by the eve of World War I the situation had reversed itself because of the huge increase in conversions.12 Converts also tended to view baptism as entering into a client-patron relationship with the missionaries whom they expected to be their protectors and problem-solvers.13 Nonetheless, on balance, the missionaries were pleased with the results and considered their Chuhra converts to be as good as their other converts. What they liked best was the steadfastness of the converts, the signs of growth out of degradation they witnessed, and the fact that there were those who were eager to get their children educated.14 The converts’ situation in their villages often worsened as a result of conversion. The missionaries reported frequent landlord opposition, some of it in the form of misinformation (e.g., ‘the padri will make you eat frogs, pigs and lizards’) and some in the form o f threats (e.g., ‘we will report you as thieves, even if we have to take some of our own goods and put them in your homes’ or ‘we will turn you out of the village’).15 As a result many interested inquirers decided against baptism and in some cases those who went through with it faced such severe persecution that they either had to recant or leave the village.16 Among the forms of persecution the dominant castes employed were the denial of water and of employment. One missionary reported that Christians were often singled out for forced labour ( begar) when the government required it.17 Nonetheless, the United Presbyterian missionaries at this time tried very hard not to interfere, but viewed this ‘time of testing’ as potentially good in the long run.18 Persecution only lasted for a time after conversion and then ceased. This suggests that while often attributed to religious bigotry, opposition was more likely to be due to the perception that conversion marked a further threat to and erosion of the traditional Punjabi village social order.

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By 1885 the Sialkot Mission probably had about 2,500 Chuhra converts. In the years that followed this number increased dramati­ cally. The Mission’s annual reports indicate that while converts from other backgrounds continued to come in slowly as individuals or nuclear families, the Chuhras were being baptized in large num­ bers. By 1890 there were over 10,000 United Presbyterians;19 by 1909 there were almost 42,000, about half of who were full members.20 While the Mission provided neither statistics nor estimates accord­ ing to caste, it is highly probable that at least ninety percent of the later figure were Chuhras. In 1914 one United Presbyterian mission­ ary did estimate that in the Punjab as a whole over 150,000 Chuhras had converted to Christianity.21 As important as the numbers are for understanding the nature of this movement, is the fact that the Mission was clearly overwhelmed by the sheer size of it. There were more requests for teaching preparatory to baptism than the Mission could respond to.22 The missionaries were constantly bemoaning the lack o f qualified mission workers to meet the demand and devoted each July to summer schools for mission workers and local leaders.23 During their winter tours of the villages in their mission districts, they now visited the Christians first, concentrating upon nurturing them in their new faith, and thus had little spare time to preach to others.24 This priority in itself may have been an attraction for other Chuhras, but the movement had been forcing such a wide and thin dispersal of available mission resources that it limited the poten­ tially transforming effect, which Christianity might have had upon those who converted. There were three important events, which had a major impact upon this movement in the years prior to World War I. The first was the opening of the canal colonies in the western Punjab. When construction of the Chenab canal began in 1892, many Christians left their villages to work on it for better wages; when the colonies opened up in 1897 many more followed to work there either as tenant farmers or as labourers who could earn higher wages than they did back in their central Punjab villages. Over a five year period about 5,000 Christians were removed from the United Presbyterian church rolls alone, simply because they had migrated away from their local congregations. Migration thus had a very disruptive effect upon the building of village congregations and even destroyed some

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completely.25 The United Presbyterians were slow in following their converts to the canal colonies, but they were able to get a 780-acre tract of land there from the government where they were able to settle about 40 handpicked families.26 A second disruptive event was the arrival of the Roman Catho­ lics into the United Presbyterian ‘mission field.’ The Chuhra conver­ sion movement had caused ‘border disputes’ with the neighbouring Church Missionary Society and Church of Scotland missions, but these were resolved by drawing clear boundary lines and then exchang­ ing jurisdiction over convert populations on the ‘wrong side’ of those boundaries.27 The Roman Catholics, however, could not be accom­ modated. They made their presence felt first in 1889; the United Presbyterian report for that year indicated that the Roman Catholics made off with some disgruntled mission workers as well as some converts who were either greedy or ignorant of the differences between Protestantism and Roman Catholicism.28 Apparently, the Roman Catholics were more of a nuisance than a threat to the United Presbyterians, providing them with an added incentive to look after their own scattered converts when on tour, at least until the years just before World War I. From 1911 onwards, several district mis­ sionaries noted a new aggressiveness among the Roman Catholics and reported that a good number of villages had gone over to the Roman Catholics. This they attributed not only to Roman Catholic promises of land and of not having to contribute to the support of the church, but also to the fact that they had overextended them­ selves and were not providing adequate pastoral care. ‘Village after village has gone over to them, and we grieve the more because we know that in most instances the people were not being instructed or cared for by us. Some say plainly they were not being visited and taught. Few if any villages which were receiving regular instruction from any worker have gone over.’29 The third important event was revival. This began in 1896 at a presbytery meeting with much confession of sins and seeking forgiveness from God as well as from those sinned against. It spread to the Synod meeting, the theological seminary, the Girls’ Boarding School, the summer schools, various district meetings as well as to a convention at Sialkot in 1897, which some 500 people attended.30 Its focal point in subsequent years became the Sialkot Convention

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begun on a regular basis in the summer of 1904. That year only about 225 people attended; in 1905 there were about 300 but in both 1906 and 1907 there were 1200-1500 from all the Protestant missions in the Punjab and a few from outside.31 In 1909 there were 2000. While much time was devoted to preaching and teaching, the major emphasis was upon prayer. A special prayer hall, open all day and night, attracted increasing numbers of people as the conventions progressed. People poured out their hearts in confessing their sins and in singing metrical psalms, recently translated and set to Punjabi tunes. Apart from enhancing religious devotion and enthusiasm, which found expression in evangelistic zeal and greater giving to the Church, the missionaries noted some signs of social transformation. One mentioned a greater ‘harmony of spirit. ’ ‘Being nearer to Christ, people are drawn nearer to one another. There is less suspicion, less jealousy and envy, less selfishness, less disposition to press one’s will in opposition to the will of others; less imputation of unworthy motives; in one word, less friction than there used to be. ’32 Another depicted it less in inter-personal than communal terms. The gathering together of so many Christians in one place has impressed the Church with her numerical strength. More vital than this, however, have been the visions of what the Church is, and for what it stands. These village people having been in prayer rooms, having joined in the volumes o f praise, having listened to the deep spiritual truths, and the demand o f the Church for godliness and service, go away impressed with the spiritual functions of the church, and are undoubtedly influenced accordingly.33

There are several tentative conclusions, which can be drawn from this brief survey of the Chuhra experience with the United Presbyterians. The first is that Christianity did not have a uniform impact u p o n all that became converts during this period. Quite apart from individual variations, the demographics argue against it. Where large clusters of Chuhras converted and an organized congregation with a resident pastor could be established, the impact was greater than where Christians were scattered in widely dispersed villages, which could be visited only irregularly. The second is that not all the changes, which took place in the converts’ lives, can be attributed to their conversion. For example, the opening of the canal colonies enhanced the bargaining power and opened up opportunities for

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economic improvement for all Chuhras, not just the Christians among them. Thus while conversion itself did not change the converts’ position in their villages, there were Chuhras (converts included) who could and did leave their villages if they were unhappy with the treatment they were receiving.34 The third is that through their network of village schools, the Mission took the lead in opening up to Chuhras educational opportunities and thus possibilities o f occupational diversification and upward mobility previously denied to them. While Chuhras could and did attend these schools without converting, the Christians had the chance to go farther than the village school could take them. Indeed, a few even earned a B. A. degree, a remarkable achievement for this period.35 A far larger number o f converts gained employment from the Mission as pastors, teachers and evangelists. Beyond these generalizations, it is difficult to go without relying on missionary impressions. These impressions concentrated upon inner transformation and were mixed. On the one hand, there was regret over continued reliance upon faqirs, charms and Bala Shah; over the slow progress of marriage reform as well as failures to appreciate the value o f education.36 On the other, there was optimism over women who considered themselves incapable of learning anything new actually doing so and taking great pride and pleasure in it; over progress in Christian knowledge; over converts who desired a better life discovering their ability to actually do better; over signs of greater self-respect and a more independent spirit.37 Perhaps one anecdote and the missionary comment upon it captured some of the positive changes best. A Christian was at a railway station waiting for his train. The chief o f police coming up, asked who the man was. Upon finding that he was a Christian, he entered into a conversation with him. ‘Now, tell me, ’ the chief said, ‘what good has it been for you to become a Christian?’ ‘Well, I can tell you,’ said the man. ‘For one thing, I am not afraid o f you now, and I can go around among these villages with freedom, and people do not take me for a thief and a rascal, as they used to do when we were heathen Chuhras. They take me fo r a m an n o w . ’ So it is that m o re an d m o re th ese d e p re s s e d an d

downtrodden are taking their places as men among men. They are ‘realizing themselves.’38

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III The Church Missionary Society first reported the spread of the Chuhra conversion movement into the area they ‘occupied’ in 1884-5. It reached south from Sialkot to Narowal and from Gurdaspur south into the Batala tehsil. Whereas Rowland Bateman treated it with great caution in Narowal, the missionaries in Batala accepted it with more optimism. Francis Baring baptized Kauda, whom he described as a kind of headman among his people in the village of Bham.39 However, it is not clear whether he was an isolated case or the first of many converts in his village. Then in March 1885 the Batala missionaries received a request for Christian instruction and a school from the Chuhras of Fatehgarh. ‘We want to find the true way,’ they said. They promised to provide the ground for a schoolhouse, and to raise the walls of sunburnt brick, on the understanding that the Mission would provide wood for doors, windows, and roof. To this we agreed.’40 The Mission sent a student as a teacher and two munshis, one of whom was a good musician who taught them Christian hymns. In October twenty were baptized; in December and February 45 more were added. ‘All the candidates for baptism have been required to commit to memory the Creed, the Lord’s Prayer, and the Ten Commandments, and to show some appreciation of their meaning; and care has been taken to exclude any whose life was known to be evil or doubtful. ’41 The converts continued to work as labourers and hide-sellers, but were required to; ‘break off their connection with the heathen Chuhra community, and more especially cease to eat carrion. ’42 The conversions at Fatehgarh show that the Chuhra conversion movement was already at a mature stage of development when the C. M. S. missionaries first confronted it. In the years that followed, it spread in the Gurdaspur, Amritsar and Lahore civil districts where the C. M. S. was working. In the process, it exhibited the same varied patterns of decision-making, of growth, and of persecution as among United Presbyterians. C. M. S. converts also ran into the same kinds of conflicts with missionaries over Sabbath observance and marriage customs as had United Presbyterian converts.43 In other words, the movement did not seem to change its basic character when confronting a new set of missionaries and the transitions from the

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old religion to the new were also basically similar. What will be emphasized here are its distinctive features in C. M. S. circles as well as some of the additional insights into its dynamics and consequences that the C. M. S. writers offer. Probably the most important feature relates to the aspirations of the Chuhras who were involved in the movement. We need to understand these aspirations and their outcome during the course of the movement. H. U. Weitbrecht, who was the missionary on the spot when the Chuhra conversion movement first appeared in Batala tehsil, reported that; ‘They have told each other of the new religion that is willing to admit and raise them to the dignity of men. Temporal considerations have, no doubt, freely mingled with aspirations after the knowledge of God and deliverance from sin; often greatly outweighed them.’44 After describing the baptisms at Fatehgarh, he pointed out that, ‘The converts gain, to a certain extent, in social position, being no longer reckoned as Chuhras but as Christians. On the other hand, they have to suffer a good deal of opposition and petty persecution, especially from the cultivators, who put obstacles in the way of their coming to service, under the impression that, as Christians, they will become more independent. ’4