The Ambivalence of Denial: Danger and Appeal of Rituals 3447105704, 9783447105705

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The Ambivalence of Denial Danger and Appeal of Rituals

Edited by Ute Hüsken and Udo Simon Harrassowitz

The Ambivalence of Denial

© 2016, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 978-3-447-10570-5 — ISBN E-Book: 978-3-447-19520-1

© 2016, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 978-3-447-10570-5 — ISBN E-Book: 978-3-447-19520-1

The Ambivalence of Denial Danger and Appeal of Rituals

Edited by Ute Hüsken and Udo Simon

2016 Harrassowitz Verlag · Wiesbaden

© 2016, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 978-3-447-10570-5 — ISBN E-Book: 978-3-447-19520-1

Acknowledgements We wish to express our gratitude to the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft and the Heidelberg collaborative research center “The Dynamics of Ritual” for funding a workshop of our working group, and for inviting Ute Hüsken for six months as guest researcher to work on the project. We also thank Oslo University for its contribution to the project. Finally, we are grateful to Douglas Fear and Bao Do for their help in editing the volume. Cover illustration: Detail of Ballygunge Cultural Club Pandal during Durgapuja in Kolkata 2013; photograph: Ute Hüsken

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über http://dnb.dnb.de abrufbar. Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the internet at http://dnb.dnb.de.

For further information about our publishing program consult our website http://www.harrassowitz-verlag.de © Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden 2016 This work, including all of its parts, is protected by copyright. Any use beyond the limits of copyright law without the permission of the publisher is forbidden and subject to penalty. This applies particularly to reproductions, translations, microfilms and storage and processing in electronic systems. Printed on permanent/durable paper. Printing and binding: Memminger MedienCentrum AG Printed in Germany ISBN 978-3-447-10570-5 e-ISBN PDF 978-3-447-19520-1

© 2016, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 978-3-447-10570-5 — ISBN E-Book: 978-3-447-19520-1

Table of Contents Table of Contents

Introduction Ute Hüsken and Udo Simon 7 Hindu Priestesses in Pune Shifting Denial of Ritual Agency Ute Hüsken 21 The Cremation Ground and the Denial of Ritual The Case of the Aghorīs and Their Forerunner Christof Zotter 43 Contested Devotion Wahhabi and Salafi Opposition to the Celebration of Prophet Muḥammad’s Birthday Udo Simon 81 Ritual Creativity and Plurality Denying Twelver Shia Blood-Letting Practices Ingvild Flaskerud 109 Denial and Repetition Towards a Solidification of Tradition Jürgen Schaflechner 135

© 2016, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 978-3-447-10570-5 — ISBN E-Book: 978-3-447-19520-1

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Table of Contents

Anxiety and Innovation On Denial of Sacrifice in Vedic Ritual Cezary Galewicz 165 Rights versus Rites Bali and Ritual Reform in the Himalayas Lokesh Ohri 191 The Making and Unmaking of Rulers On Denial of Ritual in Nepal Astrid Zotter 221 Negotiating Text and Denying Practice in a Confucian Context Social Change and the Emergence of the Apotropaic Burial Custom (jiechu) in the Funeral Ritual of the Eastern Han (25-220 CE) Liang Chen 257 Denial of Ritual in Zen Writing Stuart Lachs 281 Afterword On Denials, Inclusions, Exclusions and Ambivalence Ian Reader 307

© 2016, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 978-3-447-10570-5 — ISBN E-Book: 978-3-447-19520-1

Introduction Introduction

Ute Hüsken and Udo Simon Underlying this volume is the assumption that ritual is a universal mode of human action. As such, ritual is also always evaluated and criticized.1 Humans always seem to need ritual, but they also always seem to reject ritual. Criticism is an inevitable part of ritual traditions, and can even be part of the ritual itself. Denial and critique are forms of relation defined in negative terms. In this sense, even new or renewed traditions always strongly relate to the old and rejected: When people turn against something, they are usually expressive of what exactly they dislike. Denial and criticism, as Grimes argues, is an “exercise of judgement that makes value-commitments and value-conflicts overt”, and at the same time constitutes its object (Grimes 1990: 15; Grimes 1988). Grimes also makes the important point that rituals are constantly evaluated, assessed, and critiqued. Critique can be positive or negative, it can either support existing practices, or demand to return to something believed to be lost.2 In this volume, we used this fact to learn more about the role of rituals in their performers’ lives. Our project was built on the work of some ritual studies scholars who got together for an initial exploration of the usefulness of analysing ritual through the concept of “denial”.3 The results of these preliminary explorations were published in a special issue of the Journal of Ritual Studies in 2013. A variety of ritual traditions, from a number of cultural, geographical and historical contexts, was addressed in this special issue.4 Hüsken and Seamone (2013: 1) lay out the potential field of meanings of the term “denial” in the context of ritual. As “anti-ritualism”, it is a synonym of rebuttal, refutation, negation and disclaimer; as a refusal of access, it is a turn-down, a veto or rejection; and as a psychological interpretation, it refers to the refusal to accept certain “truths” of “facts”. Yet, the denials we look at

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See Grimes 1988 and 1990, Hüsken 2007, Hüsken and Neubert 2010, Hüsken and Seamone 2013; see also Post 2015: 8. The call for new rituals is the exception rather than the rule. A panel on the topic was held at the 2009 Annual Conference of the American Academy of Religion (Montreal). These case studies are contemporary American youth culture and "Eco-terrorism" (Pike 2013), Carribean pentecostal ritual in Canada (Seamone 2013), early and contemporary texts on Zen Buddhism (Foulk 2013), state violence in the contemporary USA, South Africa, and in Nazi Germany (Krondorfer 2013), representation of ritual in early Biblical texts (de Maris 2013), and Brahmanic Hindu traditions in South India (Hüsken 2013).

© 2016, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 978-3-447-10570-5 — ISBN E-Book: 978-3-447-19520-1

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in this volume are never just one or the other. Clearly, ritual has many and often contradictory functions for people: it often is a way of identity-building and— maintaining for groups and traditions—a means of determining the inside and the outside of a group, and thus a way of excluding, but also of integrating. These aspects are two sides of the same coin. Denial is both a way of saying “yes” to some, and of saying “no” to others. This is what we refer to as the “ambivalence” of denial. All contributions to this volume deal with forms of denial and the critique of ritual, but also with the ambivalences this denial uncovers. The ambivalence, complexity and processuality of denial is not least a consequence of the fact that one denial rarely comes alone. There is usually a chain of denials, one being the reaction to another. Or ritual activities may be attacked by more than one party, and the spectrum of opposition may range from the critique of a specific aspect of a rite to complete denial. In addition, even the same actors or groups, at different points in time, oppose to ritual to a varying degree, which adds to the complexity. At any rate, denial implies closure, while critique keeps the door open.5 We find in our case studies trends towards the “opening of the tradition”, but also trends towards the closure of the traditions—both the opening and closure being enacted through ritual. It seems that many—if not all—ritual traditions throughout history go through developments that are similar to a “pulse”, a constant movement from exclusion to inclusion, from closure to opening, and then back again to exclusion, etc. In many cases, the negotiations and conflicts that accompany and initiate this ‘”pulse” are connected to the question of whether intention or action counts more. These dialectics of inclusion and exclusion are foundational to processes of solidification, standardisation and institutionalisation. Our case studies show that denial needs to be stabilized and repeated to serve as a marker of a group. This formation of a set of distinctive oppositions is closely linked to the process of identity-making.

The Contributions to the Volume The selection of case studies in the present volume is a continuation of the initial exploration of the Hüsken and Seamone 2013 Special Issue of the Journal of Ritual Studies. All contributors address the following issues: the role of the denial in the process of a tradition’s solidification or reformulation, the process of institutionalizing or demolishing a ritual tradition, and ritual as an identity marker of groups and as a strategy of inclusion and exclusion. These issues are not only dealt with as contemporary phenomena, but are seen in the context of their historical roots and

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Denial can just refer to the verbal debate between people, but the critique can also amount to the actual persecution of those who do the “wrong” ritual.

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precedents. All cases unveil an ambivalent attitude towards ritual, even though this might be vigorously denied within a given tradition. Some contributions look at the denial of rituals as a tradition’s selection processes regarding what from certain insiders’ perspectives represents the entire tradition. Denial can relate to any aspect of a ritual—for example its performance, its script, or its ritual experts. The issue that is critiqued (be it material or a practice) is taken as emblematic for the whole tradition, as the crystallization of a tradition’s assumed essence, and the criticism is often directed toward an assumed degeneration of an “original tradition”. The old is valued and the new is rejected. Yet there is rarely agreement on what exactly constitutes “the old” or “the new”. This points towards notions of deviation and degeneration within a tradition, and towards the “administration” of religion through religious experts and a set of rules under their surveillance. The “true and correct ritual” is often claimed to have divine origins, or is linked to a founding figure in the remote past, whose (postulated) example does not allow any deviation. The denial of ritual is then declared to be a consequence of the degeneration of the true and original practice. Ironically, as we will see, “degeneration” can refer to “corrupted” folk traditions as well as to “artificial sophistication”, which restricts access to the tradition to a class of specialists or elite. Therefore the classification into “Great Tradition” and “Little Tradition” proves to be highly problematic for our analysis, rather replicating value judgements internal to a tradition. Denial is often used as a means of extending one’s own authority and includes a set of implicit claims. These may be claims to ownership of ritual or to authority in ritual. Conflict notoriously arises over the question of who represents tradition and authenticity. Ute Hüsken in her article “Hindu Priestesses in Pune. Shifting Denial of Ritual Agency” deals with a rather recent development: In the Indian state Maharashtra (and here especially in the city Pune) of more and more women being educated as domestic priests for traditional Sanskrit ritual—an area which traditionally is reserved for Brahmin men alone. This radical change goes along with a chain of denial: people who support priestly education for women are dissatisfied with the services of traditional male priests and consequently deny them their ritual competence. This concurs with tendencies to “rationalize” and “modernize” tradition. The traditionalists who deny women the right to learn and perform the Sanskrit rituals, mainly do so on the grounds of statements in the authoritative ritual texts in Sanskrit. The women priests counter this criticism by using different passages within the same normative Sanskrit texts, thus arriving at a re-interpretation of what constitutes the “original” tradition. Moreover, several groups and individuals among the women priests also deny each other the right to perform the Sanskrit rituals: Urban middle class Brahmin priestesses—often implicitly—exclude those women and men from a non-Brahmin background access to the office as domestic priests. Their arguments are surprisingly similar to the way they themselves have been denied ritual agency earlier, even using the same frames of reference. This

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newly drawn boundary is now about caste alone—rather than about gender and caste—and comes in the disguise of “quality control”, often with a Hindu nationalist subtext. Christof Zotter in “The Cremation Ground and the Denial of Ritual. The Case of the Aghorīs and their Forerunner” also deals with challenges of Brahmanic hegemony and the chain of denials resulting from these challenges. Zotter focuses on religious traditions with ritual practices related to the cremation ground, with the North Indian Aghorī-Saint Bābā Kīnārām (17th/18th cent.) as the main example. Rituals pertaining to the cremation ground (śmaśāna) are, to the orthodox Brahmanical way of thinking, impure and dangerous, a marker of heterodoxy and transgression. The Brahmanical tradition jealosly guarded access to its rituals by regulations concerning ritual purity, by life-cycle rites and other forms of initiation. This position was always contested, often by attacking the ritual or its implications, sometimes by contrastig outward religiosity (including rituals) with a “formless” god, etc. In most cases, however, specific forms of ritual, and thus their practicioners, were criticized for being false, useless, or fraudulent. Those attacked often struck back by using arguments implying the denial of others’ ritual. In this ongoing struggle of denial and counter-denial, the “heterodox” tradition of Tantric ascetics used secrecy as a strategy and a way of closure, which at the same time turned the tradition into a well-advertised mystery. Later, a shift from Tantric ascetics towards householder practitioners (“domestication”) brought about the internalisation and aesthetisation of heterodox practices. In contrast, the more recent reform of the largely middle-class Kīnārām tradition advocates spiritual practice (sādhanā) as selfless service (sevā) to the world. The different groups attack each other for carrying out certain rituals, for performing rituals not in the “right way” or “with the proper understanding”. The rejection provoked by ritual transgressions often is intended—in Zotter’s case studies, to trigger a process of merit transfer, or to cast off social bonds. At the same time, the forms of denial which are provoked by such transgressions also differ. It might be that access to one’s own rituals is denied, or that the authenticity of the transgressive rituals is questioned. Denial again provokes counter denial (“mutual othering”; as Zotter calls it), which more often than not takes a similar form as the denial. A further such struggle within a religious tradition is presented by Udo Simon in his contribution “Contested Devotion. Wahhabi and Salafi Opposition to the Celebration of Prophet Muḥammad's Birthday”. He deals with the basic arguments and sources of two groups’ complete denial of mawlid al-nabī, the celebration of Muḥammad's birthday—an event that is celebrated and critiqued in most parts of the Muslim world. Denial is here grounded in a rigid interpretation of the concept of innovation in religion (bidʿa), and constitutes an opposition to devotional practices which provoke strong and uncontrolled emotions. Uncontrolled ritual space is as suspect as highly emotional, ecstatic and ambivalent states in general. The rejection of mawlid is thereby embedded in a more general negotiation of what is a good

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and what is a reprehensible innovation. A strong motivation for the denial of mawlid is fear of the institutionalisation of a successful ritual design that is not, and cannot be covered by the example of the Prophet. The idea of Islamic ritual (including festivals) as a specific expression of religious group identity, which has to be protected from foreign influences, is central for this denial. Ritual becomes the source of conflict precisely because it is an identity-forming activity and a means to reproduce a group‘s values, social structures, and habitual properties. On closer examination, what appears to be a purely orthopractical issue, turns out to be a conflict between different concepts of religiosity. Yet, since intense ritual activity on the occasion of mawlid is seen as proof of love of Prophet Muḥammad, critique is bound to be ambivalent. Ingvild Flaskerud in her contribution “Ritual Creativity and Plurality. Denying Twelver Shia Blood-Letting Practices” deals with a number of transformations of ritual practice of bloody self-flagellation to commemorate the martyrdom of the Shiites' third Imam. Bloody self-flagellation, performed as part of the public mourning procession, has been, since its inclusion in Shia rituals in Iran in the 16th century, continuously criticized, contested, and transformed, producing a variety of practices and opinions—today, the flagellation might be replaced, for example, by blood donation during blood drives in and for war areas. Agents within these processes of negotiation are, for example, high-ranking Twelver religious scholars, the liturgical structures of commemorative rituals, and the socio-historical contexts. Flaskerud shows how scholars take very different positions (from outright rejection to acceptance), which result in multiple practices, all of them legitimized by authoritative judgements. This ambivalence leaves space for individual decisions within the frames of institutionalization and standardization. Such flexibility is inbuilt in the institution of Twelver Shia religious authority itself. The interrituality (i.e. the fact that the rites within the rituals refer to each other in specific ways) restricts and facilitates change at the same time. The socio-religious context also determines the actual enactment of the flagellation to a considerable degree, the rituals being transferred across geographical, historical and cultural settings. The Twelver Shia attitudes toward bloody self-flagellation are ambivalent, allowing for varied opinions and practices. The chain of denials outlined in Flaskerud’s contribution therefore produces both, ritual continuity and change. Flaskerud and several other case studies in this volume make clear that rituals that involve the spilling of blood are highly contested and trigger strong reactions. Blood spilling rituals seem to be notorious situations provoking the denial of ritual. While we detected the prominence of rituals involving the spilling of blood, a systematic investigation of the connection between resistance to rituals and human physicality (blood, sex, food) and materiality at large remains to be undertaken. In contemporary discussions about bloody rituals (be it human sacrifice, animal sacrifice, or bloody self-flagellation), “being modern” in contrast to “backwardness” is an important issue. Denial is here utilized as a sign of sophistication. Here we de-

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tect the sometimes implicit critique that the others (who perform bloody rituals) are much more uneducated, backward, or unenlightened. Ideologies are competing through ritual, yet the marker is material—in our cases, it is about the spilling of blood. Behind the “blood spilling issue”, there is always a strong element of competition between groups about different forms of religiosity, but also about power and influence, and access to resources. Jürgen Schaflechner in his “Denial and Repetition. Towards a Solidification of Tradition” also presents a case in which an animal sacrifice (bali) plays a crucial role. In the temple of the Hindu goddess Hiṅglāj Mātā in Pakistan, the originally rather accidental ban (i.e. denial) of this sacrifice by the temple committee in 2004 actually stabilized and eventually solidified the opposition to animal sacrifices as a marker of Hindu identity in the region. Importantly, this denial also needed to be stabilized through repetition and the application of certain institutional means, such as posters, volunteer work, inscriptions, and the annual repetition during the major temple festival. This emphasis on this perceived “Hindu” feature of the shrine, the integration of elements of transregional Hindu mythology and narratives, along with the (partial) exclusion of Muslims from it, helped to generate and establish a homogeneous history connected to the shrine. Here, repetition is an important means in this process of “solidification” of the tradition. In the case of the temple in question, the “others” are those who perform blood sacrifices. Interestingly, this is also accepted by the “other”: Both communities see animal sacrifice as a marker of proper and non-proper Hindu behavior. The denial (ban) of animal sacrifice in this process assigned to the sacrifice a particular new value, not the least because animal sacrifice was then seen as a practice of the “uneducated”. This case study, according to Schaflechner, exemplifies the existence of a logic of denial and exclusion that plays a crucial role in the identification of key elements of an emerging tradition. Borders need to be defined and to be stabilized. Schaflechner sees the analysis of denial as a way to approach the process of identity formation: “solidification needs the logic of denial for the construction of a constitutive outside, which is crucial for the formation of group identity”. This does not, however, happen all by itself, but requires the consistent effort by actors—from inside or outside the tradition—who try to consolidate a “core” of a tradition. Cezary Galewicz in his “Anxiety and Innovation. On Denial of Sacrifice in Vedic Ritual” presents three case studies. Two of them are literary instances of the denial of puruṣamedha, human sacrifice, narrated as part of the Śunaḥśepa legend (Aitareya Brāhmaṇa, circa 1000 BC). This text was recited at a prescribed part of the complex soma sacrifice. In this story, the young man Rohita refuses to be sacrificed (thus denying the ritual), and runs away. He comes back with a purchased substitute sacrificial victim, the son of a poor Brahmin. This new sacrificial victim also denies the sacrifice: He praises the gods and is therefore rescued by the goddess Uṣas. The ritual changes as a consequence of this double denial: henceforth the soma plant is sacrificed. Galewicz’s second example is taken from a contempo-

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rary regional form of Vedic ritualism, enacted by the community of Namputīri Brahmins of Kerala (South India). In this case, the sacrifice of a goat is rejected as an expression of denial of any violence whatsoever—the Namputīri community did without the “real” sacrifice in response to a public opinion that had turned strongly against performing an actual animal sacrifice. Here too, the ritual was changed in response to the denial, and instead of the animal, a “rice-paste” victim was used. Galewicz argues that a series of ritual denials constituted turning points in the ritual’s past. Both instances, the textual and the modern, show that a radical break with the expectations of a ritual tradition does not necessarily destroy the ritual, but can also lead to its rejuvenation. The modern example, moreover, attests to the shift of this ritual from an exclusive performance to a public spectacle, the details of which are discussed in the media. In spite of this change of agency, the performing Nampūtiri community managed to retain their agency by skillfully adapting to the situation. However, the Vedic rituals remain venues of social struggle. Ritual denial is here an agent of innovation. Galewicz’s third, contemporary case matches well the conflict presented by Lokesh Ohri in his contribution “Rights versus Rites. Bali and Ritual Reform in the Himalayas”. In both instances, how to deal with “old” rituals is part of the dilemma of the modern state. Being modern and educated creates tensions with pre-modern practices and structures. Ohri deals with cases of denial of animal sacrifice (bali). The issue at stake is the sacrificial killing of goats during temple rituals for the divine king Mahasu in a community in the Western Himalayas in India. The practice of bali is intrinsic to Mahasu worship, preventing his anger and averting calamities. However, as a result of increased activism over animal rights, among other things, Mahasu's vegetarianism became topical in the discourse. Through his divine oracle, Mahasu himself voted against the ban of animal sacrifices, but the number of voices arguing for a ban multiplied over the years. One important voice is the secular government, trying to implement a Gandhian legacy of non-violence enshrined in the Indian constitution. As a result, the ritual of bali is performed in a secluded spot as a compromise. Ohri analyses the battle between proponents and opponents of the sacrifice, showing how denial can amount to the negotiation of identity, control, ritual mastery and authenticity, starting also self-reflexive processes within the community. Denial in Ohri’s case study is a series of multi-layered events: ritual actors must constantly adapt their practices to changing conditions, including political conditions. While stable ritual forms are retained, their content might change over time, and a “healthy” change of ritual can only be an organic and gradual process, Ohri argues. Astrid Zotter’s contribution “The Making and Unmaking of Rulers. On Denial of Ritual in Nepal” similarly focuses on the transformations of traditional rituals in the context of a modern state. Zotter analyses political transformations and attendant ritual changes in Nepalese society, which until rather recently had been ruled by consecrated bodies. Now, however, the society is in the process of reorganiza-

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tion and is to be represented by democratically elected personalities. Zotter looks at the remodelling of royal rituals through their denial. In Nepal, ritual is perceived as one of the building blocks of political and social power. Therefore, the denial of ritual plays an important role in processes of social and political change in two major ways, namely as a critique of ritual and of the political structures the ritual expresses, and as a means to protect ritual and its attendant political implications. This results, as Zotter puts it, in the “paradoxical situation … that only the secular state has fully granted these rituals the status of state rituals”. Clearly, criticising and denial of ritual is an important means to emphasize their importance and efficacy. This denial is thus not directed against ritual, but effectively protects ritual practices and marks them as special. Zotter distinguishes three types of denial: (1) denying the value or efficacy of certain rituals or of ritual in general; (2) refusal to carry out ritual obligations; and (3) denying persons access to certain ritual practices. These forms of denial overlap and interlink. Moreover, in many of her cases the denial of ritual implemented “from above” does not actually lead to the ritual’s death. Thus, while the Marxist ideology of the Maoists made them deny any value of religion (and ritual), the Maoists' leaders refashioned themselves as Hindu teachers when they came into power. Another example is the rather anti-ritualist stance of the Nepalese Theravādins, who at the same time develop more and more rituals for the converts. However, Zotter also mentions cases when the refusal of ritual experts to carry out the stigmatizing ritual (e.g. low caste purity specialists), leads to the omission of the rite, or to the substitution of the ritual specialist. She also argues that the denial of access (e.g. to lineage and caste) through ritual led to the formation of new lineages and groups, and to conversions. Here, “denial provoked denial”. Clearly this form of denial (fencing off one’s group) often leads to other dynamics—thus exemplifying the ambivalence of denial. As two further contributions show, denial does not have to be public and explicit— there are also more silent denials. This is the case when innovation and change in ritual practice is not reflected or even explicitly denied in the normative or authoritative texts. This difference between word and deed is a tricky form of denial for those researchers who have to rely on the texts as their main sources. As Liang Chen’s contribution shows, the analysis of archaeological evidence can lead to surprising results. In his article “Negotiating Text and Denying Practice in a Confucian Context. Social Change and the Emergence of the Apotropaic Burial Custom (jiechu) in the Funeral Ritual of the Eastern Han (25–220 CE)”, Chen deals with the ambivalence expressed by the dissonance between the textual representation of a tradition and in actual ritual practice, as evidenced by archaeological finds. People substituted materials in rituals, while the texts claim that this is not the case. He argues with his material that Jan Assmann (in Das kulturelle Gedächtnis) and Chinese studies scholars have overemphasized the central importance of texts in establishing collective memory. Rather, Chen points to the

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importance of the actualization of ritual texts through ritual practice, and the dynamics that are at work in this process. In his case study, social change brought about an asymmetry between ritual canon and ritual practice. This drifting apart of ritual norms and ritual practice was criticized by (then) contemporary writers. These critics equated deviating from ritual norms with bringing disorder to the universe, since ritual practices not only represent but also shape the world—for example, they determine the afterlife of deceased persons, and protect the bereaved from misfortune. However, these connections between ritual action and material and the worlds of the living and the dead are not mentioned in the above-mentioned “ritual classics”. Criticism of these practices very often labeled the ritual practices as “superstitious”, “trivial”, “vulgar customs”, “done by ordinary people”, mere “fashion”, and without effects. In contrast, the actual social change rendered the practices more powerful than the textual norms. Chen’s case study shows that both strands of a tradition are, in fact, deeply interwoven, and can exist side by side, claiming different things. In his case, we find two sorts of denial: Denying the efficacy of a successful but “low” ritual practice, and the denial from the side of the literati to actually practice the same rituals as the ordinary people. Stuart Lachs in his contribution “Denial of Ritual in Zen Writing” deals with a specific mode of the ritualization of iconoclasm, the turning of anti-ritual into a ritual form. In this case study, we are again confronted with a difference between claim and actual practice, with the denial of ritualization in spite of the heavy ritualization of the text form of Zen biographies. Spontaneity and iconoclasm are usually connected to Zen teachers, and at the same time these two features seem to stand in opposition to ritualism and ritualizing. However, Japanese Zen practice is full of rituals, and so is the writing about Zen, and especially about Zen masters (roshi), as Lachs argues. The fabrication of the holy men’s hagiographies after the pattern of the historical Buddha’s hagiographies, though with a number of adjustments, is a ritualized way of presenting the Zen masters’ lives. These hagiographies, though presenting supposedly unique experiences, recycle certain tropes through the ages. This is what Lachs detects as the ritualized form of writing, which is however denied by the texts’ content itself. Lachs traces a few motives from the hagiographies of the historical Buddha through different literary genres, pointing out the persistence of the motives along with their cultural and historical adaptations. Similarly, certain motives (being able to bear cold and snow, taming wild animals) became building blocks of traditional Zen Dharma transmission narratives. Importantly, these motives are repeated even in contemporary hagiographies of contemporary Zen masters who teach in America. Lachs shows how this ritualized writing pretends to be descriptive, but is in fact prescriptive, informing upcoming Zen masters what they are supposed to act and sound like. The actual original text (about the first transmisson to Mahākāśyapa) expresses the rejection of sūtras and all the rituals that are connected to them, interpreting enlightenment as a mind-to-mind-transmission, independent from words and actions. Yet at the

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same time, the sūtras are replaced with the string of biographies that become the new (textual) authority. Here the element of denial is built into the very act of ritualizing, thus perfectly hiding the ritual aspects of the Zen tradition. The tradition builds its structures around this denial, and turns itself into a perfect ritual product. The collection ends with Ian Reader's afterword. Reader has been an invaluable conversation partner throughout the discussion that led to the present volume. In his afterword he reflects on the wider theoretical implications of the diverse contributions.

What We Have Learned and What Remains to Be Addressed Investigating the denial of ritual and its ambivalences can be useful for the study of reflexivity about the "true“ character of ritual. This perspective discloses how ritual is interpreted by the critics, in contrast to those who are criticized. Arguments for or against ritual convey assumptions about its qualities. Even those who claim that they are not performing ritual use an implicit concept while criticizing the rituals of others. When it comes to the criticism of ritual, there is a clear preference for “tradition”, rather than innovation. New or modern elements are often incorporated as either a return to an authentic tradition or as enactments of the “true meaning” of traditional norms. The case studies in this volume also show that denial can refer to the value, efficacy or legitimacy of certain rituals or of ritual in general, it can imply the refusal to carry out ritual obligations and thus non-performance is a statement. Specific persons can be denied access to certain ritual practices and offices, or the denial of ritual may be a discursive strategy, for example by pretending that there is no ritual, where there are in fact many. In all cases, the denial of ritual is, at the same time, the denial of certain social ideas, worldviews, doctrines and theologies. Especially when the lifestyle of a group is extensively determined by rituals, when the explanation of the ritual also is an explanation of the world, criticism of ritual is criticism of society (Simon 2011: 9). Not only can denial of ritual play a role in negotiating the borders between different groups, but also between different domains of life, e.g. when in periods of modernisation cultural and religious independency is jealeously upheld and demonstrated by the denial of ritual innovations. From the inside, as well as from a perspective outside the group, a ritual is perceived as a collective symbol. Therefore, attacks on a group’s rituals challenge that community in a most effective way. Since denial implies at least two opposing positions, one denial follows the other, creating a chain or net of denials. This is always accompanied by ambivalences, which develop their own dynamics. Yet, often rival groups not only differ, but share a common basis, even if they may deny this at a specific moment in time. Following the example of a founding figure may be such a common ground, which does not necessarily mean imitating him or her

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in each and every detail in accordance with tradition. Here, ambivalence of denial results from the acknowledgment of good intentions and recognition of deep religiosity. Intense ritual activity is seen by both practicioners and others as proof of a pious and observant way of life. Another reason for an ambivalent denial may be acknowledgement of the role a ritual plays in the social life of a community, or it is no longer in the interest of a group to stress denial, for example due to political or economic reasons, and therefore refusal fades into the background without vanishing completely. Yet, what most of all makes denial ambivalent is the need for a new ritual once the old one is abolished, or in the words of a tribesman quoted in Lokesh Ohri's article: “How can you just announce an end to goat sacrifice, and not institute anything else in its place?” Similar to the contributions to the 2013 issue, the articles in this volume take a primarily “sociological” perspective. ”Ritual” und ”denial” are understood as an expression of social processes. Both refer to something else, and are not analyzed as a genre of action “in its own right” (see Handelman 2013). We have not come across a tradition that criticizes “ritual” as a whole. It is always either a specific ritual, or the specific way of performing a ritual, or the label “ritual” for specific actions, that is criticized.6 The denial of ritual, as ritual itself, in our case studies points beyond itself. Through the criticism of ritual, the referent is criticized. Ritual is, so to speak, not at the centre of the critique. Ritual, and denial of ritual, can be instrumental in opposite ways, as giving an emphasis to persistence, or as a mobilizing factor for change. While there is an oscillating relationship between ritual practice and theological discourses, our case studies show that both strands of a tradition can contradict each other for quite some time, yet these contraditictions are not necessarily adressed. This ambivalent relatonship between ritual practice and ritual theory still needs to be systematically explored. Social systems, as well as individuals, seem to have an astonishing ability to get on with incompatible concepts which can coexist until overarching asymmetries prevail. Denial as an attitude resulting from the incompatibility of positions and claims may be balanced in the fabric of the social. It needs a specific context that turns an attitude into action. As our case studies show, colonial asymmetries are a notorious context for chains of denial, encompassing processes of adaptation and resistance to Western concepts of civilisation and modernity, secularisation and the reinterpretation of religion as cultural heritage. Another such context is a modern state struggling with the “pre-modern”. This phase is characterized by a high degree of shifting ambivalence and underlying tension, as well as efforts to overcome these, for example a secularising state trying to deal with a former order based on religion and sacred kingship. It seems

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Here Seamone’s (2013) case study is an exception: The pentecostals do not deny ritual in its entirety, but see it as something that has to be overcome.

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that there are historical phases, socio-economic circumstances and constellations that foster chains of denial, for example, when there is no model at hand to cope with a historical moment and society increasingly disintegrates. The fact that ritual usually refers to something beyond itself makes it the ideal ground to negotiate and fight over ideologies, modernity and backwardness, tradition and innovation, and diverging ideologies.

References Foulk, T. Griffith. 2013. “Denial of Ritual in the Zen Buddhist Tradition”. In: Ute Hüsken and Donna L. Seamone (eds), The Denial of Ritual. Special Issue of The Journal of Ritual Studies 27.1: 47–58. Grimes, Ronald L. 1988. “Infelicitous Performances and Ritual Criticism”. In: Semeia 43: 103–122. Grimes, Ronald L. 1990. Ritual Criticism. Case Studies in Its Practice, Essays on Its Theory. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press. Grimes, Ronald L., and Ute Hüsken. 2013. “Ritualkritik”. In: Christiane Brosius, Axel Michaels and Paula Schrode (eds), Ritual und Ritualdynamik. Schlüsselbegriffe, Theorien, Diskussionen. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, pp. 159–164. Handelman, Don. 2013. “Afterward. Denying Ritual at Our Own Risk”. In: Ute Hüsken and Donna L. Seamone (eds), The Denial of Ritual. Special Issue of The Journal of Ritual Studies 27.1: 85–94. Hüsken, Ute, and Frank Neubert (eds). 2010. Negotiating Rites. New York: Oxford University Press (Oxford Ritual Studies Series). Hüsken, Ute, and Donna L. Seamone. 2013. “Introduction: The Denial of Ritual and its Return”. In: Ute Hüsken and Donna L. Seamone (eds), The Denial of Ritual. Special Issue of The Journal of Ritual Studies 27.1: 1–9. Hüsken, Ute (ed.). 2007. When Rituals Go Wrong. Mistakes, Failure, and the Dynamics of Ritual (Numen Book Series 115). Leiden: Brill. Hüsken, Ute. 2013. “Denial as Silencing. On Women’s Agency in a South Indian Brahmin Tradition”. In: Ute Hüsken and Donna L. Seamone (eds), The Denial of Ritual. Special Issue of The Journal of Ritual Studies 27.1: 21–34. Krondorfer, Björn. 2013. “Ritual Denied and Read as Truth. From Totalizing Sincerity to the Seriousness of Play”. In: Ute Hüsken and Donna L. Seamone (eds), The Denial of Ritual. Special Issue of The Journal of Ritual Studies 27.1: 59–72. De Maris, Richard. 2013. “Backing away from Baptism. Early Christian Ambivalence about its Ritual”. In: Ute Hüsken and Donna L. Seamone (eds), The Denial of Ritual. Special Issue of The Journal of Ritual Studies 27.1: 11–19. Pike, Sarah M. 2013. “Radical Animal Rights and Environmental Activism as Rites of Passage”. In: Ute Hüsken and Donna L. Seamone (eds), The Denial of Ritual. Special Issue of The Journal of Ritual Studies 27.1: 35–45. Post, Paul. 2015. “Ritual Studies”. In: Religion: Oxford Research Encyclopedias. Subject: Rituals, Practices, and Symbolism. Online Publication; DOI: 10.1093/ acrefore/9780199340378.013.21.

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Seamone, Donna L. 2013. “Pentecostalism. Rejecting Ritual Formalism and Ritualizing Every Encounter”. In: Ute Hüsken and Donna L. Seamone (eds), The Denial of Ritual. Special Issue of The Journal of Ritual Studies 27.1: 73–84. Simon, Udo. 2011. “Reflexivity and Discourse on Ritual. Introductory Reflexions”. In: Axel Michaels (gen. ed.), Ritual Dynamics and the Science of Ritual 4. Reflexivity, Media, and Visuality. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, pp. 3–23.

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Hindu Priestesses in Pune Shifting Denial of Ritual Agency1 Hindu Priestesses in Pune

Ute Hüsken According to Brahmin texts in Sanskrit, Vedic learning, initiation into priesthood,2 and the performance of rituals “for others” (parārtha) is the exclusive right of male members of Brahmin castes. Members of the lowest class (collectively labeled śūdras in the normative Sanskrit texts), but also women are entirely excluded from the right to learn and exercise specialized religious and ritual practice.3 In the authoritative Sanskrit texts, women are categorically denied ritual agency, and they are denied the authority to act as priests, be it in the temple or for domestic rituals (e.g. saṃskāras).4 The exclusion of women from ritual offices encompasses the denial of access to relevant initiations. They do not undergo the initiation into Vedic learning, upanayana, which is considered the “second birth” for a male Brahmin. This life-cycle

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2 3 4

I examine here the current process of acquisition of publicly acknowledged ritual agency by Hindu women in Maharashtra, as part of my current work “Changing patterns of women’s ritual agency” (see http://www.hf.uio.no/ikos/english/research/projects/changing-patterns/in dex.html [last access: 04/01/2015]). My research on this topic was made possible through the generous support of Oslo University. My time as Research Fellow at the Max Weber Kolleg (Erfurt) from 2015 to 2016 gave me the opportunity for intense discussions with my colleagues there, and provided me with the time and space to finish my writing on the topic, for which I am deeply grateful. For the denial of agency of women as ritual actors in a domestic setting in Hindu households in South India, see Hüsken 2013. I wish to express my deep gratitude to Dr. Asha Gurjar (retired researcher at the Pune Sanskrit Dictionary, and Sanskrit lecturer at Pune University) and Dr. Manjul (retired researcher at the Bhandarkar Research Institute, Pune), who both greatly helped me when I was in Pune. I stayed in Pune for three weeks in June 2013 and from October 3 to 12 in 2015, and did a follow-up field visit to Pune and Sakori from August 25 to September 20, 2014. Moreover, I wish to thank Cezary Galewicz (Cracow University, Poland), Borayin Larios (Heidelberg University, Germany), and Laurie Patton (Duke University, USA) for their recommendations and helpful suggestions for my entry into the field. I use the terms “priest”, “priestess” and “priesthood” to refer to Hindu ritual specialists who perform domestic and temple ritual for others (arcaka and purohita). For references see Kane 1941 (2.1): 154f. and 558f. See also Mānavadharmaśāstra 5.155 and 10.127. I will deal with the details of the historical development of this specific gendered conceptualization of religious and ritual agency elsewhere (see also Patton 2005; Jamison 2002; McGee 2002; Patton 2002; Young 2002).

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ritual (saṃskāra) realizes the potential of a male child born in the Brahmin caste to become a Brahmin.5 During this initiation the so-called sacred thread (yajñopavīta) is conferred to the boy. According to the Mānavadharmaśāstra, a normative Sanskrit text from the 2nd/3rd century CE (see p. 25 of Olivelle’s 2004 edition and translation), a woman's marriage is her initiation.6 According to traditional and contemporary perception, girls do not undergo the upanayana initiation,7 and are denied access to Vedic learning. Without this initiation, a woman neither has access to the required religious and ritual knowledge, nor does she have the eligibility (adhikāra)8 to perform rituals for others.

Dissolving Denial? In spite of textual prohibitions that have evidently shaped Brahmin ritual practice for a long time, at present we are witnessing a radical change in some parts of India. Many women today do, in fact, receive training in Sanskrit and in ritual practice,9 and actually perform rituals for others as priestesses (strī purohitā).10 A very active center of female priestly activity and education is in the Indian state Maharashtra, and here especially in the large city of Pune.11 Here one can even get the impression that women are slowly taking over from, and soon might even outnumber, the male priests. More and more women by now have priestly skills, which they apply in private settings, but also in the semi-private sphere of the performance of life-cycle rituals. 12 Surprisingly, however, this development is

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5 See Smith 1989: 86ff., 92, 94ff. 6 Mānavadharmaśāstra 2.67 in Olivelle’s translation (pp. 92 and 415): “For females, tradition

7 8 9 10

11 12

tells us, the marriage ceremony equals the rite of vedic consecration; serving the husband equals living with the teacher; and care of the house equals the tending of the sacred fires”. However, Olivelle points out that according to the preceding verse 2.66 women are entitled to saṃskāras, albeit without Vedic mantras. This perception need not correspond to actual practice in the remote past, as the different voices listed by Kane (1941 [2.1]: 293ff.) show. See Lubin 2010, and McGee 2002. Laurie Patton’s project on women Sanskrit teachers in Maharashtra (forthcoming) is of great importance to the overall topic. So far this development pertains mainly to the performance of domestic rituals for householders and their families. More recently, however, women have also been accepted as temple priestesses in the Vitthal temple in Phandapur in Maharashtra (see http://www. thehindu.com/news/national/other-states/breaking-barriers-women-priests-perform-puja-inmaharashtra-temple/article6274956.ece [accessed 04/01/2015]). During my visits in Pune I was alerted to the fact that there exist further centers of female priesthood in Maharashtra: Thane in Bombay, Nashik, and Nagpur. “Private” rituals are those strictly performed in the house, with no other participants than the performers and possibly a few family members. These are mainly the daily domestic pūjās. “Semi-private” are those rituals performed for individuals or families, for which the extended

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hardly noticed beyond Maharashtra. Yet it is not difficult at all to find these female priests: They are well known, and I was able to meet and talk with more than twenty strī purohitās during my visits to Pune in June 2013 and August/September 2014. These encounters form the basis of this essay on the contemporary development of the traditional denial of female ritual agency. I shall show that the denial of publicly acknowledged female ritual agency, prominent in the normative Sanskrit texts, at first sight seems to be slowly dissolving in contemporary practice. However, looking deeper into the matter, we discover that the boundary of who is considered to be eligible to perform Sanskrit rituals13 is in fact not dissolving, but shifting. The boundary continues to exist in a surprisingly stable form, now, however, only excluding male and female members of non-Brahmin castes.

Why Have Male Priests Lost Support? In contemporary India, Sanskrit ritual traditions are thriving, undergoing a pronounced renaissance. For example, the more “orthodox” and “traditional” the reputation of a temple, the more donors will compete to invest, through the sponsoring of rituals and of renovation or reconstruction work in the temple. The increasing acceptance of female priests (strī purohitā) is closely connected to the lack of a sufficient number of male priests, which, at the same time, entails that the resistance from the male priestly side is not as strong as one might expect, especially in urban settings. People who support priestly education for women often mention that they are dissatisfied with the services of traditional male priests who do not take enough time for their performances, who demand excessive monetary compensation for their services, and who are not able to explain the content and meaning of the rituals they perform to the clients who sponsor the rituals (yajamāna). Evidently, in spite of the increasing demand for priests and thus the ample earning opportunities, not enough men choose this profession as a career option. This is closely connected to the priests’ low status in society at large. The increasing demand for Sanskrit ritual services seems contrary to the decreasing popularity of the priestly profession. While I will not deal here with the reasons why Sanskrit rituals are in high demand,14 I will briefly discuss the issue of the Brahmin priests’ low reputation, which is one important factor for the overwhelming success of the female priests.

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family, friends, neighbors and co-workers are invited. “Public” rituals are those performed by priests in a temple or in connection with temple festivals. 13 “Sanskrit rituals” is used in this essay as a shorthand for rituals prescribed and described for and by Brahmins in the classical Sanskrit texts (śāstras, āgamas, saṃhitās, sūtras). Most of these rituals encompass also the recitation of Sanskrit texts, utterance of mantras etc. 14 See, for example, Fuller 2003: 37ff.

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The dubious reputation of Brahmin priests who perform rituals for others stands in contrast to their central role in the ritual lives of Hindus, as temple or as domestic priests. A priest has the required ritual knowledge and skills to act as mediator between the deities and the human participants in the rituals. Yet this position of power is only effective within the ritual framework, and does not extend to the priests’ everyday reputation. Here, we are confronted with the puzzling phenomenon that the priests are considered low in the hierarchy of Brahmins—often they are even socially marginalized. This is not a new phenomenon. We find early traces of priests’ low status among the different Brahmin sub-castes already in normative texts from the first centuries CE. In such texts, differences between diverse Brahmins are described as resting on relative purity and impurity, which depends on the occupation, and on religious or ritual differences. Some of these factors are polluting, resulting in a diminished status (Kane 1941 [2.2]: 132). Brahmins who “sacrifice for many”, who “sacrifice for the whole village”, or who are “employed by a village or town” are considered “not real Brahmins”. Clearly, ritual activity for others, or as a profession, is regarded negatively. In many texts, the pejorative term devalaka is used.15 These devalakas are said to “live off the god’s wealth,” which also is clearly meant negatively. In general, a negative connotation attaches to the term devalaka when it is understood to refer to a professional priest who lives off his priestly services. This negative view of Brahmin priests is conditioned by several factors. The performance of rituals “for others” implies contact with strangers and their impurities, and points to the difficulty of preserving relative purity in general. The professional domestic priests who perform rituals for others are permanently exposed to these impurities and are therefore viewed with suspicion. The acceptance of gifts, which is normally polluting, also plays an important role here: The priests’ contact with the ritual hosts and their gifts is ritually polluting, since the relative impurity of the giver is accepted together with the gift (Colas 1996: 135). Accordingly, in the negative judgments of priests in ancient Indian literature, regular “payment” (gifts) to priests is criticized most of all.16 This negative attitude towards priests has been perpetuated up to the present. Contemporary priests are considered to be greedy, corrupt, and ignorant, and they have the reputation of not understanding what they are doing. The ritual hosts depend on them, yet they often despise them. This creates a vicious cycle: with the low reputation of priests, and with the increasing chance of social and professional mobility, only the less gifted of a Brahmin priests’ sons would continue the inherited profession. This, in turn, tends to reconfirm the prejudice that priests are

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15 Thus, according to the Mānavadharmaśāstra (3.152), devalakas are not even to be invited to

death rituals (Kane 1941 [2.2]: 711). Devalakas are also represented negatively in the Mahābhārata. For details, see Colas 1996: 133ff. 16 Group-specific, economic and regional factors are also influential in ranking sub-castes within the caste hierarchy (Fuller 1984: 49–54).

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uneducated and greedy. The lack of priests who can perform the necessary rituals also creates a very tight work schedule for the acting priests, so that they have to rush from host to host to be able to cover all their assignments, especially at ritually busy times of the year.17

A Brief History of Female Performers of Sanskrit Rituals in Maharashtra The roots of the thriving female education in Sanskrit ritual performances can be traced back to an ascetic called Upāsanī Bābā (b. 1870, d. 1941),18 who in the 1930s founded the women’s ashram “Śrī Upāsanī Kanyākumārī Sthān”19 in the tiny village of Sakori in Maharashtra. This ashram exists to the present day as a monastic institution for unmarried women who dedicate their life to the performance of Vedic rituals. I will summarize here the history of this ashram as given on its website, occasionally complemented with information I gathered from the female ascetics (kanyā) who live in this ashram today. Upāsanī Bābā was a student of Sai Baba of Shirdi.20 When he established his own ascetic institution, he first tried to attract young Brahmin bachelors, but did not find enough disciples who were willing to forsake household life for a life dedicated to asceticism and Vedic ritual practice. Upāsanī Bābā then accepted five Brahmin girls (kanyā) as his students and soon realized that these girls were very talented and dedicated. He conferred initiation (dīkṣā) on them to make them eligible to receive Vedic knowledge and practice Vedic ritual.21 However, this caused great discomfort among the traditionalists—not only because the training of young women in the performance of Vedic sacrifices (yajñā) was absolutely unheard of, but Upāsanī Bābā also had to face charges of adultery and was even summoned to court.22 In the end, he formally married the girls, so that they could continue to stay and learn with him at the ashram. Over time, Upāsanī Bābā initiated 24 young

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17 This is also the case with some of the female priests who are in high demand. On the day of

18 19 20

21 22

the gaṇeśa pratiṣṭhā 2014, which inaugurates the Gaṇeśa festival, I spent the day hurrying with a popular strī purohitā from host to host, in a desperate attempt to fulfill all the assignments the priestess had agreed to. He is also known as Upāsanī Mahārāj or Paramahaṃsa Śrī Upāsanī Mahārāj. This ashram is alternatively called Satyāśrama, Kanyāśrama, or Upāsanī Bābā Maṭh. The village Sakori is ca. 300 km east of Pune, near Amarnagar. Sai Baba of Shirdi was a spiritual teacher who lived from 1838 to 1918. He remains very popular and is venerated in many private shrines and temples. One of the Sai Baba temples is the Samādhi Mandir in Shirdi, where he is buried. His disciple Upāsanī Bābā is said to have performed the last rites for Sai Baba in Benares. See http://www.upasanigodama.org/upasanibaba_details.html (last access: 05/01/2015). See http://www.upasanigodama.org/upasanibaba_details.html (last access: 04/01/2015).

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women and trained them in Sanskrit recitation, and especially in fire sacrifices (yāga, yajñā). Godāvarī Mātā became the most prominent among these women. She had come to the ashram when she was nine years old, and legend has it that Upāsanī Bābā right from the beginning recognized her as his successor.23 She received initiation from him and followed rigorous spiritual and ascetic practices.24 After Upāsanī Bābā died in 1941, she took over leadership of the ashram. Godāvarī Mātā was a very charismatic personality who attracted many students and lay supporters. She initiated 30 young women into the order. She also travelled widely, since she was asked to perform Vedic sacrifices all over India, and also for example in the USA and in England.25 She passed away in 1990. It seems that after her the ashram has not had a similarly charismatic leader, and the number of kanyās living in the ashram is dwindling. Today, most of the women who still live there are in their 80s. Only four women are below 60 years old. However, all the ascetic women living in the ashram take great pains in maintaining the dense ritual schedule established by Upāsanī Bābā and Godāvarī Mātā, even though with age this has become more and more difficult for the resident kanyās. When Godāvarī Mātā travelled in India to perform yāgas, the kanyās would accompany her. The women came to Pune from time to time from the late 1950s and performed Vedic sacrifices for clients in the marriage hall that was run by Mr. Śaṅkararāv Hari Thatte (Māmā Thatte). These performances inspired Māmā Thatte to try to spread the knowledge of Vedic recitation and of the performance of these rituals to local women, too.26 However, at that time he himself did not have any specific training in these rituals. When looking for teachers who could train women in Pune, he first approached the kanyās, but they declined, as they were not willing to give up their reclusive life. So Māmā Thatte himself started to take training in Sanskrit recitation and rituals, and then in turn trained local women. First he advertised his course in a local newspaper. This attracted ten students who enrolled in his teaching institution Shankar Seva Samiti in 1976. The classes were, and still are, given in the Udyān Prāsād Kāryālay, the marriage hall that was run by him in Pune. While Māmā Thatte started by teaching Brahmin married women, soon also widows were included, and also women from other castes, as people I talked to continue to emphasize. Soon there were so many women students that the older students started to teach the newcomers. All of Māmā Thatte’s students I talked to

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23 See http://www.upasanigodama.org/godavarimataji_details.html (last access: 04/01/2015). 24 Godāvarī Mātā is said to have remained under a vow of silence (maunavrata) for four years,

and to have followed the rule of eating only food from alms (bhīkṣavrata) for one year.

25 Unfortunately, when I visited the ashram in August 2014, none of the women who accompa-

nied Godāvarī Mātā to the US were still alive.

26 Interestingly, even though the kanyās at the Sakori Ashram are consistently cited as Māmā

Thatte’s inspiration, they themselves, until mid-2014, seem not to have been aware of the overall impact that is attributed to them.

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emphasize that he took great care that the women received proper respect when they went to perform for clients. His teaching is usually characterized as “very methodical” and included detailed explanations of the ritual practices. Moreover, Māmā Thatte also taught them to be clear regarding the ritual fees (dakṣiṇā) they should demand from the hosts:27 They were supposed to take less money than the male priests, yet they should firmly insist on the rate agreed on beforehand, plus transportation costs. While Māmā Thatte was alive, the women gave a 10% share of their dakṣiṇā to Māmā Thatte’s training institution. He also arranged and led a tour by a group of the female students to Great Britain and Switzerland in 1983. They travelled for a few weeks and performed many rituals for diverse Indian diaspora communities. 28 One of the female priests who took part in this tour reports that they were received with great respect wherever they went. Māmā Thatte’s female students early on started to teach classes themselves, and this snowballed. When Māmā Thatte passed away in 1987, his wife Puṣpā “Māmī” Thatte took over and ran the courses and the institution.29 Māmī Thatte passed away in 2012, but the Udyān Prāsād Kāryālay continues to be used as a meeting place for some of the classes. Today there are many small private training groups for women, and some institutions that educate women in Sanskrit rituals. Moreover, there are many individual women who perform rituals for those who approach them. Many—though not all—trace their lineage in one way or another back to Māmā Thatte, and most of these women already had some connection to Sanskrit learning within their families. Many are from a middle class Brahmin background and do not depend on the income from the rituals for a living. They do not have a feminist agenda, but mention “their karma” or “god’s will” as the prime motivation for their occupation with the rituals. All women emphasize that the rituals they perform are “authentic” and “performed as prescribed in the śāstras”, but at the same time they emphasize the importance of the meaning of these rituals, which they explain to the ritual hosts. Many have grown-up children living abroad, and they act as ritual specialists in these diaspora communities. The priestly occupation also lets them spend their time meaningfully and with a respected occupation.

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27 Dakṣiṇā is the compensation given to the priest or priestess for their services. A ritual is

complete only when the dakṣiṇā has been given.

28 It seems that the Gujarati communities were especially keen on having them perform yāgas in

their homes.

29 Puṣpā Māmī Thatte was a widow when she married Māmā Thatte. Since at that time marry-

ing a widow was severely shunned, especially by the Brahmin communities, this alone shows Thatte’s strong impulse to work for more gender equality in society. He had also encouraged his wife to learn and perform Sanskrit rituals.

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Nevertheless, as we will see, there are also other women who do not fit this description. The differences between the women with regard to their practices and their attitudes is significant and shall be discussed below.

Critical Responses to strī purohitās Before dealing with the differences among the priestesses, we shall look closer at the critical responses to this development within the world of Sanskrit rituals. It seems that when Māmā Thatte started his training program, it was hardly noticed. However, when the women were actually invited to perform rituals for more clients (yajamāna), strong opposition was voiced by the male priests and by orthodox Brahmins at large.30 On one occasion, there was even an order prohibiting these women ritual specialists from performing in one temple in Pune. It seems that in the late 1990s and early 2000s the opposition was much more vocal than today.31 However, the women have actively responded to the criticism and continue to do so. In general, the criticism relates to four different, but overlapping issues: Firstly, the critics claim that the women deviate from the norms fixed in the authoritative texts, since according to these texts, women are not allowed to perform the rituals. Secondly, the female body is declared not suitable for the task. Thirdly, the social role of women is seen as not compatible with the duties of ritual performers. Fourthly, especially in the beginning, the actual performance skills of women were criticized.

(1) “The Women Are Acting against the Brahmin Authoritative Texts!” The criticism on the part of Brahmin orthodoxy that the female priests act against textually sanctioned norms has never been taken lightly. Rather, the women have tried to find ways to deal with this criticism. Many passages in Sanskrit literature can be cited as proof that women cannot be performers of Sanskrit rituals (see fn. 3 and 6 above), and ironically the priestesses,

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30 Pune has a long history of traditional Sanskrit scholarship, for example at the world famous

Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute. Accordingly, in this city the orthodox Brahmin worldview has many proponents beyond priestly circles. 31 Most of the articles authored by Manjul (Mañjūḷ 1997; Manjul 2004; Manjul 2000a; Manjul 2000b; Manjul 1997; Maṃjūḷ 1996), in which he responds to arguments by opponents, were published in the late 1990s and early 2000s. According to one leading strī purohitā of the Jñānaprabodhinī Sabhā, the opposition was especially vocal in 2003 and 2004. However, when, in 2013 and 2014, I tried to find opponents to the female performer of Sanskrit rituals, I hardly could find any willing to talk with me on the matter.

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in fact, accept and value the normative Sanskrit texts that exclude them. The women are no rebels against this tradition, but wish to be integrated into, and to be active participants in the tradition. Therefore the women and men in favor of Hindu women’s priesthood often respond to this criticism by referring to a number of textual passages in the same texts that suggest that women might, in fact, have been priestesses at some point in time.32 One closely related argument used by the opponents is that women cannot undergo upanayana initiation and therefore cannot act as priestesses. This does seem to be a sore spot to the present day, and the responses to this challenge differ. One common response is again the claim that, at some point in the remote past, girls did actually undergo upanayana, but that this tradition has been abandoned. In conversations, this “external pressure” is often identified as the Muslim invasion and British occupation.33 And while, again, authoritative Sanskrit texts are quoted to underpin the claim that women were eligible to receive upanayana, the references to historical events that undermined this tradition are rather vague and are closely connected to Hindu nationalist ideas (see below). Others accept the traditional stance that marriage is the initiation for women, and that the maṅgalasūtra, the thread that is tied around the neck of a woman during the wedding ceremonies, is a woman’s sacred thread. Other women undergo initiations that they see as equivalent to the male priests’ upanayana. Thus, a number of the women initially trained by Māmā Thatte chose to undergo an initiation offered by the Jñānaprabodhinī Sabhā (on this institution see below). This initiation is called paurohityavratasaṃskāra, “the ritual of the vows pertaining to priesthood”. During this initiation, the girls and women receive a thread with an oṃ-symbol tied to it, which they wear as a necklace. This corresponds to the men’s sacred thread (yajñopavīta).34 Some women hold the view that a woman should first undergo this paurohityavratasaṃskāra, and before marriage remove these vows, since then the woman’s sacred thread is replaced by the maṅgalasūtra.35 There are also other initiations available for women. One woman told me that she

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32 Many such references are given in Manjul’s publications (see References at the end of this

paper).

33 This perception has clearly found its way into popular opinion. From participants at rituals

performed by women I often hear that this practice is in fact an ancient practice, which had only been discontinued for some time. 34 The first women received this initiation from the founder of the Strī Paurohitya courses at Jñānaprabodhinī Sabhā, Mr. Yeshwant Rao. The paurohityavratasaṃskāra is also conferred to the candidates at the end of a successful exam, after the three-year course at Jñānaprabodhinī. 35 The ritual is said to correspond to the samāvartana ritual, which is performed when the Vedic student (brahmacārin) returns home to take a wife and thus commences his next stage of life as a householder (gṛhastha).

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had received an initiation into the gāyatrī mantra by her teacher in front of the sacrificial fire.36 Clearly, there are different responses to the criticism that the female priests act against the injunctions in the normative Sanskrit texts—but, importantly, the criticism is taken seriously. The women relate to it rather than trying to dismiss it. They respond to it by trying to show, in different ways, that they do in fact adhere to the norms and ritual rules laid out in the Sanskrit texts.37

(2) “The Female Body Is Impure” Repeated criticism is also related to the female body and its assumed impurity. In Brahmin worldview, menstruation, pregnancy and childbirth are connected to periods of strong ritual impurity.38 Again, these arguments are never simply dismissed by the women. All the women I talked to observe the traditional restrictions. They do not perform rituals for the first three or even four days of menstruation, and they ask their students to observe these rules, too. Some women explained this practice to me not in terms of impurity, but rather argued that the mantra oṃ, which is uttered during all rituals, affects the uterus negatively. Some women therefore think it is advisable to start performing rituals only after menopause sets in. In this view, the traditional idea of ritual purity and impurity is accepted, yet reinterpreted in terms of biomedicine. This interpretation is in line with the idea that “the meaning” of rituals has to be known and explained in scientific terms. This is an attitude that sets the strī purohitās apart from traditional male priests, who often do not have the training to explain the meaning of a ritual to their ritual hosts (yajamāna).

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36 The introduction into the gāyatrī mantra is, in fact, a central component of the upanayana

ritual for boys and men.

37 Some of the female priests perform upanayana rituals for girls, too. I have never witnessed

any such ritual and am therefore not sure in what way this differs from an upanayana performance for boys. 38 In an orthodox Brahmin household, women have to spend the first three days of their monthly menstruation secluded from all persons and activities of the household. They cannot enter the kitchen, prepare food, or touch any member of the household. During this time, they are also not allowed to enter a temple. The impurity incurred during pregnancy and childbirth is so strong that also the husband is “contaminated” by this impurity and observes a number of restrictions, too.

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(3) “A Woman’s Social Roles Are Not Compatible with the Role as Priestess” In addition, it is often mentioned that the social role of women as caretakers of children does not allow them to go to the ritual hosts’ houses when they are required to do so. And in fact, very few of the women who learned with Māmā Thatte or one of his immediate disciples and who are teaching and performing on their own now, have small children to take care of. Rather, the grown up children of many of these middle class Brahmin housewives live and work abroad, many of them in the USA. For these women their social duties are not in conflict with their desire to be ritual performers. On the contrary: My impression from my conversations with many of the priestesses is that learning to perform Sanskrit rituals and engaging in performing for others is a very reputable occupation for these middle class Brahmin women, who might otherwise be rather lonely and without “purpose” in life, since their children live abroad with their families. Learning to recite Sanskrit texts together with like-minded women then creates a respectable space for these women to get together. Two women explicitly let me know that they enjoy going on pilgrimages with other women priests, since during that time they do not have to take care of their retired husbands at home. This, however, is a marked difference between these priestesses and those strī purohitās of nonBrahmin background, who choose priesthood as full time job and therefore leave their children in the care of other members of their family (see below). Widowhood is another aspect to the performance of Sanskrit rituals by women which is connected to ritual impurity on the one hand, and social obligations on the other. Many of the active strī purohitās of middle class Brahmin background are around 60 years old, and some are widowed. The status of widows in Brahminically oriented segments of society is very difficult, especially in orthodox families. In the orthodox Brahmin worldview, a woman is only “complete” when married and with living children (ideally sons) and the death of her husband entails her own social death.39 Her bangles are broken, she is not supposed to wear the auspicious red mark of sindhur on her forehead anymore, and in some traditions she is even made to wear a white sari without a blouse and to shave her head, indicating her “sexlessness” and asceticism. Even if these drastic steps are not taken, widows are no longer invited to auspicious occasions. This reduces a widow’s social life not only ritually, but also practically. From an orthodox Brahmin viewpoint, widows are definitely not among the potential ritual specialists. While it seems that, in many cases, widowhood in the contemporary middle class urban Brahmin setting

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39 Often a widow is also labeled as inauspicious in the sense that she—as the survivor—is seen

as the cause of her husband’s death.

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does not interfere with the women’s priestly occupation,40 I also know of one woman who gave up performing for others after her husband died, since she had been treated with disrespect by one ritual host. Yet she continues to teach her craft to both women and men, along with teaching yoga. Clearly, the traditionally prescribed social role of women as caretakers of young children is not questioned by the middle class Brahmin priestesses. However, the view on widows as ritual performers is drastically different in a traditional rural setting in India than in a “modern” Brahmin setting, such as diaspora communities in Great Britain or the USA, where the acceptance of a widow (who always is simultaneously the mother and grandmother of members of the diaspora community) is not an issue at all.

(4) “The Women Lack the Required Performance Skills” Especially in the early phase, the skills of the new female ritual performers were doubted. This criticism, too, was taken seriously, at least by some women.41 One of Māmā Thatte’s early students reports that they made a few mistakes when they performed alongside male priests on the invitation of an influential client. Then their performance skills were strongly criticized by the male priests. While the women remained firm regarding their eligibility, some realized that their training might not be of the best quality—after all, Māmā Thatte had himself not been very experienced when he started teaching.42 The priestess who led the group then started to study with the male priest who had criticized her and remained his student until he died. She consulted with this priest about rituals she had never performed before, took his advice regarding the mantras, their translation, and the practical performance step by step. She reports that his advice enabled her to judge which parts of the ritual were considered essential, and which ones she could skip when time was lacking. She also encouraged other female students to expand their horizons. This, however, caused a minor rift within the groups of female students. Some were satisfied with Māmā Thatte’s training, others were keen on further improving their skills.43

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40 This is especially the case for those women who perform in the diaspora communities of their

children.

41 On the ritual repertoire of the priestesses see also Patton 2005. 42 One of Māmā Thatte’s teachers does not speak highly of him as a student. The fact that

Māmā Thatte only started learning the profession after he met the kanyās in fact points to a potential lack of depth in his learning and teaching. 43 I also met women who are much more self-reliant than the majority of the Māmā Thatte students. They claim their achievements for themselves, and see their own efforts as the main reason for their success.

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Interestingly, today the quality of performances is one important point of critique by those women who were initially trained by Māmā Thatte, directed toward the strī purohitās trained by the Jñānaprabodhinī institution.

Priestly Training by the Jñānaprabodhinī Sabhā The Jñānaprabodhinī Sabhā today is an organization dedicated to “education, research, rural development, women power, youth organization, national integration and health, with a view to motivation building and attitude formation of every person in all age groups to change the face of India for better” with about ten centers in Maharashtra.44 This institution emerged from a number of predecessor organizations.45 In 1975, its Sanskrit section (Sanshika) was established, and in 1991 Mr. Yeshwant Rao started classes for male and female ritual specialists (paurohitya). They see their role not just in the empowerment of women, but to a similar degree in the empowerment of non-Brahmin castes,46 promoting social reform and campaigning against “superstition” and “blind belief”. The representatives of Jñānaprabodhinī Sabhā often mention the scientific explanation of the rituals they perform for their clients as an important part of their mission. Learning about the meaning behind the rituals was also the one issue mentioned prominently among the women who took the Jñānaprabodhinī’s course in June 2013. They also wanted to be able to teach their children and grandchildren about their own tradition. One woman said: “In our tradition we are not supposed to ask question, so my aim is to learn why we are performing this”. The institute also publishes short ritual manuals, which are used by the priests and distributed to the participants during the performances.47 These booklets are also given to the ritual hosts’ families before the actual performance, so they can familiarize themselves with it beforehand. The students at the paurohitya class of Jñānaprabodhinī attend a one-year long course. If they pass the test, they can perform as priests in the name of the Jñānaprabodhinī institution.48 There is also a yearly re-evaluation of the priests who perform for Jñānaprabodhinī.

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44 See http://www.jnanaprabodhini.org/ (last accessed 04/01/2015). 45 The Tattvaniṣṭhāparivārapariṣad of 1934 became Dharmanirnayamaṇḍal in 1938, which then

became Jñānaprabodhinī in 1962.

46 Some women perceive and represent their studying and performing as an act of liberation:

Those who attend the classes and pass the exams can perform the rituals for members of their own family and caste, and therefore do not have to rely on Brahmin services. 47 These booklets are published in Marathi, and some are translated into English. 48 The ritual repertoire that is taught during these courses is limited. The students learn to perform satyanārāyaṇapūjā, gaṇapatipratiṣṭhā, marriage ceremony, thread ceremony, ancestor worship, and vāstuhoma.

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The institution’s policy directly responds to a number of the criticisms directed towards traditional priests. For example, they see one basis for the bad reputation of the traditional male priests in the dakṣiṇā system, which does not provide for fixed rates, but has the priests and ritual hosts negotiate the remuneration. This implies that the priests constantly have to argue with the ritual hosts about their payment and cannot count on a steady income. Jñānaprabodhinī therefore introduced fixed rates and a clear code of conduct for the priests and priestesses who perform in the name of the institution.49 However, the institution is still working hard for the acceptance of non-Brahmin and women priests among potential ritual hosts (yajamāna). While these are accepted in urban areas, in the countryside male Brahmin priests are usually preferred.50 Even in urban centers, it is the exception rather than the rule that low caste priests perform for high caste families.51 Yet, over the years, Jñānaprabodhinī teachers have seen societal acceptance increase. The clients are often very happy, and being strī purohitā often improves the standing of the women in their own families: The families realize that this occupation earns the women respect, and the income gives the women more independence. While the members of Jñānaprabodhinī are aware of the fact that orthodox priests criticize them, they regret that no open discussion takes place. Most of the women studying with Jñānaprabodhinī are not middle class Brahmin women, but educated urban women of different caste backgrounds.

Criticism among the Priestesses Clearly, there is not only critique directed towards strī purohitās, but there are also clear dividing lines among the women. Especially when talking with those women initially trained by Māmā Thatte about the strī purohitās affiliated with Jñānaprabodhinī Sabhā, it soon becomes clear that there exists some kind of rivalry among differently trained strī purohitās. Interestingly, the criticism directed at the Jñānaprabodhinī priestesses is very similar to the criticism directed towards the male priests. The Jñānaprabodhinī strī purohitās are said to “take shortcuts” during their performances. It is claimed that they neither thoroughly know the texts they recite nor the rituals they perform, and the other priestesses take issue with the payment

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49 The dakṣiṇā for Jñānaprabodhinī priests and priestesses is strictly regulated and updated

annually. A part of this dakṣiṇā goes to Jñānaprabodhinī.

50 Sometimes the clients demand that a male priest is at least part of a group of priests. In these

cases Jñānaprabodhinī complies.

51 The institution is more successful with small courses for diverse communities, in which, for

example, they teach the gaṇapatipratiṣthā ritual. Those who attend these courses are then able to perform for their own communities.

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policy of Jñānaprabodhinī Sabhā.52 Overall, the Jñānaprabodhinī priestesses are not considered as performing in the “proper vaidik” way. 53 Rather, they are characterized as “modern”, whereas the Māmā Thatte trained, yet less organized strī purohitās, who are more closely affiliated to urban Brahmin circles, are described as “traditional”.54 While rarely mentioned explicitly, the issue of the caste affiliation of the ritual performers remains an important issue. While all Brahmin priestesses claim that “all castes are welcome”, many also mention assumed caste-specific physical restrictions. I have, for example, been told: “Some communities (= castes) are not able to enunciate properly”. One woman explains to me that the limitations of nonBrahmin castes also lies in the vocabulary they use: “Some words (we Brahmins) will never utter, and some communities (= castes) will always utter these words … So this is about the choice of words (which has to be taught to members of nonBrahmin castes in class) … Some students are very easy to teach, for some this is very difficult”. The diet of the ritual performers is also clearly perceived as a castespecific obstacle. According to the orthodox view, the priestesses need to be ritually pure in order to perform properly and effectively. Ritual purity depends also on one’s diet, which needs to be vegetarian and sāttvik (this implies e.g. that no onions and no garlic are consumed). This aspect is problematic with reference to non-Brahmin students, who are often not vegetarian. This is perceived as unacceptable by the Brahmin strī purohitās and also seen as problematic by the teachers of the Jñānaprabodhinī classes: They actually ask the students to follow a strict vegetarian diet, at least on the day of a ritual. Yet they do not actually enforce this recommendation. While caste clearly remains an issue of concern with regard to the Jñānaprabodhinī priestesses, only one Brahmin strī purohitā was explicit about it: “The Jñānaprabodhinī people are of different caste, they don’t do it the traditional way. They are modern”.

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52 The fact that the Jñānaprabodhinī strī purohitās use books during their performances is

evaluated negatively. On ambivalent evaluation of the use of ritual texts by traditional Brahmin priests in Tamil Nadu, cf. Hüsken 2010. 53 I often encountered Brahmin strī purohitās who emphasize that they perform the rituals “for the peace of mind, not for money”. 54 It seems that some of the criticism by the “traditionalist” priestesses does not actually apply any more, since the training of the Jñānaprabodhinī Sabhā has undergone significant changes in the past 20 years. In the beginning, it was evidently Jñānaprabodhinī policy to consider the Marathi explanation of the meaning of the Sanskrit mantras sufficient, skipping the actual pronunciation of the mantras. This policy has changed, since this did not sit well with most ritual hosts, who insisted on hearing the mantra itself.

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Female Priests of the Rāṣṭra Sevikā Samiti A further group of women who are established ritual performers are the female priests of the Rāṣṭra Sevikā Samiti, who have a different agenda. The group is well known for their rigid discipline and for being well organized, entirely in line with the paramilitary style of the RSS, the Hindu nationalist organization. One female teacher of this group in Pune is a member of the RSS. In 1986 she started to run courses for women who want to become priestesses, based in the RSS organization. She organized the curriculum for a three-year course (with 1,5 hours of teaching per week), which she taught for many years in Pune and Nasik. Her career as strī purohitā and designer of courses for RSS women was driven mainly by her dissatisfaction with the male priests, who she describes as greedy.55 She insists that any pūjā has to be performed “scientifically”, but also claims that “certain things cannot be learned by ladies”. Importantly, she sees the fact that women today can become ritual performers as the restitution of an original state. In her opinion, upanayana for girls once existed, but had been replaced by very early marriage for young girls. The myth behind this statement, which conveniently attributes both the exclusion of women from Hindu ritual practice and child marriage to “foreign (= non-Hindu) rule”, is told by her as follows: a Muslim ruler demanded that all unmarried girls had to come to his palace to marry him. Thus, in order to protect the young girls, they were married to Hindu bridegrooms already at the age of eight. This practice of child marriage for girls was then retained even under British rule. Only Indian independence reinstituted independence for Indian women. The RSS priestess thus attributes the fact that women, until recently, could not learn and perform Sanskrit rituals, and the practice of child marriage to foreign rule imposed on Hindu subjects. With her we thus see a strategy to include women (and possibly non-Brahmin castes, though this topic is not explicitly addressed) as ritual performers, with the simultaneous political goal of excluding non-Hindus from the group of morally upright inhabitants of India.

Important Source of Success: The Ritual Hosts (yajamāna) In spite of internal differences, female ritual performers have become more and more popular and are now an integral part of the religious landscape of Pune. The success of these initially revolutionary new practices has many reasons. Here I will deal mainly with the support by urban middle class Brahmin ritual hosts (yajamāna).

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55 In her opinion, the priests should only take a fixed dakṣiṇā. In this, she differs from the

traditionalist priestesses. She also does not fully approve of Māmā Thatte, since, according to her, he “only wanted to push the male priests out”. At the same time, she also sees that competition by women is healthy and makes the male priests improve.

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Most important for the success of the women is their acceptance and popularity among the ritual hosts who employ them for ritual services: Without clients, a strī purohitā cannot practice her profession. In spite of the initially strong opposition from orthodox circles, the early female priests persisted and soon were invited not only by local clients, but also by ritual hosts from further away, for example from Karnataka or Goa. The ritual hosts (yajamāna) who sponsor the ritual and employ the priests are clearly concerned with other issues than Brahmin orthodoxy. One of the advantages of having women as priests that is often mentioned is their ability and willingness to adjust to specific circumstances. For example, I was told that when a widow wants to perform upanayana for her son, she would certainly turn to the women priests, who would accept the assignment, while traditional ritualists might refuse to do so. Moreover, I was often told that the women’s actual performance is better and more pleasing—the women, since they are not yet fully established as ritual performers, “put more effort in[to] their performances”. Many clients also appreciatively mention the pleasant voices of women: “When women perform, the language is better and the sound is better—it is like some music attached to it”. However, apart from these more general associations with female priests, women are often employed as priests by middle-class Brahmin families. These families, on the one hand, consciously want to connect to their tradition, on the other, their worldview requires them to re-interpret the tradition and rituals they perform.56 The female priests’ education and attitude fit very well into this pattern. In contrast, I often hear that it is very difficult for villagers to accept women as ritual performers. If this happens at all, the women are often only accepted as long as they are accompanied by male priests.57 I shall here relate a few of my conversations with family members of the host and the main performers during and after an upanayana initiation, which was led by a female priest in Pune on July 27, 2013. Importantly, and in contrast to other traditional upanayanas I had attended before, the priestess had handed out a printed program of the ritual, which had been distributed to the guests, who were thus enabled to follow the proceedings, and also to look up the translations of the Sanskrit phrases and mantras used.

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56 Interestingly, the priestesses rarely report about negative experiences with these urban ritual

hosts. However, one strī purohitā reports that she once had to perform a wedding for “modern people”. They asked her to cut the rituals short, they drank champagne and the pictures were more important to them than the rituals. The priestess was so annoyed with this attitude that she gave away the money she earned through this ritual. Now she refuses to perform for such occasions. 57 In these settings, no value is attached to innovation and “being modern”. Rather, the aim is to have the “authentic”, and therefore efficacious, ritual performed.

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Ute Hüsken

I talked with the boy’s maternal uncle and his wife, who were attending a performance with a female priest for the first time. They were very positive, and the woman clearly saw in the proceedings the expression of female agency. She said: “It is a great idea, women can do all these things, we should not depend on males!” Her husband related the fact that a female priest was employed to the “modern” and “scientific” ways of his sister. He said: “If we don’t understand what he (a male priest) is saying—what is the point? So I prefer this kind of people”. Yet the couple also thought that, compared to the “traditional” ways, the priestess took “shortcuts”, which, however, they did not evaluate entirely negatively. In fact, they said that if they had a son, they would employ a female priest too, especially since they would not have the time and patience to sit through a ritual that takes many hours. The mother of the boy who received upanayana on that occasion was very explicit about her own motives, and clearly she was the driving force, with her husband as support. She said: “I believe in equality. No gender discrimination. … in my family we always encourage equality. So we thought that if there is an option available, why not go for a woman priest? It is equally auspicious, and she explains everything the male priest does. So we thought: let us go ahead a step from our side”. The boy himself also explicitly claimed that he liked the fact that the strī purohitā explained everything to him in Marathi. This upanayana is one of the many cases in which the ritual hosts are middle-class, urban, well-to-do Brahmins who consciously continue their inherited tradition, but re-interpret it to fit their modern worldview and style of living.

The Role of Non-Resident Indian (NRI) Diaspora Communities Already the success of the group of women learning under Māmā Thatte in the early 1980s indicates that the NRI communities were and are an important factor for the success and the acceptance of female ritual performers. Performing as a strī purohitā is also a respectable pastime for women when there is no (functioning) extended family available—which is the case for many priestesses who have adult children living and working abroad. When I attended a class for strī purohitās in 2013, many women said that their children were living in foreign countries. The consensus was: “They never come back here, even though they promised. They say that we (the parents) can visit, for some time. Everyone has someone abroad”. Other women added: “Out of India! Nobody is here! But we are staying here”. One strī purohitā from Pune often visits her sons for longer periods in England and in the USA. During these visits, she usually is fully booked. The Hindu communities there appreciate her priestly skills and ask her to perform rituals for them. She also emphasizes the difference in the scale of the performances: “There things are performed in a big style”. Clearly, in such NRI settings, where competent priestly service is hard to come by, there is little hesitation to accept women as ritual performers for the domestic rituals. One strī purohitā in Pune even reports that she

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was asked in 1993 whether she would be willing to serve as a priestess in the local Hindu temple in Jacksonville. In the context of rituals performed in and for NRI communities, it is often stated that the meaning of a ritual has to be explained and understood. Here, the women are much better equipped than their male counterparts, whose education does not include the explanation of different rituals to the hosts. This is one of the key qualifications of the strī purohitās, which marks them as distinctly different from the traditional male priests. In combination with convincing and competent “traditional” performance, this is evidently a recipe for success.

Conclusion: Shifting Boundaries of Denial Among female priests performing Hindu Sanskrit rituals, there are many different groups and individuals, with a broad range of motivations. They come from a wide variety of social and religious backgrounds, yet are engaged in similar activities, although for very different reasons and with different agendas. Accordingly, we detect different forms of denial, directed toward different agents. Yet all these activities, as different as they may be, are overall expressions of a shift in the religious and ritual agency of women in Indian Hindu traditions: Until recently women were categorically denied the right to perform Sanskrit rituals for others, but now different women slowly but steadily each create their own spaces as ritual performers. Initially it was a huge step to transgress the (perceived) traditional norms and invest women with the power and knowledge to perform Sanskrit rituals. Some reasons for the success of this radically new step taken by Upāsni Bābā in the early 20th century were his own standing and charisma as a spiritual teacher and ascetic, and the predominantly ascetic character of the female community he established. This community clearly was not about changing the world, but about establishing an ascetic alternative to the world. The ashram for the kanyās might therefore not have been perceived as a denial of prevailing social norms and religious conventions. However, in the long run the activities of this female ascetic community had strong repercussions in urban Brahmin circles, where the kanyās’ ritual practice, not their ascetic status, inspired other women.58 The importance of practice rather than rhetoric in the activities undermining the denial of women’s ritual agency might also account for the diversity among the contemporary strī purohitās. The women who perform Sanskrit ritual today are not part of one single movement. For those women who learn and practice Sanskrit rituals in the context of the RSS, performing as ritual specialists is, at the same

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58 The national and international success of the kanyās’ performances might also have

contributed to them becoming role models for urban Brahmin women.

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time, nationalist and political work. The inclusion of women as ritual performers is here presented as an act of liberation from foreign and non-Hindu domination. For the women trained by and working for the Jñānaprabodhinī Sabhā, performing as strī purohitās is enacting social reform: Their aim is the appropriation of the Sanskrit ritual tradition by non-Brahmin groups and individuals. Performing is denying the validity of caste hierarchies, and especially of the male Brahmin priests’ exclusive right to the performance of rituals. This attitude is in sharp contrast to the agenda of the large group of less organized urban middle-class Brahmin women (often housewives whose children work abroad), whose priestly activity is not an act of resistance, but is rather seen as a healthy renewal within the Brahmin tradition. Important here is that innovation is presented as tradition (Singer 1971). For example, many of the Brahmin women who initially were trained by Māmā Thatte perceive the poor performances by the male priests as a “loss of tradition”, which they try to re-establish. 59 The perception that the tradition is fading away is also nourished by the fact that many Brahmin men have moved into very different professional areas. They work as IT specialists, lawyers, medical doctors, or run businesses, with little time or interest for traditional subjects.60 In this situation, older Brahmin women are very welcome to take over, to purify and renew the tradition by performing the rituals in the “authentic” way, with no “shortcuts” and no monetary interest. They also renew the tradition by returning to the perceived “original (yet forgotten) state” in which women were legitimate ritual performers, and by explaining the rituals they perform “scientifically”. In this way, the middle class Brahmin strī purohitās fill a perceived gap between the desire for “high quality” rituals and the actual “low standard” rituals provided by the traditional male priests, and they fill an actual gap between demand and availability of priestly services. This renewal of the Brahmin tradition from within is, in fact, in conflict with the denial of Brahmin ritual hegemony by the priestesses from Jñānaprabodhinī. The middle-class Brahmin strī purohitās also jealously guard the tradition from appropriation by non-Brahmin performers. The denial thus continues. The middleclass Brahmin strī purohitās—often implicitly—exclude the Jñānaprabodhinī performers from the ranks of “legitimate” performers of Brahmin rituals. They deny the non-Brahmin strī purohitās ritual agency in the same way as they themselves had been denied ritual agency earlier, using the same frames of reference: the body of the non-Brahmin performers (“they cannot enunciate correctly”), their social role (“they use inappropriate vocabulary and diet”), and the

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59 While gender equality is explicitly a major motivation for the ritual hosts (yajamāna) to

employ female priests, none of the urban middle-class Brahmin strī purohitās has an explicitly feminist agenda. On the contrary, they accept the traditional view that the female body and social roles of women are obstacles to the performance of traditional Sanskrit rituals. 60 See, for example, Fuller and Narasimhan 2008 and 2010.

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quality of their ritual services (“they take shortcuts and they do not understand what they are doing”) are considered unsuited to the task. This newly drawn boundary is now about caste alone, rather than about gender and caste. Today, the profession of priest of Sanskrit rituals is open to more people, but by no means to everyone: The denial of ritual agency remains an important way to create insiders and outsiders, in a delicate balance between opening up and again closing the circles of those who can legitimately claim to own the tradition.

References Primary Mānavadharmaśāstra. In: The law code of Manu. Mānavadharmaśāstra. A new translation based on the critical edition by Patrick Olivelle (P. Olivelle, transl.), Oxford world’s classics. Oxford, New York, 2004: Oxford University Press.

Secondary Colas, Gérard. 1996. Viṣṇu, ses images et ses feux. Les métamorphoses du dieu chez les vaikhānasa (Monographies, École francaise d’Extrême-Orient, No. 182). Paris: Presses de l’École francaise d’Extrême-Orient. Fuller, Christopher J. 1984. Servants of the Goddess: The Priests of a South Indian Temple. Cambridge (Cambridgeshire), New York: Cambridge University Press. — 2003. The renewal of the priesthood. Modernity and Traditionalism in a South Indian Temple. Princeton, N.J., Oxford: Princeton University Press. Fuller, Christopher J., and H. Narasimhan. 2008. “From Landlords to Software Engineers. Migration and Urbanization among Tamil Brahmans”. In: Comparative Studies in Society and History 50.1: 170–196. — 2010. “Traditional vocations and modern professions among Tamil Brahmans in colonial and post-colonial south India”. In: Indian Economic and Social History Review 47.4: 473–496. Hüsken, Ute. 2010. “Challenges to a Vaiṣṇava Initiation?” In: A. Zotter and C. Zotter (eds), Hindu and Buddhist Initiations in India and Nepal. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, pp. 299–306 — 2013. “Denial as Silencing. On Women’s Ritual Agency in a South Indian Brahmin Tradition”. In: Journal of Ritual Studies 27.1: 21–34. Jamison, Stephanie. 2002. “Giver or Given? Some Marriages in Kalidasa”. In: L. L. Patton (ed.), Jewels of Authority. Women and Textual tradition in Hindu India. New York; Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 69–83. Kane, P. V. 1941 (2.1). History of Dharmaśāstra (Ancient and Mediaeval Religious and Civil Law) 2.1. Poona: Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute. Kane, P. V. 1941 (2.2). History of Dharmaśāstra (Ancient and Mediaeval Religious and Civil Law) 2.2. Poona: Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute.

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Lubin, Timothy. 2010. “Adhikāra”. In: Knut Jacobsen et al. (eds), Brill’s Encyclopaedia of Hinduism Vol. II, pp. 671–674. Maṃjūḷ, V. L. 1996, date after the Saṃskṛta dina 28.4.1996. “Strīnām paurohityādhikāraḥ”. In: Saṃskṛta dina. Manjul, V. L. 1997, date after the Pune Herold 5.1.1997. “Lady purohits overtake male counterparts”. In: Pune Herold. Manjul, V. L. 2000a, date after the Sunday Herald Spectrum 4.6.2000. Maidens Mastering Man’s Mantra. Sunday Herald Spectrum. Manjul, V. L. 2000b, October/November/December 2000 after Hinduism Today. “Starting Vedic Studies. Backed By Scripture, Girls Get Their Sacred Thread”. In: Hinduism Today, p. 69. Manjul, V. L. 2004, date after The Week 2.1.2004. “Women Priests of Pune: A Bold New Breed”. In: The Week, pp. 16–18. Mañjūḷ, V. L. 1997, date after the Mahārāṣṭra tāīṃs 9.9.1997. “vedamaṃtro kā striyo dvārā uccāraṇ”. In: Mahārāṣṭra tāīṃs, pp. 10–11. McGee, Mary. 2002. “Ritual Rights. Gender Implications of Adhikara”. In: L. L. Patton (ed.), Jewels of Authority. Women and Textual tradition in Hindu India. New York, Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 32–50. Patton, Laurie L. 2002. “Mantras and Miscarriage. Controlling Birth in the Late Vedic Period”. In: L. L. Patton (ed.), Jewels of Authority. Women and Textual tradition in Hindu India. New York, Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 51–68 — 2005. “Can Women Be Priests? Brief Notes Toward an Argument From the Ancient Hindu World”. In: Journal of Hindu-Christian Studies 18 (Article 7): 17–21. Singer, Milton. 1971. “Beyond Tradition and Modernity in Madras”. In: Comparative Studies in Society and History 13.2 (Special Issue on Tradition and Modernity): 160–195. Smith, Brian K. 1989. Reflections on Resemblance, Ritual and Religion. New York: Oxford University Press. Young, Katherine. 2002. “Om, The Vedas, And the Status of Women with Special Reference to Shrivaishnavism”. In: L. L. Patton (ed.), Jewels of Authority. Women and Textual tradition in Hindu India. New York, Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 84–121.

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The Cremation Ground and the Denial of Ritual The Case of the Aghorīs and Their Forerunner The Cremation Ground and the Denial of Ritual

Christof Zotter1

Denial of Ritual as an Argument Since ancient times the Brahmanical tradition has played an important role in the religious and ritual spheres of the South Asian sub-continent. Brahmanic priests refer to their inherited relation to the Vedic seers and their prestigious ritual to support claims of superiority. The knowledge of ritual which is at the centre of this tradition has been jealously guarded and access to it has been restricted by regulations concerning ritual purity, by life-cycle rites, different forms of initiation, and so on. Although concepts of salvation have changed in the course of time, from the orthodox Brahmanical point of view, ritual traced back to their somatic and spiritual forefathers has always been ascribed a key role in attaining the final goals of human existence. This position has been contested. Over the centuries, different religious movements gained shape by arguing against the Brahmanical ideology, often by attacking the opponents’ ritual or its (metaphysical, ontological, social, etc.) implications. In the debates between these critics, too, ritual, and its denial, have often been an issue. The argument may turn harshly against ritual in general, as in the songs of the North Indian Nirguṇī Sants (fl. from the 14th or 15th century) who are known as attackers of outward religiosity (including rituals) and promoters of an approach to their “formless” (nirguṇa) god with inner devotion and the simple remembrance of his name.2 In most cases, however, specific forms of ritual are criticized for being false, useless, or fraudulent. And usually it is the ritual of the others that is denied correctness, efficacy or proper intentionality. This paper will approach the issue of the “denial of ritual” and its complexity— denial is ambivalent and often does not work only in one direction—through a focus on religious traditions featuring ritual practices related to the cremation

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2

I am grateful to Nina Mirnig and Peter Berger for giving me the opportunity to discuss the topic of this paper in the “Colloquium on Asian Religions” at the University of Groningen and to Véronique Bouillier, Monika Boehm-Tettelbach and Astrid Zotter for their comments on earlier drafts of this paper. For the Sants’ critical stance towards ritual, see e.g. Lorenzen 2011. As Horstmann (forthc.) has stressed, the popular imagination of the Sants as mystics often underrates the relation of their poems to private yogic practices and congregational rituals.

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ground. While the first part of the paper examines historical examples in order to work out some dimensions of the issue under consideration, the second part takes the famous North Indian Aghorī-Saint Bābā Kīnārām (fl. 17th/18th cent.)3 and his tradition as the main example. For a number of reasons, this instance seems especially suited to examine the phenomenon of denial of ritual as an argument. Firstly, Bābā Kīnārām is known as an Aghorī and therefore considered a person with (in)famous transgressive ritual practices that provoke polarized positions; and most of the positions taken towards the Aghorī and his ritual, either pro or contra, argue with denial. Secondly, Bābā Kīnārām is an exceptional case of an Aghorī, since he is a popularly recognized saint. One reason for Bābā Kīnārām’s enduring popularity is that he is the founder of several institutions in and around Benares, whose adherents, the Kīnārāmīs, have been preserving his memory and maintaining his heritage down to the present day. Furthermore, under the guidance of the charismatic guru Bhagvān Rām (1937–1992), Kīnārām’s tradition has expanded rapidly over the last decades. This expansion has been accompanied by an increasing number of publications, whose authors aim at the general public and provide information about the tradition, its saints, their teachings, and literary heritage, but also about the “true” meaning of aghora and Aghorī. Being aware of the bad reputation the figure of Aghorī has in Indian society and caring for the reputation of their own tradition, some of these ‘official’ Kīnārāmī sources take a firm stand against other Aghorīs. The large range of voices speaking about the Aghorī and Bābā Kīnārām, both from the outsiders’ and insiders’ perspectives, will be examined here for instances of denial. Finally, the tradition under consideration reveals the influences of different religious streams. Depending on who speaks to whom, Kīnārām might be described as a Śaiva, a Śākta, a Vaiṣṇava, a Tāntrika, a Yogī, a Sant, etc. (cf. Gupta 1995: 136). One could ask whether this plurality of identities is a reason or a result of Kīnārām’s popularity. But what is of more interest for the present context is that it brings different traditional arguments of denial into view, albeit in a unique blend.

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According to the official sources of his tradition, Kīnārām was born in 1601 on the 14th of the dark half of the lunar month of Bhādra, a day known as Aghoracaturdaśī (e.g. Anonymous n.d.: [4]; Siṃha 1999: 28; Śukla 1988: 18), and left his mortal body on the 21th of September 1771 (Anonymous n.d.: [15]; Siṃha 1999: 112; Śukla 1988: 77). Others give 1627 as year of his birth (Anonymous 1937: 628f.; Miśra 2001: 76; Śastrī 1959: 168; Sinha and Saraswati 1978: 144) or suggest other dates (for further references, see Miśra 2004: 34f.).

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Cremation Ground Cultures and the Denial of Ritual The Cremation Ground as a Place of Heterodoxy and Transgression For the orthodox Brahmanical way of thinking, based on the Vedas and related authorities, the cremation ground (śmaśāna) is a place of impurity and danger. Elaborate rituals and sets of rules and regulations have been developed and carefully transmitted to ensure that the pollution caused by death does not enter the ordered world of (normal) life. Others, less close to, but not necessarily disconnected from, Vedic lore, have taken a different attitude towards this spot at the periphery of human settlement. They have ignored, transgressed or recoded the notion of impurity and have considered the cremation ground to be a great teacher (of death and one’s own mortality) or as a place where supernatural powers (siddhis, lit. perfections) can be obtained and even death can be conquered. Throughout the centuries a variety of religiosi have visited this ambivalent location (see below). Among them are currently the Aghorīs. The mention of their extreme practices is rarely missing in general introductions to Hinduism but, notwithstanding their renown as one of the most radical groups of Hinduism, reliable information about the Aghorīs’ practices and doctrines is still meagre. According to the prevailing stereotypes, they are dressed in black, carry a human skull, consume a lot of alcohol and ganja and behave brutally or as if mad. They are associated with bloody rituals and notoriously held to eat of filth, excrement, or even human flesh. Obviously, not all people labelled as “Aghorī” exhibit these practices. The main aim of the present paper is not to uncover the “real facts”. In searching for instances of denial, looking at who is saying what about the Aghorīs to whom is more interesting than merely establishing what the Aghorīs really do or think. As will be shown the very use of this name by outsiders usually bears the notion of denial and the “Aghorīs” are not the first to experience such negative labelling. Often as a quasi-explanation, the Aghorīs (including Kīnārām and his tradition) are linked to other religious groups. Pointing to seemingly similar patterns of practice, some consider them to be Śaiva or Śākta Tāntrikas.4 More specifically,

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See Barrett 2008: 11; Gupta 1993: 65 and 1995: 133. As June McDaniel (2012: 158, 160) observes in West-Bengal, outsiders may even assume the Aghorīs’ extreme practices are a norm of the Tāntrikas’ daily behaviour and therefore “the response of fear and avoidance that they generate can carry over to the tantric moderates, who do none of these things” (ibid.: 158). That at least the followers of Kīnārām’s tradition (in many situations) would deny being Tāntrikas will be dealt with in the second part of the paper.

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they are declared to be the successors of the extinct Kāpālikas5 and occasionally, they are associated with the historically still more remote Pāśupatas (Briggs 1938: 218). Indeed, all these groups were related to the cremation ground and, from the orthodox Brahmanical point of view, exhibited features of heterodoxy and transgression and therefore provoked rejection, but what they actually practiced and what connects them to the Aghorīs is not as obvious as supposed. Because the study of the historical traditions also tells us a great deal about the use of denial as an argument and helps to outline what the modern discussion on Aghorīs is about, the following sections will pick up some points of relevance for the topic and in doing so will critically survey the alleged relations with the modern Aghorīs.

The Pāśupata as Provoker of Rejection That an ascetic can intentionally transgress Brahmanical norms as part of his quest is already attested for the early Pāśupatas,6 who considered themselves to be the cattle (paśu) of their Lord (pati), and while observing a “bull’s vow” (govrata) adopted the corresponding behaviour.7 Their adepts showed different forms of conduct that, at first glance, look indeed similar to features the Aghorī is (in)famous for. Thus, for example, on one of the preparatory levels, the Pāśupata had to behave rudely or madly, to make obscene gestures or to pretend to be crippled. As some of their texts—foremost the Pāśupatasūtra and its commentary by Kauṇḍinya—have come down to us, we know that the Pāśupata was “simply making unorthodox use of a thoroughly orthodox principle” (Sanderson 1988: 665). His misbehaviour served to provoke rejection and insults from passers-by and thereby triggered a process of merit transfer, in which the Pāśupata’s demerits were passed on to the insulters and in turn the latter’s merits were obtained (Hara 2002: 126– 136).8 As some Aghorīs do too, the Pāśupatas intentionally provoked refusal by others and used this for their own spiritual progress. But the logic behind the Pāśupatas’ instrumentalization of rejection during the observance of their vow works only if the adept is a Brahmin initiated into the Vedic ritual tradition9 and if he

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6 7

8 9

See Barrett 2008: 6; Briggs 1938: 218, 224; Crooke 1896: 28 and 1908: 210–212; Eliade 1969: 297; Lorenzen 1991: 53; Parry 1985: 55, 64. The denomination of these ascetics as “Pāśupatas” began to appear in the 4th century only, although their cult is probably older (see Acharya 2011: 548 and 2013: 101–103). On the Pāśupatas’ “four-phased ascetic career” (Bisschop and Griffiths 2003: 324), see Acharya 2011: 460; Hara 2002: 127–129; Sanderson 1988: 664–665. Acharya has argued that the govrata involved as an essential part also the breaking of sexual and dietary restrictions (2013: 116–118). See also Acharya 2013: 109; Lorenzen 1991. 187f. On the Brahminhood of the Pāśupatas, see Bisschop and Griffiths 2003: 325 n. 49; Hara 2002: 127.

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keeps his sectarian identity a secret (Acharya 2011: 460), i.e. denies who he is, at least in public. For the Aghorī—openly displaying his identity and overtly indifferent towards caste status and ritual purity—we certainly have to look for another explanation. This holds true for other seemingly similar features, such as the usage of the Vedic aghoramantra.10 In fact, apart from these superficial similarities, there is no proof for any direct connection between the two historically distant figures.

Partial Denial and the Invention of Tradition While the early Pāśupatas retained several links with the orthodox Vedic lore, they also diverged from it by making crucial modifications. They transcended, for example, the orthodox system of four life-stages (āśrama) by aiming for a “new” siddhāśrama, or “fifth” life-stage of the Perfected (Sanderson 1988: 664). They drew their authority from what already existed, but, by adding new layers, they implicitly refuted others’ claims to have captured the truth. Similarly, newly arising ascetic Śaiva groups did not cut the links to older traditions, but introduced innovations in their turn, by basing themselves on additional textual authorities (pramāṇas). The Lākulas (also known as the Kālamukha or Kālāmukha) related their teachings to a figure named Lākulin/Lākuḍi or Lakulīśa,11 and added him to the genealogy as the preceptor (guru) of Kuśika, who had been the teacher of the older Pāśupata system (Bisschop 2006a: 46–48, cf. also Bakker 2007: 2f.). For the Kāpālikas, another offspring of the early Śaiva ascetic movement, something similar is attested. Relating their knowledge to Somaśarman, whom they considered the guru of Lākulīśa, allowed them to make their tradition “date back further and appear more prestigious or original” (Törzsök 2011: 358) than the teachings of the precedent Pāśupatas and Lākulas. This strategy of creating hierarchy by including and modifying an older pattern or system was also widely employed in later developments of the Śaiva Tantric traditions, both in ascetic ones and in ones open to householders. The latter, and later, not only promised liberation (mokṣa), but also the enjoyment (bhoga) of

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10 This mantra, by which God Rudra is addressed in his various forms and characterized as non-

terrible (aghora), terrible (ghora) and utterly terrible (ghoraghoratara) enjoys popularity among many Śaiva groups (for its variant readings and accentuations in Vedic and later sources, see Bisschop and Griffiths 2003: 332 n. 89; Bisschop 2006b: 2, 11f.; for its different interpretations and application, see Goudriaan 1978: 154–162; Sanderson 2006: 175). It is part of the so-called pañcabrahmamantra, a set of five mantras that is found as a coherent formula for the first time in the Taittirīya Āraṇyaka 10.43–47 (= Mahānārāyaṇa Upaniṣad 7.3–7) of the Yajurveda tradition, but it is not certain from what source these formulas have entered the Pāśupatasūtra (cf. Bisschop 2006b: 2). 11 He was seen as a form of Śiva who came to earth by entering and reanimating a Brahmin’s corpse at a cremation ground (Sanderson 1988: 664; cf. Lorenzen 1991: 176).

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supernatural powers and pleasures. New layers were added to earlier versions of the cosmic hierarchy that the adept had to master and pass through by gnosis and ritual.12 By making additions to the top of the system, older levels were degraded to lower strata. The others’ ritual cosmos was taken over without being much criticized, but as a consequence the old system was transcended and (at least implicitly) the others’ claims of having access to the ultimate reality by their rituals were denied. Such phenomena could be discussed as a form of “inclusivism”, but one might also consider the important aspect of—at least partial—denial of ritual efficacy here. It will be shown in the second part of the present paper that the followers of Kīnārām’s tradition, although often declared by outsiders to be Tāntrikas, do not continue with this Tantric line-up of esoteric worlds and levels of initiation. Nonetheless, they make use of the strategies of transcending and denial to express their superiority.

The Ambivalent Figure of the Skull-Bearer By partially denying the “old school” Pāśupatas, the Lākulas and the Kāpālikas remained connected to it, but they exhibited a more radical attitude and intensified the transgressive character of their practice (cf. Sanderson 2006: 166). They came up with a new practice known as mahāvrata (“great observance”) or kapālavrata (“observance of the skull”)13 that was modelled on Bhairava, a fierce and destructive form of Śiva that—according to mythological sources—came into being when the God cut off the fifth head of Brahmā, the Brahmin among the gods.14 In analogy to the expiation prescribed in the orthodox dharma literature for killing a Brahmin (cf. Lorenzen 1991: 74–76) these ascetics lived outside society for twelve years, carrying, among other paraphernalia, a skull (kapāla) as a begging bowl—a characteristic typically ascribed to the Aghorī, too. The ambiguous figure of Bhairava also provides the model for other features that are associated with the Kāpālika, as well as nowadays with the Aghorī. Both kinds of ascetics are occasionally accompanied by a female consort and outsiders commonly refer to reputed sexual rites that are performed to produce impure substances which—besides wine, meat and (human) blood15—serve as offerings to the hordes of female deities accompanying Bhairava.

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12 For an illustrative example, see the description of the initiation ritual (dīkṣā) of the Lākulas in

Sanderson 2006: 188–193.

13 For these and other terms used, see Sanderson 2006: 158; Törzsök 2011: 355. 14 The story of Bhairava is retold in several Purāṇas, see e.g. Kramrisch 1981: 259–265;

Lorenzen 1991: 77f.

15 For the association of the Kāpālikas with human sacrifices, see Lorenzen 1991: 85–87;

Törszök 2011: 358.

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To what extent there are real parallels between the historical and the modern skullbearers or just coincidences—as in the case of the rude behaviour of the Pāśupata—is difficult to assess, for the simple reason that reliable information is hardly available. The Kāpālika was a common figure in Sanskrit literature, but many descriptions reproduce stereotypes containing biased and fictitious elements (cf. Törzsök 2011: 355, 358).16 As earlier religious transgressors, and later on the Aghorīs, the Kāpālikas provoked rejection. This could go along with forms of denial if, for example, the skull-bearer is seen simply as a criminal or a madman not possessing the qualities required to carry out valid and effective rituals (cf. the section “The Aghorīs as Provokers of Denial” below). The “original” Kāpālikas ceased to exist, according to Lorenzen (1991: 53), in the 14th century, but probably remodelled variants of practices and doctrines ascribed to them have survived in later cults. Some assume that the Kāpālikas were absorbed by the, at that time rather loosely structured, movement of the Nāths (cf. Briggs 1938: 218; White 1996: 97), and, seemingly, certain Śākta Tantric practitioners incorporated into their cult what they considered “Kāpālika stuff” (cf. Törzsök 2011: 355). Especially the Nāths are understood as constituting a kind of bridge between the ancient skull-bearers and the modern-day Aghorīs, 17 but besides the reconstruction of such historical connections, there is another form of continuity that I want to point out here. Used in a general sense, the term “Kāpālika” apparently functioned as a negative “label” given by outsiders to anyone who roams around with a skull bowl and shows some other characteristics.18 The scary and thrilling imaginings provoked by the Kāpālikas and their rituals are still alive and can be found, e.g. in modern Hindi publications,19 although nowadays the respective narratives are typically related to the Aghorīs. The label’s name has changed but the stereotype labelled has not changed much. The Aghorīs have inherited the image and reputation from earlier skull-bearers or at least they occupy a very similar niche in the religious landscapes and imaginations of India. This niche has been feared by common people, but, as Bhairava, the skull-bearer is an ambiguous figure. As, for example, the incorporation of the Kāpālika passages into Śākta texts indicates, the skull-bearer has also been associated with secret powers

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16 Followers of opposing traditions (e.g. the Jainas or the Śaṅkarācāryas) attacked the Kāpālika

as heretic, hedonist, or criminally fraudulent (Lorenzen 1991: 48, 50 and passim). Poets conventionally stylized him to evoke terror and horror, but also for the comic sentiment (ibid.: 54). 17 Balfour 1897: 341; Briggs 1938: 71, 218; Crooke 1896: 29f.; cf. also Lorenzen 1991: 53. 18 As Törzsök writes: “In its most general usage the word kāpālika can simply denote someone who carries or deals with a skull or skulls (kapāla) on a regular basis” (2011: 355), e.g. the cremation ground worker (ibid.). For the problematic general usage of the term “Aghorī” see the section on “Denominations of the Aghorī” below. 19 See e.g. Śarmā’s (1999) collection of essays, said to be “based on true events” (satya ghatanāõ para ādhārita), on a “mysterious” (rahasyamaya) Kāpālika centre.

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that were welcomed by some householders. Here, we enter another field for denial of ritual as an argument.

The Domestication of Transgression and the Power of Secrecy In the Tantric traditions (not only of Śaiva affiliation), rituals that were considered impure by orthodox Brahmins entered the domestic domain. The cremation ground with its ambiguous gods, goddesses and practices became a ritual arena for householders seeking supernatural powers. This “domestication” (Sanderson 1988: 662) of transgressive practices was a complex process of interaction between multiple orthodox and heterodox positions (Sanderson 1985), and again denial of ritual was crucial in consolidating oppositions and identities. From different orthodox standpoints the opposed Tantric other was considered polluting, i.e. access to ritual needed to be denied. From the transgressors’ points of view, the notion of purity was to be reformulated (Sanderson 1985: 198) and the other’s ritual appeared as impotent—a reproval that reoccured within the Tantric tradition itself when new cults took a stand towards earlier ones by partially denying an older system. As compromises between the opponent positions, the cremation ground culture was variously recoded by internalization, aesthetization or by the substitution of its impure components (ibid.: 202–205).20 Furthermore, the Tāntrikas developed a “strategy of dissimulation”—as White (2003: 157–159) calls it—allowing them to perform heterodox practices in privacy or in secret circles without losing their social identity in the orthodox system. There again, the policy of creating hierarchy by partly denying and transcending other systems is observable.21 Adding an esoteric second or even third identity, they could secretly deny basic orthodox concepts—foremost the notion of ritual purity—without openly denying the social structure based on these principles. In most of the examples given so far, denial was used to downgrade or reject the ritual practice of others. The attacked ones often struck back by themselves using arguments implying the denial of others’ ritual. The domestication of transgressive Tantric practices is, however, also indicative of another twist of the issue under consideration: Denial need not result in rejection but, on the contrary, can cause acceptance. In the course of time, kings and others began to openly aspire to the powers of Tantric gurus and yogīs, and eventually Tantra became a state religion in many parts of the Indian subcontinent (and beyond). For some centuries, it had a

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20 For another important aspect of the “domestication”, see the section on “The Domesticated

Aghorī Saints” below.

21 As Sanderson writes, “the visionary power of the heterodox self is recoded in order to be

inscribed within the orthodox social identity and in such a way that it reveals the latter as a lower nature within the one person”. (1985: 191; emphasis in original).

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profound impact on the temple architecture, the literary production of the courts and—of special importance in the present context—public rituals. 22 Although Tantric rituals entered public life, at least certain parts were well protected by secrecy and remained hidden to the public. Access was only allowed for initiated insiders, though it was now often shown that there was something powerful hidden. As with any secret, the Tantric ritual secret can be seen as a form of denial resulting in the rejection of outsiders. It is, however, not necessarily followed by rejection by the rejected ones.23 Being part of the “religion of the state”, Tantra became naturally entangled with the social structure of the realm. Bledsoe (2000) and White (2003: 123 and passim) aptly refer to Robert Levy’s concept of an “advertised secret” in relation to the publicly promoted idea of the king as the realm’s highest Tantric practitioner (sādhaka). Levy (1990), however, was not just thinking of the top ranking social level and the power-plays of kings and their Tantric gurus. In his study of Bhaktapur (Nepal), he observed that the cellular units constituting the social structure of the city are not only associated with secrecy, but that this association is, “in fact, a condition of their cellularity” (1990: 335). In public rituals, such as processions, different units of initiates (including maskmakers, ritual dancers, potters, astrologers, Brahmins, etc.) work together to produce a public output. The secret creates boundaries, but turning it into a mystery by advertizing its presence makes it effective beyond these borders (cf. Levy 1990: 335–337). In this way, denial can result in acceptance. As Levy writes: “knowledge by others that a group has secrets, or more precisely has the secrets it is supposed to have, is a sign that it is an effective and necessary component of the larger system” (ibid. 336). In the heyday of Tantra, the peripheral cremation ground was not only the place of origin for ambivalent gods and goddesses that became part of urban structures with associated institutionalized ritual roles and secrets for people of different social groups. It also remained the host of malicious ghosts, spirits, and other beings that are best kept away from the social world of the living. Accepted public forms of ritual developed to deal with these dangers. For example, the Nepalese Nāth yogīs—the ascetic Kānphaṭā and the Kusle (a group of initiated householders)24—regularly perform (Tantric) cakrapūjās to pacify the deceased of a certain locality. Unbescheid (1980: 107 and passim) stresses the similarity of these performances with (orthodox) death rituals (śrāddha). Taking into account their

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22 At the periphery, e.g. in Nepal, the nexus of Tantric, royal and public was apparent until

recently, see A. Zotter’s paper in this volume.

23 This holds true for the Vedic tradition as well. Initiated Brahmins could gain prestige because

outsiders knew that they had the secret knowledge of Vedic mantras and rituals.

24 For the Kusles or Kāpālis and their association with the Kāpālikas, see Bouillier 1993: esp.

78f.

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“cellular” surroundings, and arguing in accordance with Levy, these pūjās, too, might have the power and efficacy ascribed to them because of a Tantric secret.25 A social system interwoven with Tantric ideas also has niches for individual specialists who deal with the cremation ground and its beings by their knowledge of what is, these days, labelled “tantra-mantra-yantra”. These practitioners may be related to a particular tradition or may be “self-made” freelancers. They might be ascetics or householders. They may carry out their rituals for themselves, or in competition to others, in the service of clients. It is in this arena of Tantric ritual mysteries that the Aghorīs appear—equipped with their own secrets and, in many cases, openly displaying their transgressive identity that provokes, but also expresses, denial.

The Case of the Aghorī The Aghorīs as Provokers of Denial For decades the most voluminous source on the Aghorīs, or Aghorapanthīs (“followers of the way of aghora”)26 as they are alternatively called, was a paper of 54 pages by H. W. Barrow published in 1893.27 Based on the manuscript of the late Edward Tyrell Leith’s Notes on the Aghoris and Cannibalism in India, the paper presents the Aghorīs as a public nuisance, disturbing the social order and committing crimes. They are accused of the desecration of corpses (e.g. Barrow 1893: 209) or even of (ritual) murder and cannibalism (e.g. ibid.: 208, 216) and are condemned for using disgusting devices to extract money from the “timid and credulous Hindu” (ibid.: 202).28 In most of the reports Tyrell Leith has collected, mainly from civil officers and pundits, the rejected Aghorīs are determined exclusively by their outer appearance, their behaviour, and by what is thought to be their (secret) ritual practices, not by ideology or doctrine. Actually, as the Kāpālikas were before, they are repeatedly described as not having any philosophical or theological background or reflection at all.29 They are stylized either as maniacs or

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25 As Gold (2002) reports from householder Nāths in Rajasthan, even the Sant Kabīr—who is

26 27

28 29

otherwise well known as a denunciator of the Śāktas (cf. Pauwels 2010)—can be ascribed a Tantric secret brought from his hometown Benares. For these terms, see the section on the “Denominations of the Aghorī” below. Other colonial accounts are Crooke 1896: 26–29 and 1908: 210–213; Oman 1903: 164–167. For further references, see Barrow 1893: 205. Surprisingly unbiased, and therefore exceptional, is Balfour 1897. See also ibid.: 217, 221f., 226 and passim. E.g. in statements, such as “the doings of these people […] happily were too below the attributes of human nature to be erected into a system” (Barrow 1893: 204).

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as charlatans, feared for their “black deeds” (ibid.: 199, 228).30 As in the case of many sources on the Kāpālikas, it is obvious that layers of rejection and denial have to be removed in order to obtain a more realistic picture from the material. In Barrow’s unsystematic accumulation of case examples and statements, at least a few voices indicate that the prevailing perception of the Aghorī as a terror of society is too one-sided. The author (1893: 226, 237, 239f.) makes mention, for instance, of the belief—in his opinion a superstition—that the Aghorīs possess supernatural powers that can be used either to curse or to bless. He also reports that some informants even admit that the “true” Aghorīs originally were a superior sect of holy saints, although those who are commonly found nowadays should be considered a degenerated and “dirty” branch of the original and “pure” sect.31 Barrow (ibid.: 218) comments that the Aghorīs obviously have been confused with other groups. And indeed, the Aghorīs appear to be confused not just with other ascetics, but also with different tribal groups32 and criminals.33 As for the Kāpālika, one gets the impression that the name of the tradition serves as a kind of umbrella term, a label applied to cover all those who exhibit a particular outer appearance and behaviour or to whom are ascribed certain ritual practices that are rejected and denied any religious worth. In this notion of denial, the colonial meets the orthodox Brahmanical position. Although the argument might be different, as a result the Aghorīs are seen as not possessing qualities that are considered crucial for a valid ritual, i.e. purity, proper understanding, etc. As already alluded to, there are other positions whose proponents are less concerned about purity, but believe in powerful rituals.

The Tantric Aghorī A division into “true” and “false” Aghorīs is also made by Rameśacandra Śrīvāstava (n.d.) in his collection of essays on the “power of aghora” (aghora śakti). He, however, holds that “true” (saccā) Aghorīs can be met with up to the present day. These extraordinary beings have acquired special power (śakti) through difficult and dangerous ritual practices (ghora sādhanā) involving ambivalent deities (Bhairava, Kālī, etc.) and beings (ghosts, spirits, etc.).34 Śrīvāstava mentions the Aghorīs’ curse, but what figures much more prominently is their blessing. In almost all

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30 Cf. also John C. Oman: “There is no denying that the Aghoris are only too successful in

extorting money from people who have a supreme dread of them” (1903: 166).

31 See e.g. the statements of Mr. C. Mull, Pandit R.S. Mishra and others, quoted in Barrow

1893: 216–218. Cf. also Eliade 1969: 297 and Gupta 1995: 136.

32 E.g. what is reported about the “Waghoris” (Barrow 1893: 218, 212) could refer to a group of

vagabonds know as Vāgrī.

33 Barrow (1893: 236) mentions e.g. that they are believed to be gang robbers. 34 For the Aghorīs’ reputation of being specialists in dealing with ghosts etc., see also Briggs

1938: 174; Miśra 2001: 11, 150; Parry 1985: 57; Ram 2007: 52; Śāstrī 1959: 9, 20.

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of his stories35 they help devoted suppliants, and often their śakti works where other means have failed. Śrīvāstava addresses the horrible image of the Aghorī, but repeatedly argues that, though common people may see only the dreadful appearance, a “true” Aghorī is to be considered a perfected being (siddha), or an incarnation of Śiva in his form as Mahākāla or Rudra (ibid.:1f., 8f., 65f. and passim). The perception that the Aghorī is versed in the field of “tantra-mantra-yantra” and yoga, that he entertains close ritual relations with ambivalent entities and therefore commands extraordinary powers is shared by others, who address a different readership, such as, for instance, Robert E. Svoboda (1986), an American disciple of a cosmopolitan upper-class Aghorī from Calcutta, and “Kula-Bhūṣaṇa” Ramādatta Śukla (1997), the late publisher of the Tantric journal Cāṇḍī. In contrast to Śrīvāstava, these two authors dedicate longer passages to the aghora philosophy, but, again, ritual is considered to be of crucial importance. Both agree on the idea that the Aghorīs’ rituals are dangerous (and therefore especially powerful). 36 Stressing parallels to the Śāktas, Śukla, for example, provides detailed information about the Aghorīs’ cakrapūjā (1997: 45-47),37 the proper application of the aghoramantra (ibd: 63f.),38 etc., but also alerts the reader that such practices will cause damage if not performed with a knowledgeable preceptor (ibid.: 47)39—a common way to advertize a ritual secret (cf. Levy 1992: 337). All these sources have a Tantric background. Accordingly, the Aghorī is depicted as a sādhaka, a practitioner, rooted in Tantric ritual knowledge. As in the case of the “Kāpālika practices” incorporated into Śākta cults there are seemingly floating Tantric ritual practices associated with the skull-bearers, but nowadays they are labelled “Aghorī practices”.40 What distinguishes the colonial accounts

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35 Śrīvāstava (n.d.) contains a few legends about Kīnārām and Bhagvān Rām (see below) and

36 37

38

39 40

reports about Bhīm Bābā (cf. Parry 1985: 75 n. 26; Sinha and Saraswati 1978: 147). However, most of the stories are related to lesser known or even admittedly fictitious persons e.g. an Avadhūt Śaṅkar who promised a devoted woman a happy life and therefore had to restore the life of her husband by means of a complicated ritual, a Daityānand who foresaw the catastrophe of Bhopal, a Nāgā Bābā who predicted and counteracted the death of a girl, etc. Other stories relate how Aghorīs relieve the ghosts of suicidal persons, reprimand evil spirits, fly at night, cure diseases and infertility, uncover and punish evil doers, and so on. Cf. also Barrett 2008: 158; Gupta 1993: 69; Parry 1985: 62; Śāstrī 1959: 13. For further accounts of the Aghorīs’ version of this worship in a circle (cakra) of adepts, see Barrett 2008: 91, 154f.; Miśra 2001: 161–163; Miśra 2004: 127f.; Parry 1985: 60; Sahay 1996: 98. Details on the ritual use of the aghoramantra and related formulas (such as aghorastava, kavaca, etc.) found in the Tantric textual traditions are also provided in Siṃha and Siṃha 1986. Cf. also the discussion of Svoboda’s books by Barrett 2008: 7. See e.g. the “Aghorī Tantra” (Śarmā 1995), a Hindi manual containing recipes and mantras (Sanskrit as well as vernacular ones) to counteract illnesses or the effect of poison, to handle

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rejecting the Aghorī from the Tantra-influenced publications accepting him is the authors’ attitude towards these rituals; while the former deny that they have any validity or efficacy, the latter ascribe these qualities to them to a special degree.

The Aghorī as Ascetic yogī The picture of the “Tantric Aghorī” is also drawn on by Jonathan Parry (1985, 1994), the first Western post-colonial researcher to collect new material on the skull-bearing ascetics and challenge their portrayal in the colonial accounts. His interpretation, however, focuses less on the suggested Tantric background than on (yogic) asceticism. Like Eliade (1969), he argues that the Aghorī literally works out “what is more orthodoxly interpreted as a purely internal quest” (1994: 252). Unlike Eliade,41 he does not degrade these practices, styling them a result of a confusion of symbols or as an imitation empty of meaning. In contrast, he speaks of a “perfectly coherent logic” (ibid.: 252). Addressing the different images of the Aghorī—as a fierce figure, as a performer of powerful Tantric rituals, as an ascetic yogī, etc.—Parry emphasizes the Aghorīs’ ambivalent position and further argues that these ascetics themselves instrumentalize their ambivalence. It is “by systemically combining opposites” (1985: 71) 42 that they aim at reaching the common goal of Indian ascetics and yogīs, namely the suspension of time and the conquest of death.43 Such a conflation of the Tantric sādhaka and the ascetic yogī is not unproblematic (cf. Mallinson 2014: 168, 169), but I want to stress another point here. If the underlying theology is common ground among Indian ascetics, in Parry’s line of argumentation, as in the previously treated depictions of the Aghorī too, the hallmark to distinguish him from other mendicants and to connect him to the Tāntrikas (cf. e.g. Parry 1985: 60) again is his ritual practice. More recent research, which especially focuses on the Kīnārāmīs, the followers of the Benares-based Aghorī Saint Bābā Kīnārām, raises doubts about the common portrayal of the Aghorīs as (ascetical) Tāntrikas. Roxanne Gupta (1993: 65) and Ron Barrett (2008: 11) point to the fact that the majority of followers of Kīnārām—at least in most situations—would deny belonging to this sort of practitioners. This attitude is also attested to in the publications of the institutions of Kīnārām’s tradition, which will be dealt with in more detail below. Thus, the

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ghosts, and to perform classical Tantric specialities, such as the so-called “six rites” (ṣaṭkarmāṇi). 41 Eliade treats the Aghorīs and the Kāpālikas as examples for the “degradation of an ideology [i. e. the “original” yoga, CZ] through failure to comprehend the symbolism that forms its vehicle” (1969: 296). For a critical discussion of Eliade’s position, see Gupta 1993: 22 and Zotter 2004: 8–11. 42 Cf. also Parry 1985: 55, 67f. 43 Parry 1985: 52, 54 and 1994: 259f. Cf. also Barrett 2008: 7f.

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Kīnārāmīs—who are counted as typical Aghorīs by Parry and others44—reject features that are seen by outsiders as hallmarks of their tradition. They do not even call themselves “Aghorī”.

Denominations of the “Aghorī” The divergent opinions about what the Aghorīs are can also be demonstrated by looking at the different interpretations of the very name. Although sometimes other explanations are offered,45 “Aghorī” is related to Skt. aghora, “non-terrible”. In this meaning aghora is already attested in the Veda,46 but because, in later sources, the word is principally used to denote Śiva, especially his terrible Southern face (Kramrisch 1981: 82f.), it has often been regarded as an euphemism (e.g. ibid.: 184).47 Dictionaries of Hindi and other New Indo-Aryan languages attest that the possessive derivative denomination Aghorī (Skt. *aghorin),48 too, is commonly understood as referring to something actually negative.49 Used by outsiders, it often functions as an abusive label. As seen in the last two sections, some adopt this label but give it a positive meaning. They admit that the “Aghorī” may have a terrible (ghora) appearance and

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44 Kīnārām is even considered to be the originator of the Aghorī tradition (cf. Barrow 1893:

236; Crooke 1896: 26; Parry 1985: 55f.; Rigopoulos 2000: 97).

45 Barrow (1893: 218, 238) stresses the similitude to the word “ogre”, the violent but stupid

46 47

48

49

man-eating giant of French fairy-tales. Etymologically this is the same nonsense as Brajamadhava Bhattacharya’s suggestion to relate the Tantric Śaiva sect known as the “Aghoras” to a non-Vedic cult of snakes (nāga) and to understand the “Nāga-Aghoras” as “Pythagoreans” (1975: 234). E.g. in the “marriage hymn” (Ṛgveda 10.85.44), in which it is said that the look of the bride’s eye shall be “not terrible”. For further references, see Goudriaan (1978: 156f.), who doubts that the term “euphemism” is appropriate in this context “because it suggests that the thing or being designed by it is unable to change its malicious or evil character, while Śiva/Aghora can manifest his other side upon the devotees’ plea” (ibid.: 157). For the association of the right/southern side of Śiva with a mild and teaching aspect, see also Bakker 2001. I am not aware of any usage of Skt. aghorin as a designation of a person and therefore assume a New Indo-Aryan origin of the term, created in analogy to yogī or jogī (Skt. yogin), saṃnyāsī (Skt. saṃnyāsin), etc. Some consider it an abridged form of aghorapanthī (cf. next fn.). The noun is usually explained as denoting a follower of the aghorapantha, lit. „the way of aghora“, the aghora community (see e.g. McGregor 1993: s.v. aghora, aghorī; cf. Callewaert 2009: s.v. aghora). The Hindī Śabdasāgāra (Varmā 1997: s.v. aghorī) also has the meaning “the one who does not care for (the distinction between) eatable and non-eatable” (bakṣyābhakṣya kā vicāra na karnevālā; cf. also Sharma and Vermeer 1987: s.v. aghorapantha). Used as an adjective, aghorī means “foul, unclean” (McGregor 1993: s.v. aghorī) or disgusting, loathsome, etc. (cf. Varmā (1997: s.v. aghorī): ghṛṇita, ghinaunā). McGregor (1993: s.v. aghora) lists for aghorapanthī also the meaning “a glutton”.

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carry out ghora rituals, but the mastery of his difficult quest is rewarded by the divine power of aghora. The Kīnārāmīs usually understand aghora neither as a euphemism nor as related to a certain outward appearance or ritual practice. Rather, it denotes a perfected inner state of mind, free of fear or terror (ghora).50 The “true” Aghorī is the one who has mentally accomplished aghora. Followers of Kīnārām, too, render ghora as “hard, difficult, and complicated”51 and relate it to ritual, but interpret the “Aghorī” as the simple or uncomplicated one.52 It will be shown later that this understanding can entail the idea of a general denial of ritual, similar to the refutation of ritual in the rhetorics of the Nirguṇī Sants, such as Kabīr. Declared to be “Aghorīs” by outsiders, the Kīnārāmīs offer not only their own interpretations of this name, they are also aware of its bad connotations and therefore prefer to apply other terms (such as Aughaṛ53 or Avadhūta54) as selfdesignations or titles.55 These names are used by other traditions, too. So, the appellation habits of both—outsiders (calling nowadays all skull-bearers Aghorīs)56

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50 This meaning is also given by “Mr. Chaina Mull”, one of the informants of Tyrell Leith, who

mentions the category of the “true” Aghorī (Barrow 1893: 218).

51 See Miśra 2001: 149; Ram 2007: 53; Sahay 1996: 19; Śrīvāstava n.d.: 1; Verma 1986: 1. 52 See e.g. statements, such as “The term ‘Aghor’ stands for easy and simplified form of

53

54

55 56

worship whereas the process of worship of other sects and cults are ‘Ghor’—meaning cumbersome and labyrinthine—and unless victory is registered over ‘Ghor’ process of worship, one can never be venerated as Aghor” (Jha and Shanker 2005: 2). This term is used by different traditions. Among the Nāths, Aughaṛ denotes an adept who has passed the first initiation but has not (yet) proceeded towards the second one of a “Kānphaṭā” (see e.g. Briggs 1938: 10, 27, 30; Crooke 1896: 29). Sinha and Saraswati (1978: 47, 144) explain it as referring to an ascetic who has reached a certain (high) spiritual stage. That the word can denote an Aghorī is supposed already for the Sant literature (Callewaert 2009: s.v. aughaṛ). Although more commonly aughaṛ is related to avaghaṭa (cf. Caturvedī 1972: 686; Miśra 2001: 1; Śukla 1997: 44), some (e.g. Śrīvāstava n.d.: 1) regard it as an Apabhraṃśa form of aghora. Modern Hindi dictionaries translate it as “misshapen, awkward, ungainly, uncouth, strange” (e.g. McGregor 1993, s.v. aughaṛ) and occasionally as “carefree” (cf. Sharma and Vermeer 1987, s.v. aughaṛ). The last meaning fits other terms in usage by the Kīnārāmīs, such as alalmasta phakkaṛ (Siṃha Aṣṭhānā 1977: 121). Avadhūta, lit. “the one who has cast off (everything)”, is a popular appellation not confined to one tradition (Rigopoulos 2000: 51 n. 48 and passim; Ram 2007: 45; Śukla 1997: 45). The Kīnārāmīs especially refer to Bhagvān Rām, the reformer of their tradition, as Avadhūta. He is also addressed as “Lord of aghora” (aghoreśvara) and his closer followers know him as “Sarkār Bābā”, or make use of other royal honorific terms (cf. Gupta 1995: 144). The founder, Kīnārām, is styled “preceptor of aghora” (aghorācārya) often combined with the honorific titles Śrī and Mahārāja. The Kāpālikas, too, seem to have preferred innocuous terms, see Törszök 2011: 356. One could include here the “disciples from non-Aghor tradition who refer to themselves as Aghorī only while undergoing certain antinomian phases of their initiation” (Barrett 2011: 281).

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and insiders (some preferring other terms)—blur the differences between traditions and contribute to a confusion of terminology. At least three positions in the use of the name Aghorī can be distinguished. Outsiders use “Aghorī” as an abusive label to denounce certain opponent others whose ascribed ritual practices they reject.57 Some “Aghorīs” accept and adapt such labelling, whether to advertize their ritual secret or, as Parry argues, to instrumentalize their ambivalence. Other persons labelled in this way, however, avoid the name as a self-designation. Thus, generally speaking, from the inside there are fewer “Aghorīs” than from the outside. The next two sections will briefly introduce the third group of “Aghorīs”, before the paper finally discusses how they use denial of ritual as an argument.

The Domesticated Aghorī Saints Bābā Kīnārām, who lived in the 17–18th century CE,58 is a well-known figure throughout North India, especially in Benares, where he established the main centre of his tradition, the Kīnārāmsthal,59 and empowered the water tank known as Krīṃkuṇḍ as a place of healing.60 People of different social strata, who come to bathe there, have to pass through an entrance gate flanked by massive concrete skulls. Several other features of the material layout of the centre, too, evoke and advertize the close relation of Kīnārām’s tradition with the cremation ground, e.g. the “eternal fire” (akhaṇḍa dhūnī) that is fuelled by logs from a cremation ground.61 As is the water of the tank, the ashes of the fire are known for healing

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57 This negative notion is already attested in the literature of the Sants. In a satirical passage of

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the “Pañcprahār” (“The Five Strokes”) of Sundardās (1596–1689), translated in Horstmann (2012: 102–107), the Aghorīs are declared to be filthy in two ways (st. 32), by their antinomian behaviour and by the missing hygiene (ibid.: 105 fn. 33). The same work also mentions that the Kāpālikas hold corrupt views (st. 18) and (st. 45) makes fun of the ascetics who “move to the cremation ground and proudly proclaim: ‘I am avadhūta!’” (ibid.: 106). I am grateful to Monika Boehm-Tettelbach for pointing out this early reference to the Aghorīs to me. For the controversy about his biographical data, see fn. 3. Kīnārām is also said to be the founder of several other ashrams, vaiṣṇava as well as aghora, in the wider vicinity of Benares. Small "huts“ (kuṭi) of the Kīnārāmīs can be found all over North India (cf. Anonymous 1937: 629; Caturvedī 1972: 693; Crooke 1896: 27; Gupta 1993: 168–190 and 1995: 137; Miśra 2004: 53–75; Śāstrī 1959: 116, 139f., Singh Asthana n.d.:10; Sinha and Saraswati 1978: 148). For a map, see Miśra 2004: 74. Gupta (1993: 174 and 1995: 139) reports that the village centres barely survive today. For the respective legend, see Anonymous n.d.: [13]; Siṃha 1999: 108; Śukla 1988: 47; cf. also Singh Asthana n.d.: 8f. The Krīṃkuṇḍ is not the only healing spot Kīnārām is associated with. For a well in his birthplace Ramgarh that provides waters of four different tastes and healing powers, see Srīvāstava n.d.: 19f. According to legends, the right to collect these logs (as well as money from the villages of the Benares district) was granted to Kīnārām by the Mughal ruler Śāh Jahā̃ in a (lost) copper-

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and wish-fulfilling powers.62 Last but not least, the place is charged with the presence of more than sixty Aughaṛs residing in meditation posture in their tombs (samādhi).63 The largest of these tombs is that of the founder, Kīnārām, who promised—according to legends—that whoever will remember him in times of despair will be helped.64 As this brief description of the Kīnārāmsthal suggests, this “burial site” deliberately engenders the imagery of the cremation ground, but for its visitors it is not a place of death and horror. On the contrary, people come in search of healing and help. The spot is “domesticated” (see below) and the mystery displayed and advertized results in acceptance. The devoted householders understand the “true” Aghorī, Aughaṛ or Avadhūta, as the simple one, and he is believed to be not only powerful, but also easily accessible. Outside the lineage of Kīnārām, too, there are Aghorīs who have a similar function as bestowers of blessings for householders,65 some of them even having earned more than local fame,66 but it is rather exceptional that— as in the case of the Krīṃkuṇḍ—the helping character of an Aghorī saint has been transferred into permanent institutions. Already Barrow mentions “Kenerám” (1893: 225), “Kira Râm” (ibid.: 236), “Kiveram” (ibid.: 247) aka “Kinaram” (ibid.) and his tradition. Crooke (1896: 26– 28)—based on his main informant Rāmgharīb Chaube—even reports some related legends, but the first Western scholar who acknowledged that the Kīnārāmīs could be what Levy calls “an effective and necessary component of the larger system” (1990: 336) was Parry.67 In order to analyse the instances of denial surrounding Kīnārām and his tradition, however, Parry’s attempt to “make some sense” (cf. his foreword in Barrett 2008: XII) of his findings seemingly does not sufficiently distinguish the discrepant views of insiders and outsiders and of Kīnārāmīs and other Aghorīs.68 His (outsider) informants69 obviously preferred explanations that

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plate inscription (Siṃha 1999: 90; Śukla 1988: 15f.; cf. also Siṃha Aṣṭhāṇā 1977: 84; Gupta 1995: 139). Barrett 2008: 2; Ram 1997: 73; Siṃha 1999: 108f.; Śukla 1988: 47. See Jha and Shanker: 26; Ram 1997: 74. As Gupta writes, “it is believed that the souls of the Aughaṛs are accessible to devotees who come to worship them and gain their assistance in solving various problems” (1995: 134). Cf. also Parry 1985: 66 and 1994: 260f. Anonymous n.d.: [15]; Siṃha 1999: 114; Śukla 1988: 79. For examples, see Parry (1985: 62f.) and the stories told in Śrīvāstava (n.d.). The famous Bengali Saint Vāmakhepa is sometimes counted as an Aghorī, too (e.g. by Śukla 1997). One of the most famous Aghorīs of the twentieth century was the Bengalī Dr. Rām Nāth Aghorī, who is said to have been the guru of the Royal family of Nepal and founder of the aghora seat at the Paśupatināth-Temple in Deopatan (see Gupta 1993: 93–96). Parry e.g. refers to their (often violent ways of) blessing (1985: 65) or addresses the issue of lay followers (ibid.: 56, 62f.). He actually rather blurs them, e.g. when he is doubtful about “whether these ascetics are genuinely guilty of the crimes they were accused, or whether they themselves were the

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served to reinforce the stereotypical Aghorī image, and although critical of the colonial accounts and being well aware of negative stereotypes at work, Parry himself evidently picked up biased information not in accordance with the ideas of Kīnārām’s modern day followers. The name of the founder, according to the tradition meaning “Purchased Rām”,70 is explained as “Kina (‘rancour’) Ram” (1985: 56; 1994: 252).71 The tank nowadays known as “Krīṃkuṇḍ” appears as “Krimi Kund (‘tank of worms’)” (1985: 65),72 etc. In this light, it is no wonder that Parry’s article provoked angry reactions among some officials of the tradition (cf. Gupta 1993: 12). To understand the present situation of the Kīnārāmīs, another point has to be taken into consideration. Already Parry (e.g. 1985: 68) referred to a fundamental transformation of the tradition under the influence of Avadhūt Bhagvān Rām (1937–1992). More recent studies (Gupta 1993, Barrett 2008) distinguish—as nowadays the Kīnārāmīs themselves do (cf. Barrett 2011: 281; Verma 1986: 45)— between “old style” practitioners wearing black, drinking alcohol, performing secret practices and so on; and “new style” disciples wearing white clothes, living abstinently, showing an engagement in social welfare, treatment of lepers, medical eye care, etc. So, even if speaking only about the Kīnārāmīs—and not the Aghorīs in general—one should use further specifications. On top of that, the Kīnārāmīs (whether of the old or the new style) include ascetics, householder practitioners, and lay followers, all of whom might have different ideas about the tradition they belong to. As already suggested above, the role of householders deserves some attention in the discussion of denial of ritual. Sanderson (1985: 202–205) has used the term “domestication” to denote a shift from Tantric ascetics towards householder practitioners characterized by the internalisation and aesthetisation of heterodox practices. In contrast, the recent reformation of the Kīnārām tradition, that attracts a large fellowship among the educated middle class, could be seen as a “domestication” by externalisation, because the “new style” teachings follow a common trend of Neo-Hinduism and advocate spiritual practice (sādhanā) as selfless service

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victims of popular convictions about the behaviour of those who follow their path” (Parry 1994: 253). Cf. Barrett 2008: XII, 187 fn. 1. In Bhojpurī, Kīnārām’s mother tongue, kīnā is the past perf. part. m. of the verb kīn- (cf. Skt. krīnati), “to buy”. For the legend of how he was sold and re-bought, see Gupta 1993: 126; Sahay 1996: 14; Siṃha 1999: 30; Śukla 1988: 19. In Hindi, this meaning is lexically possible (cf. McGregor 1993: sv. kīnā). It is said that Kīnārām used the syllable “krīṃ”, the ‘seed’ mantra of the Goddess Kālī (cf. Parry 1985: 75 n. 24), to charge the tank (e.g. Anonymous n.d.: [13]; cf. Barrett 2008: 141). It is noteworthy that the rather pejorative name “Kṛmikuṇḍ” is also recorded in some older Hindi sources that fully acknowledge Kīnārām as a positive saintly figure (see Caturvedī 1972: 693; Śāstrī 1959: 139).

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(sevā) to the world. Furthermore, the reforms also differ from what Sanjukta Gupta (2003) describes as “domestication” for a famous Śākta pilgrimage place, i.e. a systematic Vaiṣṇavisation of the Goddess and her ritual by the priests, entailing the replacement of impure ritual elements by the usage of pure substances. 73 As Barrett has pointed out, the “new” aghora tradition—treating stigmatized lepers, street children etc.—turned “from the embrace of ritually polluted substances to that of ritually polluted people” (2008: 94). I would like to add another point here (which, in my opinion, is of importance for the discussion of the older traditions of skull-bearers, too). Considering the Aghorī or Aughaṛ as a saintly figure, “domestication” might not only be approached on a doctrinal level or by taking into focus who the initiated practitioners are or what they practise, but also by recognizing the uninitiated lay followers as a “domesticating” agent. From this perspective, the pragmatic aspect and the powers of the person considered a saint are central (cf. Parry 1985: 63). As seen, according to the popular understanding, in the case of the Aghorī, such powers are gained by controversially discussed Tantric rituals. For the devoted lay followers, however, the question of how these powers are gained is less important than the fact that there are powers. They are asked for as proof of perfection and, more importantly, the saint makes them accessible to ordinary people, who may milk the blessings for profane problems and homely affairs. When conceived of in this sense, the “domestication” of the aghora lineage under consideration did not start with the “new style” of Bhagvān Rām, but with the founder, Kīnārām, and his divine guru.

The Tradition of Bābā Kīnārām and its Textual Sources The first scholarly works about Kīnārām in Hindi (Śāstrī 1959; Caturvedī 1967 and 1972) were based on a couple of small booklets published by “officials” of the Kīnārām tradition in the second quarter of the twentieth century (see fn. 92 below). These studies cover some details of Kīnārām’s life-story, the centres established by him, and the lineages of disciples, but—following their sources—their main focus is on the songs and poems ascribed to the saint. 74 In its content, style and

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73 The reforms by Bhagvān Rām also include a banning of alcohol and other intoxicants in the

tradition’s centres under his influence. However, this ban is not understood as an attempt to purify the rituals. It is rather argued, that it was done to improve the atmosphere in the ashrams and to exclude a conduct that—although sometimes claimed to be ritual—is not considered ritual by the reformers (cf. Barrett 2008: 23, 90–93, 149; Gupta 1993: 102; Verma 1986: 39–41; Sahay 1996: 97f.). 74 Kīnārām’s main work is the Vivekasāra (dated [V.S.] 1812 (= 1755 AC)), a text of 298 verses dealing with the eight limbs (aṣṭāṅga) of yoga, the analogies between the human body (piṇḍa) and the cosmos (brahmāṇḍa), etc. While this text is said to contain aghora (or avadhūta) teachings, the collections of songs are usually classified as vaiṣṇava works (cf. Anonymous 1937: 669; Caturvedī 31967: 169f. and 31972: 694; Miśra 2004: 76; Śāstrī 1959:

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phraseology, this textual corpus of about 900 verses (cf. Miśra 2004: 77–79) attests to a close relation to the popular teachings of the Nirguṇī Sants. This aspect of Kīnārām’s tradition may not figure into the popular expectations of what the Kīnārāmīs supposedly are and has so far largely been ignored by Western academics,75 but it is not the only textual evidence for the fact that from the inside the tradition looks differently.The main source on Kīnārām for the more recent publications of the Kīnārāmīs is the Aughaṛ Rāma Kīnā Kathā, a full-fledged hagiography of the saint, first published by Lakṣmaṇa Śukla in 1978.76 Although the stories collected there do not deny that Kīnārām was an Aghorī, they often do not serve the respective stereotypes. Most of the legends retold in the kathā follow the general narrative patterns described by Lorenzen (1995: 185, 188f.) for the hagiographies of Nirguṇī Sants (cf. Barrett 2008: 33). They relate how Kīnārām supported the weak and desperate by working miracles, how he encountered (and in many cases chastised) the rulers of his time, 77 how he clashed with other saints,78 and so on. The majority of stories illustrate the saint’s supernatural powers. Remarkably, the kathā does not prominently promote the popular idea that complicated rituals had to be mastered to acquire such powers. Instead, the stories related to his birth and early childhood, in particular, depict Kīnārām as janma-siddha, “perfected by birth” (Śukla 1988: 18).79 He has an inherent, never decaying access to supernatural powers, which he readily uses to help his devotees (bhaktas). Illustrative for this thread is the famous story about how Kīnārām was tested by his divine

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116). Available today are: Gītāvali (for a tentative German translation, see Zotter 2004), Rāmagītā, Rāmarasāla, and Unmunirāma; while other texts (such as Rāmacapeṭā and Rāmamaṅgala) mentioned in some sources seem to be lost. All works ascribed to the Saint are composed in Sadhukkaṛī (also called Khicaṛī or Santvaṇī)—a variety of Old Hindi that served as a lingua franca of Sādhus and Sants to convey their religious teachings. Exceptions are Gupta 1993 and Zotter 2004. I am referring here to the third edition (Śukla 1988). The text is said to stem from a wormeaten birch-bark manuscript written by the hand of Kīnārām’s direct disciple Bījārām (ibid.: 16) and has been republished under different titles (e.g. Siṃha 1999). It is also the basic source of an illustrated concise life-story in Hindi and English (Anonymous n.d.). For other English summaries of the legends about Kīnārām, see Barrett 2008: 31–34; Gupta 1993: 126– 137; Ram 2007: 46–51 (based on Gupta 1993) and Singh Asthana n.d.: 29–34. According to the kathā, Kīnārām encountered, among others, the Nawab of Junagarh and the Mughal Emperors Śāh Jahā̃ and Aurangzeb. For Kīnārām’s relation with the rulers of Benares, see below. E.g. the Vaiṣṇava Saint Loṭādās, see next chapter. For example, the newborn refused to drink his mother’s milk until the three gods Brahmā, Viṣṇu and Śiva—disguised as ascetics (mahātmās)—visited him and whispered the initiation mantra into his ear (Siṃha 1999: 28; Śukla 1988: 18; cf. Anonymous n.d.: [4]).

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“Aghorī guru”, the Siddheśvara Dattātreya, at Mount Girnar.80 Having taken the form of an Aghorī, the godhead offered him a piece of meat cut by his own teeth. Although the meat and the way of serving it were loathsome, Kīnārām—full of trust and devotion (bhakti)—tasted it and was instantly bestowed the siddhi of farsight (dūradṛṣṭi). Finally, the godhead ordered him to go and bring welfare to the world (Śukla 1988: 26f.).81 Although it is this event that made Kīnārām an Aghorī, the story—as related by the kathā—makes no explicit mention of any ritual. This holds true for many other stories, too.82 The main focus of this text is not (as in the Tantric textual tradition) on doctrinal83 and practical or ritual issues, nor can we see these legends as documents providing historical evidence (as in the case of inscriptions and the like), but they attest to a “domestication” of the saint in the sense indicated above, i.e. a holy person is regarded as a mediator of blessings for his followers. For the older cults of skull-bearers (such as the Kāpālikas) such hagiographical material is not attestable but—suggesting here another parallel between the Aghorīs and their alleged forerunners—might have existed, at least in certain cases. Another point is of interest in the present context. The hagiographic legends of Kīnārām not only contain fewer indications than expected of ritual activities of the saint himself, they moreover depict him as a disturber of others’ rituals. This is also the case in the most popular legend about Kīnārām, which is retold in several other sources, too, and notably features his curse. According to the kathā (Śukla 1988: 37f.; cf. Siṃha 1999: 92f.), Kīnārām had been on good terms with the family of the ruler of Benares,84 but became increasingly disappointed by the conduct at the

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80 For the association of this place with the Aghorīs, see Barrow 1893: 211 and passim; Crooke

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1908: 210; Gupta 1993: 85f.; Rigopoulos 2000: 98. Some authors distinguish between a Himalayan (Himālī) branch of the aghora tradition and a Girnālī branch to which the Kīnārāmīs belong (Miśra 2001: 67; Ram 2007: 40; Śukla 1997: 48; Verma 1986: 42, 44). See also Anonymous n.d.: [10]; Gupta 1993: 129; Rigopoulos 2000: 97; Sahay 1996: 17; Siṃha 1999: 69f. Other sources give a shorter account of Kīnārām’s visit to Girnar, but at least mention Dattātreya (Caturvedī 1972: 692; Śāstrī 1959: 137f.). The popular Santaṅk relates that Kīnārām was so impressed by the teachings of an “Aghorī Siddha Mahātmā” that he took initiation (dīkṣā) in the aghora way there (Anonymous 1937: 628). For an account on Bhagvān Rām’s visit to Girnar alluding to the Kīnārām legend, see Ram 1997: 52–54; Sahay 1996: 22f. For the few more pertinent legends on “Aghorī” rituals contained in the kathā, see next section. Although a few legends are concerned with central tenets of the tradition, e.g. the conversion of the orthodox Brahmin Nīlakaṇṭha to the idea of abheda, indistinction (Śukla 1988: 58–60; Siṃha 1999: 77–79), or the encounter with the Maithili Brahmins whose aversion towards eating meat and fish was dissolved after Kīnārām revived a dead elephant (Śukla 1988: 57f.; Siṃha 1999: 33f.; see also Anonymous n.d.: [12], Gupta 1993: 134; Ram 2007: 49). It is said that Manasārām, the grandfather of Cet Singh, regularly visited the Krīṃkuṇḍ and personally prepared Kīnārām’s hookah. The saint bestowed on him the blessing that there

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court and the intrigues of the city’s priests. He finally took his terrific outer form (unkā mahāraudrarūpa) and visited Cet Singh (r. 1770–1781) when a (ritual) Vedic recitation (vedapāṭha) by Brahmins took place at the newly built fort at Śivālā Ghāṭ. As provoked, he was mocked (Barrett 2008: 34). So he made his donkey recite the Veda and then cursed the assembly by throwing some ritual rice (akṣata) towards the fort. 85 The actual details vary in different versions of the story. According to Barrett (2008: 33f.), Kīnārām appeared at a Vedic fire sacrifice (yajña) where the reputed Brahmins and pundits, as well as the rich and powerful men of Banaras, had gathered. Yet others report that Kīnārām disturbed a consecration ceremony (prāṇapratiṣṭhā) for a śivaliṅga (Śrīvāstava n.d.: 21). While the kathā just speaks of the Saint’s terrific outer form, other sources often add illustrative details, stressing the “Aghorī-ness” of Kīnārām. 86 Furthermore, the story can contain additional motifs. 87 Obviously, the various versions have different messages, but common to all is a clear notion of protest and denial and, in most cases, it is a ritual that provokes this. Before further elaborating on this point, at least a few words must be said about the successors of Kīnārām. While there exist full-fledged hagiographies for the two major saints, the founder Kīnārām and the reformer Bhagvān Rām, 88 little is known about the history of the lineage(s) that kept the heritage of the tradition going over the last couple of centuries.89 There are lists of throne (gaddī) holders

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would be a king (rāja) born in his house (i.e. Balvant Siṃha, who reigned as rāja 1740–1770 CE). According to the Santaṅk (Anonymous 1937: 629) Balvant Siṃha granted Kīnārām and his successors the right to collect one rupee a year from 96 villages to cover the costs of their worship rituals (pūjā). The fort was cursed to be inhabited only by pigeons who “will shit in it”, and the king and his lineage were to be barren. While the fort still remains empty (after Cet Singh was dethroned by Warren Hastings in 1781), it is reported that the curse on the king’s family was removed some decades ago (Barrett 2008: 188 fn. 4; Gupta 1993: 136; Parry 1985: 64). It is said, for instance, that Kīnārām carried the leg of a corpse (Śrīvāstava n.d.: 21) or a stinking dead body (Pathak and Hume 1993: 238). According to Parry (1985: 64; 1994: 259), the filthy Aghorī who disturbed the sacrifice at the kings’ palace was dressed in the rotting skin of a fresh-water porpoise and after he was denied admission “the sacrificial offerings became immediately infested with maggots and the sacrifice had to be abandoned” (ibid.). E.g. the blessing of the family of a court employee who humbly asked Kīnārām’s forgiveness (Miśra 2004: 31; Śukla 1988: 38; Siṃha 1999: 93; Śrīvāstava n.d.: 21), or the cursing of the dancers of the “red light” district of the city (Pathak and Hume 1993: 238). For another version of the legend involving the motif of dancing, see Gupta 1993: 136 and 1995: 135. Bhagvān Rām’s life-story is retold e.g. in Ram 1997; Ram 2007: 8–32; Sahay 1996. Barrett (2008: 91–100) mentions some of the obvious parallels to the hagiography of Kīnārām. Historical documents (cf. Barrett 2008: 188 fn. 1) have not been sorted yet.

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of the different centres which are not always congruent,90 but apart from these genealogical skeletons not much information is available yet to provide a more vivid picture of the past.91 It seems that under some gaddī-holders the tradition was very much alive,92 while at other times it remained rather dormant like “embers under ashes” (Ram 1997: 69).93 One of the persons, about whom comparatively much is known, is the guru of the reformer Bhagvān Rām, Rajeśvar Rām alias “Old Bābā” (Buṛhaū Bābā), who held the throne at Krimkuṇḍ for three decades, until 1978.94 He was undoubtedly an Aughaṛ of the “old style” (cf. Gupta 1995: 140; Sinha and Saraswati 1978: 144). Although his descriptions lack some typical Aghorī features—he did not use a skull as begging bowl, for one thing,95 nor was he known for his ritual activities—he behaved as the skull-bearers are commonly believed to. As Ron Barrett states: “Burhau Baba was known for consuming supernatural quantities of country liquor, as well as marijuana from a chillum (clay pipe) that his disciples kept filled and ready. His manner was fierce, and he often gave his ‘blessings’ through the medium of profanity and the business end of his staff to anyone who had the courage to come within his range” (2008: 85). The Kīnārāmīs, even the “new style” followers, accept his harsh, rude way as a façade,96 and justify it in various ways: he was trying to find seclusion (cf. Barrett 2008: 88; Verma 1986: 40); he defended the Krīṃkuṇḍ against seizure by the locals (Jha and Shanker 2005: 18); he had drastic ways to express his radical non-

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90 For the succession at the Kīnārāmsthal, cf. Barrett 2008: 85; Caturvedī 1972: 695; Miśra

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93 94 95 96

2001: 77f.; Miśra 2004: 53; Śāstrī 1959: 139f.; for the lineages at the centres in Rāmgaṛh, Deval (Ghazipur) and Hariharpur, see Miśra 2001: 79–81; Miśra 2004: 66–73. Caturvedī (1972: 695), based on Śāstrī (1959: 140), mentions the caste origin of some of the abbots and a few sources relate some short anecdotes (see Jha and Shanker 2005: 15–18; Miśra 2004: 59–64, 66–75; Siṃha Aṣṭhānā 1977: 105–109). An example is the sixth (or seventh?) abbot at Kīnārāmsthal, Jayanārāyaṇ Rām (d. 1923), who was very active in popularizing his tradition (Barrett 2008: 84; Jha and Shanker 2005: 16; Miśra 2001: 78; Miśra 2004: 59f.; Siṃha Aṣṭhānā 1977: 106, 115). He was the initiator of the (probably first) publications of Kīnārām’s poems and songs—a work that was continued by his disciple Gulābcand Ānand (lived 1880–1949), a scribe (kāyastha) by caste origin (Caturvedī 1972: 695), who took care of a “hut” (kuṭī) of the tradition at Cetgañj, Benares (cf. Miśra 2004: 53, 73f., 80f., 84). As Bijārām, the first disciple of Kīnārām and said composer of the Aughaṛ Rām Kīnā kathā, Jayanārāyaṇ Rām was a kalvār (i. e. belonged to a caste that is traditionally associated with the distillation of liquor) and a musician. Sinha and Saraswati (1978: 144) report that he was one of the great sitar players of Benares who had 18 rooms full of instruments and taught music to many courtesans. The same is said about the past of the aghora tradition in general (Ram 1997: VII). The most detailed source available is Siṃha Āṣṭhānā 1977. See also Barrett 2008: 85–88. The Kīnārāmī ascetics instead often use clay utensils (Ram 2007: 45; Śāstrī 1959: 118). See e.g. the statement of Harihar Bābā quoted in Barrett 2008: 88. Verma (1986: 40) stresses that he always appeared normal to the persons he wanted to see.

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materialism (Barrett 2008: 87); and so on. This attitude of excusing his conduct does not necessarily mean that the Kīnārāmīs see the stereotypical behaviour of other Aghorīs in the same positive light.

The Kīnārāmīs and the Denial of Ritual It should have become clear by now that in the debate on the Aghorīs different positions can be distinguished. Outsiders who oppose them attack them for carrying out (or pretending to) certain rituals, while Tāntrikās who oppose them attack them for carrying these rituals out wrongly or without the proper understanding. Several of these arguments of denial reappear when the Kīnārāmīs talk about the practices of others and deal with the bad reputation that is ascribed to the Aghorīs and to the Tāntrikas. Before entering the discussion about the forms of denial that surround the Aghorī Saint Kīnarām and his tradition, a few more words about the Kīnārāmīs’ rituals must be said. As with other religious institutions in South Asia, the centres of the Kīnārāmīs, too, have their daily ritual routine.97 Festivals98 offer occasions for the congregational singing of Kīnārām’s songs and other Nirguṇī bhajans.99 These practices form important fields of religious activities of the followers of the tradition.100 Controversy usually turns less on such institutional forms of practice101 and more on the non-public, personal rituals of the initiated adepts. Here, again, a distinction has to be made. Modern Kīnārāmī publications prescribe daily private practices that follow more or less established and generally accepted patterns.102 Outsiders usually attack other rituals, namely those stereotypically related to the Aghorī, i.e. certain secret practices commonly classified as belonging to the “left-hand” path of the Tantric tradition. But, as in the case of the Kāpālikas, reliable information about these rituals is difficult to obtain. Instead, one encounters a field of rumour, hearsay and mistaken identity. Being well aware of scholars’ and journalists’ special interest in these exotic practices, the persons most authorized to speak about the matter—the modern preceptors of the Kīnārāmīs—usually remain reticent on this issue (cf. Gupta 1993: 73, 197; Barrett 2008: 150). As in other

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97 E.g. the worship of the samādhis (Miśra 2001: 164f.; Miśra 2004: 131f.; Śāstrī 1959: 119f.). 98 An overview is given in Jha and Shanker 2005: 24f.; Miśra 2001: 230–235. 99 Gupta 1993: 1, 3. For the creation of new songs, e.g. on Bhagvān Rām, see ibid.: 210f., 240. 100 Cf. what Horstmann (forthc.) writes about the religious practice of the Sant traditions. 101 Although there have been, too, instances of protest, e.g. the annual dancing of courtesans at

the Kīnārāmsthal on the festival of Lolārk Chaṭh (Gupta 1993: 3; Pathak and Hume 1993: 238; Śāstrī 1959: 119), was banned by Rajeśvar Rām after a students’ revolt in 1958 (Miśra 2004: 60; Sinha and Saraswati 1978: 144f.). 102 See e.g. Ram 2007: 182–206.

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traditions, secrecy is part of the doctrine103 and there are other forms of denial that need to be considered when analysing the Kīnārāmīs’ stance towards ritual. As shown, the Kīnārāmīs understand aghora as a perfected state of consciousness, not as defined by a certain appearance or practice. Thus, the (ritual) eating of human flesh, discussed by Parry at length as “the hallmark of an ideal Aghori” (1985: 59),104 is claimed to be of no great importance.105 Viśvanāth Prasād Siṃha Aṣṭhāṇā, a senior Kīnārāmī lay activist, who has published several booklets on the tradition, repeatedly refers to the dogs at the cremation ground in this context: they eat human flesh, even on a daily basis, but they gain nothing because they lack the proper consciousness (Siṃha Aṣṭhāṇā 1977: 123; Singh Asthana n.d.: 26). The same author (ibid.: 25) also stresses that the Aghorī does not need to employ a human skull (cf. Barrett 2008: 91, 154; Miśra 2001: 226f.) nor does he have to wear a cloth shroud, as the popular imagination would like him to. The lay follower Siṃha Aṣṭhāṇā even touches upon the issue of the secret rituals of the initiated, which are at the core of the discussion about the Aghorīs. As a reaction to the society’s “misconceived notion about the use of wine, meat, corpses, [...] etc” (Singh Asthana n.d.: 15) by the Aughaṛs, he addresses the topic of śavasādhanā, a practice of doing japa (i.e. repeating a mantra) while sitting on a corpse (śava).106 He explains that the adept transfers his life force (prāṇa) into the dead body and thus experiences and masters his own death (ibid.: 25f.; Siṃha Aṣṭhānā 1977: 123, cf. also Miśra 2001: 160). Based on information from the official preceptors of the Kīnārāmīs, Barrett offers a slightly different, but related explanation: the cremation ground practices (that may include śavasādhanā) are meant to confront and conquer one’s own aversions and fears (2008: 92f., 140, 157–159). Remarkably, both kinds of explanation imply that śavasādhanā is not meant to control ghosts or to gain certain siddhis, as popular ideas of this practice suggest (cf. e.g. Parry 1985: 57). In an essay on “the true Avadhūta” (saccā avadhūta) by the Tantric author Śrīvāstava, an Aughaṛ explains that a self-styled Aghorī, full of anger and uttering curses, might suffer this feeling because he failed in his difficult ritual practice (n.d.: 47). Although this “false” Aghorī is seen as having no final success, he is feared for harmful powers he might have gained in past rituals. The Kīnārāmīs, too,

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103 E.g. Ram (2007: 200, 204) states that mantras and other ritual details should not be revealed

(cf. also Sahay 1996: 60). I therefore doubt that the reluctance of the Bābās to speak about certain practices can be—as Barrett (2008: 150) suggests—sufficiently explained only by referring to bad experiences with earlier researchers. 104 Others, too, have determined (ritual) necrophagy as the distinctive characteristic of the Aghorīs, see e.g. Balfour 1897: 342; Briggs 1938: 224; Crooke 1908: 212. 105 E.g. Saroj Kumār Miśra (2001: 226) mentions some reported instances of this practice, but hastens to add that it is not in usage among the modern followers. 106 For further details, see e.g. Gupta 1993: 77f.; Parry 1985: 73f. n. 12; Śāstrī 1959: 231–238.

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differentiate between “true” and “false or fake” Aghorīs (cf. Miśra 2001: 226; Siṃha Aṣṭhāṇā 1977: 138), but they take a different position, arguing that what the fake Aghorīs are pretending to do as sādhanā (in public or in secret) is only part of a scam. They deny that the “fake” practice is ritual at all. Instead, such pretenders are blamed for spreading fear by their appearance and for misusing aghora as a means to extol people or as an excuse to enjoy drinking, smoking (cf. e.g. Miśra 2001: 226). Often the Kīnārāmī sources concur with the colonial accounts of the Aghorīs and the classical sources on the Kāpālikas in declaring the skull-bearers to be impostors without any higher aspiration. Thus, for some authors the same fierce behaviour, which they excuse in the above-quoted case of Buṛhaū Bābā or even see as sign of perfection, can prove a bad and uncontrolled (and therefore not aghoralike) character when related to others. Śrīvāstava depicts the aghora sādhanā in the traditional Tantric way, as being a complicated and dangerous practice for heroic specialists only. In contrast, Kīnārāmīs praise the aghora way as “extremely simple, easy, natural and beautiful” (Singh Asthana n.d.: 26). It is said to be a “unique method of love and devotion” (ibid.: 15). Specific rituals (such as śavasādhanā) are possible, rather than necessary, “stations” on the way towards the state of aghora. Siṃha Aṣṭhānā admits that there are enticements and that “people with weak will-power succumb to them” (ibid.: 15), but trusting in the guru and the help of the mantra one should proceed without detachment to the final goal. Such a focus on devotion and the destination downplays the role of ritual. While the former point of view evokes the Tantric concept of a hierarchy of rituals that has to be passed through in order to reach the Ultimate, in the latter perspective ritual merely plays a role in testing and strengthening devotion and is ultimately left behind (see below). Most of the Tāntrikas, Aghorīs, Kīnārāmīs, and others involved in the controversy about the cremation ground practices would agree with the popular metaphor of spiritual progress as a journey. Differences occur when it comes to the role and function of ritual or the exclusiveness of the final state. The debate, in which denial is frequently at play, is about who has reached how far, or who has got stuck at certain stations or has lost the proper way. In the Kīnārāmīs’ argumentation, the metaphor becomes a tool with a twofold function. Firstly, by stressing that the “eternal truth” (Singh Asthana n.d.: 11) of aghora can be reached by different ways, independent of “any religion, sect, tradition, cult etc”. (ibid.: 10),107 the claim of universal superiority is formulated. Hierarchy is created by transcending differences. While the early Śaiva groups mentioned in the first part of the paper made their claim of truth by adding levels to an older system of thoughts and rituals, the Kīnārāmīs explicitly transcend all possible systems and rituals. Secondly, the metaphor allows for drawing borders,

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107 See also Ram 1997: 169; Verma 1986: 39.

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not just to the “false” Aghorī108 but to other traditions, too. The author just quoted admits that the Tāntrikas might reach the aghora state by their methods, “but usually followers of the tantrik path stray from their aim due to getting struck in the lure of supernatural powers” (ibid.: 14). As he stresses elsewhere (Siṃha Aṣṭhānā 1977: 137), the Aughaṛs are neither Tāntrikas nor do they have knowledge of magic (abhicāra).109 That the modern Kīnārāmīs especially attack other Aghorīs and Tāntrikas may have as one reason that they are usually counted as such by outsiders. Thus, they need to deny ascribed identities to clear the ground for their own presentations of what they are. Interestingly, this is done by denial of ritual. Indeed, statements by the Kīnārāmīs about the history of the aghora tradition contain very few explicit references to a Tantric background. Instead, aghora is described as the original and natural state of mankind, being older that any religion or cult.110 Authentication is not gained—as among the early Śaiva groups—by incorporating genealogies and lineages of others. Kīnārāmī authors confine themselves to a few highlights. The examples given for the time before Kīnārām are certain well-known Vedic seers, epic heroes or even the Buddha, but only rarely famous Tāntrikas.111 Furthermore, with a few exceptions, the Kīnārāmīs do not explicitly relate their practice to Tantric ritual texts. 112 Their own textual tradition (the hagiographies and songs) points, rather, to the importance of another source that is also characterized by forms of denial of ritual, namely the teachings of the Nirguṇī Sants. As shown in the last section, legends depict Kīnārām not only as a disturber of religious events and the rituals of others,113 but they also provide less information

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108 Cf. Siṃha Aṣṭhānā 1977: 122, 137. 109 Cf. also the statement of Bhagvān Rām quoted in Miśra 2004: 52. 110 This state is considered to be of universal character and it is argued that all human babies are

natural-born Aghorīs before they progressively learn to discriminate (cf. Barrett 2008: 161).

111 As Aghorīs of former ages, e.g. Viśvāmitra, Śukadeva or Paraśurāma, are listed (cf. Miśra

2001: 47f.; Siṃha Aṣṭhānā 1977: 122; Singh Asthana 17, 22; Ram 2007: 36). A Tantric figure acknowledged as a forerunner is Bhairavācharya (Ram 2007: 38f; Siṃha Aṣṭhānā 1977: 122; Singh Asthana n.d.: 5, 17), a Kāpālika-like Śaiva ascetic whose portrayal in Bāṇa’s Harṣacarita is surprisingly sympathetic (cf. Lorenzen 1991: 20–22). Śāstrī (1959: 29) and Ram (2007: 39) point to the importance of the Vedic seer Vasiṣṭha for the aghora tradition and refer to a story (told in the 17th paṭala of the Rudrayāmala) which relates how Vasiṣṭha, experienced in the “way of the Veda” (vedamārga), became disappointed by his achievements and went to “China” (cīna) to learn the “way of perfection” (siddhimārga) from the Buddha. 112 One of the exceptions is a collection of aghora-related passages gathered from manuscripts of Tantric texts that was, according to the editors, initiated by Bhagvān Rām (Siṃha and Siṃha 1986: VII). 113 See also the example below.

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on his own ritual activities than one might expect for a person known as Aghorī.114 The “official” kathā contains some legends pointing to typical cremation ground practices of Kīnārām, but their number is small, just enough to hint to and advertize the existence of a powerful ritual secret.115 Most of the stories have a different direction of impact. They promote a different ‘secret’. Kīnārām works miracles by simply beating a person or an object with his stick or just giving an oral command, not—as many Aghorīs in the stories of Śrīvāstava (n.d.)—by performing the complicated secret rituals the typical Aghorī is feared or respected for. In congruence with the views of Siṃha Aṣṭhānā quoted above, the legend material promotes simple devotion (bhakti), not ritual, as the key tool of practice (of the saint as well as of the people approaching him). The hagiographic legends attest to a “domestication” of the saint. They demonstrate that Kīnārām lived in a state of perfection and willingly used his powers to help devoted others. His way of achieving this state and its powers is of minor importance. Depicting him as “perfected by birth” even implies that there was no such way.116 Certainly, the motives and messages of the legends—some retold in various versions—are richer than shown here and can be interpreted differently. For example, the popular story of Kīnārām appearing in his terrific Rudra form to disturb the ritual feast (bhaṇḍārā) of a Vaiṣṇava saint—according to the kathā a Loṭādās—by turning the dishes served to the gathered saints and Brahmins into jumping fishes and the drinking water into alcohol might be seen as a demonstration of the saint’s powers and his spiritual superiority over opponents,117

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114 Respective references are very general or only vague indications that might hint at rituals. In

his childhood, Kīnārām was singing songs in praise of god, in Girnar he ate a piece of meat, in Hiṅglāj he practiced some austerities, to curse the fort of Cet Siṃha he threw some ritual rice, etc. 115 In a story entitled the “practise of the vulva posture” (bhagāsāna-sādhanā) it is related how Kīnārām and a yoginī living in a Kālī cave in Girnar jointly performed a ritual involving a corpse until the godhead of the cremation ground (śmaśāna devatā) appeared, acknowledged their success and bestowed his blessings (Siṃha 1999: 81–83; Śukla 1988: 61–63). In another story, Kīnārām performed śavasādhanā to evoke the popular Tantric Goddess Rājyalakṣmī (Tripurasundarī) who finally explained to him that such hard forms of worship (kaṭhor upāsana) are not necessary and that he always will obtain whatever he wishes for. As the story goes, Kīnārām then stopped his ritual and returned to the Kṛīṃkuṇḍ by using his will power. The narration ends by stating that the circle of disciples still trusts in this practice (Siṃha 1999: 88f.; Śukla 1988: 65f.). Miśra (2004: 129–131) quotes these two stories at length and comments that the preceptors do allow such practices, but only after a sufficient time of service to the guru (ibid.: 129). 116 In this light, Kīnārām’s cremation ground practices as recounted in some legends (see above) appear less the cause of his supernatural powers, but rather a testing and proving. 117 After Loṭādās realized the reason for the magical transformation, he humbly approached Kīnārām and ask him to bless the food, Kīnārām spoke the syllable “huṃ“ and everything turned back to normal. After he had shown them another miracle (see next fn.), Loṭādās and

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as an update of mythological motifs,118 (depending on the version) as promotion of the aghora doctrine,119 or as perpetuation of common stereotypes,120 etc. For the present purpose, it might be summarized that the “official” versions of the legends, at least the majority, downplay the role of ritual and emphasize bhakti. This attitude can be met with in the poems ascribed to Kīnārām, too. As with the verses of Gorakhnāth and Kabīr (cf. Lorenzen 2011), the songs transmitted in the Kīnārām tradition repeatedly reject popular Hindu and Muslim ritual practices. Being more or less confined to generalities, they deny the claims of established religious authorities and attack the blind belief in the power of rituals. In the “Garland of songs” (Gītāvalī) ascribed to Kīnārām, the so-called scholar (paṇḍita) is condemned e.g. for telling others about ritual bathing, sacrifice and observance while having deceit in his heart, for reading Purāṇa, the Koran or the teachings of the Veda while knowing no mercy for the creature, etc. (see Zotter 2004: 91f.). Or it is said that the ones sunken in loving devotion (prema bhakti) realize that the many forms of exercise, prayer, asceticism, vow, gift, sacrifice and service are false (ibid.: 93). Further examples could be added to demonstrate that the songs share Kabīr’s sometimes harsh rhetoric against the rituals of others.121 One is even tempted to speak—as Lorenzen of Kabīr—of a “vision of religion devoid of hypocrisy and ritual” (2011: 35), but, as in the legend material, there are important nuances that should not be overlooked (cf. fn. 2). Most of the verses of the Gītāvalī and the other song collections are dedicated to the state of mind that is aimed at by the seeking “Sant”.122 The songs describe its ecstatic experience (beyond ritual), but they also speak about how to reach it. In fact, they contain much more spiritual instruction than the legends do, but, again, the achievement of the final goal is not ascribed to success in performing complicated rituals. Instead, using similes of everyday work,123 the songs primarily ad-

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the other sādhus respected Kīnārām as their guru (Siṃha 1999: 41f.; Śukla 1988: 31f.; cf. also Gupta 1993: 136). 118 As the story goes on, Loṭādās wanted to feed Kīnārām but whatever he placed in the Saint’s begging bowl—here explicitly a human skull (nara kāpala)—disappeared immediately (Siṃha 1999: 42; Śukla 1988: 32). These details clearly resemble the mythological theme of Viṣṇu trying to fill the skull bowl of Bhairava with his blood (for references see Lorenzen 1991: 78). 119 Siṃha (1999: 41) entitles the story the “awakening of indistinction” (abheda udabodha (sic!)), a central concept of the aghora teachings. 120 According to a short version of the story given by Vidyarthi (1979: 304), Kīnārām was not allowed to enter the Saints’ bhaṇḍārā because he was known as a “man-eater aughar” (ibid.). 121 For his and other Sants’ diatribes, especially against Śāktas, see Pauwels 2010. 122 This state is here not called aghora, but rather paraphrased as being “sunken in heaven” (gagana magana), “staying beyond the mind” (unamunī/unmanī rehani), etc. 123 One of the songs of the Gītāvalī speaks about tilling the field of God’s name (see Zotter 2004: 80), others about preparing the hookah (ibid.: 76f., 86f.), etc.

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vertize the simple practice of repeating the name of God (rāmanāma) and of trusting in the grace of the preceptor (sataguru), both common to other (Aghorī and non-Aghorī) Sants.124 As seen, most outsider sources on the Aghorīs (including the Kīnārāmīs) are marked by an overstatement of ritual. The Aghorī is rejected because he is performing the terrific rituals he is characterized by. Other authors, such as Srīvāstava (n.d.) or Svoboda (1986), who see the Aghorīs in a more positive light, share the focus on ritual, but do not combine it necessarily with denying its spiritual function. They assume a Tantric background to the Aghorī’s practice, acknowledge that at least the “true” Aghori knows what he is doing and that he carries out his extreme rituals for a higher purpose. Surely there are Aghorīs who would argue as do the authors of this group. On the contrary, the Kīnārāmīs— attacking other Aghorīs and the left-hand Tāntrikas by using arguments of the first group—often understate their own rituals. The reasons behind this negation of ritual are complex. It is not merely a reaction of the Kīnārāmīs to the stereotypical notions of others about what they are, nor can it be solely explained as an effect of the denial by secrecy (i.e. the exclusion of others, particularly from the most personal parts of the spiritual practice). It is also an expression of an anti-ritualistic attitude that is deeply rooted in the tradition and can turn against the practices of others, as well as against ritual in general. Parry has stressed the importance of ambivalence for the typical cremation ground Aghorī. As shown, the Kīnārāmīs differ, and distance themselves from this type of practitioner, but if it comes to ritual they, too, hold an ambivalent position. On the one hand, even “official” sources, concerned about the reputation of the tradition in public, tell at least a few pertinent stories and insinuate a ritual secret that is known to be powerful.125 The statements that others (Aghorīs or Tāntrikas) carry out certain rituals wrongly or for the wrong purpose can point in the same direction, as they may imply that one has oneself (or one’s own tradition’s preceptor) the proper knowledge of such rituals. 126 On the other hand, the Kīnārāmīs define themselves by taking a critical stance on ritual. This is not only found in the legends and songs of Kīnārām, but in statements of modern preceptors and followers as well. Ritual is attacked for being a mere formality127 and as a

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124 Other “Aghorīs” that are known to be Sants can be found in the Sarbhaṅga tradition of Bihar,

see Śāstrī 1959 (the classical source on this tradition); Caturvedī 1972: 696–709; Gupta 1993: 158–162; Miśra 2001: 81–93. 125 Such stories are available for Bhagvān Rām, too, see e.g. Ram 1997: 60–62. 126 The issue is more complicated than such statements suggest. There is not one correct form of these rituals (cf. e.g. the descriptions of śavasādhanā in Śāstrī 1959: 231–242). Furthermore it should be kept in mind that the controversy is about secret practices, and no one actually knows what the other is really doing. 127 Cf. e.g. Bhagvān Rām’s statement on Christian church service quoted in Ram 2001: 240.

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burden for the people.128 Avadhūt Siṃha Śāvak Rām, a senior disciple of Bhagvān Rām, answers to the question “Do aughars give importance to rituals?” (Verma 1986: 48), “No, they don’t” (ibid.). He further explains the tradition’s engagement with rituals as a kind of necessary compromise. Society emphasizes ritual and Aughaṛs emphasize society: “Rituals were used as means to gradually attract people’s attention and to increase their faith in the system. However they are necessary only for those who are mentally disturbed and restless. Others, who are mentally at peace and calm in every situation, do not need these rituals” (ibid.). As the legends and poems transmitted by the Kīnārāmīs attest to, the criticism of ritual is not the result of modern reformations. It rather seems an enduring and crucial element of the tradition’s teachings that goes back to its founder. This point can be illustrated with one of the most Aghorī-like legends in the “official” kathā. One day, Kīnārām visited the cremation ground at Hariścandraghāṭ, Benares, and witnessed how an Aughaṛ named Kālurām was feeding chickpeas to the heads of corpses. Kīnārām recognized that this ascetic was no other than Lord Dattātreya, who had appeared in disguise to test him again. By his magical powers, Kīnārām made the heads stop eating and made three fishes jump out of the Ganga into a funeral pyre to be baked, as Kālurām was hungry. Then Kālurām asked Kīnārām whether he could see the dead body in the water. Replying that the body is not dead, Kīnārām revived the corpse by speaking some words and made him join the fish meal (Siṃha 1999: 39f.; Śukla 1988: 27f.).129 Though the story mentions several typical Aghorī features (the cremation ground, corpses, fish as food, magical powers, etc.), it contains no explicit references to ritual actions performed by Kīnārām. The feeding of corpses by Kālurām hints at typical Aghorī rituals, but, tellingly, this action was stopped by Kīnārām. According to the version in the kathā, Kīnārām revived the dead body—a typical Aghorī feature—by simply sprinkling some water and speaking the words “take the name of Rām, in this name of Rām the whole play of nature is (contained)”.130 This phrase is not a (Tantric or whatever) mantra, but rather a typical Sant saying. Again, the saint is portrayed as a perfected being, a siddha, with direct and spontaneous access to the powers that others seek to gain and manipulate by rituals. The story is not just denying that the Aghorī Kīnārām was the ritualist others think him to be. The message is rather: a true saint such as Kīnārām does not need any

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128 As part of the reformative agenda of Bhagvān Rām, the tradition promotes and offers

simplified, cheap marriage and death rituals for their lay clients. The usual argument is that the traditional forms of life cycle rituals are ruinous, especially for financially weak people (see e.g. Miśra 2001: 282f.; Ram 1997: 64; Ram 2007: 31; Sahay 1996: 26f.). 129 For variants of this story, see Anonymous n.d.: [8]; Gupta 1993: 130f.; Ram 2007: 48; Śāstrī 1953: 138f. 130 le rāmanāma jisa rāmanāma mẽ hai sārī kudarata kā khelā (Siṃha 1999: 40; Śukla 1988: 28).

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ritual. 131 In contrast to the strategy preferred by most of their opponents, the Kīnārāmīs here, as elsewhere, refrain from making reference to ritual in order to support their claim of superiority. This special form of “denial of ritual” seems to be important for the Kīnārāmīs, who cultivate and aim at non-discrimination. It should thus be taken into consideration, too, when distinguishing between the different views on this tradition.

Epilogue The interrelations between the different agents and ideas that make and surround a tradition are complex. Especially when dealing with transgressive religious ideas, “denial of ritual” can work as a useful lens to highlight borders and sticking points in such negotiation processes. In the case of the cremation ground practices discussed in this paper, manifold layers of denial have to be penetrated to see what is behind the public controversies. This paper has tried to pick up on some of the positions and analyse their usage of denial. Transgressive religious practices that violate the rules and norms of ordered social life almost inevitably provoke rejection. This can be intended by the transgressors for different purposes—to trigger a process of merit transfer, as in case of the ancient Pāśupatas, or, as in other cases, to cast off social bonds.132 The persons provoked by the transgression may also react with different forms of denial related to ritual. They may deny the opponent other access to their own rituals, or argue that he is a fraudulent imposter or incapable madman and what he is doing as ritual is no real ritual. The persons attacked may argue in a similar way, thus may counterpunch denial with denial. One could distinguish different types of transgressors. The Pāśupātas (concealing that their transgressive behaviour is in fact part of their spiritual practice) and the ascetic skull-bearers (overtly showing who they are) can be differentiated from those Tantric householder practitioners who perform their transgressive rituals only in secret. Albeit such differences, it seems to be a pervasive trait that

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131 This idea could also be demonstrated by taking Bhagvān Rām as example. There are reports

on how Rajeśvār Rām initiated him in 1951 by offering a meal of rice mixed with fish or, according to some, by performing a cakrapūjā (cf. Ram 1997: 15; Ram 2007: 17; Sahay 1996: 10), but nonetheless his followers stress that “[h]is practices were inborn and selfinitiating. He didn’t need any initiation whatsoever”. (Verma 1986: [I]). As the founder of the tradition, the reformer, too, is considered to be a divine figure and an incarnation of Śiva (see e.g. Ram 1997: 69; Ram 2007: 13) who is not in need of any authorization by ritual. 132 Cf. e.g. the story how Bhagvān Rām, equipped with a shroud-cloth, a corpse of dog and a bottle of liquor, visited his home village to “to free himself from the ties of human bonds” (Ram 2007: 21).

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claims of superiority are formulated by (at least partially) denying the efficacy of others’ rituals. The cremation ground practices under discussion provoke ambiguous sentiments. Some fear and reject them. Others—or the same persons in other situations—stand in awe and point to the powers that can be accomplished by mastering such rituals. The secretiveness around these practices (or at least around certain parts of it), too, can be ambiguous. Nondisclosure can be a means to hide or even deny one’s own practices or to exclude uninitiated outsiders (i.e. deny them access). At the same time, a ritual secret can be turned into a prestigious mystery by advertizing its presence. The controversy about the Aghorīs and the mysterious rituals they are accused of or respected for, illustrates how complex the interactions of opposing positions and the interplay of the different forms of denial can be. Different types of outsiders and insiders adjust their arguments according to the prevailing circumstances. The Kīnārāmīs, declared to be Aghorīs by outsiders, in most cases, deny the ascribed identity and use arguments of their opponents when repudiating false Aghorīs and Tāntrikas. Furthermore, they are not just attacking others’ rituals but, based on their own textual tradition, put forward a radical refusal of ritual in general. As with the other forms of denial of ritual, their opponents might argue the same way. To be sure, the idea that pure devotion ends ritual is not unique to the aghora tradition, nor to the Sants, but is a pervasive concept that has long entered the Tantric, even the orthodox Brahmanic world as well. The focus on “denial of ritual” discloses a repertoire of arguments shared by different positions in processes of mutual othering.

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Pauwels, Heidi. 2010. “Who Are the Enemies of the bhaktas? Testimony about ‘sāktas’ and ‘Others’ from Kabīr, the Rāmanandīs, Tulsidās, and Harirām Vyās”. In: Journal of the American Oriental Society 130.4: 509–539. Ram, Aughar Harihar. 1997. Oasis of Stillness. Life and Teachings of Aghoreshwar Bhagwan Ramji. A Modern Day Saint of India. Sonoma: Aghor Publications. Ram, Mahaprabhu Aghoreshwar Baba Bhagwan. 2007. The Book of Aghor Wisdom. Translated by Akinchan Ram. Varanasi: Indica. Rigopoulos, Antonio. 2000. Dattātreya. The Immortal Guru, Yogin, and Avatāra. A Study of the Transformative and Inclusive Character of a Multi-Faceted Hindu Deity. Delhi: Sri Satguru Publications (Sri Garib Das Oriental Series 253). Sahay, S. 1996. Worship Yourself. Life and Message of Aghoreshwar Bhagwan Ram. Delhi: Hope Features and Publications. Sanderson, Alexis. 1985. “Purity and Power among the Brahmans of Kashmir”. In: Steven Collins et al. (eds), The Category of the Person. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 190–216. — 1988. “Śaivism and the Tantric Tradition”. In: S. Sutherland et al. (eds), The World’s Religions. London: Routledge & Keagan Paul, pp. 660–704. — 2006. “The Lakulas. New Evidence of a System Intermediate between Pāñcārthika Pāśupatism and Āgamic Śaivism”. In: Indian Philosophical Annual 24: 143–217. Śarmā, Aruṇa Kumara. 1999. Vah rahasyamaya kāpālika maṭha. Satya ghaṭanāõ para ādhārita yoga tāntrika kathā prasaṅga. Vārāṇasī: Viśvavidyālaya Prakāśana. Śarmā, Gaurīśaṅkara. 1995. Aghorī tantra. Bombay: Khemarāja Śrīkṛṣṇadāsa Prakāśana. Śāstrī, Dharmendra Brahmacārī. 1959. Santamata kā sarabhaṅga-sampradāya. Paṭanā: Bihāra-Rāṣṭrabhāṣā-Pariṣad. Sharma, Aryendra and Hans J. Vermeer. 21987. Hindi-Deutsches Wörterbuch, 3 Vols. Heidelberg: Groos. Siṃha, Rāmadulāra, and Gaurīśaṅkara Siṃha (eds). 1986. Aghora Granthāvliḥ. Collected Works of Aghora Manuscripts. Varanasi: Bibliographical Society of India. Siṃha, Udhayabhāna. 1999. Aghorācārya Bābā Kīnārāma jī. Varanasi: Aghora Śodha evaṃ Sevā Saṃsthāna (also published as Aughaṛa Rāma Kīnā Līlā Prasaṅga). Siṃha Aṣṭhānā, Viśvanātha Prasāda. 1977. Aughaṛa pīra kī mastī. Varanasi: Aghora Śodha Saṃsthāna. Singh Asthana, Vishwa Nath Prasad. n.d. Aghor at a glance. Varanasi: Aghoracharya Baba Kinaram Aghor Shodh Avam Sewa Sansthan. Sinha, Surajit and Baidyanath Saraswati. 1978. Ascetics of Kashi. An Anthropological Exploration. Varanasi: N.K. Bose Memorial Foundation. Śrīvāstava, Rāmeśacandra. n.d. Aghora śakti. Āgarā: Bhagavatī Pokeṭa Buks. Śukla, ‘Kula-Bhuṣaṇa’ Ramādatta. 1997. Aghorī kā upadeśa. Prayag: Kalyāṇa Mandira Prakāśana. Śukla, Lakṣmaṇa (ed.). 31988. Aughaṛa Rāma Kīnā kathā. Varanasi: Śrī Sarveśvarī Samūha. Svoboda, Robert E. 1986. Aghora. At the Left Hand of God. Albuquerque: Brotherhood of Life.

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Törzsök, Judit. 2011. “Kāpālikas”. In: Knut A. Jacobsen et al. (eds), Brill’s Encyclopedia of Hinduism. Vol. 3. Leiden, Boston: Brill, pp. 355–361. Unbescheid, Günter. 1980. Kānphaṭā. Untersuchungen zu Kult, Mythologie und Geschichte śivaitischer Tantriker in Nepal. Wiesbaden: Steiner. Varmā, Rāmacandra (ed.). 1997. Saṃkṣipta Hindī Śabdasāgara. Varanasi: Nāgarīpracāriṇī Sabhā. Vidyarthi, Lalita Prasad, et al. 1979. The Sacred Complex of Kashi. A Microcosm of Indian Civilization. Delhi: Concept Publishing Company. Verma, K. Krishna (ed.). 1986. Aghor tradition and an Aughar in India. Freehold, NJ: n.p. White, David G. 1996. The Alchemical Body. Siddha Traditions in Medieval India. Chicago, London: University of Chicago Press. — 2003. Kiss of the Yoginī. ‘Tantric Sex’ in its South Asian Contexts. Chicago, London: University of Chicago Press. Zotter, Christof. 2004. “Die Domestizierung der Aghorīs. Kīnārām und Gītāvalī”. Unpubl. MA paper, University of Leipzig.

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Contested Devotion Wahhabi and Salafi Opposition to the Celebration of Prophet Muḥammad’s Birthday Contested Devotion

Udo Simon Transcription note: some words of Arabic origin which have become part of the English vocabulary are not transcribed in this article, e.g. Allah, Islam, imam, fatwa, Salafi, Wahhabi, Sunni.

The Prophet Muḥammad’s birthday (mawlid al-nabī), not exactly known to the day but in Sunni Islam placed at the same time as his death in the month of Rabīʿ alawwal, is celebrated as a feast in one way or the other in most parts of the Muslim world and wherever else Muslims live. Yet, this occasion which puts the Prophet at the center of religious life and devotion is fiercely debated at the same time. At a first glance critique of the festival is surprising for the Prophet plays such an eminent role as a point of reference for all Muslims. Voices critical of various aspects of the festival, however, are manifold and range from modernists, secularists and nationalists to religious authorities with the Wahhabi scholars of Saudi Arabia as the strictest opponents. What is the Wahhabis’ and Salafis’ complete denial of mawlid based on and what does their argument tell us about the ways they interpret ritual? In this article, I shall look first at the lines of argument presented by a number of religious scholars who have shaped the Wahhabi mainstream in the last few decades, such as Ibn Bāz, Ibn al-ʿUthaymīn, Ṣāliḥ al-Fawzān, and the authorities they refer to, with the 14th-century theologian Ibn Taymiyya at the top. In addition, the well known Salafi shaykh Muḥammad Ṣāliḥ al-Munajjid’s website is consulted. All these scholars’ influence is based not least on the wide dissemination of their views through print media, tv and the internet. In a second part, a more moderate criticsm of mawlid by authorities of a different orientation are given. In the third part, what appears to be a purely orthopractical issue, on closer examination, turns out to be a conflict between different conceptions of religiosity. While the Wahhabis and Salafis claim that their emphasis on the difference between their religious practice and “forbidden” devotional practices is based on arguments, one gets the impression that drawing borders comes before arguments rather than that demarcation is the result of arguments. Nevertheless, respect for a deeply religious person’s true devotion is shared by otherwise very different denominations. This makes a complete denial of allegedly deviant practices difficult and ambivalent.

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It is not clear when mawlid was celebrated as a public event for the first time. In Egypt, it was an established practice in the 12th century. The Fatimid dynasty seems to have initially celebrated mawlid as a court event without public participation.1 In the beginning of the 13th century, Muẓaffar al-Dīn Gökböri, a local ruler and brother-in-law of the famous Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn (Saladin), used to organise and finance mawlid al-nabī in Arbil each year for several days. This event is unanimously described by the sources as outstanding with respect to the efforts made and expenses incurred to put on the festival. In this century at the latest, at a time when the conceptual and devotional repertoire of Sufism, the mystical tradition of Islam, has gained a firm position in the spectrum of Islamic religiosity and Sufi brotherhoods have emerged as a factor in spiritual and social life, mawlid was established in all of the Islamic world, despite substantial reserve on the part of some scholars, in particular of the Mālikī and Ḥanbalī schools of law.2 Already in those days, celebrations of such a kind were attacked as a bidʿa, an innovation not covered by the practice of the Prophet and his companions. Ibn Taymiyya (d. 1328), a major authority for later Wahhabis and Salafis, turned against mawlid by demanding that honouring the Prophet must not go so far as to make him the addressee of a prayer, or see him as a mediator between men and God. Neither should one circumambulate his grave nor kiss it. The famous theologian alSuyūṭī (d. 1505) is known to have formulated a classical compromise most scholars could live with, holding that mawlid celebrations are indeed a bidʿa but a good one (bidʿa ḥasana).3 The notion of bidʿa to which I shall come back later, and the ways in which it is conceptualised is of central importance for the denial of mawlid. Today, as in the past, mawlid gives rise to recitations that form a special panegyric genre with legend-like narratives of Muḥammad’s birth, with banquets and the distribution of sweets. In some places, celebrations are accompanied by fairlike festivals, while practices such as special forms of rememberance of God (ḏikr) and chants may also give the festival a Sufi flavour.4

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2 3

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See Shinar (1977: 373) for features of the Fatimid mawlid ceremony, which seems to have been very similar to the other birthday ceremonies for members of the Prophet’s family and the reigning Caliph. For the historical development of the mawlid festival, see Kaptein 1993. Al-Suyūṭī (1985: 41) speaks of a bidʿa one will be rewarded for as long as practices are not exaggerated; for a translation of Suyūṭī’s legal opinion, see Kaptein 1993: 44f.; von Grunebaum 1988: 73–76; for debates within the Muslim scholary tradition about bidʿa in devotional practices, including mawlid, see see Fuchs et al., art. "Mawlid (a.), or Mawlūd"; Ukeles 2006. For mawlid festivals in general, with special reference to the Maghreb and the Mamluks in Egypt, see Schimmel 1995: 125–127, and Kaptein 2004; for Egypt and especially Cairo AbuZahra 1997: 205–230, Schielke 2006; in the sense of a deceased holy figure’s birthday Hammond 2007: 83; Taylor 1998: 65; Kriss 1960: 1.55–57; see also Katz 2008.

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Other Rituals and the Rituals of Others Criticism of the festival is most notably a Wahhabi and Salafi endeavour. Wahhabism originates from the Arabian Peninsula, where, in the 18th century, it gained religious and political importance. It is based on the teachings of Muḥammad Ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhāb (d. 1792), a scholar with a Ḥanbalī perspective on religious law. Influenced by his teacher at Medina, ʿAbd Allāh Ibn Ibrāhīm al-Najdī, he followed Ibn Taymiyya’s interpretation of Ḥanbalism. This orientation and the acquaintance with the practices of Shiite sects and mystic brotherhoods in Iraq, such as the cult of saints, seems to have driven him to act towards reform. His influence on local rulers on the Peninsula resulted in the destruction of a number of sacred tombs. An alliance with the House of Saud, confirmed by an oath of mutual loyalty to promote Islam, marks the beginning of the Wahhabi state with the Saudi monarchy as its legitimate protector. In the 1790s, the Sauds had gained control of Mecca and Medina, the religious centers. Ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhāb vigorously turned against “forbidden” religious practices, Shiism and Sufism, all of which, in his view, relativise the principle of tawḥīd, i.e. strict monotheism, and involve the danger of idolatry. Due to Wahhabi influence, the Peninsula’s scholars lost flexibility in theological reasoning. Communication and engagement with ideas of other schools of thought tended increasingly to be avoided. Strict focus on the Quran and the example of the prophet as well as the emulation of the pious ancestors (al-salaf al-ṣāliḥ) is at the center of Salafism. While in the second half of the 19th century Salafi reformers of Islam saw this orientation mainly as a means to meet the challenges of modenity, in the 20th century a good part of Salafism passed through periods of Wahhabisation and radicalisation. The spectrum of Salafi religious orientation ranges from purists who focus on personal piety, to Salafis who act for their ideology by participating in social and political life, and Jihadis who feel an obligation to fight for Islam.5 The condemnation of Shiism as a heresy and opposition to a number of practices of the mystical Sufi tradition unite Wahhabis and most contemporary Salafis. Salafis refer to a considerable degree to the same authorities as Wahhabis do, e.g. Ibn Taymiyya (d. 1328), Ibn Qayyim (d. 1350), Muḥammad Ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhāb (d. 1791), Ibn Bāz (d. 1999), and Ibn al-ʿUthaymīn (d. 2001), with Ibn Bāz being compromised in the eyes of Jihadi Salafis. A main difference between Wahhabis and Salafis is that Wahhabi scholars have to balance their relationship to the Saudi state which more often than not ends up in giving political considerations priority over the theological.

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For contemporary Salafism see the articles collected in Meijer 2009; Wiktorowicz 2006. The 19th century reformists are often referred to as Salafiyya.

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A legal opinion (fatwā) of the Permanent Committee6 of Saudi Arabia’s experts of religious law, founded in 1971, rejects mawlid festivities in a concise and exemplary way: “Celebrating the birth of the Messenger (peace be upon him) is an innovation that was not observed by him (peace be upon him), any of the Rightly-guided Caliphs, or his Companions (may Allah be pleased with them)”.7 In this vein, a number of scholars and organisations disseminate fatwas on the same issue, more often than not echoing legal opinions issued in the 1970s by ʿAbd alʿAzīz Ibn Bāz (d. 1999), Grand Mufti of the Saudi state from 1992 to 1999 and at times minister, whose influence on Wahhabis and Salafis is as remarkable as was his loyalty to the royal family and mission effort.8 As an example of Saudi presence and mission efforts on the internet, I only mention the Maktab taʿāwunī li-l-daʿwa wa-l-irshād wa-tawʿiyat al-jāliyāt, founded in 1994 on the recommendation of Ibn Bāz. This organisation runs the multi-lingual website islamhouse.com and, by its own account, works on a donation basis supervised by the Ministery of Islamic Affairs, Endowment, Mission (daʿwa) and Guidance. At the interface between Wahhabism and a more independent Salafism are the fatwas disseminated by Muḥammad Ṣāliḥ al-Munajjid. This scholar based in Saudi Arabia is well known from his media presence (Iqraʾ-TV) and his notoriously crititical attitude to the West. He controls the website islam-qa.com/ar, which is said to be among the most visited Salafi sites globally and provides a fatwa

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For the religious establishment in Saudi Arabia and its organisational structure, see Mouline 2011: 197, 205, 208; Al-Atawneh 2010: 24–30. Together with the Grand Mufti, the Council of Senior Scholars (hayʾat kibār al-ʿulamāʾ), and the General Presidency of Scholary Research and Issuing Fatwas, this Committee (al-lajna al-dāʾima li-l-buḥūth al-ʿilmiyya wal-iftāʾ) represents the official authority for issuing legal opinions in Saudi Arabia, especially in ritual matters. See Fatāwā al-Lajna al-Dāʾima, No. 4244, http://www.alifta.com/Search/ResultDetails.aspx ?languagename=ar&lang=ar&view=result&fatwaNum=true&FatwaNumID=4244&ID=770& searchScope=3&SearchScopeLevels1=&SearchScopeLevels2=&highLight=1&SearchType= EXACT&SearchMoesar=false&bookID=&LeftVal=0&RightVal=0&simple=&SearchCriteri a=AnyWord&PagePath=&siteSection=1&searchkeyword=#firstKeyWordFound. See also Ibn Bāz 1989: 556. For English translations of this and more fatwas of the Committee dealing with the topic search mawlid on http://www.alifta.com/Default.aspx?languagename=en (accessed 10/08/2015). Ibn Bāz’ legal opinions are the most often quoted by the Permanent Committee and beyond. Such fatwas echo in many websites and online forums. For mawlid as innovation, see also http://www.islam-qa.com/en/ref/ islamqa/7505 and fatwas No. 13810, 70317, and 13808 (accessed 10/08/2015). See also more than 200 entries for mawlid on http://www.islamweb.net/emainpage/index.php?page=result&q=mawlid (accessed 10/08/ 2015). For Ibn Bāz’s fatwas in English, search mawlid on http://www.alifta.com/Search/Advanced Search.aspx?languagename=en. See also Schulze 1990: 355, 392.

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database in 12 languages.9 Al-Munajjid studied with the influential Ibn Bāz. Moreover, he can count another spearhead of Wahhabism and Salafism, Muḥammad Ibn al-ʿUṯaymīn (d. 2001), a standard-bearer of Islamic identity against imitating the West, among his teachers.10 Al-Munajjid’s fatwas argue, as fatwas of this kind usually do, that according to the Qurʾān and Sunna Muslims have only two feasts: the Feast of Immolation and the Feast of Breaking the Ramadan Fast. All other festivals and the festivals of others, regardless for whom and on what occasion, are seen as reprehensible innovations which go beyond the norms given by God to mankind. Mawlid is deemed an innovation of the Fatimid dynasty. Promoting it or acting in support of it, economically or by preparing foot etc., is seen as a sinful transgression and act of disobedience to God. According to those fatwas, Muḥammad, who could not have known of ex-post justifications for mawlid by later scholars had spent feast days with fasting, not with gatherings, eating and drinking, the recitation of poems, and music, like those celebrating his birthday use to do. In a contemporary fatwa following the 14th century authority Ibn Taymiyya’s views, the Prophet’s saying „Every people has its festival” (ʿīd) is cited to underline the importance of feasts for group identity.11 This reflects Ibn Taymiyya’s (d. 1328) analytical approach in a book intended to prevent Muslims from imitating the religious practices of non-Muslims. Firstly, Ibn Taymiyya lists arguments from the Qurʾān, the Sunna of the Prophet, the consensus of the scholars and of the tradition to show that imitating non-Muslims is in general forbidden, and being at variance with them in their lifestyle is a matter of religious law, for it is either recommended or even compulsory (ījābī). With all that, it does not matter whether the imitation of the non-Muslims was intended or not.12 Then he elaborates a theoretical framework for the study of festivals. He reduces the various aspects of a festival (ʿīd) to the parameters of time, location, and action. While any of these elements can by itself constitute a festival, festivals of location in most cases include idol-worshipping and, therefore, are particulary

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9 The tension between Salfism and Wahhabism became visible when the website was blocked

in Saudi Arabia on the grounds of a royal edict issued in 2010 that only the kingdom’s official senior scholars have the right to issue fatwas. For al-Munajjid, see also his website http://almunajjid.com (accessed 15/09/2015). In this article, I frequently refer to al-Munajjid's fatwas because they reflect a wide range of Wahhabi and Salafi sources. 10 For Ibn al-ʿUṯaymīn as a representative of contmporary Wahhabi mainstream and his media presence, see Gharaibeh 2012: 71f. For Saudi religious and media expansion in general, see A-Rasheed 2008. 11 http://www.islam-qa.com/en/ref/islamqa/5219; Ibn Taymiyya 1992: 166. 12 Ibn Taymiyya 1992: 164; even if there is more or less accordance in a practice a difference has to be established, for example, Muslims should pray wearing sandals at variance with the Jews, see 165.

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problematic. In his view, Christian saint veneration is a warning example and one should resist the beginning (Ibn Taymiyya 1992: 192). Ibn Taymiyya elaborates that festivals are among the most specific features that make the difference between one religious law and another (sharāʾiʿ) and among their most visible symbols (shiʿāʾir) (Ibn Taymiyya 1992: 191). The term ʿīd denotes a periodical or calendrical congregation where people perform acts of worship (ʿibādāt) and customs (ādāt). On this ground, festivals are always a combination of ʿibādāt and ādāt. Ibn Taymiyya does not oppose customs which accompany the festival as long as they themselves do not adopt the character of a ritual by repetition or calendrical fixation. For him, ādāt constitute a system in their own right with obligatory, permissible and unpermissible features (Ibn Taymiyya 1992: 166). There is no objection to the system of customs provided it is recognised as something different from the ʿibādāt. Obviously, one of the driving forces behind rejection is fear of imitation of Christian habits.13 Mawlids and similar occasions are seen in the perspective of an “imitation of the infidel” (tashabbuh bi-l-kuffār). The Prophet’s birthday must not be commodified in the way the Christians have commodified Christmas. The Prophet himself is said to have warned his following against exaggerating about him as the Christians had exaggerated about Jesus.14 For a religious community seeking to establish the boundaries between itself and others, ritual, as well as denial of ritual, seems to be instrumental in expressing its identity.15 This tendency might be enhanced when contact is perceived as a threat, not necessarily because of tensions, but rather because it is perceived as too absorbing. Here, ritual plays its part in keeping a distinction between groups that are actually or potentially of a similar type. The Saudi Permanent Committee and fatwas of others dealing with celebrating “innovated” festivals align mawlid with occasions such as Mother’s Day, Valentine’s Day, and national holidays.16 Celebrating the Day of the Unknown Soldier, for instance, is seen to resemble “the behavior of those who praise their dead, build tombs at gravesites and seek blessings from the deceased”. Accordingly, the

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13 C. H. Becker (1912) indeed took the celebration of Muḥammad’s birthday as an example of

Christian influence on Islam beyond its formative phase and as modelled on celebrations of Jesus’ birthday; see Becker 1912. For Ibn Taymiyya’s views on Christian festivals see also Troupeau 1979. Muslim participation in Christian festivals was a matter for legal reasoning already in Aḥmad Ibn Ḥanbal’s (d. 855) times, see Menon 1976: 2–3. 14 See http://www.islam-qa.com/en/ref/islamqa/249 (accessed 10/08/2015). 15 See also the examples in Hawting 2006: XXXII. In a Wahhabi/Salafi perspective, at this point the more general principle of al-walāʾ wa-l-barāʾ, which means loyalty to Muslims and dissociation from all what is deemed un-Islamic, comes into play. 16 See a collection of some scholar’s rulings on Mother’s Day on http://www.islamqa.com/en/ ref/books/93 (in English only) (accessed 10/08/2015). See also Al-Atawneh (2010: 94) for Martyr’s Day, Labor Day, etc.

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Committee has ruled out a number of customs related to the burial and the mourning of the dead (Al-Atawneh 2010: 98–99). Ibn Bāz had turned against commemoration ceremonies for the deceased and even opposed to the Saudi government in that matter (Schulze 1990: 318). In fact, even after Saudi king ʿAbd Allāh’s passing in 2015 flags were not let down to half mast. Moreover, in a Wahhabi/Salafi view, the question of mawlid is also linked to the question of whether birthday celebrations in general are allowed for Muslims. Given the fact that this practice is mainly associated with Christians and the West in general, it comes as no surprise that these celebrations are reckoned un-Islamic. In answering specific questions contemporary Wahhabi/Salafi fatwas are sometimes rather detailed and practical. For example, al-Munajjid comments under the heading “Ruling on buying sweets sold on the Prophet’s birthday” (ḥukm liširāʾ ḥalwā l-mawlid) on the issue of whether it is forbidden (ḥarām) by religious law to buy or eat sweets made specifically for the ocassion, or not.17 The answer is that, in principle, sweets are allowed as long as they do not support evil. Exactly this is the case, however, when the occasion is combined with practices that help to establish it as a feast. Another fatwa on text messages on special occasions prohibits congratulations for an “innovated” religious festival or one of the festivals of the infidel.18 In this view, a Muslim is generally not allowed to join the religious festivals of other confessions nor should he congratulate others on them.19 The key term in arguing against mawlid is “innovation” (bidʿa). Its understanding is derived from the Prophet’s statements such as “Whoever innovates (aḥdatha) anything in this matter of ours (i.e. Islam) that is not a part of it, will have it rejected (radd)”.20 The concept of bidʿa and its various classifications were probably meant to serve as a system parallel to, or supplementing the Islamic religious law (sharīʿa). In early Muslim theology, bidʿa seems to have been used for what is beyond the scope of the sharīʿa (Rispler 1991: 321, 326). The notion is more related to orthopraxy than to a system of beliefs.

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17 See http://islamqa.info/en/ref/90026/ruling%20on%20buying%20special and http://www.

islamhouse.com/p/196479 (accessed 10/08/2015).

18 See http://www.islam-qa.com/en/ref/147583/mawlid (accessed 10/08/2015). 19 See http://www.islam-qa.com/en/cat/2021 (accessed 10/08/2015). 20 Narrated in the collections of the deeds and sayings of prophet Muḥammad, see al-Bukhārī,

No.2697; Muslim, No.1718; Nawawī, No.5, where it is interpreted in the sense of “if services are performed in a way different from what is prescribed they are rejected, i.e. not accepted by God”; see also http://www.islam-qa.com/en/ref/islamqa/7505 (accessed 10/08/2015).

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The first known treatise dedicated solely to the topic was authored by Andalusian Ibn Waḍḍāḥ (d. 900 C.E.).21 Accusations of bidʿa had the potential of serious consequences. For example, Mālik Ibn Anas, the founder of one of the four most important schools of law in Islam, is said to have been asked about people who followed a slightly different practice in ritual prayer and answered that they should be offered the possibility of repentance and executed in the case that they refuse (Fierro 2001: 470). For the most part, however, the jurists took a less severe stance towards the complicated subject of innovators and innovations diffcult to define. Moreover, as Maribel Fierro has shown after having examined the the material preserved by the bidʿa genre, the concept of the “innovator”, for the Mālikī school of law, too, changed over the centuries so that “practice did not always correspond to what was established in the doctrine, and the doctrine in turn was able partly to adapt to the changing practice” (Fierro 1992b: 898–899). The lists of “innovations” were constantly changing. At times tobacco and coffee were on the list, but it proved impossible to ban these commodities from society. To examine how the notion of bidʿa was conceived of it must be contextualised in terms of time, place, a school of thought, etc.22 Between the 14th and the 20th centuries, books of ther bidʿa genre seem to have vanished but appeared again in the 20th century without much change in structure between medieval and modern examples, thus forming a genre of literature with a specific terminology and a number of authors, such as al-Ṭurṭūshī (d. 1126) and alShāṭibī (d. 1388), quoted time and again.23 Much debate is about the question of how bidʿa affects the principal of tawḥīd, the oneness of God, which includes that Allah is the only one to be venerated. For a clarification of the relationship between the concept of bidʿa (innovation) and shirk (associating others with Allah), Muḥammad Ṣāliḥ al-Munajjid refers to Muḥammad Ibn al-ʿUthaymīn’s statement on bidʿa saying that according to the sharīʿa the definition is “worshipping Allah in ways that Allah has not prescribed”, which is tantamount to “worshipping Allah in ways that are not those of the Prophet or his Rightly-guided successors (al-khulafāʾ al-rāshidūn)”. Ordinary matters of habit and custom should not be blended with innovations in the religious sense. The class of a “good innovation” (bidʿa ḥasana) in religion has no foundation in Islam.24

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21 Fierro 1992a: 210. For a list of medieval Muslim authors writing on mawlid, most of them of

the Shāfi’ī and Mālikī schools of law, see Katz 2007: 216–218.

22 See Talbi 1960: 75; van Ess 1991: 687. 23 Rispler 1991: 321–323. For al-Shāṭibī, who is held in high esteem by Salafis, too, see

http://www.bidah.com/articles/muagm-imam-al-shatibis-definition-of-al-bidah.cfm (accessed 10/08/2015). 24 See for Ibn al-ʿUthaymīn on innovations Majmū’ fatāwā wa-rasāʾil faḍīla aš-šayḫ Muḥammad ibn Ṣaliḥ al-ʿUthaymīn II, 289f. http://ia600304.us.archive.org/20/items/mfrfsmsomfr

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According to the authorities al-Munajjid quotes, shirk is defined as of two kinds, major shirk which puts a person beyond the pale of Islam, and lesser shirk. An example for the first category is devoting any kind of worship which should be for Allah to another deity or person, or calling upon the occupant of a grave to help one. Swearing an oath by something other than Allah or “showing off” in ritual practice exemplifies the second type.25 These specifications on the one hand narrow bidʿa down to the religious sphere and on the other highlight the threat of polytheism and idolatry that goes along with uncontrolled devotional practices. Yet, it makes also clear that celebrating mawlid is not necessarily shirk. Today, as in Ibn Taymiyya's times, the beginnings of ritual innovation is often seen in excessive practices. Using the example of ritual ablution Ibn Qayyim alJawziyya (d. 1350), a disciple of Ibn Taymiyya and another authority for Wahhabis and Salafis, pointed to the danger of uncontrolled worship and attributed exaggeration to the “whispering” of the devil (waswasa): “Furthermore, it was never reported that the Prophet washed beyond these limits in his ablution; so the origin of this exaggeration is waswasa, which entices one to do it as an act of worship to get closer to Allah. But worshipping Allah properly is based on following the Sunna of His Prophet, not exaggerating in any act” (Ibn Qayyim 1994: 91). While exaggerations can be found in all Islamic denominations, in particular those of the Shiites and Sufis are the target of critique by both Wahhabis and Salafis. A harsh tone against Shiites and Sufis, but also Muslim doctors of religious law, Jews, and Christians already prevaled in Ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhāb’s Kitāb al-Tawḥīd, the founding text of Wahhabism. Such rejection can be traced back to authorities like Abu l-Faraj Ibn al-Jawzī (d. ca. 1200), who represents a Ḥanbalī view of Sufism. Wahhabism has tended to rely on traditional Ḥanbalī scholarship with its scepticism of philosophical reasoning. Ibn al-Jawzī calls the Sufis infidels “with the activities of impious debauchees, eating, drinking, dancing, listening to music, neglecting the ordinances of the sharīʿa... The forbidden singing they call ʻauditionʼ and ʻemotionʼ”.26 For Ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhāb, Shiites are non-believers who undermine the Muslim community. They do not recognise the idea of the Rightly-guided caliphs, which is seen as a threat to the foundations of Islam although this idea is not part of its primary Wahhabi sources.

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fsmso/mfrfsmso02.pdf. See also Ibn Bāz on the issue http://www.alifta.com/Fatawa/ Fatawa Chapters.aspx?languagename=en& View=Page&PageID=37&PageNo=1&BookID=14. For further subspecifications of bidʿa and a survey of terms in use, see Talbi 1960: 64 pp., Rispler 1991: 324, and Al-Atawneh 2010: 87. 25 See http://www.islamqa.com/en/ref/islamqa/10843. 26 Ibn al-Jawzī 1948: 81–82; see Margoliouth’s translation. For different forms of Sufi ritual practice, see Netton 2000.

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In Saudi Arabia the situation is complicated by the fact that the kingdom has a considerable Shiite population and the government is responsible for avoiding conflicts which results in an ambivalent attitude towards those citizens (Steinberg 2009: 141). Paradoxically, the rulers shield Shiites from more radical Wahhabis and Salafis while at the same time sharing their deprecatory attitude. As for Sufism, various forms of accomodation between Salafism and Sufism can be found and the incompatibility of Wahhabism and Sufism is not complete, too (Peskes 1999: 146–147). Scholars of great learning with a Sufi background could expect to be respected. Salafis usually recognize the devotional aspects of Sufism but not the mediational ones. Ibn Taymiyya himself is said to have been a member of a Sufi order, whatever impact that may have had. Both al-Afghānī and Muḥammad ʿAbduh, who are the main figures of 19th century Salafiyya, were in touch with Sufism from their youth and the Sufi figurehead al-Ghazālī (d. 111) is a point of reference for them.27 Most of the reformist and fundamentalist trends of the second half of the 19th century both in Arabia and in India, while criticising popular mystical practices, did not reject Sufism in all its aspects (Weismann 2007: 115). Some Sufi groups, on the other hand, to some extent also incorporate a puritan spirit and even reject saint worship (van Bruinessen 2009: 133–134). Yet similarities between Wahhabis, Salafis, and Sufis, for example emphasis on primary sources, cannot obliterate fundamental differences, such as essentially different understandings of the human body.28 Given his importance as a major source of Wahhabi and Salafi ideology, Ibn Taymiyya’s attitude towards Sufism is not as one-sided as many of his followers might assume. He did not fail to appreciate the personal religiosity of the Sufi masters of olden times. With the spiritual needs of the believers in mind, Ibn Taymiyya holds that the intention of the practitioner should be taken into account, who may even deserve a reward for his good intention. Nevertheless, the statuts of mawlid as a bidʿa remains unchanged (Ukeles 2010: 324). A weak echo of Ibn Taymiyya’s acknowledgement survives in a fatwa on the position of Sufism in Islam given out by Muḥammad Ṣāliḥ al-Munajjid. In his view, “the early Sufis differed from the later Sufis who spread innovation to a greater extent and made shirk in both minor and major forms commonplace among the people”.

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27 Goldziher 1920: 340–342; Goldziher summarises “So steht nun der theologische Modernis-

mus unter dem Einfluss dreier Faktoren: dem der ultrakonservativen Tendenz des Ibn Tejmija, dem der ethischen Religionsauffassung des Ghazālī und dem der Forderungen der fortschrittlichen Entwicklung”. For appreciation of al-Ghazālī in a modern Salafi context see Gauvain 2013: 80–82. 28 See Kugle 2007: 268–270. For opposition to Sufism, see also Sirriyeh 2003.

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Then al-Munajjid raises his voice against the Sufi’s blameworthy misconceptions. Among their transgressions are: — belief in the “unity of existence” (waḥdat al-wujūd) which implies the danger of pantheism. “They do not have the idea of a Creator and His creation, instead they say that everything is creation and everything is God....”; — the idea of iḥsān which the Sufis refer to their shaykhs.29 The following is told “to have a picture of their shaykh in mind when they remember Allah ... Some of them even put a picture of their shaykh in front of them when they are praying”; — to practice dhikr, rememberance of God, by only pronouncing “Allah, Allah, Allah” or even merely uttering “Ah, Ah” or “Hu, Hu”; — a number of other ecstatic practices; — recitation of “love poems mentioning the names of women and boys” in dhikr gatherings; constant repetition of words such as “love”, “passion”, “desire” evokes an atmosphere “as if they are in a gathering where people dance and drink wine and clap and shout. All of this has to do with the customs and acts of worship of the polytheists”; — some Sufis claim that they would not need the mediation of the Prophet but take knowledge directly from Allah; — celebration of mawlid and holding gatherings for sending blessings on the Prophet. — visitations of graves in order to seek blessings from their occupants; ritual circumambulations and sacrifices at these sites; — blind loyalty to shaykhs, even when they contradict the Qurʾān or the Sunna; — the use of talismans, letters, amulets and charms, and numerology.30 Another fatwa implicitly juxtaposes Sufis of Ibn Taymiyya’s times and modern ones and states that those called Sufis in our times would follow innovations that constitute shirk. 31 The reiteration of this juxtaposition underlines its being a combat theme in a current and ongoing struggle. In the first section of this article, the basic arguments and sources for the denial of mawlid as can be found in contemporary statements of two closely related religious ideologies, Wahhabism and modern Salafism, were presented. Denial is grounded in a rigid interpretation of the concept of innovation restricted to the religious sphere, and a conception of Islamic ritual that includes festivals as a specific expression of religious group identity to be protected from the influx of foreign elements. Only strict adherence to the example of the Prophet prevents exaggeration and deviation in worship, which Shiites and Sufis are accused of. In

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29 Iḥsān here in the sense of worshipping God as if one saw him; cf. Schimmel 1992: 53. 30 See http://www.islam-qa.com/en/ref/islamqa/4983 (accessed 10/08/2015). 31 See http://www.islamqa.com/en/ref/islamqa/47431 (accessed 10/08/2015).

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the next section, Wahhabi/Salafi rejection will firstly be related to a broader spectrum of criticism in a specific historical context, and then compared to the mainstream Sunni concept of innovation which allows a more inclusive attitude to mawlid.

The Voices of Others: Modernist Critique and Religious Establishment Wahhabi/Salafi opposition is a harsh but by no means the only critique of mawlid. Schielke, who investigated mawlid festivals in today’s Egypt, observes that they are regularly subject to criticism on account of their being “un-Islamic” which, in response, triggers attempts to reform mawlids by giving them a less chaotic and more standardised appearance, resulting in a “disciplined educational celebration... a mawlid that does not look or sound like a mawlid” (Schielke 2006: 135). It is reported for the Maghrib that mawlid celebrations have assumed in many places such a reformist appearance as early as in the 1930s.32 Attitudes towards mawlid and other festivals have certainly already changed in the wake of a slow and general process of secularisation that has led to the fragmentation of society into different subsystems opening up new frames of references.33 Classifications such as ghayr dīnī maḥḍ “not purely religious” and dunyawī “mundane” seem to be a by-product of contact with the modern secular world; such classifications would not have been made in medieval Islam (Rispler 1991: 328). Leading reformists such as Muḥammad ʿAbduh (d. 1905) and Rashīd Riḍā (d. 1935) strove to meet the challenges of modernity by emphasising the rational vein of Islamic thought, well compatible with science and progress. Both ʿAbduh and Riḍā, in the final analysis, aimed at preventing the Muslim community from opting for a modernism of the laicist kind.34 Riḍā, who counted Ibn Taymiyya amongst his main inspirations, continued ʿAbduh’s struggle against saint veneration and anything else he deemed obscurantism. Without rejecting the commemoration of

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32 As stated by the Association of Algerian doctors of religious law of that time, see Shinar

1977: 401; for a comparison of various kinds of mawlid celebrations in the Maghrib Shinar 1977: 398–400. 33 Trimingham 1998: 249 speaks of secularisation as a “process of change from a social and cultural system informed throughout by religion, to an order in which each sphere of life, science and art, political and economic activities, society and culture, and also morality and religion itself, became autonomes spheres”. 34 See Talbi 1960: 73. For the theories of ʿAbduh and Riḍā, see Kerr 1966. For Schielke (2007: 343–344), declaring a rationalist tendency of scholarly Islam to be ‘true’ heritage and dissociating it from popular customs was the most reasonable choice to face the European challenge under conditions of hegemonic power relations.

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the day Riḍā turned against ritualising mawlid and thus introducing illegitimate kinds of worship (ʿibādāt) (Katz 2007: 177–178). The experience of being represented as uncivilised Orientals who benefit from colonisation is a key to understanding the development of this criticism. Beginning in the late 19th century and throughout the 20th century, this critical perspective is informed by and re-produces a number of binary distinctions characteristic of the project of modernity such as reason and uncontrolled emotion, orthodox Islam and popular beliefs, progress and backwardness, nationalism and colonial domination.35 Marion Katz (2007: 206–207) holds that Rashīd Riḍā and like-minded people have tried to establish the concept of ʻpopular Islamʼ by their conscious invocation of standards of ritual correctness. Katz notes a dramatic change in mawlid piety in the Muslim world which she links to Wahhabi influence, along with deeper changes in the religious imaginations of Muslims, and observes that “the earlier models of pious exchange and expressive devotion were gradually eclipsed in favor of an increasing emphasis on discursive knowledge and systematic conformity to law”. The development of 19th century Salafism was surely closely linked to asymetrical relations between the Muslim world and the West, and so is modern Salafism. Yet, it seems doubtful to me that Wahhabism, rooted in the 18th century was in the first place a reaction to the influx of Western ideas. While an anti-Ottoman stance as a result of the Saudi/Wahhabi expansion is a factor, the impact of Western rationalism and colonialism on Ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhāb’s concept of religion should not be overemphasised. And the influence of a globally disseminated protestant conception of religion as belief and private matter, with ritual being an expression of individual piety, seems to have been very limited. Rather, Ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhāb took up an old, and at the same time notoriously new, topos, which is the critique of what he feels is a degeneration of religion. While critique of excesses, such as snake-charming and the eating of neon tubes, is shared by modernists, radical religious reformists, and the traditional authorities, the moderate traditional religious establishment conceives of itself as the preserver of compromise. Thus, a Fatwa Council of Cairo’s famous al-Azhar university marks, in a way, the counterpart of the Saudi Permanent Committee in an ongoing controversial dialogue.36 The Azhar Council, implicitly turning against an attempted “Saudiisation” of society, counts the celebration of the Prophet’s birthday among

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35 Schielke 2007: 335, 341. The reference to Europe is, in fact, central to the whole debate on

popular festivals. Common to most of the critical accounts of mawlids from this period is their concern about foreigners observing the festivals; see Schielke 2007: 334. 36 For the Egyptian Dār al-iftā’, see Skovgaard-Peterson 1997.

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devotional activities.37 The Prophet is seen as not only a blessing in his own lifetime, but for the people of all time. Loving the Prophet is literally an obligation. Making reference to the aforementioned al-Suyūṭī the Azhar Council declares celebrating mawlid with its characteristic practices, such as recitations, the distribution of food and so forth permissible. The provision of food is reckoned as almsgiving. Gifts are seen as a conventional way to express joy. Giving away, so goes the argument, is something desireable in itself (maṭlūb fī ḏātihī) and turns into something recommended (mustaḥabb, mandūb) if further positive effects are to be expected. A prohibition of the celebration therefore would be a reprehensible blockheadedness (tanaṭṭuʿ maḏmūm). While conceding that there was no such celebration during the first Islamic centuries, the Azhar Council does not see this as an impediment. Expressing joy over the Prophet’s birth cannot be regarded as somehing reprehensible. The Council also declares celebrating the birthdays of other members of the Prophet’s family to be in line with sharīʿa regulations, for it shows that people follow the guidance of those who were closest to the Prophet. In contrast, Ṣāliḥ Ibn Fawzān al-Fawzān, a member of Saudi Arabia’s Council of Senior Scholars, discussing the arguments of those who say that celebrating the birthday of the Prophet is indicative of their love for him, points at the kind of love Muḥammad experienced from his companions and quotes a narration: “ʻ... whenever he spat it never fell on the ground, it fell into into the hand of one his companions, then they wiped their faces and skins with it. If he instructed them to do something, they would hasten to do as he commanded. When he did ablution, they would almost fight over his water. When he spoke they would lower their voices in his presence; and they did not stare at him out of respect for him.ʼ...Yet, despite this level of veneration, they never took the day of his birth as an ʿīd (feast)”. Loving Muḥammad is obligatory for every Muslim, al-Fawzān concludes, for “Islam is based on two things, purity of intention and following (the Prophet)”.38 In a response to a fatwa by the Saudi Permanent Committee saying that all innovations are deviations, an Azhar shaykh takes a different approach to the question of bidʿa which helps reconcile theological thinking and practice. First he points to the fact that the majority of Muslim scholars agree that there are innovations which guide Muslims to the good, and those that misguide. Then, relying on classical authorities such as al-Shāfi’ī (d. 820) and al-Ghazālī (d. 1111) he classifies innovations according to the five modes which cover, in Islamic religious law, the range between that which it is obligatory to do and that which it is obligatory not to do.

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37 No. 140, 30/07/2007. http://www.dar-alifta.org/ViewFatwa.aspx?ID=140&text=140 (ac-

cessed 10/08/2015). See also http://eng.dar-alifta.org/foreign/ViewFatwa.aspx?ID=6655& text=mawlid (accessed 10/08/2015). 38 http://www.islamicity.com/forum/forum_posts.asp?TID=12000 (accessed 10/08/2015).

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(i) “The first category includes those innovations that it is obligatory upon all Muslims to perform, such as the establishing and teaching of the sciences of the Arabic language. (ii) The second category consists of recommended innovations, such as the building of schools. (iii) The third category consists of prohibited innovations, such as altering the way in which the Qur’an is read, and in opposition to the nature of the Arabic language itself. (iv) The fourth category pertains to innovations that are reprehensible, such as the decorating of mosques. (v) The fifth [and final] category concerns innovations that are morally neutral [and thus permitted], such as putting different types of food on the table”.

With regard to the Prophet’s birthday, he concludes that “it is not necessarily the novelty, of itself, that offends; but, rather it is the way of approaching this novelty, and perhaps of granting it more importance than it really has, which is prohibited”. Thus, having the two official Muslim feasts in mind, he holds that celebrating mawlid is permitted, yet that it is not to be referred to as an ʿīd.39 While these moderate opinions also agree that there should be no mixing between men and women, eating and drinking of prohibited substances, illegal competitions, or other forms of entertainment “that do not agree with the principles of religion and good manners“, they put another aspect in the foreground by stressing an educational or missionary function of mawlid: “At a time when the youth have almost forgotten their religion and their interest in [secular] celebrations seems to outshine their interest in religious occasions, celebrating the mawlid is permitted”.40 In the same vein, Yūsuf al-Qaraḍāwī, a most influental “global mufti” (scholar issuing fatwas), looks upon celebrating the Prophet’s birthday as celebrating the birth of Islam. Such celebrations are to be held as a means of reviving the glorious history of Islam and the values that can be learned from it. He concludes: “I think that these celebrations, if done in the proper way, will serve a great purpose, getting Muslims closer to the teachings of Islam and to the Prophet’s Sunna and

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39 http://fixyourdeen.com/htm/final/qacategorysub26.asp by Yasīr ʿAbd al-ʿAẓīm (accessed

15/07/2015). Interestingly, in another fatwa, the same scholar finds no harm in calling such occasions aʿyād, i.e. feasts or festivals, “for, what matters is what the name stands for, rather than the term itself”, see http://fixyourdeen.com/htm/final/qacategorysub29.asp (accessed 15/07/2015). 40 http://www.fixyourdeen.com/htm/final/qacategorysub28.asp Fatwa by Yasīr ʿAbd al-ʿAẓīm in response to Ibn Bāz (accessed 15/07/2015).

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life”.41 Today, the didactic and commemorative value of mawlid is stressed by most of its proponents.42

Forms of Religiosity and Islamic Ritual Denial of mawlid is not least based on a specific understanding of services to God. This is why we have to take a closer look at how ritual is conceived of as a special form of action and what the decisive elements of this action are. The ritual issues discussed in Islamic religious law in general and the aspects highlighted by certain groups give some indication of diverging concepts of religiosity. In the Muslim world, a general denial of ritual as a mode of action is rarely to be found.43 In our days, intellectuals critical of religion who see the traditional “ritualism” of the uneducated as a main cause of their immaturity and inferiority, are the ones to formulate a fundamental opposition to ritual by relying on the principle of rationality.44 Moreover, a cover term “ritual” is not part of the original Arabic vocabulary. Authochthoneous conceptions are more specific. In the context of religious law the term would be ʿibāda, denoting service to God or an act of worship. 45 In a dictionary of technical terms of the 15th century ʿibāda is defined as an act of venerating God by a person obligated to observe the religious duties in a way that is not at his discretion.46 In some manuals of religious law (fiqh) the word ṭāʿa (obedience) is used in almost the same sense. On the other hand, in principal, tradition accepts that the details of regulations for the rituals were not a given thing from the beginning, but developed with time (Hawting 2006: XVI). There are Muslim scholars who expand the semantic range of ʿibāda to include marriage and other ritual acts, too, such as burial practices so that it has come to denote “pious practice” in general.47

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41 See http://www.sunnah.org/ibadaat/islamonline_mawlid_fatwa and http://www.islamicity.

com/forum/forum_posts.asp?TID=12005 (accessed 10/08/2015).

42 See Katz 2007: 189, 206–207. Some even deny that it is a religious activity. 43 For rare exceptions see Stroumsa 1999: 84, 135. A key figure is Ibn ar-Rāwandī (d. end of

44

45

46 47

10th cent.) who criticised prayer practice, preoccupation with ritual purity, and the ceremonies of the pilgrimage to Mecca. See Stroumsa 1994: 183. Complete denial of Islamic ritual goes along with an atheist stance. A contemporary example of an religious official who turned into an atheist and critic of Islam is Turkish writer Turan Dursun (1934–assassinated 1990). Other terms are ṭaqs, used for Christian liturgy for the most part but nowadays also as a cover term for ritual; shaʿīra in the sense of a cultic practice or rite; iḥtifāl for a feast. See also Stausberg (Langer) 2006. Fiʿl al-mukallafi ʿalā khilāfi hawā nafsihī taʿẓīman li-rabbihī; al-Jurjānī 1987: 190. See Bousquet, art. ʿibāda; Schrode (2012) for another semantically expanded use of the word in present times.

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Reasoning about the nature of the ʿibādāt cannot be avoided, any more than reasoning about rituals elsewhere. Yet, in Muslim scholarship, ritual is mostly treated as a matter of religious law with a view of its formal aspects.48 A contemporary fatwa on the conditions of worship in Islam refers to the Wahhabi/Salafi authority Ibn al-ʿUthaymīn and emphasises the importance of the formal correctness of ʿibāda. An act of worship must be in accord with the prescriptions of the sharīʿa with respect to (i) reason (sabab), (ii) type (jins), (iii) amount (qadr), (iv) manner (kayfiyya), (v) time (zamān), and (v) place (makān).49 In addition to the formal and legal aspects of ritual, a number of theological issues of a more philosophical and psychological kind have been subject to debate throughout the centuries. The most important are rationality, intentionality, and emotion in ritual. As early as the 9th century, some scholars refused to assume that God would command his servants to worship him with actions that contradict reason, while others conceded that the prescribed form of quite a number of services is not accessible to reason. Ibn Rushd (Averroes) (d. 1198), in a book on differences among Muslim doctors of law, mentions jurists who distinguished between rational (ʿibāda maʿqūla) and non-rational forms of worship and deemed the non-rational as emphasising obligation (ākid fī bābi l-wujūb). If there is an underlying rational cause (ʿilla) for the ritual, the mode of action is affected. Such a cause can be seen as a context (qarīna) that moves, for example, a command from an obligation to a recommendation (nadb).50 The issue of rationality is important, because reflecting on the question of why a specific ritual component is carried out has the potential to undermine obedience to the prescriptions. There is a tension between reflexion and blindly following instructions. The topic has found its way into internet platforms, too. On al-Munajjids website, a fatwa answering the question of why it is that prayer is prescribed five times a day explains that the regulations of sharīʿa are of two kinds: “those which may be understood on a rational basis (aḥkām maʿqūla l-maʿnā); and those which are purely worship, the wisdom behind which is concealed from us and is not mentioned in either the Qurʾān or the Sunna”. The prohibitions of alcohol and gambling, and the precepts for almsgiving, fasting, etc. exemplify the first kind of rules the reasons for which are either explicitly

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48 Hawting 2006: XIII identifies a lack of reflexivity in Muslim religious law: “The rituals of

Islam are so central that to it that until modern times Muslims did not feel the need for a word to refer to them in a more abstract or scientific sense”. 49 See http://www.islam-qa.com/en/ref/islamqa/21519 (accessed 10/08/2015). 50 See Ibn Rushd 1995: 149–151.

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mentioned or easy to work out. In the case of the rules for pure worship (aḥkām taʿabbudiyya), however, “the connection between the ruling and the action is not clear, such as the number of prayers, the number of rakʿas51 and most of the actions of the pilgrimage... These rulings are prescribed as a test to demonstrate whether a person is a true believer”. Nevertheless, a certain need for rationalising and justification seems to be felt as the following statement shows: “How many rulings are there, the reason for which has been concealed from us in the past, then we discovered that there is great wisdom behind them? The reason why pork is forbidden was unknown to many people, then we found out that it carries germs and disease and other bad things, and Allah wanted to protect the Muslim society against them”.52 Rationalising in such a way is an old phenomenon. The fatwa cites Ibn al-Qayyim’s (d. 1350) words that “known from experience (yuʿraf bi-l-ḥiss), the major ablution (ghusl) counters the effects of emission of semen”, which makes one very tired “but the major ablution re-energises one”. In the same vein, the fatwa places emphasis on the experiental dimension by refering to “prominent doctors who stated “that doing ghusl after intercourse restores energy to the body”.53 The fatwa then cites al-Suyūṭī writing in the 15th century: “With regard to the rulings that have to do with rituals of worship… such as the ruling on minor and major impurity, these rulings have to do with rituals of worship (taʿabbud), the wisdom behind which is not known; therefore they cannot be subject to rational thinking (qiyās). Some of the scholars said: if it were not that they are rulings on rituals of worship, emission of semen which is pure (ṭāhir) according to most of the scholars would not necessitate washing the entire body (ghusl), whilst urine and stools, which are impure (najis) according to scholarly consensus, would not necessitate washing only part of it (wuḍūʾ)”.54 Washing what is already clean seems to be absurd, some scholars concede.55 This reminds one of Goody’s often cited characterisation of ritual as a “category of standardised behavior (custom) in which the relationship between means and ends is not ʻintrinsicʼ, i.e. either irrational or non-rational” (Goody 1961: 159).

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51 A sequence of utterances and actions performed repeatedly as building blocks of a ritual

prayer.

52 See http://www.islamqa.com/en/ref/9603/rational (accessed 10/08/2015). For new rationales

for the celebration of mawlid, see Katz 2007: 182–184.

53 See http://www.islamqa.com/en/ref/islamqa/110056 (accessed 10/08/2015). 54 See http://www.islamqa.com/en/ref/islamqa/110056 (accessed 10/08/2015) with reference to

al-Suyūṭī’s al-Ashbāh wa-l-naẓā’ir (1998: 710). In his book, al-Suyūṭī lists quite a number of rulings, the reasons for which are not known. Finally he concludes with a suspicion: if scholars fail to find a rationale for a practise they declare it to be taʿabbud, 712. 55 See also Katz 2005: 113–117.

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Indeed, it seems that the less rational a religious practice is, the greater is the binding nature of the ritual action. And it is precisely because it cannot be rationally deduced that observing the ritual script is meritorious. It is this attitude that dominates comments on the issue in internet forums of a Wahhabi/Salafi kind. Closely linked to the question of rationality is the question of what role intention plays in ritual. The classical position is that that a ritual stance is a precondition for the validity of worship. In particular, pure worship (ʿibāda maḥḍa) the meaning of which cannot be rationally inferred (ghayr maʿqūla l-maʿnā), like ritual prayer, is in need of an explicit formulation of intention.56 For all who are sceptical about mawlid, the intention that guides the celebration is a touchstone. While the intention to commemorate the prophet is appreciated, the intention to make mawlid a ritual, or even pray to the Prophet is rejected. This position is most vehemently articulated by the Wahhabis and Salafis. The Wahhabis’ and Salafis’ strict rule-guidedness not only allows control over adherents, but also allows the practitioner to have control over religiosity and avoid ambiguity. This goes along with a tendency to keep religious rituals on a nonreflexive level. Harvey Whitehouse holds that highly repetitive religious transmission can inhibit reflexivity on the part of practitioners. Routinised rituals with little variance which have experienced an official exegesis do not trigger a reflexive stance. This leads to a relative lack of individual attributions of sense to these rituals (Whitehouse 2011). Reflexion tends to amount to nothing more than the examination of the external form of ritual and the repetition of standard explanations, in the case of Islam mostly originating from the sayings of the Prophet. True faith, according to the Ḥanbalī position which is at the root of both Wahhabism and Salafism, does not need more, or in fact is tantamount to submission. Looking at the Qurʾān and the example of the Prophet from the angle of following and obedience primarily results in an apodictic and formalistic argumentation. While Wahhabis and Salafis vigorously reject “new” rituals, many of them ritualise everyday life by a constant self-control and avoidance of every kind of deviation from an alledged “pure Islam” which is supposedly free from all kinds of corruption. Assuming an extra-temporal order, and that implies an ahistoric view, does not primarily lead to the formulation of positive norms of what one should do, but rather in precepts of what one has to abstain from. Emphasis on what has to be avoided is a immediate consequence of the intended return to the roots and the “purification” from culturual and religious elements that have been taken up over the centuries and which the Wahhabis/Salafis deem alien to “real” Islam. This

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56 Ibn Rushd 1995: 26. For some jurists, an action automatically implies intention and,

therefore, need not to be explicitly expressed; see Ibn Qayyim 1994: 35.

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fosters a tendency to define the essence of Islam by seeking to define who is not a believer, and less by seeking to define it in positive terms (Stroumsa 1994: 163). Ronald Grimes made a distinction between ritualising in the sense of deliberately cultivating rites, and ritualisation as a pre-ritualistic behaviour that has the potential to become a ritual act (Grimes 1990: 10). Examining the fatwas above and related material one finds indeed that deliberative ritualising on the one hand, and the process of unconscious ritualisation on the other, are the main targets of Wahhabi/Salafi critique, while they, too, are in danger of both ritualising and ritualisation. Another aspect of orientation towards control seems to be a kind of fear of contagion. The Saudi Permanent Committee recommends with respect to praying in a Sufi mosque that one should not pray with Sufis in their prayer room and must beware of their companionship and intermingling, “lest you are afflicted by their affliction”.57 Ibn al-Hājj’s (d. 1336) complaints in his famous manual of religiously proper behaviour al-Madkhal are repeated, criticising that the elite is ready to orient itself towards the needs of the masses. This contributes to a gradual erosion of order and guidance that results in loss of control.58 Here, fear of blending incompatible spheres comes into effect. Uncontrolled ritual space is as suspect as highly emotional, ecstatic and ambivalent states are. Certain milieus and places as well as engagements associated with them are to be avoided, to prevent mixing ritual and entertainment. Moreover, mawlid practices often did not exclude women, which involves the danger of uncontrolled contact between the sexes. A conception of religiosity which stresses more the internal aspects of worship can be found in the works written by the eminent medieval theologian al-Ghazālī (d. 1111), who is appreciated for his having reconciliated mainstream Islamic theology with the mystical tradition. With regard to turning towards to the direction of the Kaʿba (qibla) while praying, for example, he comments: “These external activities (ẓawāhir) are only setting in motion of the inward activities (bawāṭin)”.59 Al-Ghazālī deals with the “external acts” (aʿmāl ẓāhira) and “inner secrets” (asrār bāṭina) of ritual prayer in the introduction to the “Book of Prayer” of his influential Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn. The contrast to classical handbooks of religious law becomes evident when he emphasises inward acts and the “refinements of the inner qualities hidden in the qualities of humbleness, sincere devotion (ikhlāṣ) and

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57 See Al-Atawneh 2010:163 citing fatwa No. 6250. 58 http://www.islam-qa.com/en/ref/islamqa/7505 (accessed 10/08/2015). See Ibn al-Hājj 1960:

3f.

59 Al-Ghazālī n.d.: 1.166 (Calverley 107).

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intention which it has not been customary to mention in the department of canon law”.60 As inner realities to accompany prayer he mentions (i) presence of the heart (ḥuḍūr al-qalb) (i.e. sincerity, concentration, purity of intention) (ii) apprehension (tafahhum) (iii) magnifying (taʿẓīm) (iv) awe (v) hope (vi) shame. “Apprehension” is explained by al-Ghazālī as follows “...it may be that the heart is present with the utterance, but not present with the signification of the utterance. So the heart’s comprehension of the significance of the utterance is what we meant by ʻapprehensionʼ. This is a place where men differ.... how many subtle significations the worshipper understands during the worship which did not occur to his heart before! From this point the worship becomes a restrainer from the excessive and the disapproved”.61 Here, emotion and reflexivity are seen as integral parts of ritual and a protection against exaggeration. To be sure, the mystical tradition of Islam does not lack either regulations or the puritan variant experience. And it would be far too easy to see in the Sufi orientation the individualistic or necessarily tolerant version of Islam. All these qualities vary with time, agents and historical circumstances. The difference between the two is the attitude towards the mediation of spiritual power and emotion in religion, and a broader concept of ritual. At the very center of the Wahhabi and Salafi conception is ritual as a stabilising factor, a guarantee and control of the relationship between God and men, and thereby a factor in stabilising the order of things as a whole. Wahhabis, in particular, see themselves as guardians of the order, just as they see themselves as guardians of the two holy places, i.e. Mecca and Medina. This corresponds with the claim to represent Islam on a global scale. Both Salafis and Wahhabis reject local traditions and aim at what Olivier Roy calls “deculturation” of religion.62 The Wahhabis themselves, however, will hardly ever reach the stage of deculturalisation, given their alliance with the House of Saud which, for more radical Salafis, is compromising. Nevertheless, deculturalised global Islam is at the center of the Salafi/Wahhabi utopia. The general claim of adhering to the pure form of religion is upheld as a matter of course, despite all local accomodation. Those who aim at eliminating local deviations constitute themselves as being the bearers of Islam’s universal claim. The Wahhabi claim to defining Islam for all

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60 Al-Ghazālī n.d.: 1.146 (Calverley 40). 61 Al-Ghazālī n.d.: 1.161 (Calverley 93–94). 62 Roy 2004: 234. Richard Gauvain (2013: 12) understandably wonders “how Salafism can

remain ʻdeculturalisingʼ in Saudi Arabia and the Gulf areas, where it has long been the dominant tradition”. For the variety of local Salafi groups see the contributions in Meijer 2009.

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Muslims, as well as a tendency to correcting other Muslims’ religious traditions, is felt by many to be a presumption. Given the Wahhabi position’s limited integrational strength, it seems doubtful whether Wahhabi Islam, despite its being promoted by enormeous financial resources, will ever manage to become a kind of orthodoxy for all Muslims.

Concluding Remarks As was shown, denial of mawlid festivities by Wahhabi and Salafi groups is mainly based on the concept of bidʿa and the opposition to forms of religiosity which provoke strong and uncontrolled emotions. Grosso modo, two kinds of denial seem to prevail: (i) when a ritual or one of its building-blocks is not in accordance with the sources, (ii) denial, when a given ritual is obligatory, recommended or permissible, but performed in an excessive way. In many cases, however, it is difficult to draw a line between the enthusiastic and the eccentric. In this situation, relying on the example of the Prophet is the method of standardisation.63 In the end, this is a mechanistic concept based on the imitation of a model. While on the one hand, with respect to the deduction of norms, blindly following a legal opinion has to be avoided, congruency with the model is expected once an orientation has been found in the Sunna of the Prophet. To sum up, denial of ritual in the Wahhabi/Salafi case is motivated by (i) blocking any attempt at ritual design, (ii) hampering any institutionalisation of deviant practices, (iii) preventing a loss of control and discipline, (iv) banning any attempt to obliterate the difference between Islam and other religions, (v) preventing society from contagion through immoral and vain behaviour, (vi) ensuring a predictable relation between intention and action, (vii) juxtaposing local corruption and a postulated uniformity of universal Islam. Criticism is an “exercise of judgement that makes value-commitments and value-conflicts overt“, as Grimes put it, and there is surely no such thing as disinterested ritual criticism (Grimes 1990: 15, 17). Not only has one to look at the conditions of its emergence, but at criticism as an ongoing practice that constitutes its objects, and is itself subject to change. In the same way, denial is procedural and has to be re-enacted and renewed. Thus, given the puristic devotional practice, elitist traits and anti-philosophical literalistic stance of Wahhabi and modern Salafi Islam the question remains of why ritual activities become subject to critique at a specific moment in time.

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63 Wahhabi theology distinguishes between imitation (taqlīd) and following (ittibāʿ). An

imitator adheres to a religious leader (imām) or a school of law (madhhab), whereas a follower conforms to the Sunna of the Prophet only. See Al-Atawneh 2010: 72.

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Admittedly, opposition to mawlids of all kinds was always part of the Wahhabi doctrine. ʿAbd Allāh, son of the Wahhabi founding figure Muḥammad Ibn ʿAbd alWahhāb, lists a number of objectionable innovations in his report of the Wahhabi entry into Mecca in 1803, among them “gathering at an appointed time to listen to the story of the Prophet’s birth” and recitations accompanied by music (alʿUtaymīn: 2009: 137). Yet, while at the end of the 19th century Wahhabi opposition to mawlid seems to have been rather ineffectice in the Hijaz, a hundred years later the situation had changed. Especially after a takeover of the Mosque in Mecca by extremists in 1979, the Saudi religious establishment vehemently condemned deviant Sunni and radical Wahhabi views, as well as Sufi practices, with mawlid being used as an example.64 Moreover, in the wake of the Iranian Revolution and the Gulf War, Shiites were increasingly mistrusted. In the course of debates within Saudi Arabia and with religious authorities of other countries in the 80s, not least those led by Ibn Bāz, defenders of mawlid within Saudi Arabia became more and more silent. The large number of anti-mawlid statements suggests that mawlid had become an exemplary case of application for Wahhabi arguments. By the 1990s, official denial of mawlid seems to have marginalised its proponents in Saudi Arabia.65 Denial of ritual is intrumental in marking off boundaries between groups which are not exclusively defined by their religious orientation, thus managing inclusion and exclusion for more than one reason. Demarcation, however, becomes more difficult, the more antagonists allow themselves to understand the other’s motifs as an expression of faith. There the opposites meet.

References Abu-Zahra, Nadia. 1997. The Pure and the Powerful. Studies in Contemporary Muslim Society. Reading: Ithaka Press. Al-Atawneh, Muhammad. 2010. Wahhābī Islam Facing the Challenges of Modernity. Leiden, Boston: Brill. Al-Rasheed, Madawi (ed.). 2008. Kingdom without Borders. Saudi Arabia's Political, Religious and Media Frontiers. London: Hurst. Becker, Carl Heinrich. 1912. “Zur Geschichte des islamischen Kultus”. In: Der Islam 3: 374–399. Bousquet, Georges-Henri. 1971. “ʿIbāda”. The Encyclopaedia of Islam. 2nd Edition, Vol. 3. Leiden: Brill, p. 647.

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64 For the attempted takeover see Schulze 1990: 368–374. 65 See Katz 2007: 184–187; Schulze 1990: 355, 393. Nonetheless, starting from the mid 90s

privat gatherings for the celebration of mawlid seem to have been tolerated at least in the Hijaz, see Lacroix 2011: 222.

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Bruinessen, Martin van. 2009. “Sufism, ʻPopularʼ Islam and the Encounter with Modernity”. In: Muhammad Khalid Masud, Armando Salvatore and Martin van Bruinessen (eds), Islam and Modernity. Key Issues and Debates. Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press, pp. 125–157. Ess, Josef van. 1991. Theologie und Gesellschaft im 2. und 3. Jahrhundert Hidschra, Vol. 1. Berlin, New York: De Gruyter. Fierro, Maribel. 1992a. “The Treatises Against Innovations (kutub al-bidaʿ)”. In: Der Islam 69,2: 204–246. Fierro, María Isabel. 1992b. “Heresy in al-Andalus”. In: Salma Khadra Jayyusi (ed.). The Legacy of Muslim Spain (Handbuch der Orientalistik, Erste Abteilung, Vol. 12). Leiden, New York, Köln: Brill, pp. 895–908. Fierro, Maribel. 2001. “Religious Dissension in al-Andalus. Ways of Exclusion and Inclusion”. In: Al-Qanṭara: Revista de Estudios Arabes 22.2: 463–487. Fuchs, H., F. de Jong and J. Knappert. 1991. “Mawlid (a.), or Mawlūd”. In: Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd Edition, Vol. 6, pp. 895-897. Gauvain, Richard. 2013. Salafi Ritual Purity. In the Presence of God. The Search for Purity in Modern Cairo. London, New York: Routledge. Gharaibeh, Mohammad. 2012. Zur Attributenlehre der Wahhābīya unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Schriften Ibn Uṯaimīns (1929–2001). Berlin: EB Verlag. al-Ghazālī, Abū Ḥamid Muḥammad Ibn Muḥammad. n.d. Iḥyāʾ ʿulūm al-dīn, Vols 1–5, Bayrūt: Dār al-Maʿrifa. Goldziher, Ignaz. 1920. Die Richtungen der islamischen Koranauslegung. Leiden: Brill. Goody, Jack. 1961. “Religion and Ritual. The Definitional Problem”. In: British Journal of Sociology 12.1: 142–164. Grimes, Ronald L. 1990. Ritual Criticism. Case Studies in Its Practice, Essays on Its Theory. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press. Gronke, Monika. 2002. “‘Alles Neue ist ein Irrweg’. Zum mittelalterlichen arabischen Schrifttum über religiöse Missbräuche”. In: Rainer Brunner, Monika Gronke and Jens. P. Laut (eds), Islamstudien ohne Ende. Festschrift für Werner Ende zum 65. Geburtstag. Würzburg: Ergon, pp. 119–130. Grunebaum, Gustav Edmund von. 1988 (1958). Muhammadan Festivals. New York: Olive Branch Press. Hammond, Andrew. 2007. Popular Culture in the Arab World. Arts, Politics, and the Media. Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press. Hawting, Gerald. 2006. “Introduction”. In: Gerald Hawting (ed.), The Development of Islamic Ritual. Aldershot: Ashgate, pp. XIII-XXXIX. Ibn Bāz, ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz Ibn ʿAbd Allāh. 1989. Fatāwā wa-tanbīhāt wa-naṣāʾiḥ. Cairo: Maktabat al-Sunna. Ibn al-Jawzī. 1948. “Talbīs Iblīs. The Devil’s Delusion”, translated by David S. Margoliouth. In: Islamic Culture 32: 75–86. Ibn al-Hājj, Muḥammad. 1960. Al-Madkhal, Vol. 2. Cairo: Muṣṭafā al-Ḥalabī. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, Muḥammad Ibn Abī Bakr. 1994. Al-Waswasa. Ed. by Aḥmad Sālim Bādwaylān. Riyāḍ: Dār Ṭuwayq.

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Ibn Rushd, Abu l-Walīd Muḥammad Ibn Aḥmad. 1995. Bidāyat al-muğtahid wanihāyat al-muqtaṣid, Vol. 1, Kitāb al-Ṭahāra wa-l-ṣalāṭ . Ed. by Māğid al-Ḥamawī. Beirut: Dār Ibn Ḥazm. Ibn Taymiyya, Aḥmad Ibn ʿAbd al-Ḥalīm. 1992. Iqtiḍāʾ aṣ-ṣirāṭ al-mustaqīm mukhālafat aṣḥāb al-jaḥīm. Cairo: Dār al-Ḥadīth. al-Jurjānī, al-Sayyid al-Sharīf ʿAlī Ibn Muḥammad. 1987. Al-Taʿrīfāt. s. l. Kaptein, N.J.G. 1993. Muḥammad’s Birthday Festival. Leiden: Brill. — 2004. “Mawlid: in the Maghrib”. In: Encyclopaedia of Islam, supplement, fasc. 9– 10, pp. 613–614. Katz, Marion Holmes. 2005. “The Study of Islamic Ritual and the Meaning of Wuḍūʾ”. In: Der Islam 82: 106–145. Katz, Marion Holmes. 2007. The Birth of the Prophet Muḥammad. Devotional Piety in Sunni Islam. London, New York: Routledge. — 2008. “Women’s Mawlid Performances in Sanaa and the Construction of ‘Popular Islam’”. In: International Journal of Middle East Studies 40: 467–84. Kerr, Malcom. 1966. Islamic Reform. The Political and Legal Theories of Muhammad Abduh and Rashid Rida. Berkley: University of California Press. Kriss, Rudolf and Hubert Kriss-Heinrich. 1960. Volksglaube im Bereich des Islam, Vol. 1, Wallfahrtswesen und Heiligenverehrung. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Kugle, Scott. 2007. Sufis and Saints’ Bodies. Mysticism, Corporeality, and Sacred Power in Islam. Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press. Lacroix, Stéphan. 2011. Awakening Islam. The Politics of Religious Dissent in Contemporary Saudi Arabia. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press. Meijer, Roel (ed.). 2009. Global Salafism. Islam’s New Religious Movement. London: Hurst and Company. Menon, Muhammad Umar. 1976. Ibn Taymīya’s Struggle against Popular Religion. With an Annoted Translation of his Kitāb iqtiḍāʾ aṣ-ṣīrāṭ al-mustaqīm mukhālafat aṣḥāb al-jaḥīm. The Hague, Paris: Mouton. Mouline, Nabil. 2011. Les clercs de l’islam. Autorité religieuse et pouvoir politique en Arabie Saoudite, XVIIIe – XXIe siècle. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Netton, Ian Richard. 2000. Sufi Ritual. The Parallel Universe. Richmond: Curzon. Peskes, Esther. 1999. “The Wahhābiyya and Sufism in the Eighteenth Century”. In: Frederick de Jong and Bernd Radtke (eds), Islamic Mysticism Contested. Leiden: Brill, pp. 145–161. Rispler, Vardit. 1991. “Toward a New Understanding of the Term bidʿa”. In: Der Islam 68.2: 320–328. Roy, Olivier. 2004. Globalised Islam. London: Hurst & Co. Schielke, Samuli. 2006. “On Snacks and Saints. When Discourses of Rationality and Order Enter the Egyptian mawlid”. In: Archives de sciences sociales des religions 135. Réveils du soufisme en Afrique et en Asie. Translocalité prosélytisme et réforme, pp. 117–140. — 2007. “Hegemonic Encounters. Criticism of saints-day festivals and the formation of modern Islam in late 19th and early 20th century Egypt”. In: Die Welt des Islams 47.3–4: 319–55.

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al-ʿUthaymīn, ʿAbd Allāh al-Ṣāliḥ. 2009. Muḥammad ibn ‘Abd al-Wahhāb. The Man and his works. London: Tauris. Weismann, Itzchak. 2007. “Sufi Fundamentalism between India and the Middle East”. In: Martin van Bruinessen and Julia Day Howell (eds), Sufism and the Modern in Islam. London: Tauris, pp. 115–128. Whitehouse, Harvey. 2011. “Religious Reflexivity and Transmissive Frequency”. In: Axel Michaels (gen. ed.), Ritual Dynamics and the Science of Ritual, Vol. 4, Reflexivity, Media, and Visuality. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, pp. 25–40. Wiktorowicz, Quintan. 2006. “Anatomy of the Salafi Movement”. In: Studies in Conflict and Terrorism 29: 207–239.

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Ritual Creativity and Plurality Denying Twelver Shia Blood-Letting Practices Ritual Creativity and Plurality

Ingvild Flaskerud Twelver Shiism, the second largest denomination in Islam after Sunnism, has, since the seventh century, developed rich and complex ritual practices to commemorate the martyrdom of the third Imam, Abū ʿAbd Allāh Ḥusayn Ibn ʿAlī (626–680), in the battle at Karbala. The first ten days of the Islamic month Muḥarram, the period when the battle took place, has become the occasion for the annual commemoration of the event, culminating on the tenth of Muḥarram, ʿashūrāʾ, the day when Imam Ḥusayn was beheaded. Rituals of commemoration are again repeated on the fortieth day after the tenth of Muḥarram (this day is called arbaʿīn), in the month of Ṣafar. Over time, four major liturgical rituals have developed. These rituals include the memorial service (Arabic: majālis al-taʿziya, Persian: mātam majlis), the public mourning processions (Arabic: al-mawākib/ʿazāʾiyya, Persian: dasteh), the pilgrimage to Imam Ḥusayn’s tomb in Karbala (Arabic: ziyāra, lit. “visit”), and the representation of the battle and events connected to it in the form of a theatre play (Arabic: shaʿbī, Persian: taʿziyeh). One in particular of the rites performed at memorial services, public mourning processions, and the pilgrimage to Imam Ḥusayn’s tomb in Karbala, that of bloody self-flagellation, has been subject to both internal and external critique and contestation.1 The contemporary Twelver Shia critique and contestation over the rite has cut across notions of “elite” and “folk” religion to produce a variety of opinions and practical reactions. Mild forms of flagellation, such as hitting the cheeks, the forehead, the chest, and the lap with a light stroke by the palm of the hand, are not widely contested, but rather performed in a choreographic manner by men and women during the four liturgical rituals mentioned above (Flaskerud 2010). The use of chains (zanjīr) to hit the back represents a tougher, although harmless, form of self-flagellation, and is performed by young and mature men in memorial services and street processions.2 Boys, and sometimes girls, may also participate in the rite, supplied with smaller versions of the chains used by the adults. Although often seriously committed to the ritual performance, the children’s participation in the rite is less coordinated and more

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Aghaie 2004; Ende 1978; Halm (1987) 1997; Hyder 2006; Mervin 2007; Nakash (1994) 2004; Norton 2007; Pinault 2001. I use “ritual” to refer to a set of actions which are performed within the framework of a specific liturgical time. The ritual is composed of smaller units of actions, which I call “rites”. Chelkowski 1985, 1996.

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playful than the adults’ performance. 3 Blood-drawing flagellation is the most violent form of self-flagellation rites practiced by the Twelver Shiites. Known by a variety of vernacular terms (Arabic taṭbīr, Persian: shamshīr zanī/qameh zanī) blood-drawing flagellation involves the self-infliction of wounds to the body, usually to the forehead or the back of the flagellant, by knives, daggers, swords, and chains, to which are attached razor blades, with the effect of drawing blood. When performed in public, the act is typically carried out by groups of young men, often under the supervision of their seniors. Bloody self-flagellation is known to have entered Shia rituals of commemoration in Iran in the sixteenth century. It is difficult to give a precise account of the rite’s geographical dispersion, since the practice at times has been prohibited by state authorities, while it has continued to be practiced in settings outside government attention and control. For example, blood flagellation is currently prohibited in Iran, but is nevertheless performed in settings outside the control of the state and the religious elite.4 And although there is no legal prohibition against the practice in Western countries, Shiites’ sensitivity to external condemnation of the practice by non-Muslims and Muslims alike prompts ritual performers to restrict the practice to the interior space of ritual assembly halls. It thus seems fair to say that blood flagellation is practiced throughout the Twelver Shia world, for example, in Lebanon, Syria, Azerbaijan, Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan and India, as well as in Western countries, Africa and South America, but internal and external critique limits its public performance. Why is bloody self-flagellation denied and who is involved in its contestation? What are the responses and consequences of denial? How does denial influence the ritual practices of Karbala commemorative rituals? The debate by high-ranking Twelver Shia religious scholars on blood flagellation is central to people’s performance of ritual blood-letting practices, since ritual practice is subject to the scholars’ judicial evaluation ḥukm (pl. aḥkām). I thus first offer a review of the high-ranking religious scholars’ debate on bloody self-flagellation. I demonstrate that the scholars’ debate takes the form of a chain of denials, in which some reject blood-drawing flagellation, others refuse such rejections and instead encourage the practice, while a third group of scholars remains neutral in the matter. Religious scholarly attitude to ritual blood-drawing flagellation is thus characterized by flexibility, with scholars’ opinions and advice spanning diverse and sometimes contradicting standpoints. Such scholarly flexibility cannot be sufficiently explained without examining the Twelver Shia institution of religious authorities marjaʿiyyat al-taqlīd (source for emulation). Consequently, I next examine the institution’s structure. The institution’s horizontally organized leadership structure, being headed by a body of equally authoritative religious scholars

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Personal observations of public mourning processions in Iran between 2000 and 2003. Male and female informants’ observations revealed in conversations conducted between 2010 and 2014.

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called marjaʿ al-taqlīd, makes possible the existence of diverse, but equally authoritative rulings on blood-letting practices. This structure explains why some scholars’ denial does not result in the elimination of blood-drawing flagellation, but rather to ritual plurality, with old and new blood-letting practices co-existing. Ritual theorists have called attention to challenges posed by changing ritual practices. Change, they argue, may undermine the authority and dignity of a ritual (Bell 1997: 172). In order to examine dynamics of denial and change, I analysis the rituals’ interritual and intraritual character. In the present case, denials of bloodletting rites, whether it involves rites being removed, replaced, or added, do not undermine the rituals’ authority. Instead, I argue, interritual and intraritual connections between and within rituals offer flexibility and leave practitioners with ample room for choice and invention, resulting in ritual diversity, while at the same time securing ritual continuity by fostering standardization and institutionalisation for shorter or longer periods of times by accommodating change into the ritual complex. Moreover, I suggest, interrituality and intrarituality may also explain how the rite of blood-drawing flagellation was accommodated into the Karbala commemorative ritual complex in the first place. Ritual performance is never isolated from the social and political setting in which it takes place; lastly, I discuss the significance of social and political settings to the performance of these ritual bloodletting practices. In discussing the four interrelated factors outlined above, I draw on first-hand interviews and conversations with middle-ranking religious scholars, as well as ritual practitioners, data collected from Twelver Shia Internet sites, and films posted on You Tube, in addition to second-hand data derived from academic literature on blood flagellation practices.

High-Ranking Religious Scholars Debating Blood-Letting Rites In Twelver Shiism, lay people are encouraged to seek advice from members of a body of religious scholars, marjaʿiyyat al-taqlīd. Based on their interpretation of the sources of the religious law, these scholars are given the authority to advise lower-ranking religious scholars and the laity on how to behave in a wide range of social and ritual settings. Lower-ranking religious scholars and members of the laity are, for their part, assigned the responsibility to follow advice which suits their current state of life. In Shiism, similar to Sunni Islam, rules and advice are derived from the religious scholars’ methodological evaluation of God’s law, sharīʿa, a method for jurisprudential inquiry known as uṣūl al-fiqh.5 In addition to

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Twelver Shia jurisprudence is based on the legal reasoning performed by Imam Jaʿfar alṢādiq (d. 765). The Twelver Shiite law school is consequently known as the “Jaʿfarī school”, al-madhhab al-jaʿfarī, by analogy with the four Sunnite schools of law. The theoretical

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the Quran, the ḥadīth, authorized stories of the Prophet Muhammad’s opinions and lived practice, are important sources for the scholars’ judgements on Islamic legalethical behaviour. The rituals commemorating the battle at Karbala developed, however, after the battle took place in 680, a few decades following the death of the Prophet. The ritual practice is therefore supported by the ḥadīths of the Shia Imams which, in addition to the ḥadīth of the Prophet, are considered authoritative sources for the understanding of Islam, guidance in faith, and right ritual and social conduct.6 The regulations derived through the scholars’ evaluation of the sources are organized into a hierarchy of five legal qualifications (al-aḥkām al-khamsa), namely, neutral or permissible (mubāḥ), recommended (mustaḥabb/mandūb), obligatory (farḍ/wājib), reprehensible (makrūh), forbidden (ḥarām), and reprehensible or disfavoured (makrūh; El-Fadl 2012: 304). The five daily ritual prayers (ṣalāt) are, for example, regarded as obligatory except under specific conditions, while prayers performed outside this liturgical framework (duʿāʾ) are recommended. Rather than speaking in terms of positive legal duties or prohibitions, the religious scholars hence pass evaluations which determine the degree of the practitioner’s permitted interpretation versus unjustified innovation, bidʿa. Which rulings and options do the most learned among the Twelver Shia scholars provide on the issue of blood-drawing flagellation in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries?

Religious Scholars’ Denials of Blood-Letting Practices A strong incentive against bloody self-flagellation practices was presented in 1994 when the marjaʿ al-taqlīd Ayatollah Sayyid Ali Khamenei, who has also been the Supreme Leader of Iran since 1989, issued a legal qualification, ḥukm, in which he forbade blood-drawing flagellation (Aghaie 2004: 53). In taking on this position, Khamenei advocated a fatwā, a normative religious legal response, already issued by his predecessor Ayatollah Seyyed Ruhollah Khomeinii (d. 1989). The prohibition issued against blood-drawing flagellation has restricted its public performance in Iran, since the ruling is binding on all groups and individuals reckoned to be within the jurisdiction of the country’s legal code.7 In addition, the fatwā has influenced the lay public’s viewpoints on the rite in Pakistan, India, and Lebanon, where Khomeini, and later Khamenei, had and still have many followers. The Lebanese organisation Hezbollahh, which has embraced Khamenei as its marjaʿ altaqlīd, does not accept its members practicing blood flagellation (Mervin 2007).

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foundations of the Twelver Shiite law were completed by al-ʿAllāma al-Ḥillī (b. 1250). See Halm 1997: 51, 68. The traditions compiled by the companions and students of the fifth and sixth Imams (Muḥammad al-Bāqir, d. between 732–743, and Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq, d. 765) form the basis of the later compilations of the Imami ḥadīths. Arjomand 1987: 51. Amanat 1988: 119; El-Fadl 2012: 304.

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The social welfare organisation “Imam Khomeini Memorial Trust” (IKMT) in India, too, has taken a stance against bloody self-flagellation. In addition, prominent Lebanese Shia scholars, such as Muḥammad Mahdī Shams al-Dīn (d. 2000), the Deputy Chairman of the Supreme Islamic Shia Council, and Ayatollah Muḥammad Ḥusayn Faḍlallāh (d. 2010) have declared themselves to be against blood flagellation, as has Ayatollah al-Khūʾī (d. 1992), one of the most influential marjaʿ’s in his era.8 The religious scholars’ denial of bloody self-flagellation rests on a number of conditions: It is, they claim, not mentioned in the religious sources, it is an innovation, it causes damage to the body, and it defames the religion. Khamenei and alKhūʾī rule against bloody self-flagellation on the grounds that the practice is not mentioned in the Quran or in the ḥadīths from the Prophet and the Imams. Here, refutation of bloody self-flagellation is not based on an explicit negative judgment of the practice in the Quran and the ḥadīth, but rather on the scholar’s evaluation of the significance of the absence of blood flagellation in the sources. The absence of any mention of blood-drawing flagellation in these sources is interpreted to imply that the practice is not permitted. Moreover, blood-drawing flagellation is perceived to violate two explicit verdicts in Islamic law. Bloody self-flagellation, Khamenei argues, is not registered as part of early Islamic customary ritual practice and therefore represents an innovation, bidʿa, which is forbidden, ḥarām, according to Islamic law. Another example of how the practice is perceived to violate Islamic law, as argued by Khamenei, Faḍlallāh, and al-Khūʾī, is that it can cause damage to the body, ḍarar, which is not permissible in Islam.9 A third line of argument put forward by the three high-ranking scholars is that blood-drawing flagellation gives a negative image to Shiism and the message of Ḥusayn in the eyes of a non-Shia audience. 10 This evaluation is based on what the scholars perceive to be a negative social consequence of blood-drawing flagellation, namely that it will defame Islam in the contemporary world. The call to avoid defaming religion is sometimes supported with a ḥadīth about the sixth Imam, Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq (d. 765). The English-language website http://tatbir. org, which is entirely devoted to disseminating material against blood-drawing flagellation and recirculates renunciations of the practice made by Khamenei and Faḍlallāh, presents a ḥadīth in which Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq is reported to have said: “Become an ornament for us, do not be a disgrace for us”.11 Again, the ḥadīth does not specifically address blood-drawing flagellation. It does, however, specifically advise the believer not to defame the religion, and this recommendation is shaped into an argument for the impermissibility of bloody self-flagellation. These posi-

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On this kind of opposition see Pinault 2001: 198–199, and Norton 2007: 53. http://tatbir.org/?page_id=98. http://shiastrength.blogspot.no/2010/04/shiastrength-re-zanjeerzani-and.html. It is not reported on the website who has the editorial responsibility.

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tions against the practice are not new, but were voiced by famous marjaʿs of the previous generation, for example Ayatollah Muḥammad Ḥusayn Kāshif al-Ghiṭāʾ (d. 1954), as well as religious scholars in the first half of the twentieth century (Ende 1978: 19–36). Different from the assertive positions against blood-drawing flagellation presented by Khamenei, Faḍlallāh, al-Khūʾī and other high-ranking Twelver Shia scholars, some marjaʿ al-taqlīds refrain from passing conclusive judgments on the practice and instead offer their conditional rulings in the matter. Ayatollah alʿUthmān al-Sayyid al-Sīstānī and Ayatollah Muḥammad Ḥusayn al-Nāʾīnī, resident in Najaf, and Ayatollah ʿAbd al-Karīm al-Ḥāʾerī in Qum, advise their followers that blood-drawing flagellation is allowed, provided there is no harm to the flagellant.12 The criterion put forward by Khamenei and Faḍlallāh (causing harm to the body is illegal in Islam) is sustained, but these marjaʿs do not share in the verdict that bloody self-flagellation necessarily will cause harm to be done to the body. Instead, the method of flagellation becomes a central issue in the discussion of the legality of the practice. As a consequence, the flagellant is left with the authority to decide whether to practice blood-drawing flagellation or not, based on his or her evaluation of how harmful the choice of method is. The condemnation of blood-drawing flagellation on the grounds that it can cause harm to the body is, for example, sometimes rejected by flagellants who claim they feel no pain during and after the rite and that wounds recover miraculously within hours. 13 Flagellants are not, however, insensitive to the possible dangers involved.14 A third scholarly position is to permit bloody self-flagellation. The religious scholars’ approval, and sometimes endorsement, of the rite is founded on the

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12 http://tatbir.org/?page_id=98; http://www.shirazi.org.uk/ashura.htm#ashuramisuse. http://im

amshirazi.com/tatbir%220fatawa.html. After Muḥammad al-Shīrāzī died in 2001, he was succeeded by his younger brother Ayatollah al-ʿUthmān Sayyid Sādiq al-Shīrāzī (Louër, 2012: 133) 13 Hyder 2006: 54. Twelver Shiites of Iranian and Iraqi origin resident in Oslo tell similar stories from their countries of origin in conversations with the author between 2010 and 2014. 14 In Hyderabad, for example, older men stand near younger men performing blood-drawing flagellation in the streets, ready to restrain and help anyone risking hurting himself too severely (Pinault 1992: 122). None of the flagellants was allowed to administer more than three or four slashes to his forehead or scalp in the ritual of shamshīr-zanī. An entirely different approach to the permissibility or prohibition of blood flagellation is presented by the Islamiya School, which has been operating in India since the 1950s to prepare young men for studies at the Shiite centres in the Middle East. The school calls for discrimination between different blood flagellation techniques and argues that Khamenei’s decree on blood flagellation only addresses the practice of qameh-zadan, which involves cutting one’s forehead with a knife, and not zanjīr-imātam, striking oneself with a flail comprising several blades attached to chains. The Islamiya School therefore continues to sponsor lamentation processions in which marchers perform flagellation with zanjīrs and shed their blood. See Pinault 2001: 199.

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following evaluations. It is, they claim, mentioned in the religious sources, it is not an innovation, it does not cause damage to the body, and it does not defame the religion. Ayatollah Muḥammad al-Shīrāzī (d. 2001), who has many followers, particularly in Iraq, Syria, Bahrain, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, and some followers in Western countries, argues very strongly in favour of the practice. Contrary to Khamenei, Faḍlallāh, and al-Khūʾī, al-Shīrāzī claims that blood-drawing flagellation is mentioned in the ḥadīth and that it was part of early Islamic practice, in particular that of Imam Ḥusayn’s family. On al-Shīrāzī’s homepage, for example, a ḥadīth is presented about Zaynab, the sister of Imam Ḥusayn, who is reported to have hit her forehead on the bar of the carriage she was travelling in when she saw the head of her brother Imam Ḥusayn being paraded in public, causing blood to flow from beneath her veil.15 Al-Shīrāzī also refers to the criterion of “causing harm to the body” in his evaluation of the permissibility of blood-drawing flagellation. His stipulation is that the practice is permitted and even a recommended deed, mustaḥabb, unless it leads to death, loss of a limb, or the loss of faculties. Contrary to Khamenei, Faḍlallāh and al-Khūʾī, al-Shīrāzī’s evaluation is that blooddrawing flagellation is not extremely harmful, and that the practice is thus recommended. It could even become obligatory (wājib), which is a more binding qualification than “recommended”. Moreover, he rejects the criterion of “defaming” religion.16 Rejecting the denials of blood-drawing flagellation presented by Khamenei and Faḍlallāh, as well as the neutral attitude held by some marjaʿs, alShīrāzī concludes that blood-drawing flagellation is permitted and encourages his followers to perform the practice.17

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15 http://imamshirazi.com/tatbir. This positive evaluation of the source is challenged by the

editors of the anti-flagellation website http://tatbir.org on the grounds of an incomplete chain of transmitters (isnād), and its historically weak documentation. For more references to ayatollahs being critical to the story’s authenticity, see http://tatbir. The ḥadīth about Zaynab is also known by some of my interlocutors in Oslo, following al-Sīstānī, but rejected as being weak. 16 Al-Shīrāzī argues that the Iranian prohibition of blood flagellation is taqiyya, dissimulation of the faith (to assure survival). The doctrine of taqiyya was developed during the political turbulence and harassment of the sixth Imam, Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq, and his followers after the ʿAbbāsid takeover of the Caliphate in 750. See Arjomand 1987 and Momen 1985. 17 In 1928, a dispute was sparked off between Twelver Shiite religious scholars based in Lebanon, Syria, and Iraq, a debate known as “the great struggle”, fitna. The arguments presented against blood flagellation claimed that blood flagellation is unlawful innovation, bidʿa. Moreover, blood flagellation was prohibited on the grounds that it caused harm to the body and endangered the life of a human. Blood flagellants were accused of wanting to show themselves off and not perform the rite with pure intentions, and the practice did not sufficiently respect the intellectual and emotional climate of the time and place in which it was performed. The number of those calling publicly for an abolition of blood flagellation was, however, small at the time, see Ende 1978. Rather, quite a number of the most prominent Shia scholars in Iraq and Lebanon spoke out in favour of bloody self-flagellation, evaluating

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Blood Donation, an Alternative to Blood-Drawing Flagellation? In the last decades, blood donation has become increasingly popular among Twelver Shiites in the Middle East, South Asia, and the West, as an alternative practice to blood-drawing flagellation. In Great Britain, blood donation campaigns have been coordinated since 1987, in collaboration with the National Blood Service, attracting an increasing number of donors over the years.18 Since 2000, young Iraqi intellectuals teaching at Ḥawzat al-Murtaḍā, a religious school supervised by Faḍlallāh in Sayyida Zaynab outside Damascus, have also launched blood donation drives on ʿāshūrāʾ as an alternative to blood-drawing flagellation (Mervin 2007: 147). The initiative has been organized in collaboration with the Syrian government, with Palestinians responsible for sending the blood to Palestine. In Lebanon, Hezbollah organizes blood donation drives, reaching out to its members through radio and TV stations. In Iraq, blood donation as an alternative to flagellation is prompted by the increased demand for blood caused by the many bomb attacks that have targeted Iraqi civilians, escalating since 2003. In Afghanistan, campaigns have been organized with support from religious community leaders (for example, the Hazāra community) and politicians, while it has been facilitated at hospitals, centres established in towns around the country, and by means of mobile teams. 19 Blood drives are also organized in Iran, Azerbaijan and elsewhere.20

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the practice as recommendable, mustaḥabb/mandūb. This positive evaluation was nonetheless coupled with sanctions calling for modesty, permitting all forms of flagellation provided that they did not cause permanent injury to the flagellant, or lead to his death, which is forbidden, ḥarām, in Islam, see Nakash 2004: 156. One challenge facing Shiism at the time was the revival of the Wahhabi movement under ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz ibn Saʿūd. In this climate, several religious scholars were afraid that rites of bloody self-flagellation would give outsiders a bad image of Shiism. In Iraq, moreover, the Shia faith, its institutions, values, and practices were under pressure from the rising modern state, see Nakash 2004: 155. 18 The Twelver Khoja community has, for example, for years promoted and facilitated blood donations around the country, and their websites inform about when, where, and how to donate, and who can participate. http://www1.ksmnet.org/20091224358/News/Latest/ImamHussain-as-Blood-Donation-Campaign.html. 19 For example, BBC reported on blood donations on ʿāshūrāʾ, Friday, 9 January 2009. http:// news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/7820746.stm. In 2012, the Second Vice-President (Muḥammad Karīm Khalīlī) Karim Khalili is the current second vice-president of Afghanistan in the administration of President Hamid Karzai. He is one of the main leaders of the Wahdat political party. and the Minister of Health (Suraya Dalail) urged Shias to donate blood on ʿāshūrāʾ. http:// www.thefreelibrary.com/Khalili+urges+Shias+to+donate+blood+on+Ashura.-0349086531. 20 http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3159261/; http://en.trend.az/news/society/17 98395.html.

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Blood donation, like blood-drawing flagellation, is contested among high-ranking religious scholars. And similar to the debate on bloody self-flagellation, some marjaʿs argue that blood donation is permitted as a ritual practice; others refrain from passing absolute judgements in the matter, while a third reaction is to rule that blood donation is not a legitimate ritual practice. Khamenei and Faḍlallāh, who are against blood-drawing flagellation, approve of blood donation as an alternative to flagellation and encourage their followers to participate in blood drives. Ayatollah Hādī al-Mudarrisī from Karbala finds that blood-drawing flagellation is neither forbidden nor obligatory. He does not, however, see any relationship between flagellation and blood donation and concludes that, although blood donation is a noble action, it should not be considered an alternative to blood-drawing flagellation, differently from the debate on blood-flagellation.21 Al-Shīrāzī, who supports blood-drawing flagellation, claims that this method is a better ritual practice than blood donation. Despite such differences, blood donation is generally endorsed as an honourable deed, but often dismissed as a legitimate rite of commemoration on the grounds that it is a modern trend among the Shiites living in Western countries without any foundation in the Islamic tradition. 22 According to this view, the practice is considered an innovation. The religious authorities’ opinions on blood donation thus go in different directions, again leaving the practitioners with various options between which to choose in their ritual practice.

Chains of Denials, Scholarly Flexibility, and Ritual Plurality The religious scholarly debate on blood-letting rites is nourished by a chain of denials in which some scholars’ denial of blood-drawing flagellation is met with refutation by other scholars. Denial of blood-drawing flagellation sometimes contributes to eliminating the practice from rituals commemorating the battle at Karbala. Such denials are met with counter-denials from other marjaʿs’ permitting the practice, a standpoint which stimulates and legitimizes the continuation of bloody self-flagellation among these marjaʿs’ followers. As I have shown, religious scholars’ denial of blood-drawing flagellation has also produced an alternative ritual practice, that of blood donation. The legitimacy of blood donation as a rite, too, is a topic of discussion among high-ranking religious scholars. There is, however, asymmetry between the debates on the two blood-letting practices. Blooddrawing flagellation is outright condemned by its critics, whereas blood donation generally is praised as an honourable civil action, but evaluated by some as an illegitimate rite, thus being rejected and denied. The neutral position held by many religious scholars in these matters is not insignificant in ritual practice, as it pro-

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21 http://tatbir.org/. 22 http://www.schiiten.com/backup/AhlelBayt.com/www.ahlelbayt.com/articles/matam/ayatolla

hs-matam.html.

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vides a middle ground between otherwise opposite positions and offers the individual practitioner more possibilities for autonomous manoeuvre. Although each individual religious scholar is consistent in his evaluation and opinion on blooddrawing flagellation and blood donation, the chain of denials involved in the debate results in ritual continuity, discontinuity, and change. In sum, the scholars’ multiple positions produce flexibility and ritual plurality. How can the Twelver Shiites endure such flexibility and plurality in scholarly positions on ritual practices without disintegrating into new sectarian groups?

The Institution of Twelver Shia Religious Authority (marjaʿiyyat al-taqlīd) The high-ranking religious scholars’ flexible position on blood-drawing flagellation and blood donation is, I argue, embedded in the horizontal organisational structure of the Twelver Shia institution of religious authority, the marjaʿiyyat altaqlīd. The marjaʿiyyat al-taqlīd developed in the eighteenth century when a religious elite known as mujtahid emerged among the Twelver Shias.23 A mujtahid is attributed with the authority to make decisions based on rational deduction from the religious sources of law (ijtihād), so as to arrive at reasonably practical legal norms. In the latter part of the nineteenth century, the structure was elaborated to single out the superiority of one mujtahid over the other, and the marjaʿiyyat altaqlīd developed. Resting on the idea that a scholar’s granting of authority in religious legal matters is based on fallible stipulations, the institution has become headed by a body of equally authoritative male religious scholars, marjaʿ altaqlīds, who pass equally valid judgements on ritual practices. At any given time, therefore, there might be several recognized marjaʿ al-taqlīds operating.24 In order to advance to the status of marjaʿ taqlīd, a mujtahid must excel in three moral qualities; knowledge, justice, and piety (Amanat 1988: 98-99). However, neither are there any clear requirements for the assessment of these qualities, nor are

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23 To be able to possess the “power” (quwwa) of ijtihād, the jurist must have command of

Arabic grammar and syntax, jurisprudence (fiqh), and the precedence for opinion (fatwā) and consensus (ijmāʿ) on legal and doctrinal issues, as well as a fair knowledge of Quranic exegesis, tafsīr, in addition to the stories about the Prophet Muḥammad, ḥadīth, and its narrators (rijāl), logic, and theology (kalām). See Amanat 1988: 125, fn 3. 24 The idea that one mujtahid could hold universal juridical authority over the entire community, marjaʿiyyat-i taqlīd-i tāmm, has, on a few occasions, led to the dominance of one marjaʿ al-taqlīd over all the others. While the issue at stake here is the scope of a scholar’s authority, the idea of the Guardianship of the Jurist, velāyat-i faqīh, which was institutionalized in Iran after the establishment of the Islamic Republic, instead challenges the hegemony of the emulator (muqallid) in authorizing a mujtahid becoming a source of emulation. Amanat 1988: 124.

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institutional authorities appointed to propose a candidate. Instead, a mujtahid’s advancement to a marjaʿ al-taqlīd, a source of emulation, is dependent on the subjective recognition of his peers, his equals, lower-ranking religious scholars, and, not least, by the laity. In fact, the institution of marjaʿiyyat al-taqlīd basically rests on the emulator’s (muqallid) decision on whether a scholar’s ruling is of relevance or not to his or her personal life situation. Thus, while the religious scholar is superior to the emulator in being authorized to pass legitimate stipulations on the religious law, the emulator is autonomous, at least in principle, in deciding on whose advice to follow. A religious scholar thus cannot issue a generally valid religious stipulation in a matter, but must argue for his position, and his ruling is binding only to his followers. It is therefore important for the marjaʿ al-taqlīd to communicate his ideas to the general Twelver Shia public. A marjaʿ al-taqlīd communicates his ideas in a written publication, risāla, and by setting up theological seminars which attract students, who will later become the marjaʿ´’s representatives vis à vis the religious scholarly community and the lay public. In the last couple of decades, many marjaʿs have become ardent users of modern communication technologies, such as the Internet. The scholars’ positions on blood-letting rites are promoted on official homepages on the World Wide Web, as well as on sites entirely dedicated to the issue, for example http://tatbir.org/.25 In addition, film streaming facilities, such as YouTube, allow religious scholars of all ranks to broadcast lectures to a global audience. The interactive character of the Internet makes it possible for the lay public to ask questions directly of the religious scholars and to quickly make comparisons between the marjaʿs’ positions in various matters, before deciding whose advice to follow. While religious scholars thus hold the authority to evaluate the juridical religious legitimacy of different blood-letting rites, the follower is given the responsibility of evaluating the social legitimacy of the practices.

Denials and Dynamics of Ritual Change The Twelver Shia scholars’ chain of denials and counter-denials regarding bloodletting rites leads to ritual plurality. Such flexibility, I have argued, is embedded in the Twelver Shia institution of marjaʿiyyat al-taqlīd. The legitimacy of rites is not, however, simply decided on by religious scholars’ rationalisations and sanctions. In order for a rite to be associated with a specific ritual complex, the rite must be connected, in some way or another, to that ritual’s identity; if this is not the case, it is a new ritual. How may denials of blood-flagellation, leading to the elimination of the rite or the creation of a new rite, that of blood donation, be accommodated into

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25 For more examples, see the bibliography.

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the liturgical structure of Twelver Shia rituals of commemoration without the ritual losing its legitimacy and identity?

Interrituality and Intrarituality The rite of flagellation may appear in several of the rituals developed to commemorate the battle at Karbala, in particular the memorial service, the procession, and the pilgrimage to Imam Ḥusayn’s tomb in Karbala. Together, these rituals form a distinct Twelver Shia commemorative ritual complex characterized by “interrituality”, a term coined by Gladigow to describe a situation in which each ritual in a ritual complex is composed of a number of rites, which often appear in several of the rituals, and refer to each other (Gladigow 2006: 491). The rituals are also, I suggest, characterized by “intrarituality”, a situation in which rites refer to each other within a ritual. In these rituals, rites are sometimes performed in sequence by the ritual participants. For example, in mourning services, a rite involving the performance of, and listening to, storytelling while weeping and engaging in mild forms of self-flagellation (by the palm of the hand), is followed by more interactive rites involving the recitation of, listening to, and responding to lamentation poetry (Arabic marathiya, Persian nowḥeh), also while weeping and engaging in mild forms of self-flagellation. In men’s ritual performance, a rite involving the performance of elegies accompanied by chain-flagellation is sometimes added to this sequence of mourning rites. In the processions, however, rites are performed simultaneously by groups of men. The groups perform different types of selfflagellation rites with, typically, younger men performing the more violent forms of self-flagellation. Although not all ritual participants will participate in every rite in the rituals, the rites function as references or quotations between and within rituals, linking rites and rituals together to form the Karbala commemorative liturgy. The interritual and intraritual characters of the commemorative rituals suggest they do not form fixed patterns, but, in flexible ways, relate and connect with each other. In order to be acknowledged as legitimate ritual practices, the elimination of flagellation and the creation of the new rite, blood donation, must connect and relate to other rites and ritual. In discussing how the rites function as inter- and intraritual references between and within the rituals, it is useful to distinguish between different types of references, such as technical, semiotic, and devotional references. Ethnographic field research in India suggests that the infliction of pain on the body and drawing of blood during flagellation are demonstrations of how the flagellants would have stood up for Ḥusayn if they were at the battle at Karbala, and signs of their willingness to suffer for Imam Ḥusayn’s cause.26 Likewise, the rite of chain-flagellation, performed by male participants according to culturally developed choreographies,

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26 Hyder 2006: 52; Ruffle 2011: 69.

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tools, and musical expressions, is performed at memorial services, in processions, and during pilgrimage to Imam Ḥusayn’s tomb in Karbala. Although performed according to flagellation techniques that differ from that of blood-drawing flagellation, chain-flagellation rites share symbolic references with bloody self-flagellation in that it expresses the practitioners’ willingness to fight and suffer for Imam Ḥusayn.27 Instead, mild forms of self-flagellation, such as hitting the chest or the lap with a light stroke of the hand, performed by men and women in memorial services, by men in street processions and by male and female onlookers, and by men and women on pilgrimage at Ḥusayn’s shrine, are perceived to be expressions of mourning the martyrs at Karbala. Violent flagellation and moderate chain-flagellation are thus given semiotic significance, perceived to be symbolic expressions of the practitioners’ willingness to fight and suffer for the cause of Imam Ḥusayn, while mild forms of flagellation are emotional expressions of mourning and grief. Flagellation rites are also devotional acts. Ethnographic field research from India suggests that the cloths stained with blood from the flagellants’ cuts on the forehead or the back serve as a token of devotion to Imam Ḥusayn.28 Flagellants often perceive a relationship between practicing flagellation as a devotional act and that of gaining merit. This is also reported from nineteenth-century Iraq, where those who inflicted cuts on their heads were described as “lovers of Ḥusayn”, who sought to sacrifice themselves in order to gain a reward or a blessing from the Imam. Bloody self-flagellation is not necessarily perceived to be a devotional act of merit only to the flagellant. Rather, the flagellants’ blood might be offered on behalf of the community as a mark of love for Imam Ḥusayn.29 Historical studies from nineteenth-century Iraq demonstrate how female onlookers sometimes would seek out a piece of the blood-stained garment of the flagellant, considering it a sort of blessing. Such a relationship between flagellants and onlookers is noticeable in contemporary ethnographic studies, too. In Hyderabad, unmarried women reach

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27 Interview with ritual participants in Iran between 2000 and 2003. 28 Pinault 1992: 114. In Hyderabad, the Twelver Shia distinguishes between two basic forms of

mourning practices, mātam. The mild variety involves breast beating with one or two hands, sīneh-zanī, while a more violent form of mātam is performed “with implements”. Probably the most widely used instrument is the patti, a naked razor blade inserted between the fingers of the right hand, which is used to beat the beast. Another instrument used for breast beating is the chaqchaqi, a wooden disc studded with nails. In India, the zanjīr, which is used for lacerating one’s back, consists of four or five meal blades, each some six inches in length, connected by chains to a wooden handle (Pinault 1992: 113–114). In addition, they perform shamshīr-zanī, with knives and short swords used to inflict wounds to one’s scalp and forehead. Blood flagellation is performed in processions in streets, at market places, as well as in the shrines. The significance of blood flagellation in Hyderabad is illustrated by the fact that on the day of ʿāshūrāʾ chest-beating accompanies the bibi kalam, the most sacred of the town’s standards, Hyder 2006: 47–49. 29 On the flagellation as a sign of love, see Nakash 2004: 149–150, and Pinault 1992: 124.

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out to take daubs of blood from the men’s bodies and smear the blood on their right palms. For women who wish to marry, the flagellators’ blood is charged with the charismatic power of Qāsim’s blood (Imam Ḥusayn’s young nephew, married to Ḥusayn’s daughter and martyred at Karbala), transmitting the saint’s merciful intercession in a marriage alliance.30 In this setting, bloody self-flagellation is not perceived to be an act of merit simply for the flagellant; rather the flagellant’s blood, perceived to be charged with charismatic power, may transmit blessing to those who touch it.31 Mild forms of self-flagellation, too, are perceived to be devotional acts of merit. When performed in memorial services, mild forms of selfflagellation are characteristically accompanied by the male and female ritual participants’ listening to elegiac poetry recitation, while weeping in response to what they hear. Weeping and self-flagellating practices are lamentation and funerary practices performed since the early history of Islam, probably adapted from pre-Islamic customs (Halevi (2007) 2011). While the practices were contested by the early religious scholars for religious as well as political reasons, lamentation ceremonies, including weeping and flagellating practices probably contributed in sustaining the Shia community and its religious orientation after the setback it experienced at the battle at Karbala in 680. At least this is how the practice are presented in the Shia hagiographic narratives which report that the female kin following Ḥusayn to the plains of Karbala beat their chests and cheeks and raised the lament, while Imam Ḥusayn’s sister Zaynab is said to later have hosted gatherings of lamentation in her home to commemorate the injustice brought upon her family by the caliph (Ayoub 1978: 113). The idea that weeping and lamenting could be considered devotional acts is later formulated in a ḥadīth from the sixth Imam, Jaʿfar al-Ṣādiq (d. 765), who is reported to have said that “The sigh of the sorrowful for the wrong done to us is an act of praise, tasbīḥ [of God], his sorrow for us an act of worship” (Ayoub 1978: 143). A few generations later, Imam Rezā (d. 818) is said to have underlined the spiritual and soteriological aspects of the rites of mourning when asserting that “the person for whom the day of ʿāshūrāʾ would be a day of calamity, sorrow and weeping, for him God will make the day of resurrection a day of joy and happiness” (Nakash 1993: 166). It is today widely held among Twelver Shiites that the ritual practice of weeping for the suffering of the Prophet Muḥammad’s family, especially for the death of Imam Ḥusayn, would be answered by a redemptive reward, thawāb, from God. Flagellation rites performed in memorial services, street processions, and on pilgrimage thus refer to

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30 Amanat 1988: 124. On the women's responses, see Nakash 2004: 149–150, and Ruffle 2011:

13–14.

31 The women’s practice corresponds to that of pilgrims rubbing the shrines of Imam Ḥusayn

and Abu al-Faḍl ʿAbbās, his half-brother, in Karbala, with fabrics to transfer power from the place where the body of the saint resides to the pilgrims’ everyday world.

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each other technically, semiotically, and as devotional acts of merit, and connect the different rituals in the Twelver Shia commemorative rituals complex.

Denying Blood-Drawing Flagellation The rite of blood-drawing flagellation is presently exposed to various types of changes; it is denied and removed, and sometimes replaced, by blood donation. The flexible, dynamic interritual and intraritual structure of Twelver Shia rituals of commemoration, I suggest, facilitates the accommodation of denial and changes in ritual performance. In Iran, for example, the rite of bloody self-flagellation has been removed from street processions, whereas the rite of chain-flagellation is permitted. Some ritual participants argue that chain flagellation does not permit the flagellant to share in Ḥusayn’s pain to the extent that blood flagellation permits. Other ritual participants are not concerned with sharing in Ḥusayn’s physical pain, but rather in his emotional pain, related to the loss of his sons and his brother in the battle, which they do by weeping.32 “Pain” is thus a concept associated with several rites in the Karbala commemorative rituals, which create platforms for ritual participants to express sympathy and alliance with Ḥusayn, as well as to “experiencing” Karbala. This aspect is not necessarily lost when the rite of chain-flagellation replaces blood-drawing flagellation in street processions. The actions’ abilities to evoke the sensations, to bring about the experience of physical and emotional pain, and to express sorrow are essential properties also associated with chainflagellation rites. During the last few decades, Twelver Shia migrants to Europe and NorthAmerica have organized street processions on ʿāshūrāʾ or arbaʿīn (Takim 2009). In these processions, not only blood-drawing flagellation, but also chain-flagellation and mild forms of flagellation tend to be avoided. As I suggested above, flagellation rites are perceived as expressing the willingness to fight for the cause of Imam Ḥusayn, to mourn his death, and to use the rites as devotional acts by experiencing pain and expressing sorrow. Are these aspects lost when flagellation rites are removed altogether? In Oslo, the Twelver Shia community has, for the last seven years, organized a street procession in Muḥarram. Flagellation is perceived by many, who support the denials of blood-drawing flagellation issues by Khamenei, Faḍlallāh, and al-Khūʾī, as defaming Islam and Muslims in front of the Norwegian public. Instead, verbal messages about peace and coexistence are introduced to create a positive image of Islam and Muslims.33 Participants in the processions present posters with slogans expressing their intentions, stating: “We commemorate the murder of the grandchild of the Prophet Muḥammad”. A mixture of

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32 Interviews with interlocutors of Iranian, Iraqi and Afghani heritage in Oslo between 2010 and

2014.

33 Personal observation between 2008 and 2013.

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devotional and, perhaps, political sentiments are articulated in posters announcing, “Imam Ḥusayn is the true path to Islam”. Over the years, the posters have become more pronounced in their responses to international and national discussions on Islamic extremism. The participants distance themselves from such activities by presenting posters announcing: “We, the Shia Muslims, are victims of terror. No to suppression and tyranny”. Some posters speak explicitly against violence: “No to terror in the name of Islam”, and “Yes to freedom of religion”. Shiism is presented not as part of the problem, but of the solution: “ʿĀshūrāʾ will combat Wahhabi terror. Imam Ḥusayn gave freedom to the people”. There are also attempts to reach out to the non-Muslim majority population with posters by announcing a ḥadīth by Imam ʿAlī: “A human being is either your brother in faith or your equal as a human being (Imam ʿAlī)”. In this particular context, the ḥadīth becomes a remark on interreligious coexistence between Muslims and non-Muslims. In fact, the procession is called a “peace procession”. Although there is here a clear break when it comes to ritual techniques, with carrying posters substituting for flagellation practices, participation in the procession is still perceived to be a devotional act. However, expressions of mourning have been relegated to the background, while socio-political issues, such as terror, freedom of religion, and peaceful coexistence have moved to the foreground. Conveying this message has now become a central part of participating in Ḥusayn’s struggle. Those who deny the denial of blooddrawing flagellation continue to practice the rite in the ritual halls, although they may also participate in the reinvented ritual procession.

Introducing Blood Donation Blood donation represents a different form of change in the Karbala commemorative ritual complex. Here, a secular practice is transferred to a ritual complex and given religious signification. In places with large Shiite populations, such as Iraq, Iran, and Afghanistan, and, relatively speaking, Great Britain, this process is facilitated by organising large collective turn-outs for blood donors during Muḥarram. With high turn-outs in Muḥarram, and the practice being repeated on a yearly basis, blood donation is beginning to work itself into the liturgical frame of Karbala commemorative ritual. In places with small Shiite populations, such as in Oslo, the Shiites have not yet succeeded in oganising collective blood drives in Muḥarram. Instead, potential donors find information on Internet sites and show up on an individual basis at public health offices. The individual donor’s experience is sometimes shared with fellow believers on the Internet, on some occasions supported by “selfies”, thus making individual actions publicly known and part of a collective effort performed in Muḥarram. There are references in blood donation made to blood flagellation when it comes to the practice of drawing blood. There are, however, differences between the rites with regard to the purpose of drawing blood, and what is being done with the blood. In blood-drawing flagellation practices, there is a close association between pain and the power of merit of the

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blood. Blood donation, on the other hand, relates very concretely to issues of health. Supporters of blood donation argue that this practice is better than blood flagellation because, rather than “spilling” the blood, it helps sick people and saves human lives. 34 The argument is sometimes supported with a reference to the Quran, 5:32, “And whoever saves one life, it is as if he has saved the whole of mankind”.35 Many blood donors see blood donation as an example of humanitarian work, and as Ḥusayn’s actions continue to be held up as a model for emulation, the argument runs that the best way to demonstrate solidarity with Imam Ḥusayn is by sacrificing blood to save human lives. The above interpretation of the significance of the battle at Karbala rests on several developments in the history of how the battle of Karbala has been interpreted in the last fifty years. In the 1960s and 1970s, Muslim thinkers and religious scholars, in particular Muṭahharī (1920–1979), Sharīʿatī (1933–1977), and Khomeini 1902–1989), were instrumental in transforming the previously held identification with Karbala from a socially quietist to a politically activist commitment to struggle for “justice” and social change (Dabashi 2008). To motivate such changes, Ḥusayn’s suffering was interpreted as a sacrifice for justice. This line of interpretation was instrumental in preparing the revolution in Iran in 1978–79 against the Shahh’s dictatorship. The last two examples of contemporary changes in Twelver Shia rituals of commemoration, carrying posters in street processions and presenting slogans about the current socio-political situation and donating blood, show tendencies of new interpretations being made of the significance of the battle at Karbala, articulated through altered and new ritual practices. A common point of reference between the new ritual practices is their attempt to reach out to nonShiites and their messages of interreligious coexistence between Muslims and nonMuslims. In both cases, Ḥusayn’s struggle is interpreted as benefitting humanity. What binds the new ritual practices to the ritual complex of Karbala commemorative rituals is that the actions are still held to be devotional acts of merit.

The Historical Transfer of Blood-Drawing Flagellation to the Commemorative Ritual Complex Blood donation is an innovation in the ritual complex of Karbala commemorative rituals, transferred from the secular domain of society, and by some scholars and lay people considered an illegitimate innovation, bidʿa. Some of its critics prefer blood-drawing flagellation to the newly introduced rite. As an element of public, collective ritual, blood-drawing flagellation was, however, at some point also transferred into the Karbala ritual complex from outside. Historical indications

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34 Interview with interlocutors in Oslo 2010 and 2014. 35 http://www1.ksmnet.org/20091224358/News/Latest/Imam-Hussain-as-Blood-Donation-

Campaign.html.

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suggest blood-drawing flagellation was introduced into Twelver Shiism in the early sixteenth century. The information on ritual practices at this time is scarce, but a review of its early history suggests the practice shared features with several other rites already part of the Karbala commemorative ritual complex. Such interritual and intraritual references, I suggest, explain the rite’s initial accommodation into the rituals and its circulation, although, parallel to a process of gradual integration into the Karbala commemorative ritual complex, the practice was also contested and restricted. Blood flagellation was first noted as a rite in Shiite rituals of commemoration in Turkish-speaking regions in Eastern Anatolia, the Caucasus, and Azerbaijan in the early sixteenth century (Nakash 1993: 174). The rite, in which self-injurious practices were performed, among them cutting the forehead with knives and swords, shows indications of influence from the rituals of the Qizilbāsh. The Qizilbāsh was a coalition of predominantly Turcoman tribes who had converted to Islam between the eleventh and the fifteenth centuries, and who practiced a sort of Shiism combined with Sufism, as well as shamanistic and anthropolatric folk religiosity.36 It is possible that ritualized self-injurious practices were performed to achieve both religious (mystic) and military development.37 When the Safavid order established its dynastic rule over Iran in 1501 with the military support of the Qizilbāsh, blood flagellation practices probably infiltrated Karbala mourning rituals in Iran.38 The practices are known in Persian as shamshīr zanī, sword cutting, and qameh zanī, dagger cutting. Due to the lack of sources, it is problematic to establish the early history of blood-drawing flagellation in Iran. It is difficult to estimate the popularity of the practice and its geographical spread, but reports of the practice being performed at the island of Hurmuz in the south of Iran around the middle of the sixteenth century, offer some indications of its potential for spreading (Calmard 1996: 142). Although it is problematic to establish with certainty with which rituals and rites appeared when and where, it seems that when transferred to Iran, the Qizilbāsh rite of self-flagellation was incorporated into a Twelver Shia cultural environment in which various forms of self-inflicted violence were already practiced in rituals commemorating Karbala. The most commonly performed ritual was the public gathering, majles, in which ritual experts performed elegy recitation

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36 The Qizilbāsh held chiliastic expectations, and entered into battle without armour, expecting

the spiritual master to watch over them, see Arjomand 1987: 191–192. For a description of Qizilbāsh belief, see Arjomand 1987: 80. 37 The origins and developments of self-flagellating practices among Muslims remain obscure. Rahimi suggest a process of “cross-fertilization” between shamanist, Sufi, Shia, and Christian practices in the Anatolian, Mesopotamian and Euro-Mediterranean regions, see Rahimi 2012: 210–215. For a discussion of the possible Christian influence on the practice, see Nakash 1993. 38 For a discussion of the militarization of the Qizilbāsh Sufi order, see Arjomand 1987: 77–81.

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while the audience responded with wailing and light self-flagellation rites such as face-slapping. Travel reports by European travellers and diplomats, moreover, speak of men performing self-burial (with only the head left above the ground), and groups of men participating in self-flagellation by slashing parts of the body with a blade, a form of chain beating. These rites were performed at marketplaces and squares as part of Karbala commemorative ritual. 39 Self-flagellating practices introduced from Eastern Anatolia, therefore, made references and connections to already established rites of self-inflicting injury, as well as to well-established milder forms of self-flagellation, such as chest beating and slapping the face, in the ritual complex of Karbala commemorative rituals.40 It does not seem likely, though, that Qizilbāsh-inspired rites of bloody selfflagellation gained significant public momentum. During the reign of the Safavids, Qizilbāsh influence gradually diminished as they were increasingly deprived of military, political, economic, and religious power. The Qizilbāsh’s religious influence was particularly curbed by Shah ʿAbbās I (1587–1629) when he banned the public recitation of the important Qizilbāsh text Abū Muslim nāmeh in the process of exchanging Qizilbāsh Islam for Imamism. Instead, the Safavid rulers used rituals of Muḥarram commemoration to expand Twelver Shiism and to legitimize and promote their claim to religious and political authority. 41 In particular, during the reign of Shah ʿAbbās I there was a progressive expansion of the Karbala rituals. The rituals evolved into a great festival, both civil and religious, which involved large segments of the population. Stationary commemoration rituals performed in ritual assembly halls and at squares evolved into ambulatory street processions which, over time, expanded, developed, and became more organized to include representations of the characters of Karbala, empty coffins, and animals. European travel reports from the beginning of the seventeenth century mention various forms of bloody and violent ritual practices, but do not include descriptions of the supposedly Qizilbāsh bloody practice42 It is difficult to assess whether this is because the practice was no longer performed in public, or

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39 For a review and discussion of European travel reports from Iran in the sixteenth and seven-

teenth century, see Rahimi 2012, chapter 4.

40 The public collective performance of such rites is noted in the first recorded public Twelver

Shia Muḥarram mourning procession, which took place in Baghdad in 963. It is said to have included groups of women weeping, wailing, and slapping the face in mourning. The public rituals were organized on the initiative of a representative of the Shiite Buyid dynasty (932– 1062), see Ayoub 1978: 153. 41 Babayan 1994: 144, and Calmard 1996. 42 Instead, the participants in Muḥarram processions showed bloody wounds on their heads and faces, and men (of Sufi inclination) performed ritual battles with long painted sticks, sometimes with fatal consequences, and the practice of self-burial continued, see Rahimi 2012: 222.

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because it was not performed in the public spaces accessible to the travellers.43 But the lack of mention of self-flagellating rituals does concur with the increased influence of Twelver Shia religious scholars in Iran, who were critical of the influence of the Qizilbāsh, which could imply that bloody self-flagellation was subject to some regulations at the time.44 Nevertheless, when blood-drawing flagellation is observed at mourning rituals performed in the Twelver Shiite shrine cities in Iraq in the late nineteenth century, it seems to be held that the practice was introduced by pilgrims from the Caucasus, Azerbaijan, or Tabriz.45 If this is correct, it is possible that the progressively state-autonomous character of Muḥarram rituals in Iran from the latter half of the seventeenth century, with members of guilds (fotovvat), females, and the poor, in control of ritual patronage and participation, provided diverse arenas for ritual performance and participation, including bloody self-flagellation, which continued to be practiced outside the control of state authorities and religious institutions (Rahimi 2012: 13). Depending on funding, competence, level of political control, and taste, ritual patrons and participants in Iran since the early sixteenth century have engaged in shaping and reshaping Karbala commemorative rites and rituals by incorporating elements from outside, designing new combinations of ritual elements already available, as well as inventing new ones. The aesthetic development of Muḥarram processions during the reign of the Qajar dynasty (1785–1925), sponsored by the Shah as well as by guilds of tradesmen and craftsmen, military brigades, and neighbourhood religious associations, is clear evidence of the continuous evolvement of ritual practices.46 The fusion of the stationary ritual rowzeh-khānī, the recitation of and listening to stories about the battle at Karbala, and ambulatory processions into a theatre genre called taʿziyeh around the middle of the eighteenth century is a good example of how new rituals evolved from old ones.47 The process of combining old and new Muḥarram rituals continued when bloody self-flagellation was introduced to the Iraqi shrine cities in the late nineteenth century. Karbala and Najaf had developed into important Twelver Shia pilgrimage sites in the early tenth century, with lamentation processions as an important ritual (Meri 2003: 194). With the transfer of bloody self-flagellation to these shrine cities in Iraq in the nineteenth century, the ritual practice encountered a multi-cultural setting while also contributing to shaping that setting. Attracting religious scholars and pilgrims

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43 Ritual processions in Isfahan, Shiraz and elsewhere, seem, however, to rely more and more

44 45 46 47

on abstract, symbolic representations, including coffins, mock figures, and painted figures referring to protagonists and antagonists at the battle at Karbala, see Rahimi 2012: 221–225. Newman 1993; Babayan 1994. Nakash 2004: 149; Ende 1978: 27–28. Aghaie 2004: 51–52. Aghaie offers a detailed analysis of Shia symbols and rituals in Iran since the late eighteenth century. Peterson 1979: 75; Chelkowski 1989: 104.

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from all over the Twelver Shia world, the towns functioned as points of gravitation for contacts and the dispersion of knowledge, ideas, and ritual practices. In Iraq, blood-drawing flagellation was gradually adopted by Iraqi Shias in urban environments, although only practiced by a minority. When performed in public, acts of self-flagellation were part of the public processions known as al-mawākib alḥusayniyya, mawākib al-ʿazāʾ, and al-subaya. At the shrines and in processions, blood-drawing flagellation supplemented moderate and mild forms of flagellation.48 Bloody self-flagellation has several times made similar transfers across geographical terrains and cultural spaces. In Lebanon and Syria, bloody selfflagellation was first noted in the late nineteenth century, introduced by Iranians who had settled in Nabatiya and Damascus, at the time controlled by the Ottomans. The Iranians practiced blood flagellation as part of their ʿāshūrāʾ processions, and with local inhabitants soon following suit, the practice was integrated into the local Shia ritual complex. 49 Self-flagellation practices probably reached India much earlier, transferred from Iran by Qizilbāsh soldiers. The first Mogul Emperor, Babur (d. 1530), was assisted by the first Safavid Shah, Ismāʿīl I, and there is reason to believe that among the troops there were Qizilbāsh elements (Momen 1985: 120–122). However, when Muḥarram rituals were transported via migration from India to Trinidad in the Caribbean, bloody self-flagellation was absent (Korom 2003: 43–46). Instead, male participants in street processions score themselves with stones, and are called stone beaters, sang-zan. More research is needed into the processes of transfer and ritual accommodation in each of these cases to discuss how rites are adopted and sometimes altered in the process, abandoned or replaced, and the theological reasoning and social motivation supporting such changes. The point I wish to make here is that ritual change and diversity is an integral part of the social life of Karbala commemorative rituals, including bloodletting practices. The stabilizing factor establishing a notion of ritual continuity despite change is produced by the interritual and intraritual character of the ritual complex, which creates a flexible ritual structure that can accommodate change and diversity, denial, and innovation.

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48 In Iraq, flagellation is typically performed by using a chain to which is attached small blades,

in order to cut the skin on the back to let the blood, or making an incision in the crown of the head. Milder forms of self-flagellation, such as face-slapping (performed by women) and chest beating by the hand, laṭmiyya (performed by women and men) have, however, been the most typical symbolic expression of grief, while men also partake in chain-flagellation, mātam zanjil, see Nakash 2004: 148. 49 A heated debate evolving in 1928 between religious Twelver Shia scholars based in Lebanon, Syria and Iraq, known as “The great struggle”, fitna, only contributed to demonstrating the flexible attitude among the scholars to the practice, and to provide the practitioners with a variety of ritual practices to choose between, see Ende 1978: 27.

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The Social Context of Ritual Blood-Letting Practices Rituals are not isolated phenomena, but are performed within a specific cultural and social context (Kreinath et al. 2004: 1–3). When and where various forms of ritual blood flagellation are performed or not, depend on the socio-political conditions in which the Twelver Shiites live. This is not the place for analysing in detail how socio-political interests have influenced blood flagellating practices, or how blood flagellation is used for political purposes. However, in light of the above discussion on ritual change and denial, it is important to point out that rites of blood-drawing flagellation can also be socio-political actions. Ritual change is thus often connected with politically motivated moves. A good example is how Twelver Shia rituals were used for political purposes during the Safavid dynasty, first to establish the new dynasty and later to curb Qizilbāsh political, economic, and religious influence. Later, the Qajar Shahs supported the development of new rites in order to emphasize popular support. In these shifting political climates, blooddrawing flagellation was contested but survived, and was even transferred to new geographical areas. The two Pahlavi Shahs, who ruled Iran between 1925 and 1979, introduced a ban on the bloody variations of self-flagellation, seeing it as a potential threat to their authority, as incompatible with their program of modernization, and as compromising the international reputation of the country. The negative evaluation by Khomeini and Khamenei of blood-drawing flagellation can be seen as an attempt to regulate the revival of Muḥarram rituals after the establishment of the Islamic Republic of Iran in 1979.50 Faḍlallāh’s critical position on blood flagellation is, instead, part of his attempt to open up a dialogue with members of other faiths in the particular multi-religious setting of Lebanese society (Rosiny 2001: 208). Contrary to such attempts to curb the practice of bloody self-flagellation, there has been a revival of the public performance of blood-drawing flagellation in the Middle East and South Asia in recent years. The revival is closely connected to the new political realities in the region and the growing empowerment of Shiites. In Afghanistan, members of the Twelver Shia minority have become slightly more confident after the Taliban, hostile to the Shiite minority, were defeated and their rule of Afghanistan ended in 2001. In Kabul, the Shias have become more visible in recent years despite continued threats from the Taliban. In December 2010, for example, it was reported that more than two hundred men and teenage boys participated in bloody self-flagellation, using sets of steel blades suspended on metal

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50 That the practice of blood flagellation did not disappear under the prohibition of the Pahlavi

Shahs is illustrated by Fischer’s description of a procession in Yazd in 1970, in which many participants performed self-mortification, see Fischer 1980.

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chains.51 In Iraq, Ayatollah Ṣādiq al-Shīrāzī has tried to re-establish blood-drawing flagellation after it had been prohibited during the reign of the Baʿth party from 1968 to 2003. The public has followed suit and since 2003, mourning rituals commemorating the battle at Karbala have increasingly become a public act performed in streets and public squares. Hundreds of men wearing white robes, demonstrating their readiness for martyrdom, march through the streets of Karbala, striking their heads with swords, causing blood to flow in order to show their grief at the killing of Imam Ḥusayn (Luizard 2012: 153). Not only is this a revival of the rite of blood-drawing flagellation. The manner, too, in which it is seems to draw on older performance traditions.52 Shīrāzīīs’ followers in Nabatiya in Lebanon, as well as in Sayyida Zaynab near Damascus, also practice blood flagellation. In Nabatiya, a large procession is organized on the ʿāshūrāʾ in which young men perform the rite with a large audience watching.53 In Sayyida Zaynab, the Syrian authorities, for a few years up to 2011, allowed the previously forbidden ritual to take place on the main street only at dawn, with no outsiders present. The authorities were worried that the processions could provoke sectarian strife between Shias and Sunnis. Since then, the sectarian violence in Syria has escalated without the contribution of Karbala commemorative processions. In Western countries, blood-drawing flagellation has not been brought up in the political discourse, and is neither endorsed nor forbidden by political authorities. Instead, Shia sensitivity to external condemnation of the practice, and of its potential for defaming Islam, promotes internal censoring of the practice. Blood donation has likewise become a social action. In many places in the Middle East and South Asia, Twelver Shiite blood donation has become a welcome contribution to improving public health care, whereas in some Western counties the practice also symbolically expresses processes of social bonding on the part of the Twelver Shiite minority.

Chains of Denials and Ritual Plurality Twelver Shia contestations over bloody self-flagellation and other blood-letting practices can be described as a chain of denials. The chain metaphor is used here to illustrate how denials are presented in a series of reactions and counter-reactions to

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51 Reported by Jerome Starkey in Kabul, The Times. Posted 14 December, 2010. The streets

run with blood as men perform the self-flagellation of Muḥarram. http://www.jerome starkey.com/ post/2312573809/the-streets-run-with-blood-as-men-perform-the 52 Nakash 2004: 149–150, relates how, in nineteenth century Iraq, the flagellants shaved their heads and dressed in white clothes, which symbolized the shroud of a corpse. Inside Ḥusayn’s shrine, a re-enactment of the battle at Karbala would take place, and at the moment of climax, the flagellants would start beating their heads with the edges of their swords. 53 Mervin 2007: 139 and 145–146.

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certain practices, as these evolve and change due to ritual performers’ adoptions and innovations. While the metaphor suggests that denials are presented in a linear fashion (denials are met with counter-denials), it does not account for the social life of ritual practices. Denying a rite does not necessarily result in its disappearance, while counter-denials do not necessary lead to its revival. Instead, rites may continue to be absent; they are changed or new ones are invented. Different rites may thus be practised simultaneously. In this context, the absence of a rite in a ritual also functions as a form of ritual practice. The chain of denials releases creativity rather than imposing censorship, and results in ritual plurality rather than religious schism. Such diversity in ritual practice may coexist among participants of a particular ritual, for example street processions, among members of a local community performing a set of rituals, for example street processions and mourning ceremonies, and at trans-local levels in which Twelver Shiites around the world participate in rituals with a shared liturgical orientation, that of commemorative rituals. Such creativity and plurality is, I suggest, not simply a result of the chain of denial itself, but based on interritual, intraritual, and extra-ritual factors. The interritual and intraritual character of the Karbala commemorative ritual complex generates ritual plasticity which accommodates chains of denial and ritual diversity in the ritual complex. And as rituals, despite change, are subject to standardisation and institutionalisation for shorter or longer periods of time, continuity and coherence are established in ritual practice. The ritual’s identity is thus not threatened. Among extra-ritual factors, I count the structure of religious authority. Its horizontal structure permits diversity in authoritative opinions on blood-letting practices, while lay people’s autonomy in choosing which authority to follow permits lay people to hold diverse opinions in the matter. The extra-ritual context also includes the religious textual sources consulted by the scholars, and the social context in which rituals are performed, including the external audience. These extra-ritual factors function to anchor chains of denials in certain discourses on legitimacy. Religious authoritative diversity combined with ritual plasticity allows chains of denials to function as creative incentives, which leads to ritual plurality within certain discourses on legitimacy.

References Aghaie, Kamran Scot. 2004. The Martyrs of Karbala. Seattle and London: University of Washington Press. Amanat, Abbas. 1988. “In Between the Madrasa and the Marketplace. The Designation of Clerical Leadership in Modern Shi´’ism”. In: Said Amir Arjomand (ed.), Authority and Political Culture in Shi’ism. Albany: State University of New York Press, pp. 98–132. Arjomand, Said Amir. 1987 (1984). The Shadow of God and Hidden Imam. Chicago, London: The University of Chicago Press.

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Ayoub, Mahmoud. 1978. Redemptive Suffering in Islam. The Hague, Paris, New York: Mouton Publishers. Babayan, Kathryn. 1994. “The Safavid Synthesis. From Qizilbash Islam to Imamite Shiism”. In: Iranian Studies 27.1/4: 135–161. Bell, Catherine. 1997. Ritual. Perspectives and Dimensions. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Calmard, Jean. 1996. “Shi’i Rituals and Power II. The Consolidation of Safavid Shi`’ism: Folklore and Popular Religion”. In: Charles Melville (ed.), Safavid Persia. London: I.B. Tauris, pp. 139–190. Chelkowski, Peter. 1985. “Shia Muslim Processional Performances”. In: The Drama Review. TDR, 29.3: 18–30. — 1989. “Narrative Painting and Painting Recitation in Qajar Iran”. In: Muqarnas 6: 98–111. — 1996. “Dasta”. In: Encyclopædia Iranica 7: 97–100. Dabashi, Hamid. 2008 (2006). Theology of Discontent. New Brunswick, London: Transaction Publishers. El-Fadl, Khaled Abou. 2012. “The Islamic Legal Tradition”. In: Mauro Bussani and Ugo Mattei (eds), The Cambridge Companion to Comparative Law. Cambridge University Press, pp. 295–213. Ende, Werner. 1978. “The Flagellation of Muharram and Shi’ite Ulama”. In: Der Islam 55: 19–36. Flaskerud. Ingvild. 2010. Visualizing Belief and Piety in Iranian Shiism. London, New York: Continuum. Fischer, Michael. 1980. Iran: From Religious Dispute to Revolution. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Gladigow, Burkhard. 2006. “Complexity”. In: Jens Kreinath, Jan Snoek and Michael Stausberg (eds), Theorizing Rituals: Issues, Topics, Approaches, Concepts. Leiden, Boston: Brill, pp. 483–495. Halevi, Leor. 2011 (2007). Muhammad’s Grave. New York: Columbia University Press. Halm, Heinz. 1997 (1987). Shiism. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Hyder, Syed Akbar. 2006. Reliving Karbala. Martyrdom in South Asian Memory. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Korom, Frank J. 2003. Hosay Trinidad. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Kreinath, Jens, Constance Hartung and Annette Deschner (eds). 2004. The Dynamics of Changing Rituals. New York: Peter Lang. Louër, Laurence. 2012. Shiism and Politics in the Middle East. New York: University of Columbia Press. Luizard, Pierre-Jean. 2012. “The revival of Shia Rituals in Iraq since the fall of Saddam Hussein’s Regime”. In: Pedram Khosrownejad (ed.), Saints and Their Pilgrims. Wantage: Sean Kingston Publishing, pp. 143–164. Meri, J. W. 2003. The Cult of Saints among Muslims and Jews in Medieval Syria. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Mervin, Sabrina. 2007. “Ashura. Some Remarks on Ritual Practices in Different Shiite Communities”. In: Alessandro Monsutti, Silvia Naef and Farian Sabahi (eds), The Other Shiites. Bern: Peter Lang, pp. 137–148. Momen, Mojan. 1985. An Introduction to Shi’i Islam. New Haven, London: Yale University Press. Nakash, Yitzhak. 1993. “An Attempt to Trace the Origin of the Rituals of Ashura”. In: Die Welt des Islams 33.1: 161–181. — The Shi’ites of Iraq. (1994) 2004. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press. Newman, Andrew. 1993. “The Myth of the Clerical Migration to Safawid Iran. Arab Shiite Opposition to Ali al-Karaki and Safawid Shiism”. In: Die Welt des Islams 33.1: 66–112. Norton, Augustus Richard. 2007. Hezbollah. A Short Introduction. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Pinault, David. 1993 (1992). The Shiites. Ritual and Popular Piety in a Muslim Community. New York: St. Martin’s Press. — 2001. Horse of Karbala. Muslim Devotional Life in India. New York: Palgrave. Peterson, Samuel. 1979. “The Ta´’zieh and Related Arts”. In: Peter J. Chelkowski (ed.), Ta´zieh. Ritual and Drama in Iran. New York: New York University Press, pp. 64– 87. Rahimi, Babak. 2012. Theatre State and the Formation of Early Modern Public Sphere in Iran. Leiden: Brill. Rosiny, Stephan. 2001. “The Tragedy of Fatima al-Zahra in the Debate of two Shiite Theologians in Lebanon”. In: Rainer Brunner and Werner Ende (eds), The Twelver Shia in Modern Times. Leiden: Brill, pp. 207–219. Ruffle, Karen G. 2011. Gender, Sainthood, and Everyday Practice in South Asian Shiism. Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina. Takim, Liyakat Nathani. 2009. Shi’ism in America. London, New York: New York University Press.

Websites http://tatbir.org/ (last accessed 20/06/2013) http://imamshirazi.com/tatbir%220fatawa.html (last accessed 23/08/2013) http://www.jeromestarkey.com/ post/2312573809/the-streets-run-with-blood-asmenperformthe (last accessed 16/08/2013) http://www.schiiten.com/backup/AhlelBayt.com/www.ahlelbayt.com/articles/matam/ay atollahs-matam.html (last accessed 02/12/2013) http://shiastrength.blogspot.no/2010/04/shiastrength-re-zanjeerzani-and.html (last accessed 11/12/2013) http://www.shiachat.com/forum/index.php?/topic/234990124-ayatullah-shirazi-tatbirsometimes-wajib/ (last accessed 20/06/2013)

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Denial and Repetition Towards a Solidification of Tradition Denial and Repetition

Jürgen Schaflechner

Introduction In this article I wish to describe current trends in religious orientation among Hindu communities in Pakistan in general, and inside the valley of the goddess Hiṅglāj, in the desert of Baluchistan, in particular. The case study will focus mainly on the question of animal sacrifice (hin. bali) and the impact of its eventual ban at Hiṅglāj in the year 2004 implemented by the temple committee, the Hiṅglāj Śevā Manḍalī1 (HSM). Taking bali as an example, I will show how ritual elements are stabilized and eventually solidified as important markers of religious expression inside the valley. The analysis of such motions of solidification2 can be seen as one way to approach identity formations occurring among Hindu communities at the shrine of the goddess Hiṅglāj. I will suggest that solidification needs the logic of denial for the construction of a constitutive outside, which is crucial for the formation of group identity. This outside is neither given nor per se solid, but contingent and, once articulated, must be constantly reified and stabilized through the work of individual actors and organizational bodies. In this way solidification describes a persistent effort by some actors to create a certain objectivity, which then is spread as the “actual” core of the tradition. The case of animal sacrifice inside the valley of Hiṅglāj will show how contingent and circumstantial events led to the official ban of the practice, which later became widely religiously interpreted and presented as an important marker of Hindu identity at the shrine. Additionally, I will show how once the ban was decided, repeated arguments did not simply exclude animal sacrifice from the valley, but rather the temple committee denied

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This and other words in the text are transliterated from Urdu and thus diverge from their Hindi or Sanskrit romanized form. The respective language from which the word originates is given in brackets. The transcription in interviews follows the rules for the Hindi language. Solidification is often associated with the work of Zygmunt Baumann (cf. 2000); however, this is not how I intend to use this concept here. Here I propose to define “solidification” as a temporary fixation of meaning within a particular context that has to be defined anew for every case study. Importantly solidification is not a fully constructed objectivity, such as, for example, the concept of “sedimentation” (Laclau 1990), but situated at a level of minor ossification.

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the practice with an appeal to discourses of rationality, progress and education.3 In this way rituals and parts of certain narratives are not merely banned from Hiṅglāj by the authority of the temple committee, but denied by labeling them generally outdated or uneducated. Through the repetition and the application of institutional means this denial is hereby crucial as a means of establishing a corpus of homogeneous and unified practices at the shrine. I will also show, however, that this position is not generally shared, but also fiercely contested by some Hindu-groups.

The Case Study: The Shrine of Hiṅglāj Mātā/Bībī Nānī The shrine of Hiṅglāj Mātā is located in the desert of Baluchistan about 250 kilometers west of Karachi, inside the Hingol National Park, near the shore of the Arabian Sea. The ancient history of the shrine probably dates back to the fifth century B.C.E., when the Greek author Ctesias mentioned a place of worship in this area resembling the valley of Hiṅglāj (Ctesias 1959). Hindus and local Muslim communities alike venerate the goddess at the shrine. The local Muslim community, the Ẓikrīs, know the goddess Hiṅglāj by the name of Bībī Nānī.4 The site’s remote location was for a long time responsible for the shrine’s aura of exoticism and immense spiritual richness, which has been praised in publications ranging from several decades ago until the present day. The pilgrimage to Hiṅglāj was for centuries done on foot, until the construction of the Makran Coastal Highway, which then connected the formerly distant site with urban Pakistan in 2001, significantly changing the shrine’s ease of access. This increased ease of access coincided with political changes in the country occurring over the last decade which influenced the situation of non-Muslim communities.5 An increasingly prolific and confident Hindu body has used the recent developments to turn the shrine of Hiṅglāj into a main center of religious activity for Hindus in Pakistan.6 Even though the pilgrimage (hin. yātrā) to the shrine can be documented at least from the 15th century onwards (Chhabria 2007: 31) the annual festival (hin. melā) at the shrine is a very recent phenomenon. It was only in the year 1986 that some Hindu devotees began to arrange a yearly pilgrimage to the site. The Hiṅglāj Śeva Maṇḍalī (HSM) was established for this very purpose: to make the journey through the harsh desert possible for pilgrims. From that time onwards the HSM

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The concept of “denial”, thus, implies a moralistic attitude held in order to legitimize the exclusion of certain practices or beliefs. The Ẓikrī community follows the teachings of Mohammed Jaunpuri who claimed to be the mahdī in the 16th century. The community is spread over the Makran and in the eastern parts of Iran. Cf. Baluch 2010. Namely the abolishment of separate electorates and the privatization of the media by Pervez Musharraf. Cf. Shaikh 2009. I have described the implications of such rapid changes elsewhere (Schaflechner 2015).

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increasingly assumed the interpretative authority over the shrine. It started to renovate the different temples in the valley, brought new statues of various gods and goddesses of the Hindu pantheon and built pilgrimage shelters with the help of the provincial government of Baluchistan. When in 2001 the Makran Coastal Highway connected the remote valley with Karachi and thus the rest of Pakistan, the shrine became widely known and the number of its annual visitors increased, until its preliminary climax in 2010 when 40,000 people visited the shrine on the festival weekend in April.

Photo 1: The image of the Hiṅglāj in 2012

Experiences in the Field During my fieldwork in Pakistan I was frequently confronted with many different voices from inside and outside the Hindu communities, who tried to make sense out of these recent changes by incorporating Hiṅglāj into their religious (and sometimes nationalistic)7 perspectives. Many who utter their opinion about the change

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For a Sindhi nationalistic approach to the goddess Hiṅglāj, see Abro (1991) and Ansari (2001).

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attempt to define a certain set of elements, such as narratives or rituals, as central to an assumed essence of the Hiṅglāj tradition. As one prolific writer on Hindu traditions in Pakistan once told me: “I write so that the people can see what the actual thing [about Hiṅglāj] is”8. It is precisely the author’s use of “actual” that is crucial. “Actual” here designates the search for the tradition’s core, for some center that might be found somewhere, if only the epistemological means were proper. It is the search for some angle from which the tradition can be perceived, as it is. Within this establishing of key concepts, authors emphasize certain practices or narratives and necessarily leave others out. Nowadays, for example, it has become fairly rare for me to hear the story of the goddess at the shrine told from a ẒikrīMuslim perspective. The reason for that is simply the scarcity of written sources by Ẓikrī authors and the fact that many recent Hindu writers only refer to the Ẓikrī history of the shrine to emphasize its appeal to Muslims (cf. Narayan Das 2011: 280). Such exclusion even goes so far as to exclude members of the Ẓikrī community (like all Muslims) from the confined area of the Hiṅglāj valley during the festival days. In this way lesser known Muslim concepts of the shrine, like the idea that Bībī Nānī is considered the grandmother of Ali, the son-in-law of the prophet Mohammad, become increasingly silenced. On the other hand, the Hindu myth of how the goddess Satī’s body fell over the South Asian subcontinent, a story seldom mentioned in older literature, prosper in and around the shrine. Such exclusions help to generate and solidify a homogeneous history connected to the shrine. There are many more examples of such conspicuous changes inside the valley. In 2009 Maharaj, the only permanent priest (hin. pujārī) at the Hiṅglāj temple, told me that the puzzling second face of the goddess’ effigy (Photo 1) is the image of the demon Hingol, a local tyrant killed by the Devī in mythological times. Later, in 2012, he insisted that the second face is one of the vīrs (hin.), the army commanders, of the goddess Durgā, who killed the demon Mahiṣāsura. Maharaj, whom the HSM appointed pujārī in Hiṅglāj in 2008, uses this story to connect the shrine to a broader Hindu tradition. In it he sets aside the tyrant Hingol, who is a part of the local tradition, and changes him into the demon Mahiṣāsura, a figure of the famous Devī Māhātmya.9 Since Maharaj is the only permanent pujārī at the shrine and also an authority for many visitors, his words and his interpretation of the shrine’s mythology have a strong impact on the public opinion among the pilgrims. His appearances on Pakistani television and in videos on YouTube also make him one of the most influential spokespersons at the shrine.10

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8 “Ham kitāb likh’te haiṃ tāki log dekh sak’te haiṃ actual cīz kyā hai”. 9 Such associations are frequent in South Asia’s religious landscape. Eck calls these “dupli-

cation” or “multiplication” processes the “geographical Sanskritisation” (Eck 1998: 167).

10 See, for example, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DVxsD0tSmlU (accessed 12/2012).

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Having Opinion, Denying Opinion Such motions of in- and exclusion could be frequently noticed during the relatively recently established annual festivals, and can be observed now in publications appearing in Urdu, Sindhi, Hindi, and Gujarati, and the work of many new temple committees and welfare organizations. All of them attempt to cope with the latest infrastructural developments, to situate the goddess within an appropriate location inside the broader Pakistani- Hindu community. These various festivals, publications, homepages, etc. are important sources for current discussions about Pakistani Hindu identity. With the shrine’s increasing publicity, more voices claim authority to define what the “actual thing” of the tradition is. Owing in particular to the construction of the Makran Coastal Highway and the subsequent connection of the shrine to urban Pakistan, the Hindu community has been suddenly pushed to explain, in terms of their tradition, how this accessibility could have occurred, given the formerly aloof and exotic aura that surrounded and defined the place over several centuries. This task is accepted by many actors, whose voices fill books, television documentaries, the internet and various other forms of media, adding to the public visibility of Hiṅglāj. In total, such statements have come to frame a broader Hiṅglāj discourse.11 By designating certain key elements of the Hiṅglāj phenomenon, actors attempt to produce a homogeneous narrative about the shrine. Yet, this solidification of tradition also requires the denial of some elements, which define what Hiṅglāj is through making clear what Hiṅglāj is not. To explain this with an example from my fieldwork: members of the more wealthy Lohānā Hindu community, who established the HSM in 1986, would present a different view of the history of Hiṅglāj than many other Hindu communities who relate to the place. The Lohānās simply emphasize different elements as “actual things” (as the author introduced above phrased it) than many other Hindu communities would. Nevertheless, many different groups claim the right to speak about the actual tradition, and to define its central elements. And, of course, within every community there are also different voices, which focus on different key concepts. The result is a plethora of statements, some less audible, others more prominent, attempting to define what the “actual thing” is. In the words of Latour: “Groups are not silent things, but rather the provisional product of a constant uproar made by the millions of contradictory voices about what is a group and who pertains to what” (2005: 31). Such voices can be treated as articulations that, through repetition, lead to more solid formations. As articulations they follow the same rules of signification as any other order where relations of difference are

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11 With “discourse” I do not intend merely to describe a system restricted to written and spoken

sources, but every arrangement in which “relations play a constitutive role” (Laclau 2005: 68). It is important to note that discourses are constructed through asserting certain elements as central points of reference.

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important. In this way their “exclusive relation” (Zizek 1989: 109) within the construction of identity formations has to be considered. My main interest in the following pages will be precisely this logic of denial and exclusion involved in the emergence of key elements, along with the means necessary for their stabilization. Given the recent infrastructural changes around the shrine, such developments are now extremely conspicuous. A major part of the Hindu community is in upheaval, “in its wake” (Latour 2005: 31) and busy with the revitalization, stabilization and definition of its borders. For the creation of a lasting identity, all of these movements need not only to define their borders, but also instruments to stabilize those borders, and a constant repetition to solidify them. To explore current developments in group formation at Hiṅglāj, it is necessary to discuss some of the basic concepts of my methodological approach in this study.

Actor-Network Theory, Groups and Their Constitutive Outside In the following, I will introduce Actor-Network Theory (ANT) as presented in the work of Bruno Latour. With the help of ANT, I will approach the various changes, but also the logic of group formation and stabilization at the shrine of Hiṅglāj. In addition to that, I will supplement certain shortcomings in Latour’s approach for my case study with discourse theory as developed by Laclau and Mouffe in their book “Hegemony and Socialist Strategy” (2001). In Actor-Network Theory, the social is seen as a “movement”, a “transformation”, or a “translation” (Latour 2005: 64) among a certain set of elements. Only for a moment, when elements change, realign, or reassemble, does the social become visible. “The social [...] is the name of a type of momentary association which is characterized by the way it gathers together into new shapes” (ibid. 65). Thus, terms like “social order”, “social practice”, or “social structure” (ibid. 3) are ambiguous for Latour, since the attached adjective “social” has no potential to add any new information to the noun. Such usage, for him, simply covers up a lack of empirical information. In ANT, singular events are themselves not social; only the establishment of associations between them makes their relationship and, thus, social developments visible (ibid. 8). In this way, the Latourian “social” is only visible in its moments of transition. Rather as the Tyrannosaurus rex in the movie “Jurassic Park” is only able to see the frightened humans when they move, the ANT sociologist only sees the social when it changes.12 With this concept of the social as an assembly of articulations and performances, ANT offers a useful starting point for the analysis of groups and organizations.

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12 The interesting question that remains here is what the social is when it is not moving. To be

able to define it as “moving” requires the existence of a stable background. Latour’s treatment of this problem is rather unsatisfying, calling this necessary background the “plasma” (Latour 2005: 241).

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Similar to ANT’s approach to the social in general, in “Reassembling the Social” (2005), Latour rejects the ontological status of any group as a given entity. For him, groups are only made up of performances and traces of actor-networks: “[There is] no relevant group that can be said to make up social aggregates, no established component that can be used as an incontrovertible starting point” (2005: 29). For Latour, groups are neither stable nor “out there” (2005: 28), but rather a fluid collection of different agencies continuously attempting to explain, define, and re-define what they are. Many actors repeatedly describe what it actually means to be a member of, or, similarly important, an outsider to the group. Often, opposing voices create an argumentative range in which identity is negotiated. To organize this cacophony of voices, a constitutive outside must be created to provide legitimization and unity to the community. Latour acknowledges this when he writes about the formation of group identity: “Whenever some work has to be done to trace or retrace the boundary of a group, other groupings are designated as being empty, archaic, dangerous, obsolete, and so on. It is always by comparison with other competing ties that any tie is emphasized” (2005: 32). The definition of such “anti-groups” is only possible through a boundary that segregates the “we” from the “them”. Latour does not elaborate on this in greater detail, but is mainly interested in the means of stabilizing identity. This ignorance in ANT of dialectical relations, resistance, and opposition is a significant deficit and has been criticized (cf. Dölemeyer and Rodatz 2010). Bringing this into the framework of my case study, I argue that identity politics at Hiṅglāj is not only a matter of traditional groups negotiating their different standpoints, but rather that there exist certain contentious key elements around which different factions coalesce. In Hiṅglāj, the issue of animal sacrifice (bali) became just such an element, causing the establishment of myriad borders and groups, who all have a certain opinion on this issue. Some of them may form alliances over this issue, while others shift into opposition. So, rather than approaching identity formation of Hindu communities at Hiṅglāj from the perspective of (allegedly) already established groups such as castes or classes, I examine the influence of certain elements and their ability to contribute to the formation of group identities. To expand on this, I will now turn to the work of Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe, who approach the formation of identity through the framework of post-foundational discourse theory.

Elements, Moments and Nodal Points The limits of discursive formations and their implication for the generation of collective identities are key for Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe in studying social movements. In their early work “Hegemony and Socialist Strategy” (2001), the authors modify and apply, among others, the work of Saussure, Foucault and

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Derrida to the study of political communities. Their project initially started as an answer to the crisis of communism in the 1980s and so sometimes is also associated with a broader post-Marxist movement. In general, Laclau and Mouffe argue against any kind of foundationalism (be it economic or otherwise), and instead introduce the concept of articulation as a starting point to approach the formation of boundaries and the establishment of social movements. This rejection of any given foundation within a society can also be applied to alleged fixed identities such as castes or religious communities. In this way, similar to Latour, Laclau and Mouffe also deny groups any natural core per se, but focus on the dynamic aspect of group formation instead. To explain such developments, they write: “[W]e will call articulation any practice establishing a relation among elements such that their identity is modified as a result of the articulatory practice. The structured totality resulting from the articulatory practice, we will call discourse. The differential positions, insofar as they appear articulated within a discourse we will call moments. By contrast, we will call element any difference that is not discursively articulated” (2001: 105; italics in the original). With the help of this quote, I will now be able to expand on the necessary vocabulary to introduce a part of Laclau and Mouffe’s approach. First, the difference between elements and moments is crucial. While elements are free-floating (2001: 113), proto-ideological (Stavrakakis: 1997) signifiers, they turn into moments only after they are “captured” by a given discourse. Of course, the taxonomy of elements and moments depends on the discursive lens through which these signs are perceived. Thus, for example, the sign of the “twin towers” in New York City changed abruptly on the morning of September 11, 2001 from an element into a moment of the “war on terror” discourse. However, the twin towers could long have been (and probably were) a moment within a discourse on architecture in Manhattan. In other words, elements are in a stage of not (yet) being associated with a particular ensemble of meanings. Of course, the assumption of an element is purely theoretical and thus has a mere heuristic value, since any articulatory practice will immediately draw an element into a syntagmatic relationship with the corresponding discourse.13 Moments, on the other hand, occupy a particular position as links within a semiotic chain and help to transport meaning. But even if an element becomes a moment, no discourse is able to define the moment’s meaning once and for all. However, a temporary fixation of its meaning is possible. According to Saussure, signs within a language are relational and can only be defined through their differences from other signs of that system. Thus, any sign can attain its identity merely through contrast, simply by not being like any other sign (2001). To be able to understand the word “chair” one has to differentiate it from other items of furniture, such as “table”, “closet”, or “bed”. The signifier

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13 For a critical analysis of this problem, see Howarth 2012: 117f.

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“chair” occupies a precise position which is defined through its relation to all other elements and only reveals its meaning through its difference from any of them. But “chair” needs this internal differential logic not only to be understood; it also needs the relation to the whole system of signs of which it is a part. Laclau writes: “[...] if we have a purely differential ensemble, its totality has to be present in each individual act of signification. Conceptually grasping that totality is the condition of signification as such […] however, to grasp that totality conceptually, we have to grasp its limits—that is to say, we have to differentiate it from something other than itself” (2005: 69, italics in original). Thus, to describe any symbolic system, knowledge of its borders becomes necessary. But for the establishment of borders, other symbolic systems have to be present, to facilitate the production of meaning through the logic of difference. Yet, as Derrida has shown, no discourse of signification can ever be closed, but always has to have room for supplemented meaning. This “iterability” makes a full closing of the play of signification impossible (1977). The result is an over-determination of every sign, lacking any means of complete ascertainment: the signifier “chair” could further be used in different backgrounds and would attain different meanings. At a conference, the question “Who has the chair?” would probably be answered in a different way than at a furniture store. So while one signifier has to be differentiated from all others within a discourse, this differentiation alone does not guarantee a final definition of its content. Here Laclau and Mouffe rightly criticize Saussure for describing signification as a closed system (2001: 112f.). If we assumed such a closed totality where a limited number of signs are available, it would be possible to rigidly fix the signifier’s identity through its relation to others. But since there is always another possible interpretation of the signifier (the “chair” can be used in an endless number of contexts), the signification of signs can never be closed. On the other hand, however, Laclau and Mouffe do not simply follow a concept of an endless metonymical flow of meaning, but assume a temporary closure of discourse. This is necessary, as it is only through the knowledge of its borders (the closure of the discourse) that a sign can attain its relational place within a symbolic order and meaning can be produced (Howarth 2012: 118).14 This approach makes it possible to understand social movements and their formations as parts of a semiotic system, similar to language and depending on the rules of signification introduced.15 Thus, for societies, too, Laclau and Mouffe have to reject any kind of essential identity or foundation (like economy or caste),

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14 Laclau associates this temporary closure of the discourse with Derrida’s “ethico-theoretical

decision“ (Laclau 2007: 89).

15 Laclau and Mouffe base this connection of language and action on the work of Wittgenstein,

particularly on his idea of language games (2001: 108).

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but rather suggest a temporary formation of groups and identities. This implies that any kind of discourse is an attempt to stop the polysemy of the signifiers and to remove their ambiguities. This is accomplished through certain privileged moments, which organize elements around themselves (2001: 112f). Laclau and Mouffe call such signifiers “nodal points”, privileged moments that temporarily stop the sliding of meaning and change elements into moments of a discourse. The fact of which elements change into moments and ultimately into nodal points is not fixed by any metaphysical logic and, thus, contingent. However, it is important to note that not only elements can be free floating, but moments, too, are able to occupy influential positions in different discourses. In these cases, the fixation of such “floating signifiers” is the center of contestation (Laclau 2005). The last important conceptual tool in Laclau and Mouffe is the tension between the “logic of difference” and the “logic of equivalence” (2001: 127f.). Again, a practical example can make this clear. The representation of any group (and groups are, after all, also a particular organization of symbols and representations) requires the establishment of an “anti-group” (Latour 2005) or “enemy” so that its key concepts may be organized.16 Here the logic of equivalence consists in the corruption of all particular identities vis-à-vis such an “anti-group”. In this way, the identity of the chain of equivalence is not provided by some common denominator that is found in its equivalential elements, but rather through their common negation of some excluded other. The “logic of difference”, on the other hand, attempts to disperse such opposing groups and highlights the particular identities of the ensemble (Joergensen and Phillips 2012: 45). For Laclau and Mouffe, the creation of political movements—and identities in general—follows an interplay between chains of equivalence and difference. Chains of equivalence are structured through their opposition to certain key elements or nodal points that organize the community and make the subsequent conception of its borders possible by means of the naming of an “anti-group”.17

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16 This kind of reductionism in Laclau and Mouffe’s work has been criticized by Norval (1997). 17 A source of confusion at this point could be the difference between nodal points and Laclau’s

concept of “empty signifiers”, introduced in his later work (2007 [1996]). In Laclau’s work such a separation is not explicit. In his early project, together with Chantal Mouffe, signifiers that unify a chain of moments were called “nodal points,” which were described as functioning in the same way as the “point de capiton” introduced by Lacan (Laclau and Mouffe 2001). Later Laclau increasingly started to use the term “empty signifier” (Laclau 2007) and ceased to speak of “nodal points”. However he never elaborated in detail on the difference between the two.

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Theory into Practice For the situation at Hiṅglāj such considerations of the logic of group formation have become increasingly crucial, owing to the newly established accessibility of the shrine and, consequently, its increasingly central position within Pakistan’s Hindu cultural landscape. Currently, many different groups claim the shrine as their ritual space, and so various, often very temporary, lines of equivalence are created. While, as I will also show later, the establishment of nodal points is a historically contingent event (Critchley 2004: 115), their influential position, however, must be stabilized using a network of strong (and maybe expensive) institutional means. Laclau and Mouffe choose a rather formalistic approach to the question of “[w]hat creates and sustains a certain identity of a given ideological field, beyond all the different variations of its possible content” (Zizek 1989: 95); however, Actor-Network Theory follows a realist method and asks how institutions, printing presses, book publishers, etc. support such a process. A fusion of both approaches results in a micro-study of the production of important nodal points and their impact on organizing chains of equivalence. Since ANT’s general idea of stabilization and its inquiry into means of such stabilization, so called “inscription devices” (Latour 1983), does not satisfactorily theorize a constitutive outside, I suggest expanding the concept of stabilization by adding the notion of denial and its subsequent logic of equivalence. In this way, the creation of a constitutive outside can also be analyzed in terms of the means, the inscription devices, necessary to stabilize the border separating the inside and the outside. On the other hand, stabilization processes may also be taken a step further, towards solidification, if they begin to include their constitutive outside.

The Role of bali in the Valley of Hiṅglāj There exist two distinct ideological positions within the Hindu community of Pakistan which each assigns a certain importance to the performance of bali. On the one side there is the HSM, which has an interest in propagating the shrine as a centrally important religious place for Pakistani Hindus and attempts to solidify its rituals and narratives by publicly rejecting bali as “uneducated” and obsolete. On the other side there is the Devipujak-Vagri community, which is bound to give bali to the goddess on a regular basis to sustain the health of the members of their community (and, in fact, of all Hindus during the festival). In its affirmation or rejection both parties introduce the same element, bali, as a primary signifier of what it means to be a Hindu. In both cases bali represents an important element for structuring discourses about Hindu identity in Pakistan, however, it is associated with opposing characteristics. This will become clear with the following casestudy. In 2010, during baqar ʿīd (urd.), a Muslim holiday, I traveled to Hiṅglāj to attend the melā in the valley. Usually, at this time of year one finds a more relaxed

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environment than during the spring gatherings, when thousands of people frequent the valley and the extreme heat in Baluchistan makes fieldwork a grueling task. In the valley, I encountered a wide array of Hindus from different cities and villages of Pakistan, but it was obvious that the majority of visitors had come from urban areas like Karachi or Hyderabad. Interestingly, in response to my question as to why so many people had gathered in Hiṅglāj/Nānī during baqar ʿīd, I frequently heard the answer that people wanted to escape from the open slaughter of animals in their hometowns,18 a custom with which Muslims celebrate the willingness of Abraham to sacrifice his first-born son. These statements were surprising, since during these days I had also witnessed the sacrifice of a rooster at the Kālī Mātā temple. The pilgrims, a group of Devipujak-Vagris from Karachi, told me that they had offered a goat to the goddess only the night before. The Vagri community portrayed this sacrifice as their duty and told me that every time people organize a festival in Hiṅglāj and the Mother does not receive her sacrifice, she will cause accidents and disease among the pilgrims and take her own sacrifice (“mātā xud bali letī”). To support their point, the Vagris described many incidents in which people had horrible accidents or fell sick during the melā in Hiṅglāj. Notwithstanding the fact, then, that there is an obvious difference in terms of the quantity of animals slaughtered in Karachi or inside the Hiṅglāj valley during the days of baqar ʿīd, the non-sacrifice of animals was apparently not such a stable marker for Hindu identity as many I spoke to had initially presented it. The Hiṅglāj Śeva Manḍalī (HSM), the temple committee, officially banned animal sacrifice inside the valley in 2004, and most of the devotees I talked to seemed to fully endorse the ban and had their own explanations for it: “Actually (asal meṃ) you should not give bali, it is only allowed when one needs offspring” “It is not written in any of our books that people should sacrifice goats, so this is why it is forbidden here” “Well, this is a nature reservoir, it is not allowed to kill animals here” “People are now aware [that they should not sacrifice animals], they see [what to do] in books and on the TV” “The ISKCON community says it is wrong, they read the Bhagavad Gītā, they know it, it is in there”

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18 This is also how the Pakistan Hindu Seva Trust, a welfare organization for Hindus, active all

over Pakistan, understands the role of this ʿīd festival at Hiṅglāj. In a conversation with its president I was told that the avoidance of the slaughter in the cities was one of the main incentives for Hindus to come to the shrine.

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These quotes are just a few examples of the answers I have noted down from my conversations with visitors at the time of ʿīd over the last few years.19 Most of the pilgrims to whom I spoke cited religious reasons for the ban of animal sacrifice in the valley. Many stated that bali is either not mentioned in any Hindu scripture, or that the Gītā20 forbids it. Yet a few also assumed that the regulations of the Hingol National Park, in which the shrine is located, were the reason. In any case, most of the visitors seemed to welcome or even justify the ban.

History of a Contingent Prohibition Even though animal sacrifices were openly performed for many centuries,21 in 2004 the Hiṅglāj Śevā Manḍalī decided to ban this practice from the valley. According to Virsimal Dewani, a spokesman of the HSM and the main organizer of the yātrā, this decision arose from myriad organizational issues and internal conflicts. In the initial days of the established annual melā, in the mid-1980s and the beginning of the 1990s, many visitors bought goats from the local Muslim communities, who live in tiny villages around the valley. This naturally led to a variability in price and quality of the sacrificial animals. Especially in the mid1990s, when the number of visitors was steadily increasing, the demand for goats expanded while the supply stayed low (“lenevāle zyādā, denevāle kam the”). In this way, many goats were sold for high prices but—according to Dewani—were actually not suitable for the sacrifice.22 In addition to this issue, visitors also began slaughtering the goats according to the supply situation, and not according to the traditional days and times propagated by the HSM.23 Reacting to this, the Manḍalī began taking the supply of sacrificial goats into its own hands, transporting suitable animals on trucks from the nearby city of Las Bela. Quoting Dewani, the goats were sold at one rate and on one day only, so that the visitors had an incentive to carry out the bali on one particular day, the day established for the worship of the goddess Kālī. However, with the consistent swelling of the numbers of the visitors,

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19 In a survey I conducted during the spring melā in 2012 with 89 participants, 44% of those

20 21

22 23

questioned stated that they sacrifice goats on particular occasions, while 56% stated that they do not follow this practice at all. The Gītā is mainly available in Pakistan in the translation of Shri Prabhupada. Animals had been sacrificed in huge quantities at the Kālī temple, but Hiṅglāj has long been seen as a benign goddess who does not accept the blood of animals, so all sacrifices took place at the Kālī temple. Cf. Hart 1839 or Cook 1913. This implies that some of them were either too young or not healthy enough. Usually this would be the 8th day of the pilgrimage. Because my interviewee belongs to the Lohānā community, this has to be seen through the lens of his own community background. But since it was mostly the Lohānā community, and especially the Dewani family, who took over the organization of the pilgrimage, their interpretation of practices at the shrine became the most prevailing. I will talk about this in detail in a future publication.

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the Manḍalī was no longer able to keep up the supply of goats, and eventually also had to stop the transport from Bela. Apart from these problems, constraints of time also made the mass slaughter difficult. Dewani said that it was simply not possible to sacrifice more than 40 goats a day in accordance with the traditions at the shrine. It was not only organizational issues that led to the prohibition of bali, however. At the beginning of the new millennium, resistance against the sacrifice also came from another front: in those years, members of the Viṣṇu panth (hin. sect)24 had repeatedly requested the organization to stop the slaughter of the goats. Kālī Mātā’s temple, the main area for the bali, is situated directly on the way to Hiṅglāj Devī, so many pilgrims had to pass the bloody rituals to reach the sanctum sanctorum.25 Disgusted by the act, some appealed to the HSM to stop the activity. Reacting to the organizational difficulties and these voices of opposition to the practice, the organization finally made the joint decision in 2004 to ban it from the valley. However, for some time after the ban was enacted, certain members of the HSM secretly continued sacrificing goats in the mountains for the goddess Kālī. This was done in the name of all visitors to prevent misfortune, but eventually this slaughter was also brought to an end. With the decision to stop the sacrifices, the HSM not only reacted to the demands of some visitors, but also became the most active agency in the implementation of the ban through the establishment of a network of volunteers, and ritual experts who help the Manḍalī to enforce the prohibition. In this way, contingent—possible but not necessary—events led to the construction of a prohibition which then was retroactively interpreted by visitors and the organization as “actual” tradition. Around this time, the Dewani family (as well as others active in the HSM) also adapted to this change. While the Dewani’s previously gave the blood of a goat to the goddess Kālī during the upanayana saṃskāra26, now on such occasions the family simply cuts the animal’s ear and sets it free in front of Kālī’s temple. The shrine of Hiṅglāj is a place where many different concepts and interpretations of (Pakistani) Hinduism mix, and, as I argue, also a location where “ideals of Hinduness” can be performed (Schaflechner 2015). In a sense, the place describes and prescribes narratives and religious practices that also gain influence outside the valley. The HSM controls the distribution of information around the shrine to a great extent and utilizes certain “inscription devices” (Latour 1983) to firmly establish particular key elements as markers of Hindu identity and behavior at

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24 In a later talk, Virsimal made it clear that he was referring to the Maheṣvarīs and to followers

of the ISKCON. Both communities are usually vegetarians.

25 In those days the path to the temple of Hiṅglāj was not yet extended and people had to climb

over stones and through bushes. One of the easier paths directly led to the Kālī Mātā temple.

26 An initiation ritual for the male members of the community in which a thread is given to

symbolize maturity.

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Hiṅglāj.27 With the continuous repetition of such guidelines during the annual melās28, practices thus propagated become gradually fixed and eventually turn into important moments of the Hiṅglāj discourse. Prohibition, as the most visible form of exclusion, plays a crucial role. Only through the rejection of some other can a community reach some kind of temporary unity. Although many such movements have been conspicuous inside the valley over the past years, at this point I wish to focus solely on the contentious issue of bali. I think that this practice, more than any other, kindles discussions about “proper” Hindu behavior at the shrine, and so serves as a useful example for the solidification processes of certain ritualistic acts at Hiṅglāj. As we have seen, the practice does not serve as a stable marker for “Hinduness” to the extent that some Pakistani Hindus and the HSM would wish it to. In other words, the sliding of meaning has not been brought to a halt—the discourse is not closed, the tradition at the shrine not (yet) “sedimented” (Laclau 1990: 33f.). Rather, it seems to be a floating signifier with great importance for both communities—those in support of, and those against the practice. These two discourses, where bali occupies a crucial position, clash in the situation of the festival. Both communities elevate the practice of animal sacrifice to a level where it becomes a symbol that can distinguish between proper and non-proper Hindu behavior. This turns one’s opinion on the ritual into a question of identity. While the ban had its origin in infrastructural and organizational problems, today the prohibition is often religiously interpreted, and explained retroactively with reference to some “correct” Hindu behavior (“Actually you should not give bali”; “It is not written in any of our books”). It was mainly through this ban that bali gained a particular new value in the valley over the last few years. Many discussions about its legitimacy turn into general questions of what it means to be a Hindu. So, for the moment, I will leave debates about the meaning of blood sacrifice aside and focus on the role of sacrifice as a potential marker of identity, or nodal point, within a wider range of religious performances in the valley of Hiṅglāj and among Hindu communities in Pakistan generally.

Discussions on the Legitimacy of bali Among some Hindu communities in Pakistan, blood sacrifice is often associated with an Islamic practice, or, more accurately, with something that supposedly should be associated with an Islamic practice. Bali is thus often portrayed as a

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27 Such devices range from the erection of signs and repeated announcements by loudspeaker,

to the appointment of ritual experts who advise people on how to worship the goddess in a “proper” way. 28 Besides the annual caitra melā in April, which is the biggest festival in the year, people also gather at ʿīd al fit̤r, baqar ʿīd and at muḥarram in smaller numbers. This is mainly due to the public holidays in Pakistan.

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practice located firmly outside “actual” Hindu practices. Such discussions about the legitimacy of blood sacrifices are certainly not particular to the shrine of Hiṅglāj and have been documented by scholars before.29 In fact, disputes about the use or misuse of bali are portrayed as being as old as the practice itself. Thus, the following can only be a simplistic outline of a complex and ambiguous scholarly discourse on the role of animal sacrifice. Lipner writes that in Vedic times the sacrifice of animals was widely practiced (1994: 32), and some texts also suggest the auspiciousness of sacrificing cows and horses (Doniger 2011: 150). However, in later centuries, many critiqued these practices and embraced a rather philosophical stance towards sacrifice with which they turned their attention from outer to inner sacrifice (Michaels 2006: 274). Doniger finds debates on the slaughter of animals already existing in the time of the Brāhmaṇas (800–600 B.C.E), when, according to her, transformations in breeding and ecology, combined with different philosophical directions, eventually led to an uneasiness concerning the practice. This developing discomfort, Doniger notes, became open criticism in later works such as the Mahābhārata (2011: 150f.). Gradually the act of bali was abandoned in brahmanic strands of Hinduism and became “ideologically devalued in relation to vegetarian worship” (Fuller 2004: 88). For Urban, the survival of the practice, notwithstanding such rejection, was only possible because of śākta and tantric traditions (2011: 52). It is not only in Sanskrit texts that one finds opposition to the practice of bali, however. Debates about violence and non-violence within ritual were also frequent in vernacular languages. The 15th century poet Kabir, for example, openly rejected the “hideous” sacrifices for the goddess Kālī in his work (Humes 2005: 154). Hindu reform movements of the 19th and 20th centuries, highly influenced by western conceptions of modernity and enlightenment, also took up the issue in their attempts to reject allegedly superstitious practices of folk Hinduism. Many Indian intellectuals acclaimed the colonial ideology, but numerous also opposed it. Their writings eventually helped to recreate several Hindu traditions in response to the ideas of British Protestantism. One of the central characters of that time was Ram Mohan Roy (1772–1833), who played a leading role in the establishment of the Brāhmo Samāj. Roy campaigned against the burning of widows (hin. satī) and agitated for a more “rational” approach to Hindu practices. This also included the denial of a wide array of beliefs and practices that Roy, who had been educated in the West, deemed irrational and groundless. Roy was influenced by the ideas of the first Orientalists, such as William Jones (1746–1794) and H. T. Colebrook (1765– 1837), who had started to translate Sanskrit texts on law, philosophy and literature (King 2008). Colebrooke was of the opinion that, although civilization had originated in Asia, the West had quickly caught up with this development, while Asia was

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29 Cf. McNeal 2005; Erndl 1993; Doniger 2011.

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now in a state of decline. For Colebrooke, the Hindus of the South Asian subcontinent had forgotten or misunderstood their own texts and were now lost in superstitious practices and idolatry (Kopf 1969: 39f.). In those early days of South Asian Oriental studies, scholars were searching for some kind of a “golden age” in the Indian tradition that had been lost over the centuries. It was this Orientalist admiration for an alleged long-lost utopia that inspired many reformers at that time. Roy was particularly impressed by Orientalist concepts; Kopf even suggests that his teachings were largely based upon Colebrook’s article “Essay of the Vedas” (1805), which Roy reproduced and slowly incorporated into the foundations of the Brāhmo Samāj (Kopf 1969: 198). Equally, or perhaps even more influential, was the Ārya Samāj, another Hindu reform movement founded by Dayananada Sarasvati, who succeeded in creating an influential institutional infrastructure over a period of years. Sarasvati believed that the truth could only be found in the Veda and other classical (Sanskrit) texts, which required intense study of Vedic and Sanskrit grammar. He also reproduced Orientalist notions of the “golden age”, and thus viewed the present state of Hinduism as corrupted and full of superstition (Jones 1981: 28). To oppose this development, Sarasvati introduced the śuddhi (hin. “purity”) movement to reconvert people from Christianity and Islam to the Ārya version of Hinduism. Notwithstanding the heterogeneous bias of both movements, the Brāhmo and the Ārya Samāj strongly opposed those elements of “folk religion” widespread within Hindu practice. Blood sacrifice was “a clear case in point” (Fuller 2004: 101), in the eyes of the reformers a conspicuous remnant of a superstitious past that must be overcome by reason. In recent decades, nationalist movements have also attempted to place non-violence—in the form of cow protection and opposition to animal sacrifice—firmly at the center of their political ideologies. This, however, does not necessarily mean that they were not willing to use violence to enforce their political agenda (Babb 2004: 22). Arguments about the legitimacy of blood sacrifice in the subcontinent thus began long before the rise of Hinglaj as an important Hindu religious space. Yet the recent ban inside that valley has rearticulated and reiterated elements of the long-standing debate. Among Hindus within Pakistan, arguments against bali frequently appeal to the concepts of rationality and superstition present in the renaissance movements. However, some communities also base their opposition to sacrifice on an assertion that it is Islamic and not “properly” Hindu.

Bali in Pakistan The last paragraphs have shown that discussions about blood sacrifice have been a crucial part of discourses about Hindu ritual and practice for many years. In Pakistan, such discourses follow a similar line of argument, relating to ideas of progress and rationality. Nevertheless, today they also draw on differences between

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Muslim and Hindu religious identities. Since the slaughtering of goats at baqar ʿīd is particularly conspicuous in Pakistani public life, some Hindus oppose bali on the basis of it being something that only Muslims do. In the spring of 2012, I interviewed a member of the Meghvāṛ community who exemplified this faction. The Pakistani Meghvāṛs, a scheduled caste, frequently sacrifice animals to their clan goddess (hin. kul’devī). However, according to some Meghvāṛs, the community has also significantly curtailed this practice in recent years (“now these things completely cease to be […]”)30. As one reason for this, my interviewee mentioned the growing “awareness” among the community and the influence of “educated” people within it who do not approve of such practices. When I asked him to whom the label “educated people” referred, he described them as “those who are against the traditions of their own community”.31 I interpret this statement as suggesting that sacrificial rituals are a part of the community’s superstitious past which is gradually to be overcome by reason. It also implies that Meghvāṛs who have received a “proper” education (an education not obtained from the elders of their community) would automatically disapprove of such traditions today, and thus it is their responsibility to create “awareness” for its abolition. After a longer pause, my interviewee added, “See, the Hindus notice how the Muslims are doing sacrifice [urd. qurbānī] and so they try as much as possible to avoid that!” Here, the practice turns into an act that distinguishes Muslims and Hindus. According to my interviewee, even though the community has not arrived at this point yet, the Hindu Meghvāṛs will one day understand that such practices are not something that is “right” for a Hindu to carry out. I heard similar opinions from other communities, who, at least publicly, rejected the idea of bali as outdated for all Hindus. The second example shows how bali is used to draw a line between “educated” and “non-educated” members of the Hindu community. It is an excerpt of a conversation between a Karachi Hindu by the name of Sanjesh, a Kālī Mātā pujārī from the interior of Sindh, and myself. This exchange took place in a relaxed environment in a Karachi temple, and concerned the Hiṅglāj festival, the work of the HSM, and certain practices of ritual healers within the Hindu community. After Sanjesh had talked about the many cheaters and frauds who pose as healers (hin. bhopās) today and thereby take advantage of the ignorant (hin. an’paṛh) Hindus and Muslims, I asked him about genuine (hin. sahī) healers, which brought our conversation to the concepts of bali and pyālā denā.32 Q. Are there any genuine bhopās?

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30 “Ab ye cīzeṃ xatm ho rahīṃ haiṃ bil’kul. Us kī vajah hai awareness”. 31 “Jo ap’nī community kī rasmoṃ ke xilāf haiṃ”. 32 Literally: “to give a cup”, a practice carried out on particular occasions such as navarātrī,

when the bhopā embodies the goddess and consumes a cup (hin. pyālā) of fresh blood from a rooster or a male goat.

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S. Well…there are negative powers… and there is śakti. If you perform a tantric ritual (sādhanā) for negative powers, they will do your work. What one sees is only the physical appearance—if you look any deeper, then you will find the subtle energy (rūḥāniyyat). There are spirits and ghosts…look at him [points at the pujārī]. He kept spirits (bhūt pā’lnā) for a long time. If he let one loose, then it might also catch you! He captured many. But you [referring to me] have your energy, and if you study the scriptures (śāstra), then the spirits won’t catch you [both laugh]. But people who are inexperienced (anāṛī), they fall for them [points at the Kālī pujārī and laughs]. Look at his face… [All start laughing] P. [Addressing me] No, no, they won’t catch you! People must be very frightened. S. But now he reads the Gītā, now he is set right (sudhar gayā). P. Now I read the Gītā, I am submerged in the Gītā (gītā ke andar hūṃ). S. Now he is ok. Since he started to sit here with me he turned right [laughs]. P. Before I always gave the pyālā. It was necessary. Every kālī caudas33 I had to go the temple and there I had to give the pyālā. I single heartedly did that (asal kar’tā thā). Then someone told me, “Friend, this stuff is not right”. But how was it my fault? You know I only knew this. Isn’t this the fault of the one who told me? The one who showed me this road—it is his fault, right? He was my Guru, you know. So after I thought about that for a long time, I decided that I will still go to my temple, this is necessary, but from then onwards I would take a coconut with me. So I started to offer coconuts to Kālī Mātā and I said: “Mother, accept this now instead”. S. You know he has been coming to my Gītā class for a long time, so you see slowly it has an effect on him. Those who come to the Gītā class and read the scriptures, they change; the rest will not change!

In this example, the denial of animal sacrifice is connected to the idea of the study of the religious texts, in particular the Bhagavad Gītā. The pujārī acknowledges his wrongdoing himself and, to a certain extent similarly to my Meghvāṛ interviewee, turns against the superstitious traditions that he was taught by his teachers. This is a connection that could also be seen from a different point of view, given the fact that the Gītā also calls for a merciless war that is legitimate as long as it is a part of one’s svadharma (skr. personal duty). The interpretation of the Gītā with a strong focus on ahiṃsā (hin. non-violence) and vegetarianism might simply have its roots in the exceptional presence of religious texts sponsored and distributed in Pakistan by the ISKCON society. The ISKCON is one of the few Hindu communities in Pakistan that widely distributes religious texts and openly follows a proselytizing agenda. Among the dalit (untouchable, from hin. meaning “broken”) communities in urban areas the ISKCON is particularly successful. Its publications are disproportionately present at festivals and in temples where dharmik (i.e. religious) literature is sold. The only Bhagavad Gītā in Urdu I have encountered so far is the

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33 14th day of the āśvin (hin.) month.

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translation of Shri Prabhupada, who has a particular interest in the principle of ahiṃsā. In both interviews, it seemed as if the performance of sacrifice represented a question of identity, and for my Meghvāṛ conversation partner, even an act that could distinguish Hindus from Muslims.34 Bali certainly assumes a key position within discussions of Hindu practice inside and outside the valley of Hiṅglāj. To explain this, the Laclauian terminology introduced earlier will be useful. For my interviewees, bali had shifted from a mere moment within a set of various practices into a key element, a nodal point. In some of my interviews, people assigned the potential to represent a whole set of characteristics to the practice, thus polarizing communities according to their opinion on bali. Such a divide draws a line between opponents and proponents of the practice. In this way, animal sacrifice creates an equivalential chain of attributes, e.g. uneducated, low caste, and even Muslim. The classification of these various heterogeneous communities according to their opinion of bali also helps to create a more homogeneous opposing community. A “we” becomes constructed as a community bound together by its common denial of one particular practice. This is precisely the concept of the nodal point. A nodal point, or a key element, will show itself through its ability to structure certain moments into a chain of equivalence. It is an important factor for creating a particular group identity through the exclusion of other moments or discourses as not being a part of an “actual” tradition. These moments fall into a line of equivalence by virtue of their relation to the nodal point, which assigns new meaning to them. In this way, the affirmative or negative opinion on bali makes it possible to identify such heterogeneous identities as low caste, low class, or Muslim in the face of an opposing other. Of course, it is not possible to assume only one single nodal point within one particular discourse (Laclau and Mouffe 2001: 139). There is a multitude of nodal points and key moments that make up the social. In the case of Hiṅglāj, there are many narratives or practices that polarize the community, but bali occupies a particularly interesting and central position. Nevertheless, any such exclusion requires a network of certain tools and institutional means to grant it the power to deny the practice. At this point, the agency of authors, reform movements, and temple committees becomes important. In the case of Hiṅglāj, it is mainly the HSM that has the ability to create an atmosphere of acceptance or denial of certain practices. Even though the origins of the recent ban were rather contingent, the prohibition swiftly became one of the main characteristics of the melās within the valley. This was only possible through certain institutional means that spread the news of the prohibition and helped to repeatedly enact the ban during the annual festivals. Many with whom I spoke at Hiṅglāj portrayed

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34 As one visitor during the festival in Hiṅglāj also said, “We are Hindus we should not kill

animals” (“ham hindū haiṃ hameṃ jān’varoṃ ko nahīṃ kāṭ’nā cāhiye”).

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animal sacrifice as an Islamic practice and thus in contradiction to their own Hindu identity, oblivious to the long tradition of bali among many Hindu communities in the area and, especially, at the Kālī shrine in the valley. The denial of sacrifice is an increasingly solidified performance inside Hiṅglāj, with the ability to group together or divide people. A temporary “we” becomes constructed around the nodal point bali, which leads to the formation of a distinct group identity.

Resistance to the Ban: The Devipujak-Vagris of Karachi In spite of its rapid rise in popularity, however, the ban on sacrifice at Hiṅglāj has not found favor among all Hindu communities of Pakistan. The Devipujak-Vagris35 live in Bhimpura, in the heart of Karachi. The community consists of about 50 to 60 households, belonging mainly to the families of Bhao and Bhachu, the elders of the Ghorava and Oughriya clan respectively. Each man plays a central role in the community’s ceremonies and general decision-making processes. During the weekly ḥāẓrī (urd. presence, appearance) sessions, when the various goddesses and ancestors possess the bhopā36—the spiritual leader and genealogical expert of the community—the names of the two elders are often invoked in reference to their whole families (e.g., “children of Bhao!”, “family of Bhachu!”). The current bhopā of the Ghorava family is Lali Bhua, the son of Bhao, who serves as the primary medium through which the goddess addresses the different Vagri families. Even though the Oughriyas call upon different ancestors and descend from a different genealogy than the Ghoravas, Lali Bhua also performs their necessary family rituals. There are also a few other Vagri families living in the compound, but most members of the community descend from one of these two patriarchs. Their dominance is visible, among a number of places, in the construction of the communities’ maṭh (hin.), the place where the sacrifices are performed. There, two separate fireplaces (hin. dhūnī) are kept for the members of Ghorava and the Oughriya families, while a third one is designated for use by all other families in the compound. During larger celebrations, like the navarātrī, all the dhūnīs are treated equally and the community worships the goddess in uniform fashion. The Devipujak-Vagris live in a confined Hindu area typical of Karachi, behind the Jagnath akhāṛā (hin. an assembly place) housing one of the oldest active Hiṅglāj temples in the city. Just on the other side of the street sits the Nagnath akhāṛā, for many years the convening point for pilgrims wanting to undertake the

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35 The members of the Vagri (Devīpūjak-Vāghrī) community gave me the spelling of this and

other names in this chapter. It is possible that they differ in other surroundings, but I will use these spellings throughout. 36 McGregor gives for the term such translations as: “a kind of ascetic, a magician, an idiot” (McGregor 1993).

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pilgrimage to Hiṅglāj.37 During the 1992 riots in the country the Vagri community took shelter in the Hiṅglāj temple of the Jagnath akhāṛā, while the Nagnath temple was largely destroyed in the violence. Today visitors are not allowed inside the site and the temple is no longer frequented by devotees. The temple at the Jagnath akhāṛā holds particular importance for the Vagris, as it is here where the bhopā assumes the voice of the residing goddess to address the crowd in weekly séances. The Devipujaks are far from Karachi’s most affluent Hindu community. Most of the older members of the Devipujak community sell dried fruits by trade; quite a few sell their goods in Karachi’s Empress Market or at the far end of the city, at the Sunday Bazaar in the posh Defence Colony area. But some, especially those of the younger generation, today engage in other occupations and support the community with their salaries. The Ghorava family originally came from a village called Palvodar38 in the Gujarati district of Bhavnagar. The village holds particular importance for the Ghorava cosmology and ritual practice because the community’s maṭh, slaughtering place for animals, is located there. This village is frequently referred to in their rāg (hin. musical mode, harmony) and in elders’ stories. According to Vagri history, the community migrated back and forth between Sindh and Gujarat for many generations and, like other nomadic groups, were eventually forced to settle on one side of the border after partition. Since there is no written account of their movement, the clan’s detailed history can only be based on speculation. The Ghorava family, however, estimates that their forefathers first arrived in Karachi about 200 years ago. The Vagris do not consider themselves a part of the dalit or Harijan39 communities of Pakistan; they see their caste as occupying a place subordinate only to that of the Brahmins. In an interview in 2010 a member of the clan explained: “The Harijans are different from us. We are the sons of the goddess (devīputra); there is a night and day difference between them and us. They clean the bathrooms we do not do that. I mean they are Hindus and we are Hindus, but in India the Harijans live outside of our villages. They are also not allowed in our maṭh”. The group legitimizes this attitude by claiming a close, direct contact with the goddess through the trance of the bhopās. This intimate bond, according to them,

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37 Some years ago the area around the Nagnath akhāṛā, which once consisted of many acres of

open land, was turned into a commercial space with stores and workshops.

38 This spelling is also according to the Vagri community. 39 The term “Harijan” was used by Gandhi to include all the untouchable castes. In Pakistan the

term encompasses a wide range of meaning, but is often used in a political context by social workers. Many of my interviewees hailing from “lower castes” were very secretive about their familial background and seemed uncomfortable with the topic. Today the work of many NGOs, especially the Pakistan Hindu Seva Trust, raises awareness of the problem of discrimination and caste stratification.

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requires constant reification through the sacrifice of animals. It also requires strict adherence to caste segregation; according to the Devipujaks, their elevated caste status forbids them to accept water or food from any other low caste Hindu communities, like the Meghvāṛ or the Hindu Kāṭhiyāvāḍī (a place in Gujarat), who live in the nearby Narayanapur area of Ranchorline in Karachi.40 The bond between the goddess, in her various forms, and the community is one of the main identity signifiers for the Vagris in Karachi. The Devipujaks frequently emphasized their close connection to the goddess, which, as they say, proves itself in the Devī’s willingness to talk to the community through the mouth of the bhopā. While other communities in Karachi (for example the Mārvāṛī) are able to speak only to the vīrs, the goddess’ servants, the Vagris by their reckoning go straight to the goddess. As put by one Vagri community member, “They [the Mārvāṛī] speak to the secretary; we go directly to the president”. Another distinguishing factor between the groups, according to the Vagris, is a difference in approach to the practice of ritual sacrifice. The Mārvāṛī community of Narayanapur, for example, engages in an annual sacrifice of buffalos. And while they understand buffalos to be the greatest possible sacrifice to the goddess, the Vagris see this ritual as an abomination. For them, the buffalo is an impure creature that ought not be touched or sacrificed. Yet this is apparently specific to this community; other Vagris do slaughter buffalos and similarly to the Mārvāṛī see it as a more significant act than the mere sacrifice of goats (Werth 1996: 143). Such antipathy between low caste communities in Pakistan seems to be quite common in Karachi. The Vagris doubtlessly suffer from a certain amount of prejudice in many parts of South Asia, and cleanliness and language seem to represent the main issues (ibid.). According to Bhao Tulsi, this harassment was one of the main reasons why the community decided to change its name from Vagri to Devipujak. Fierce debates about the relative positions of dalit sub castes is a widespread phenomenon, as shown by Moffatt in his study of several such communities in Tamil Nadu (1979). In this particular case, however, such differentiation seemed more important on an imaginary or ideological level, where the Vagris distinguish between themselves and the other (lower caste) communities within the Hindu cosmology. In their daily contact with other Hindu communities, such segregation was not very obvious.41

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40 Notwithstanding such claims I witnessed various examples where this discriminatory require-

ment was not strictly implemented. My assistant, for example, called himself a Mārvāṛī Harijan without any hesitation and I never saw any acts of discrimination when he accompanied me to the Vagris’ festive activities. On another occasions, however, I witnessed disapproving statements by the Vagris towards other dalit communities. 41 I observed this one day, when a group of Kāṭhiyāvāḍī Hindus appeared in the Jagnath akhārā. The Devipujakas were slightly annoyed with the non-invited guests, but acted very hospitably, sharing food and water with them.

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The Importance of Sacrifice: “bali lāzmī hai” The ritualistic sacrifice of male goats and roosters (hin. bali/qurbānī denā) plays an important role within Devipujak-Vagri cosmology (Werth 1996: 324; Mann 1980: 110). For the community in Karachi, this tradition dates back to mythological times, when the Devī was forced to consume the blood of demons during a battle in order to counteract their continuous reproduction. In my conversations with them, the Devipujak never directly referred to the Devī Māhātmya, but their version of the episode closely parallels the story of the goddess’s struggle with the demon Raktabīja (Devadatta 2003: 130ff.). According to Lali Bhua, it was on account of this fight that the goddess developed a taste for blood as sacrifice from her worshippers (hin. xūn caṛhānā). This mytho-historic narrative is the reason cited for the central role of blood sacrifice among the Devipujaks today. As a result of the episode, the Devipujak community is obliged, on a regular basis, to offer the blood of animals to the goddess (mostly appearing in the form of Kālī or Khoḍiyār). If the community ceases to do so, I was frequently told, the goddess would herself take the life of a member of the community.42 If it came to this, they explained, the goddess would cause accidents, or bring disease upon the community. 43 As such the ritual slaughter within the Vagri community is not simply a quid pro quo action used for the fulfillment of a wish, as seen among other Vagri communities (Mann 1980); the bali is in fact viewed as obligatory for the health and security of the whole community. While many other Hindu groups in Sindh, and in fact all over Pakistan, sacrifice animals for the fulfillment of certain wishes or during particular rites of passage (van Gennep 2005),44 for the Devipujaks the sacrifice is a mandatory, regular act of maintenance necessary for the community’s health and wellbeing. The importance of feeding the clan goddesses (as well as gods and ancestors) with blood or life seems to be one connecting point between many Vagri communities in South Asia (cf. Mann 1980: 100f., Werth 1996: 324). The shrine of Hiṅglāj is one of the main religious centers for the Devipujak community of Karachi. While the community is obliged to perform all their rites of passage at their ancestors’ shrine in the village of Palvadar in Gujarat, the Vagris

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42 “Ham agar na deṃ, to hamāre meṃ se koi ek jāegā. Mātā bali xud legṃī!”. 43 Since diseases do not necessarily involve the spilling of blood, it seems it is not simply the

consumption of blood the Vagri-goddess is interested in, but the general life energy of her subjects. So although the Devī can be appeased with blood, she is still always ready to take life from the Vagri community with disease. 44 I have seen such sacrifice among other members of the scheduled castes in Pakistan, like the Bhīl and Meghvāṛ, but also among families of the Lohānā community.

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describe Hiṅglāj as their Hajj.45 For them it is the most important place in Hindu cosmology, which ought to be visited by all Hindus once in their lifetime. The Devipujaks claim that their ancestors were the first to come to Hiṅglāj and thus, they conclude, their knowledge about the shrine and the practices there—including bali—is the most legitimate, capturing the “actual” tradition of the place. Yet even within the Devipujak community, views differ as to the relationship devotees should have with the desert shrine. Bhao Tulsi, for example, went to the shrine exactly once in his life, with a group of devotees from Karachi in the middle of the 1970s. Bhao has never returned there since; in his opinion the journey to Hiṅglāj should only be made once in the lifetime. His son, Lali Bhua, phrased it like this in 2010: “I have never gone to Hiṅglāj and I also do not intend to go any time soon. The only time I will go will be when I intend to stay there. Then I will cut my hair and renounce my daily life. Before this stage the Mother has prohibited me from going”. Yet the young men in the Devipujak community view the shrine differently. All of them have been to Hiṅglāj and most have been several times; even Lali’s son has repeatedly visited the shrine. At every visit, however, each member of the Devipujak community is obliged to give bali (in the form of a rooster or a male goat) to the goddess Kālī, or else risk her wrath. For the Vagris, Kālī is the guard (hin. caukīdār) of the goddess Hiṅglāj, and thus they must appease Kālī before making their way on to Hiṅglāj.46 For the Devipujaks, without Kālī’s blessing the whole darśan at Hiṅglāj is in vain. One member of the group once directly blamed the HSM for ignoring this rule (hin. niyam) and connected this refusal to provide the sacrifice to the accidents inside the valley. According to him, these mishaps began occurring at exactly the same time that the organization banned the sacrifice of animals. Furthermore, the already mentioned recent introduction of a substitute practice—a mere symbolic offering of a goat to Kālī by cutting into the animal’s ear, allowing a few drops of blood to spill, and then setting it free inside the valley—has only served to greater upset the Devipujak community. As one member said in 2012: “Since the Hiṅglāj Śeva Manḍalī has prohibited animal sacrifice, every year there are some accidents. The Sindhis now just cut the ear of the goat and let it free at [Kālī’s] temple, but the Mother does not like that. Because of that nonsense every year someone has to have an accident. In one way or another, the Mother takes her

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45 Even though Hiṅglāj is not one of the Ghorava-Vagris’ clan goddesses, there are other

families amongst the Devipujak-Vagris who worship Hiṅglāj as their kul’devī (Werth 1996: 350). 46 In 2010 one member of the community told me: “Before our forefathers came here on camels. At that time Kālī was really here (svayaṃ thī). People needed to give the sacrifice here; it was necessary. . . . If you went to Hiṅglāj without giving a sacrifice to Kālī she came after you and slapped you”.

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gift (bheṃṭ). Just imagine how angry the Mother gets when people already have brought a goat with them and then do not give it to her. Every time you go to Kālī Mātā, you have to give a sacrifice and you have to give the blood to the goddess”.

Incidents like the injury of one pilgrim in 2012 along the road support the Devipujak’s belief that the banning of sacrifice has brought misfortune to the melā.47 They strongly oppose the work of the HSM and its way of altering the landscape and practices in Hiṅglāj valley. When I told them the story of the Kālī priest who stopped sacrificing goats due to his study of the scriptures, someone said: “I just think that what he [the Kālī pujārī] is doing is wrong. Education does not tell people that they should not give any sacrifices anymore. See, the Mother comes in different forms and every Mother needs particular things. Sometimes we offer sweets, sometimes dried fruits, sometimes bangles, and sometimes we give animals. We only give what the Mother demands from us. . . . People should not stop this. As long as I am not able to make my Mother happy, she will not want my happiness. She will even destroy the whole universe (sarva naṣṭ kar degī pure brahmāṃḍ ko)”.48 During another conversation with the community in 2012, when talk touched upon the topic of bali, a young Devipujak man added: “These people [who are against the bali] are mainly the educated ones, those who read and write. They have become rich overnight. They have to care about other people’s opinion and they are afraid what people might say. They are their own kind, who have no knowledge anymore. Their whole concept [of the world] is gone”.49 At Hiṅglāj, bali has become the nodal point of two antagonistic lines of equivalence. For the Devipujak community of Karachi, the act of animal sacrifice occupies an important role within their cosmology. The prohibition of the practice at Hiṅglāj—a place of central importance for the community—has triggered an argument about its legitimacy. While today the HSM connects bali to obsolete Hindu practices, the Devipujak claim that the abolishment of the practice has led to accidents and misfortune for the whole Hindu community. One line characterizes bali as backward, obsolete, or Muslim, while the other frames sacrifice as the oldest, “original” practice, the only vehicle through which understanding of the goddess and the community’s safety are possible. For both sides the signifier “bali”

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47 After the accident occurred, I met my interviewee again in Karachi, who had also heard of

the incident. He felt validated in his view and interpreted the situation as the wrath of the goddess who was robbed of her sacrifice by the temple organization. He also mentioned some other cases that came to his mind when people had slipped or gotten lost in the valley. 48 From an interview in 2012. 49 For a visual representation of this interview see Schaflechner 2013: 7, 10.

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creates completely different lines of equivalence and thus has the power to separate the visitors at the shrine into two opposing factions.

Conclusion Although the ban on animal sacrifice at Hiṅglāj may have originally been triggered by a host of organizational and infrastructural problems, today the prohibition is animated largely by clashing concepts of “actual” Hindu behavior. While, due to the complexity of the topic, it is difficult to assign a distinct location to “antisacrifice” sentiments among Pakistani Hindu communities, the case study of the Hiṅglāj shrine shows how meaning is retroactively assigned to contingent circumstances, which then transform into significant nodal points of identity inside the valley. Important for the establishment of such nodal points is the denial of an outsider, which helps to create a more homogeneous tradition at the shrine. In the case of Hiṅglāj, exclusion is mainly made possible through the institutional means available to the temple committee, the HSM, and its ability to manage certain inscription devices, which help to stabilize a common notion of what is the “proper” and “actual” thing to do. So, while the prohibition may have begun as a result of unintentional influences, the HSM utilized these incidents and solidifies them (through annual repetition) into nodal points of Hindu practice at the shrine. This denial follows discourses of rationality and education aligned with arguments advanced by religious reformers, but also presents itself in opposition to the Muslim sacrificial practice during the baqar ʿīd celebrations in Pakistan. The appeal of this denial is so influential at times that many pilgrims go to the shrine of Hiṅglāj specifically because animal sacrifice is (technically) banned there. Inside the valley the Manḍalī is a crucial actor in the stabilization of the exclusion. Aided by its access to the media, influence on Hindu writers, and the ability to enforce the ban during the annual melās, when thousands of Hindu pilgrims come to the shrine, the HSM is capable of repeating this denial, which leads to its increasing solidification. Pointed opposition to the ban also exists, mainly from lower caste communities who also claim Hiṅglāj as ritual space. As the example of the Devipujak community has shown, for such groups the banning of bali represents a significant misunderstanding of the “actual” practices at the shrine. Since the Devipujaks claim that their ancestors were the first at Hiṅglāj they also maintain that they possess the only true understanding of the shrine. In their opinion it was those who have “no knowledge anymore,” and who do not understand what the Mother really wants, who imposed the current ban. According to the Devipujak community, such a gross misunderstanding of the shrine’s rules leads to misfortune and difficulties for the whole Hindu community at Hiṅglāj. The Devipujak-Vagris see it as their obligation to offer an animal every time they visit the valley not just for their own sake, but also for the sake of others. Within these opposing discourses, the practice of bali is

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assigned with contradictory characteristics. On the one side it must be discarded in pursuit of a proper understanding of the Hindu tradition. But on the other its completion is a primary safeguard against accidents and death; it is a practice so powerful that if it ceased to be the Mother might even “destroy the whole universe”. In conclusion, it can be said that the banning of bali does not represent as stable a marker for “Hinduness” as some Pakistani Hindus, and the HSM, would wish it to be. In other words, the sliding of meaning has not been suspended—the discourse is not closed, and the tradition at the shrine not (yet) “sedimented” (Laclau 1990). Rather, it appears as a nodal point with great importance for both communities—those who support the practice and those who oppose it. Never is this clash more obvious than during the annual festival in the valley. Both communities elevate the practice—or banning—of animal sacrifice to a level of symbolism capable of defining proper versus improper Hindu behavior. Thus one’s opinion of the age-old ritual in Hiṅglāj valley has today (again) become nothing less than a fundamental question of identity.

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McNeal, Keith E. 2005. “Doing the Mother’s Caribbean Work. On Shakti and Society in Contemporary Trinidad”. In: Rachel Fell McDermott and Jeffrey J. Kripal (eds), Encountering Kālī. In the Margins, at the Center, in the West. New Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, pp. 223–248. Michaels, Axel. 2006 (1998). Der Hinduismus. München: C. H. Beck. Moffatt, Michael. 1979. An Untouchable Community in South India, Structure and Consensus. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Norval, Aletta J. 1997. “Frontiers in Question”. In: Filozofski Vestnik 2: 51–76. Ljubljana: Planprint — 2000. “Trajectories of Future Research in Discourse Theory”. In: David Howarth, Aletta J. Norval and Yannis Stavrakakis (eds), Discourse Theory and Political Analysis. Manchester: Manchester University Press, pp. 219–236. Saussure, Ferdinand de. 2001 (1931). Grundfragen der allgemeinen Sprachwissenschaft. (Transl. Herman Lommel) Berlin, New York: Walter de Gruyter. Schaflechner, Jürgen. 2013. Mother Calling. Kālī in Karachi. At: www.hindusin pakistan.net. — 2015. “The Mother and the Other. Tourism and Pilgrimage at the Shrine of Hiṅglāj Devī/Bībī Nānī in Baluchistan”. In: Michel Boivin and Remy Delage (eds), Devotional Islam in Contemporary South Asia. Shrines, Journeys and Wanderers. London: Routledge. Shaikh, Farzana. 2009. Making Sense of Pakistan. London: C. Hurst & Co. Stavrakakis, Yannis. 1997. “Green Ideology. A Discursive Reading”. In: Journal of Political Ideologies 2.3: 259–279. Urban, Hugh B. 2011. The Power of Tantra. London, New York: I. B. Taurus. Werth, Lukas. 1996. Von Göttinnen und ihren Menschen. Die Vagri, Vaganten Südindiens. Berlin: Das Arabische Buch. Zizek, Slavoj. 2008 (1989). The Sublime Object of Ideology. London, New York: Verso.

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Anxiety and Innovation On Denial of Sacrifice in Vedic Ritual Anxiety and Innovation

Cezary Galewicz analysis carries off concepts to the limit point of their absolute reversibility, to their resolution in the oceanic form of a vertiginous metaphor that absorbs them [Jean Baudrillard] “Sacrifice” means the killing or maiming of any animal or bird for the purpose, or with the intention, of propitiating any deity. No person shall sacrifice any animal or bird in any temple or its precincts. [Kerala Animals and Birds Sacrifice Prohibition Act 1968]

With a degree of overgeneralization, we may probably admit that the ancient Indian Vedic ritual complex could and did survive over centuries as a continuous religious activity thanks to the development of its elaborate system of ritual error repair. At the same time we should probably acknowledge that, in spite of utmost preoccupation with perfection, its readiness for denial or rejection of certain rites or procedures proved to be an effective innovating strategy. It helped keeping the same ritual complex integral and ready for self-adaptation over history and new circumstances that varied regionally while making it, through the process of negotiation, not only a mirror but perhaps an instrument or even an agent of social change (McClymond 2012: 201). When faced with inevitable death as a sacrificial victim, a young prince, Rohita— one of the two heroes of the so called Śunaḥśepa story (a narrative recited during an ancient Indian ritual of royal consecration )—cries out a single word: “No!”, thus denying the hold of ritual over reality. With this word in his mouth, Rohita grabs his bow and arrows and leaves the scene in a run-for-your-life flight that will take him to the wilderness in an urgent query for a new solution to the conundrum of life and death. The denial of ritual proved not only to be a recurrent motif haunting early Vedic ritual texts, and apparently an important element of Vedic ritual praxis from the early time of the formation of the Vedic corpus rituale onward. It also became an

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important subject over the long evolution of Vedic ritualism and found its place within the speculation of the Mīmāṃsā school of Vedic exegesis under the label of niṣedha (“ban”, “rejection”), or pratiṣedha (“rejection”, “denial”).1 There it developed partly out of the need to reconcile with each other those passages of the canonized and normative texts of Śruti that proved to be contradictory on logical grounds within the framework of the same exegesis, or which appeared to run counter to the actual ritual practice that they were believed to legitimize and of which they formed the foundation. The need to reconcile those contradictory passages inevitably provoked change and adjustment; there are grounds to believe that not only the theoretical reflection of the Mīmāṃsākas, but also instances of sacrificers and their ritual performances, as reported in texts, may supply evidence for ritual denial as an agent of innovation. A cognate concept of ritual error, a conscious or unconscious lapse in the performance of a Vedic ritual, and anxiety over a ritual that may go wrong or end incomplete, has remained an ever-present concern of the theoreticians and normative texts since the period of the formation of the textual corpus of the Vedic ritual.2 I take three cases here to illumine the problem of denial in Vedic ritualism. Two of them are part and parcel of the old narrative referred to usually by the name of the “Śunaḥśepa legend,” and the third one is the regional revival of the Vedic ritual practice, as seen in a series of contemporary performances by the community of Nampūtiri Brahmins of Kerala, South India. The three cases selected here to illustrate the more general problem of the relationship between ritual and change are intended also to show that not only can both denial as well as return of the ritual be highly instrumental in reforming social structures. They also suggest that social structures happen to feed on the dynamics of rejection or denial of ritual that may in turn galvanize social change in articulating the ways, informing the manners, and stimulating trajectories of transformation in what constitutes the contemporary public opinion in its regional variations.3 While admitting this, I remain at the same time aware of the fact that the ambivalent terms with which we try to address the inevitably dynamic nature of rituals, such as denial, rejection, prohibition, failure, etc., reflect not only scholarly curiosity, but also mirror inner ritualistic anxiety and self-reflection, and thus point to a galvanizing potential of rituals in

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See, for instance, a late mediaeval discussion in Sāyaṇa’s preamble to his commentary on Ṛksaṃhitā (Baladeva Upadhyaya 1958: 18–22). For an ample discussion of the concept of ritual error in the Veda, see Michaels 2007. For the obsessiveness with ritual perfection in Vedic ritualism, see Galewicz 2003. In a sense, the historical circumstances of land reforms in Kerala might be seen as an attempt (successful at first) to deprive the community of Nampūtiris of the economic basis for the Vedic ritualism and by the very same means to deny any sense to Vedic rituals in the modern society of Kerala. And yet the Vedic rituals have returned, though perhaps changed, since the social context changed.

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shaping the self-identity and self-understanding of the communities in which they function. Saying this does not necessarily amount to stating that we cannot understand ritual on its own, that is, in the internal relationship of its constituent parts and their architecture. The perspective adopted here will try to steer between this recognized necessity of judging rituals on their own merit (Handelman 2005) and the need to see them historically and contextually (Sahlins 1985, Bell 1997).4 Denying or otherwise avoiding ritual may indeed give rise to a new one, as was apparently the case in the well-known example of the story of Śunaḥśepa, a young brāhamaṇa lad, told in Book VII of Aitareya Brāhmaṇa, a major Vedic text from circa 1000 BC. It may also open up an old and withered ceremony to new participants and new audiences. The story itself came to be considered within the praxis of the Vedic sacrificial complex as a separate and independent textual unit, referred to in later works as “the story of Śunaḥśepa” (śaunaḥśepa, śaunaḥśepākhyāna). It must have developed a fixed form quite early, judging from the Vedic sources that betray its performative use, while referring to its content as composed of 97 stanzas of the ṛk type and 31 gāthās (acc. to Baudhāyana Śrauta Sūtra the number of verses should be over one hundred (paraḥ śataṃ); Heesterman 1957: 158), though other Sūtra authorities give bigger numbers, which however, are not attested textually (ŚaṅkhŚS contains one more gāthā). The narrative of Śunaḥśepa actually contains two mirror cases of ritual denial. My third case, which I am going to present in what follows below, concerns a contemporary example of ritualist practice confronted with public opinion, represented mostly by the regional press and Internet. It draws on a recent revival of Vedic sacrifice performances held in the modern state of Kerala, with a notable instance of Somayāga in the urban environment of Trichur, a city in central Kerala, South India, in 2003. The seventh book of the Aitareya Brāhmaṇa (AitB VII.12,13) preserves a most puzzling and sophisticated narrative of an escape and a following journey through the wilderness by a young prince in search of a solution to his seemingly insoluble life and death dilemma.5 His escape is mirrored later on by an even more dramatic

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5

See Bell’s remarks on representing and theorizing relationships between culture and history or ritual and event in Sahlins: “For Sahlins, the application of cultural structures to new situations, most readily observed in ritual action, is the very process of history itself ” (Bell 1997: 77). The story of Śunaḥśepa, captivating as it is, has been preserved in a number of later versions besides that of AitB 7.13–19, sometimes radically different in general tenor from that preserved in AitBr. It is also to be found, among others, in TB 1.7.10.6; Ap ŚS 18.19.10–14; TS 5.2. 1.3, BŚS 12.15–16, KŚS 15.6.1–7, HGS 13.6.38; AŚS 9.4.9–16, ŚāṅkhŚS 15.17–27; MBh 13.3.6–7, Rāmāyaṇa I.60–62; Manu, X, 105 (commented by Kullūka Bhaṭṭa), ViṣṇuPurāṇa IV. 7, Bhāgavata Purāṇa, IX, xvi,35, Mārkaṇḍeya Purāṇa 32–58; DevīBhPurāṇa Vi.12–13. The relatively rich scholarship on the so called Śunahśepa legend comprises among else Pargiter 1917, Heesterman 1957: 158–61, Gonda 1975: 394–96, White 1986,

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one coming as a follow-up in the shape of the young Brahmin Śunaḥśepa, purchased to be offered as a substitute in a sacrifice during a ritual of royal consecration. The story remains one of the most touching examples of dramatic narratives set against an altogether positive idea of action and change—a motif not often made visible in historical Indian literary cultures.6 It is perhaps of interest to briefly recall the circumstances of the story’s narrative praxis within the Vedic ritual complex. Its function appears to be that of a performative,7 that is, a narrative to be solemnly recited on a prescribed ritual occasion by a proper functionary, in this case the main officiating priest representing the Ṛgveda, namely the Hotar. As such, it forms a part of a royal rites complex within the Soma sacrifice, and it is usually referred to as the royal unction rite (abhiṣeka, abhisecanīya), by means of which the king was believed to rejuvenate his royal, as well as his personal power. According to the normative texts of the Śrautasūtras, it takes place at [the time of] the midday Soma pressing round, and is accounted for differently by different Sūtra authors.8 According to the Baudhāyana Śrauta Sūtra (BŚS XII.15–16), the story of Śunaḥśepa (śaunaḥśepākhyāna) should be ceremonially told by the Hotar priest, sitting on a golden cushion, to the king just before the latter's unction rites are about to start. The performance of the narrative is said to fall between the so called dakṣiṇā libations and the drinking of the remainder of the supposedly invigorating sacrificial drink called mahendragraha by the Hotar and Adhvaryu priests. The telling of the story is preceded by the enthronement rites and the rite of playing dice, and it starts with, and proceeds parallel to, the cooking of odana rice.9 The Hotar priest recites the story, while the Adhvaryu priest (representing the Yajurveda) inserts “Om” after each ṛc stanza and “tathā” (“let it be”) after a gāthā (stanzas not preserved in the Ṛksaṃhitā), apparently signaling a consent on his part. In another version (Āśvalāyana Śrauta Sūtra), the king is also seated on a cushion (kaśipu) worked with gold, while the Adhvaryu is standing or sitting on

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8 9

Shulman 1993, Minkowski 2001, Hameen-Antilla 2001, Sathaye 2015. For translation of AitBr 7.13–19, see Keith 1920: 299–309. On the potential for social change expressed by the Śunahśepa narrative of AiB 7.13–19, see Athaye 2015: 51–58. In the sense given to it in Rappaport 1999: 114–117, which re-defines the ideas of Austin and Searle. Note, among others, his formulation on p. 116: “... the formality of liturgical orders helps to insure that whatever performatives they incorporate are performed by authorized people with respect to eligible persons or entities under proper circumstances in accordance with proper procedures”. For a discussion and interpretation of the ritual complex of royal consecration, see Heesterman 1957. On the rich symbolism of odana rice, see Heesterman 1993: 91–98.

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two grass bundles (not the most comfortable seat, indeed). 10 What is to be ceremonially recited to the acting king, that is the story of Śunaḥśepa fixed partly in verse, partly in prose, can be briefly summarized as follows: King Hariścandra has no son, although he enjoys the company of a hundred wives. The kingdom faces a succession crisis. A pair of wandering sages appears at his court, Parvata and Nārada, referred to in the dual as parvatanāradau (a dvandva compound), and they tend to speak in verse, usually identified by later commentators as gāthās (a genre considered extraneous to the Ṛgvedic tradition proper, but preserved outside the saṃhitā). They seem to speak with one voice, though it is actually Nārada who answers in verse an equally versified question put by the king (this already suggests the ceremonial character of the king’s dealings with sages and the imminent instrumentality of such dealings). The king’s question, ceremonially voiced, concerns his own private drama, as well as that of his kingdom: he has no son to carry on the family and tradition, either as a man or as a king. After a dispensation of general wisdom, sage Nārada advises the king to request god Varuṇa for a son, in exchange for a solemn sacrifice of the same in due time. Varuṇa agrees and thus Rohita, the king’s son, is born, a handsome young lad pleasing the eyes of his father and of the people around. When the time for the fulfillment of the contract with god Varuṇa comes, the king uses the storehouse of traditional ritual lore to postpone what has to be done as long as he can. He succeeds six times in denying the sacrifice on the pretext that a paśu, or a sacrificial victim, has to be at least ten days old, that it must be grown enough to have teeth, that the proper paśu should be rid of its first teeth, that a paśu actually needs to have grown its second set of teeth, that a proper paśu in the form of a kṣatriya boy fits the sacrifice only when he can hold his warrior weapons.... When the day arrives and there is nothing to be done, while the rules of ritual do not offer any more excuse, king Hariścandra betrays to his son Rohita the nature of his contract with god Varuṇa. According to the diction of AitB vii.12, which does not waste words without purpose, upon the revelation by his father, Rohita cries out just one single word: “No!” and grabbing his bow and arrows, he disappears into the wilderness. In an apparent act of revenge which represents the dire consequences of ritual going wrong, Varuṇa sends dropsy to the King—a nasty illness, visible clearly to his subjects as a sign of disfavor on the part of the gods, the worst lot for a king to expect. What Rohita did in the wilderness is utterly interesting, but remains rather outside our consideration here.11 What is important is that he says “no” to the circumstances and faces an

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10 For a discussion of a wider context of the Śunaḥśepa story recited during the the ritual

complex of royal consecration made of a sequence of various rites, see Heesterman 1957: 158–161. 11 On the interpretation of action and change in the Śunaḥśepa narrative, see Athaye 2015: 57f.

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urgent need for a way out, be it temporary or not.12 Though deeply shaken by remorse on hearing of his father’s lot, Rohita postpones his return home as many as six times, wandering each time for a year. The circumstances of his decisions remain quite interesting to interpret. Let it suffice to mention here that the rebel Rohita wanders the wild for six years. The six years in wilderness correspond to the six years of delay by the king in fulfilling his contractual promise to god Varuṇa. The last year brings a solution and the important thing is that the solution comes from the wilderness—the domain of the unknown and unpredictable—and it represents the inventiveness of the rebel Rohita, who at first denied the ritual altogether. Now the denied ritual comes back with the full, if not doubled, horror of a purchased human substitute to be offered as a sacrifice. What comes next is a better known part of the story—Śunaḥśepa, a middle son to a poor Brahmin, whose fate seems already to be determined by the very name he has been given, is now purchased for a hundred cows to become a human sacrificial victim and awaits his destiny. The drama intensifies while the officiating priests refuse to tie him to the sacrificial post and to kill him, and it is his own father who promptly agrees to do both in exchange for another two hundred cows. When death is imminent and seems inevitable, Śunaḥśepa resorts to the best in himself—to his expertise in composing powerfully worded hymns of praise. While praising various gods seemingly in vain, it is at the sixth turn when the goddess Uṣas cannot but release him in answer to the irresistible power of his visionary poetry. These two varieties of the same type of crisis resolve themselves at the same time: as Śunaḥśepa’s fetters fall away, the visible symptoms of king Hariścandra’s illness recede. And it is nothing else but the initial brave denial of ritual that triggers the resolution in both cases, extreme as they are. Rohita denies being a sacrificial victim; so, too, does Śunaḥśepa. There seems to unfold an inner affinity between the acts of substitution and denial as marked by the story. The latter grows from the potential of the former. The absolute security aimed at by the seemingly unending lists of emergency substitutes finds its limit in a reversal: a substitute establishes itself as a rule. The double solution can be seen also as parallel in the way the two cases subsequently work out. While Śunaḥśepa’s fetters fall away, owing to his extraordinary poetical visions, the ugly illness of the king disappears, leaving the king’s body intact. But there is also an essential difference between the two: while from the point of view of the theory of ritual the case of Rohita may be subsumed under the category of finding an emergency substitute, that of Śunaḥśepa is altogether different, since it registers and represents a radical break with the previous state of affairs. Now there is no going back; only a way forward. The moment when it becomes apparent to the participants in the royal sacrifice that Śunaḥśepa’s

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12 AitB vii.14.9: sa ha nety uktvā dhanur ādāyāraṇyam upātasthau; sa saṃvatsaram araṇye

cacāra // atha haikṣvākaṃ varuṇo jagrāha; tasya hodaraṃ jajñe tad u ha rohitaḥ śusrāva so ‘raṇyād grāmam eyāya ....

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words work magic, releasing him from death and the king from imminent shame (amounting eventually almost to the same thing), there is no way back to the old order of things within the ritual arena; the astounded officiating priests are left with no victim, and, by the same token, they are in no position to continue and to complete the ritual. And leaving a ritual incomplete spells bad luck, if not calamity, so something must be done to carry it through to the end.13 The officiating priests turn to the sacrificial victim—Śunaḥśepa—urging him for a solution and a way out of the dead end of the now impracticable procedure of human sacrifice. In ritual parlance, they approach Śunaḥśepa for a saṃsthā, or a rule, to complete the sacrificial day (ahar) with a new procedure (AitB Vii.17.1).14 Such is the understanding of the passage proposed by the commentator Sāyāṇa, who takes ahar to refer to the day of the royal unction (abhiṣecanīya), and saṃsthā to mean samāpti (completion, fulfillment). 15 In other words, Sāyaṇa appears to have no doubts whatever that the story narrates the same ritual in which it has been ritually embedded as a perfomative. In the same tenor, the commentary explains adhigaccha with anuṣṭhāpaya, suggesting that Śunaḥśepa is requested by the priests to “make them perform” the rest of the ritual day the way he thinks is the ritually proper one. The same commentator has no doubts about taking añjaḥsava to mean the royal unction rite in the form of a soma sacrifice ritual (somayāga), and the whole passage to indicate a transformation of a human sacrifice ritual into a new variety of ritual, in the wording of the commentator, a kind of hybrid mixture (sāṃkarya) of a vegetal sacrifice (iṣṭi) and a victim (paśu) of an altogether different nature, from this moment on that of the Soma plant and its juice (Malaviya 1980: 1163). Familiar as it seems, the story of Śunaḥśepa apparently lends itself to interpretations feeding on the classical Greek story of Oedipus, or the well-known Biblical topos, most of them following this or that version of Freudian interpretation fuelled by the notions of guilt, complex, fathers and sons, etc. According to David Shulman, “Śunaḥśepa represents an unpredictable, heroic breakthrough into the overriding power of divine cosmic order of reproduction through repetition of sacrificial violence perpetuated by the human law of substitution. In this seemingly inescapable set-up, the fathers sacrifice their sons: so do the childless Harścandra with his son Rohita and the merciless Ajīgarta with Śunaḥśepa” (Shulman 1993: 9). All of them are “trapped”, to use Shulman’s words, “inside the cycle of sacrificial origins and conclusions”. These revealing and important interpretations bring perfectly into relief the structure of the narrative and the associated ritual. Yet the story of (Rohita and) Śunaḥśepa happened to have been a perfect vehicle for articu-

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13 On the imminent danger, if not catastrophe, in a ritual that remains incomplete, see for

instance Heesterman 1993: 53.

14 AitB vii.17.1: tam ṛtvija ūcus tvam eva no ‘syāhnaḥ saṃsthām adhigacchety | atha haitaṃ

śunaḥśepo ‘ñjaḥsavaṃ dadarśa ....

15 See Sāyaṇa’s commentary on AitB vii.17.1 (= Malaviya 1980: 1163).

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lating quite different things throughout religious texts of several distinct traditions of later India, and thus testify perhaps to the view that the meaning of ritual may alter with a change in its socio-historical or cultural embeddedness. Among other instances, the story resurfaces rather unexpectedly in the late DevīBhāgavata Purāṇa (DBhP VI.12–17). It is probably not without importance that here the story is embedded in a totally different setting. Now it is told not by the Vedic officiating priest to the king undergoing a consecration rite, but by an ṛṣi-sage, Vyāsa, to King Janamejaya, in a conversation between the King himself and a group of sages about an altogether different sacrifice called deviyajña (a sacrifice to the Goddess). The king had supposedly seen this latter performed by god Viṣṇu himself. The general context of the story is also rather radically different. It is the war between Āḍi and Baka caused by the enmity of the two famous ascetic sages (muni) Vasiṣṭha and Visvāmitra, who are said to have remained tormented with all sorts of emotions, even when residing by the holy passage way (tīrtha) of Ganga river. A wider context is here that of the purāṇic battle called Āḍibaka, fought between the two fearsome munis, turned into huge birds by a mutual curse. They engage in a deadly fight by the banks of the lake Mānasaovara lake for 10 000 years, bringing terror even to the gods. Now the connecting link is that the two gruesome sages, giving vent to uncontrolled emotions that spread havoc around the worlds, at some point engaged in the conflict of either Rohita or Śunaḥśepa while advising king Hariścandra or intervening during the peak moment of the sacrifice endangered by Śunaḥśepa’s refusal to be a victim. Contrary to the story told by AitB, in this version, it is not the power inherent in the visionary art of Śunaḥśepa, but the intervention of one of the sages that changes the course of ritual and saves the life of Śunaḥśepa. Instead of the visionary art of eulogy, there comes the power of a secret mantra known to the ascetic sage. The change of other elements of the story’s setting is more than telling. Now Varuṇa comes back to the Hariścandra house in the attire of a brāhmaṇa (vipraveṣadhara) to demand the life of Rohita, only after the day the later returns home having completed his Vedic studies (samāvartane) [DBhP VII.15.50], instead of the weapon-carrying day marking the maturity of a kṣatriya boy in the version of AitB. When Varuṇa arrives on the scene after Rohita’s flight from the city, the king prays and says “na me doṣo ‘tra … bhāgyadoṣas tu …”—‘it is Destiny who is to blame, not me!’ The idea is amplified by the way the King address Varuṇa in this particular place: now Varuṇa is referred to by the king as Sarvajña—the “all-knowing”—in a clear indication that he must also know that Rohita fled of his own will. In DBhP an image of wilderness is substituted by the then culturally more appealing set of pre-defined images of mountains populated by munis, each given his own private āśrama cave.16 Likewise the part where the gāthās on journey should fall appears to be

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16 DBhP vi.12: sarvatra giridurgeṣu munīnām sarveṣu ca / anveṣito me dutais na prāpto

yādasāṃpate....

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replaced altogether in DBhP by stanzas VI. 16. 4–13, where Śakra (Indra) speaks of rājanīti, the secret of meeting the “duties of the king”, not of cara (“action , wandering"), which was the case with Indra’s message to Rohita in AitB. Now Indra simply bans Rohita from returning to the city.17 Instead of the imaginative words of encouragement of AitBr (Indra speaking in verse), now we get only a matter-of-act account of the words spoken by Indra. Thus, Rohita's action is no longer the outcome of a clever suggestion, but rather the result of a straightforward admonition or simple ban (niṣedha)—a difference reflecting the change of circumstances.18 The right to change the ritual and modify its course remains with either a God (here Indra, who bans Rohita from coming back) or the extraordinary figure of the muni—an ascetic sage. Also the consequences are borne by them. The apparently crucial and new social role of a muni stands out conspicuously. The unpredictable and creative nature of the denial of ritual in AitBr has been transformed and substituted by an image of nature made of secondary and fixed associations: snow-capped mountains, cave āśramas, ascetic munis …. The figure of a young prince has become brahmanized, and instead of a samnāha ceremony marking the initiation of a boy into the warriorhood, now we have a samāvartana ceremony marking the “return back home” after the completion of the Vedic studies. We may say that, with a new cultural context setting in the reworked version of DBhP, the meaning of the denial changed over time and history after having undergone—to use a formulation of Sahlins—a functional transvaluation (in order to fit and articulate the ideologies of four stages of life and Purāṇic temple Hinduism). My intention is to draw a parallel between this instance of change in the history of a text and a contemporary case of revived Vedic ritualism undergoing a transformation in answer to new circumstances dominated by the powers of mediatization and globalization. The case shall be investigated briefly with a view to shedding light on the historicity of the act of ritual denial, where cultural structure is necessarily challenged by the power of temporal change and transformation. This instance shall be represented here by a regional form of Vedic ritualism

————— 17 rājaputra na janāsi rājanītim sudurlabham / atas karoṣi mūḍhas tvam gamanāya matim vṛtha

//5// “Oh Son of the King, you do not understand the secret of the King’s duties, which is most difficult to abide by, That is why you do foolish things. Abandon your thought of return”. 18 tasmāt tvayā na gantavyaṃ rājaputra pitṛgṛhe / mṛte pitari gantavyaṃ rājyārthe sarvathā punaḥ /7.16.9/ You should not go back to the house of your father (or: “the house of the Fathers” meaning “imminent death”, an apparent play on the word). But for the sake of kingdom you do need to go there when your father is dead. evaṃ niṣedhitas tatha vāsavena nṛpātmajaḥ / vanamādhye sthitaḥ kāmaṃ punaḥ saṃvatsaraṃ nṛpaḥ //7.16.10 // Thus admonished against coming back by the son of Vasu, the king’s son remained in the woods again of his free will.

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redeveloped within the last few decades by the community of Nampūtiri Brāhmaṇs of Kerala, South India. This revived wave of Vedic ritualism appears to have developed when faced with profoundly changed socio-historical circumstances, at first in the form of radical land reform towards the second half of the 20th century, and, later on, by a sudden global explosion of this ritual appeal, triggered by Western scholarly interest and the public appeal of the new globalizing media. In the first two cases recounted by the two historically distinct versions of the Śunaḥśepa story, the acts of refusal of puruṣamedha, or human sacrifice, eventually gave rise to an altogether new ritual of Soma and a novel sacrifice to the Goddess (devīyajña), respectively. The third, or modern, instance concerns mainly a refusal of animal sacrifice, understood as a denial of any violence whatsoever. It led, through an adaptation of the piṣṭa-paśu ideology, or the use of the “rice-paste” victim instead of the real one, to a re-development of Vedic ritualism within the new sphere of the public, while claiming its territory, appreciation, and support.19 The idea of a substitute for a real animal in the form of an effigy made of dough and named piṣṭa-paśu had been known to later Vedic texts as a theoretical possibility to choose from among many other substitutes, that is to say, as an emergency solution if the real thing was not to be found in specific circumstances. In fact, other instances of modern śrauta ritual revivals testify to different substitutes, such as a golden vessel or clarified butter (Smith 1987, Lubin 2001). It seems that the practical implementation of such substitutes used not to be welcomed by the theoreticians of ritual (Brahmasūtra, Mīmāṃsā) or later mediaeval commentators (Sāyaṇa). The situation, however, must have varied widely regionally, as it does nowadays. Sometime around the 14th century, for instance, in circles influenced by the Vaiṣṇava Bhakti movement with its non-violent ideology, the śrautins hailing from the community of Mādhva Brāhmaṇas of Western Karnataka in particular must have adopted the option of substituting for the real

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19 More on piṣṭa-paśu among Mādhva Brāhmaṇas and other Brahmin communities of

Maharashtra, see Smith 1987: 74. The introduction of rice-flour images of the sacrificial victim, called piṣṭa-paśu for the proceedings of the now legendary 1975 Agnicayana ritual organized in Panjal, central Kerala, by the conjoined forces of European, American, and Japanese scholars, sponsored by American institutions was documented in the famous Robert Gardner film. It found its place in the monumental two-volume publication edited by Frits Staal and was rather briefly described by C. G. Kashikar and A. Parpola (Kashikar and Parpola 1986: 248): “In the Sāgnicitya Atirātra of Panjal, Kerala, 1975 ... dough tied to a piece of banana leaf was offered in place of an animal because of the public opposition; the substitute was adopted from the similar one used at the domestic rite of Aṣṭakā in Kerala”. In order to give the reader a glimpse of the reality on the material side of the event documented by the publication, the first volume had been ingeniously fitted out with somewhat mysterious envelopes showing the way in which the dough sacrificial victims could be folded in banana leaves. Cf. McClymond 2012: 209, fn. 31, who takes the substitution as a more general tendency in ritual practice of contemporary Brahmins all over India.

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victim as a regular procedure. They are believed to have totally given up ritual killing in favour of the piṣṭapaśu idea. In their case, what once must have been an emergency option became the standard. 20 Either the textual evidence of the Śunaḥśepa legend or the contemporary Vedic ritual revival indicate that a radical break with the expectations of a ritual tradition and the community that embodies it did not destroy the ritual but, on the contrary, rejuvenated and redefined its course. As noted above, the very idea of a substitute for an animal sacrificial victim was not altogether new. Having said that, we must admit that, on the one hand, an ideology of substitution must have developed parallel to or in answer to the practice as a crucial emergency tool, while, on the other, many, if not most, substitutes were put on long lists, remained theoretical, and were seldom, if ever, resorted to in practice. The concept of a substitute in the form of an effigy made of flour or dough must have originated along with growing lists of other emergency substitutes quite early on, taking its impulse from the anxiety for securing the smooth operation of rituals by any means.21 “The piṣṭapaśu as such may well be archaic”, argues J. Heesterman, who indicates the case of the Varuṇapraghāsa ritual as resorting to the substitute named piṣṭapaśu, understood as a dough image of a sheep and a ram—“and the ritual that made use of it...has been ritualistically ‘recycled’ ...”.22 We should, however, clearly distinguish between an emergency substitute and an altogether new standard procedure introduced as a result of rejecting or denying the old one. The technical and commentarial literature that kept developing long after the Vedic period proper continued the archaic idea of substitutes as essential for the ideology and practice of Vedic ritualism. The long lists of substitutes, such as that in the (probably 11th century) Trikaṇḍamaṇḍana of Bhāskara Miśra, must have been, to some extent, theoretical constructs built upon the practice of substitution, that used to be resorted to when really needed. As theoretical concepts they, however, contained the seeds of future revolutionary turns that needed legitimacy for their novelty. The so-called legend of Śunaḥśepa

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20 See Lubin 2001: 393–394, Smith 1987: 174. 21 An extremely strong anxiety for the perfect, flawless performance of every detail believed to

secure the outcome of the ritual was visible in all proceedings of the contemporary yāgas observed by me in Kerala. I elaborate on this aspect in Galewicz 2003. 22 Heesterman 1993: 283, fn. 30. The idea of piṣṭapaśu is also referred to by Witzel in his “The Case of the Shattered Head”, p. 412 in the context of reconstructing a model historical evolution of human sacrifice to be substituted with images such as piṣṭapaśu. The locus classicus for the indigenous reflection within the Advaita school is Brahma-Sūtra 3.1.24–27, which seems to defend the idea of real animal sacrifice against that of a substitute. A later commentator, Śrīpati (Śrīkara-Bhāṣya), ca 1400, appears to admit both possibilities, See Houben 1999: 158–9, fn. 96 and 97. For the legal status of animal sacrifices in contemporary Kerala, see THE KERALA ANIMALS AND BIRDS SACRIFICES PROHIBITION ACT, 1968 which essentially repeats an earlier Madras Act for Malabar of 1950 and bans animal sacrifices in temple precincts.

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in the AitB preserves both cases: that of a one-time emergency substitute legitimized with sacrificial lore (Rohita purchasing a “better” victim), and that of a revolutionary leap forward towards instituting an altogether new ritual procedure (Śunaḥśepa introducing a vision of new ritual, removing the old one once and for all). The use of substitution marks an incident within a limitless series of elements made of ritual performances. Just as in the ancient Indian reflection on grammar, according to which there is no way to enumerate all possible forms,23 in ritual one cannot account for all situations that need emergency measures. It is, nevertheless, a general rule that remains. In this respect, Frits Staal's intuition, voiced in his Mantras without Meaning and later in his Discovering the Veda, should perhaps be taken seriously, namely that “there is a link between grammar and ritual theory. [...] Patañjali wrote that neither rites, nor forms of language can be enumerated because no such enumeration would reach the end. Ritual and language can only be described and explained by treatises that provide rules. Such rules are called sūtra and that is what Śrauta Sūtras and Pāṇini’s grammar are therefore called” (Staal 2008: 228). As examples in the Vedic normative texts show a recursive anxiety with ritual error as the liminal point of innovation, the aitihāsa literature, as well as contemporary ritual practice, testify to an intense guard against any change in the inherited paradigm, paradoxically matched by an emergency readiness for restoring the system after possible collapse, be it through atonement rituals, substitution, or adaptation, both trends appearing as characteristic of ritual as a structure of behaviour meaningful within its own set of rules.24 The 1975 performance of the Vedic ritual called Agnicayana Atirātra in the Keralan village of Paññal, by now already legendary, and at the time proclaimed at first to be probably the last one before completely dying out,25 proved to have triggered a whole series of new events of a similar kind. What all of them shared was the ritual agency that remained mostly in the hands of a particular group within the broader community of Nampūtiri Brāhmans, while opening itself in new

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23 In a well-known story of two godly figures engaged in conversation over grammar, Bṛhaspati

tries to teach Indra the science of words and after a thousand years of efforts to enumerate all instances he finds it rather impossible to proceed that way any longer. See Joshi and Roodbergen 1986: 17. 24 The readiness of the theory and practice of the Vedic ritual for adaptiveness and changes has been noticed recently among else by A. Michaels: “... the seemingly stereotyped and fixed (Vedic) ritual was always and quickly adapted to the practical needs of the priests and sacrificers...”. (Michaels 2007: 130). For an obsession with perfect performance, see Galewicz 2003. 25 The event marked the end of a long gap in such performances from the last previous one in 1956.

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ways to the public.26 Each of them was referred to by a common denominator of somayāga (a Soma sacrifice) and actually represented one of the two varieties of the latter preserved by the Nampūtiri Brāhmans in predominantly oral transmission: a shorter one called Agniṣtoma and a longer one called Atirātra (usually performed along with the Agnicayana ritual and referred to by the insiders simply as Agni). The series of the follow-up comprised, among others, an Agniṣṭoma performed in 1984 at Trivandrum, an Atirātra performed in 1990 in Kundur, an Agniṣṭoma performed in 2003 in Trichur, an Agniṣṭoma of 2005 in Angadippuram, two parallel and somewhat rival performances of 2006, an Atirātra in Kizhakkancheri and an Agniṣṭoma in Koṭākara, a 2011 replay of Paññal Atirātra, an Atirātra organized in 2012 in Koṭākara, and two expert ritual services exported trans-regionally to Andhra, one in 2012 to Bhadrācalam, and one in 2013 to Keesaragutha.27 As recalled in 2003 by Itti Ravi Mamunne, one of the prominent members of the Nampūtiri community: “The 1975 agni is a seminal event for the modern Nambudiri śrautism. There have been three śrauta rituals by Nambudiris after the 1975 agnicayana, the 1984 agniṣṭoma at Trivandrum, the 1990 agnicayana at Kundoor, and the 2003 agniṣṭoma at Trichur, all from native resources, but all thought possible by Nambudiris śrautins today only because of the first one, the 1975 Agni”.28 Also F. Staal, the key figure behind the legendary performance, admitted that the sudden danger in the possibility of opening of the Vedic sacrificial ceremony to the public, among other things by the plans to film it, provoked voices of dissent, also from within the community. They combined with the publicly voiced opinion on unnecessary violence in killing animals for sacrifice. Such amplified voices accompanied the performances to come, especially the 2003 Agiṣṭoma in Trichur that seems to have especially marked a turn in the ritual’s opening to the public. The fears were thus articulated by Errkara Raman, a doyen of Nampūtiris, in 1973: “Suddenly it was the opinion of some great minds that the plan to film the yāga would detract from the purity of the intention behind the yāga; the purity of the ritual offering [dravya] would be compromised; the killing of the animal is violent and is a sin. I believe it was in the 1140's [Malayalam calendar corresponding to 1960's], the time ... when thousands of rupees were available from the Kathanoor-Shoranur Madhams. Eight yāgas took place from these monies. There was somehow no problem then of purity of

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26 On the leading role of a minor group of Kauṣitakī Ṛgvedins within the broader community of

Nampūtri Brāhmans in controlling the actual performance of the newly revived Vedic rituals in Kerala, see Mahadevan 2011. 27 For the dating and naming of Kerala śrauta revival rituals, cf. Mahadevan 2011: 9 and www.athirathram.org (last accessed 05/09/2015). 28 Itti Ravi Mamanne 2003.

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intention for these great minds, no problem with the purity of oblations. And the killing of an animal was no violence. Now everything is the opposite”.29 The modern case of a ritual denial directed against the animal killing in the Vedic sacrificial ground, won but little attention from scholars. It was commented on briefly by Staal, himself instrumental in the spiral process of rejuvenating Vedic rituals in Kerala: “Likewise, when there were morally, religiously and politically motivated protests by Gandhians, Jainas, and Communists against the sacrifice of real animals on the eve of the 1975 agnicayana, it was he [Erkarra Raman Nampūtiri] who came up with the solution of piṣṭapaśu—a solution that has found wide appreciation among the current ritualists, all of whom continue to be vegetarians in their daily lives. This is another instance of how a live tradition is able to innovate itself when faced with a difficult impasse about a crucial part of the ritual”. 30 At that time, the public opposition towards animal sacrifices had already had some history in Kerala, with a few legal acts set up against such sacrifice by succeeding state governments, beginning with the so-called Madras animal sacrifice law for Malabar and the 1968 Kerala Animals and Birds Sacrifice Act N° 20 that prohibited the practice in temple precincts of the state. Although rather a dead law, the 1968 act used to be referred to in disputed cases, and still is today. 31 Within this framework, the conspicuous absence of argument against animal sacrifices in Vedic rituals in Kerala on legal grounds, either in 1975 or later in 1984, 1990, or 2003 up to 2012, remains as surprising as telling in its taking for granted that Vedic sacrifice had always remained outside the lived-in world and did not need temples or shunned them.32 While refraining from sacrificing real animals

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29 Itti Ravi Mamanne 2003. 30 Staal and Mahadevan 2003: 16–17. Cf. opinions on the general problem of representation of

contemporary Vedic ritual revival and problems involved therein in Schechner 1987, Knipe 1986 and Dejenne 2003. 31 Cf. a short article in The Hindu of April 26, 2004, raising the case against animal sacrifices in a Bhagavati temple in Mangottu, Palakkad, where “as many as 50 goats and 100 chickens were offered and the meat distributed to the devotees...” and “Swami Bhoomananda Teertha of the Hind Navodhana Pratishtan sent a complaint to the District Collector and Superintendent of Police on Saturday, demanding that the sacrifice be stopped. [...] The abolition of animal sacrifice in Hindu temples is a law in force in the State. The district authorities should have enforced it, but they failed to do so...” (http://www.hindu.com/ 2004/04/26/stories/ 2004042607280400.htm [last accessed 05/09/2015]). 32 Cf. Heesterman 1993: 79 on the ideology of the “other-wordly” character of the Vedic corpus rituale and its consequences—“...the theoretical stance that the śruti is nitya and apauruṣeya is in perfect keeping with its surpassing the organic and the sacred. Had it remained organically tied in with society and its sacrality ... it would have undergone the impact of changing circumstances in the surrounding world”. However, from the perspective of this short study, the tenor of this statement should be slightly attenuated in order to allow room for change and regional variety, and the following formulation, further down on the same page would remain in force in a relative sense only: “It was exactly its [Vedic ritual’s] character as a mechanistic

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in 1975, Atirātra in Paññal seemed to have represented an emergency step by the use of a substitute; with the series of newly revived Somayāgas that came afterwards, the practice of substitution appears to have been gradually acknowledged as a standard rule. In this way, the community proved its power to decide things by itself, from within its own group’s potential for legitimizing rituals vis à vis the voice of the public. It seems that, from this moment, there was no way back to the good old times, only an unpredictable future. Among the voices claiming for it an uninterrupted continuity and those seeing an afterlife of lifeless reconstructions for it, the Vedic ritual of Nampūtiris changed, though not necessarily as predicted by the scholars. The nature of the relationship between the community claiming ritual agency and the public proved, in succeeding performances, to be far from homogenous. But had it not been like that with Vedic ritual in the past, whose outcome had been many a time said to be rather unpredictable?33 Looking for parallels between the cases transmitted textually and those from real life, it can be said that the two instances of Rohita and Śunaḥśepa illustrate a refusal by the victim. But the third one, taken from the real world of contemporary ritual revival, stands for a refusal by different agents, among others public opinion. It also testifies to the birth of an actively participating public in the once exclusive ritual of the elite community of Nampūtiri Brāhmaṇas. Thus, a denial of ritual on the part of those who acquiesced to the pressure of public opinion and decided to break with a centuries-old tradition of sacrificing animals during Vedic ritual not only called for inventiveness in order to come up with a suitable and accepted substitute for the live goats; it also entered the public debate on the problem of ritual animal killing as such, and thus opened the Vedic ritual towards a shift from the elitarian zone to the public.34 During the process, the community drew upon its

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construct ... that enabled the endurance of Vedic ritualism in a changing world. In that sense we can understand the claim of its being ‘permanent’ and ‘nonhuman’”. 33 Cf. the still inspiring ideas of Sahlins on the cross-relationship between culture and history: “Culture is therefore a gamble played with nature, in the course of which, wittingly or unwittingly, ... the old names that are still on everyone’s lips acquire connotations that are far removed from their original meaning. This is one of the historical processes I will be calling “the functional revaluation of the categories” (Sahlins 1985: ix). 34 Cf. Staal and Mahadevan 2003: 20—“We think that the Trichur yāga represents a new śrauta model in the sense that its patron is the public at large”. Here the opening of the ritual to the public is understood also as a most direct way of opening the procedure of the performance to the onlookers: the proceedings of the 2003 Agniṣṭoma performed in Trichur were given live transmission on TV screens set around with a “public announcement system”, or running commentary on what was actually going on within the sacrificial enclosure. We must note that an ability to make sense of the complex sequence of acts and recitations making up the performance, not rarely two or three such running in parallel, is rare even among the insiders of the Nampūtiri community, to say nothing of the visitors and outsiders making up the public audience of the yāga. The running glossary by a commentator, even if not perfect,

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own resources in finding solutions to the exigencies of new socio-historical circumstances and proved itself capable of authoritative, albeit radical decisions, thus testifying to the community’s embodying the ritual potency of constituting a self-contained and independent entity against the new and changing social order. We may like the ways and trajectories that the new revived Vedic rituals have taken in contemporary Kerala or not, but the broader community of their guardians has stood the trial of time and proved itself deserving of being understood in terms of self-adaptiveness, parallel to that of eco-systems in biology. The innovation in order to operate smoothly among all members of the community also needed backing from a published, authoritative text. Here, a doyen of the modern Nampūtiri Vedic tradition, Erkkara Raman Nampūtiri, supplied a written nirṇaya in the shape of an essay entitlled “Yajñappaśu”, published (as essay No 16) in 1976, along with other 17 essays, in a publication entitled Amnāyamaḍhanam. The series of Soma sacrificial rituals initiated by the 1975 Atirātra in Paññal (predicted at first by Staal to be the last one of the kind ever to take place) appeared to reach its final shape with the 2003 Somāyaga in the urban environment of Trichur with its public sponsorship and televised coverage. The public financial success story of 2003’s Trichur Agniṣṭoma performance made Frits Staal predict a totally new paradigm set to continue on from the time of this very event.35 The reality, however, turned out to be much more complex and proved again the potential of the ritual to unpredictable adaptations and solutions, with instances of both an open and a very much closed character.36 This does not necessarily mean, however, that the whole ritual—in Staal and Mahadevan’s words—“entered the public sphere” in the sense of this expression in common parlance. Today it looks rather as though it has opened itself to the public as an event verging on something that might be called a spectacle. The next somayāgas to come proved that this model would not be the only one. Yet, it must be admitted that the public discourse in all sorts of media incorporated controversial points of the yāgas, such as the killing of animals, soma drinking, waste of resources, etc., which became topics widely discussed outside .

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constituted no doubt a tangible act of opening the ritual to the public. Other elements of such an opening included a TV channel recording the whole of the proceedings for future reference, an exhibition of sacrificial utensils, a bookstall with publications on the matter, and public utterances made by the insiders through media. For a description of these spectaclelike elements making up the 2003 Trichur performance, see Dejenne 2003: 226–31, Staal and Mahadevan 2003: 16, Galewicz 2003. 35 Cf. Staal and Mahadevan’s remarks: “At the beginning of the ritual, the question of money for the yāga was still clouded, but as it proceeded, with the collection at the gate and the institution of vecchu namaskāram, the picture cleared, and the public rose to the occasion. There is very little doubt that the next yāga—one is proposed as early as next year—will follow this model” (Staal and Mahadevan 2003: 20). 36 On several aspects involved in contemporary Vedic revivalism in Maharashtra, see Lubin 2001.

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the traditionalistic framework of ritual eligibility (adhikāra), or the right to offer judgments on such matters. In the event-like convention adopted by the contemporary performances, other elements of the ritual structure took the place of the animal sacrifice and its potential for mobilizing emotions: now the media focused on the fire as operated and manipulated within the sacrificial arena, with the pomp of the Sacrificer’s retinue transporting the domestic fire to the place of sacrifice, the puzzle of transformation of the domestic into the public fire, the drama of its “churning procedure” (agnimanthana) of many hours' duration, the pyrotechnic effects of the pravargya rite, the danger of the fire consuming the arena on the last day, the enigma of the Soma plant (where does it come from? is it the real thing?) and Soma drink (the supposed intoxicating or healing effects), the anxiety about the widely shared need to rationalize the supposed beneficial effects of the Vedic ritual performance over the environment and human condition, the alleged scientific basis of the Vedic ritual procedure, etc.37 The mythologized history of Vedic ritualism and the community of Nampūtiris surprises an outside observer as replete with acts of ritual denial. It indicates that several forms of ritual denial constituted turning points in its past. Such is believed to be the legendary hero sacrificer Meḻattōl Agnihōtri, believed either to have been denied by the god Indra or to have himself refused the necessity of continuing with Vedic sacrifices, after having completed as many as ninety-nine performances of the Vedic yāgas. Most of the cases that are still alive in the collective memory of the community, and which are recorded in the traditional chronicle of Kēraḷolpatti, refer to fierce disputes and feuds over the right to perform Vedic sacrifices, and right to refuse performance of them, on the part of particular groups or individuals within the community. Some of them seem to legitimize the rather radical hierarchy of the inner caste system within the community and its implications for the shape of the contemporary Vedic ritual revival. These complex implications seem to be difficult to articulate in the scholarly discourse, probably due to the still

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37 See Dejenne 2003. The enigma of the Soma plant in its regional context takes several

dimensions otherwise not known outside Kerala: one of them concerns the so called kings of Kollengode, or Veṅṅgunnattu Nampitis, who have been long considered royal patrons to Soma sacrifices and who in 2003 were still believed to fulfill their ritual duty of supplying the Soma plant from the hills in their jurisdiction. A little investigation carried out in 2003 revealed, however, that the royal famiy had already some time ago left Kollengoe and that the local Hindu temple, once playing a crucial function with regard to the investiture of Kollengode kings, took over the business. The temple supplied the Soma plant as if under the auspices of the Kollengode king in a somewhat clandestine procedure (an investigation by the present author revealed that the Soma plant delivered to the recent sacrifices hailed from a private garden). This resulted in a rather non-Vedic new rite of royal procession, during which the bundle of Soma was brought to the venue on elephant back to the accompaniment of Hindu temple music called pañcavādyam, an altogether new element in the otherwise Vedic structure. See Staal and Mahadevan 2003: 9 and Raghava Varier 1983: 283–287.

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insufficient theoretical engagement of the research initiatives involved so far.38 The most famous of the above-mentioned rifts following a ritual rights denial to the inhabitants of one of the traditional Nampūtiri settlements accounts for a still observable division within the broader community of Nampūtiris.39 A denial in connection with a contemporary performance of ritual might, of course, have other effects. One of these may concern the right to represent the ritual events and participants, or rather the anxiety deriving from a claim to total control of the proceedings and their representation. Such was the case of the 2006 Atirātra Agni of Kizhakancheri, the organizers of which, dominated by a somewhat mysterious single sponsor, refused to permit the ritual to be either videographed or photographed by any other body than the single one appointed by themselves, with an apparent view to capitalizing on the proceedings afterwards. As a natural consequence, it affected the agency of the few foreign scholars present to observe the proceedings. In this regard, the 2006 Atirātra Somayāga proved to be a rather unexpected detour from the tendency of opening to the public that appeared to have been set for good by the performance of the 2003 Trichur Somayāga. Last, but not least, there is the problem of the representation of the whole process, which found its new turn in the old and new institutions controlled by Nampūtiris, now claiming the right not only to ritual agency, but also, and increasingly, to scholarly assessment, which includes the traditional centre for Vedic education in Trichur Brahmanswam Madham and its ambitions for becoming a scholarly centre.40 There seems to be not one good general theory of ritual on offer that could supply a ready-made set of analytical tools sufficient to describe and understand the contemporary development of ritual practice, combined with a growing phenomenon of inner criticism from the circles of ritualists themselves. While I am tempted here to adopt the already classical view of Catherine Bell, according to which “any discussion of ritual is essentially an exercise in reflective historical and comparative analysis” (Bell 1997: X), I prefer, however, a somewhat eclectic theoretical standpoint, combining a need for a theory of ritual in itself, as understood by Handelman (“what particular rituals are about, what they are organized to do, how they accomplish what they do, are all empirical questions whose prime locus of inquiry is initially within the rituals themselves”; Handelman 2005: 3), as

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38 It seems that part of these problems stem from the still underdeveloped conceptual shape of

the regional history of India and its fragmentary societies, made up of a plethora of radically distinct communities, and partly from a lack of common ground between scholarship in different disciplines. Cf. more general remarks in Geertz: “...the dynamic elements in social change that arise from the failure of cultural patterns to be perfectly congruent with the forms of social organization are largely incapable of formulation (Geertz 1975: 144)”. 39 See Raghava Varier 1983: 289–292 and Parpola 1984. 40 One example of a growing tendency to take over the right for representing its own tradition on scholarly grounds is Nambudiri 2002.

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well as a conceptualization of a phenomenon of a diverse and multiple agency accompanying various claims with respect to control over highly influential contemporary spectacles of ritual revival in South India. Accordingly, I am inclined to look at a series of revived or reconstructed Vedic sacrifices in Kerala, beginning from the 1975 Paññal Agnicayana, down to the instances of exporting expert services trans-regionally to Andhra in 2012 and 2013, as a new process of opening the once elite ritual to the public, as well as accommodating the ritual to the public, whose voice the community now strives to shape. In this bi-directional process, the community of Nampūtiris, now a newly-imagined community with international links, has re-established itself in a globalizing world and emerged as developing a new and efficient type of agency in not only continuing, reviving, or reconstructing its own Vedic tradition, but also in expertly influencing other regional varieties of it (for instance, through expert team performers sent to Andhra and instruction extended by Nampūtiri experts to Maharashtra Brāhmaṇa boys). And, last but by no means least, it has done so by successfully proving the right of self-reflection and self-appraisal, while taking over scholarly research and representing its own tradition. 41 The community has succeeded, among other things, in attracting and influencing the shape of the planned 2014 edition of the International Vedic Workshop in Kerala in a way that secures a wide measure of control over the image of the newly revived tradition in the hands of those who claim to represent the community. The denial of animal sacrifice in contemporary revival of Vedic ritualism across South India and the Deccan appears to stem from various regional and local circumstances with a common denominator in the shape of the publicly voiced idea of non-violence as one of the presumably dominant concepts of modern Hinduism.42 This voice happens to come either from outside the immediate context of

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41 This new tendency has been noted by Staal and Mahadevan: “The most important mani-

festation of the new spirit is that youngsters realized that Vedic ritual has a place in modern Kerala society and that a Vedic ritualist ... may have a future” (Staal and Mahadevan 2003: 6). The new enthusiasm attached to the revival of Vedic ritualism can be seen in the ideology of the “well-being of humanity”, to which most of the internet sites appear to resort: “The project mainly targeted to bring our Vedic heritage, rituals, its scientific background and message of environmental protection to the attention of people all over the world. They believe that it is their duty to tell others about our heritage in our (Indians') own words and concepts” (www.athirathram.org/rel2/pdf). While the ideology, simplified as it is, could be seen in other instances of Vedic revivalism noted in other regions (cf. Lubin 2001), the strong surge of enriched self-identity appears to be one of the characteristics of modern Vedic revivalism from Kerala. 42 See, for instance, a rather carefully measured comment voiced on an Internet forum with respect to the 1990 Kundur Atirātra performance: “The Vedas are not without a controversial dimension, a feature that often hounds such performances. Animal sacrifices are a prescribed prerequisite for the Athiratra ritual. Even the mode of killing is graphically described. The

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the performers/organizers of Vedic rituals, or from within a broader Brahminic community of the region of performance itself. Recent field studies (Lubin 2001, Knipe 2004) show that there are instances of double ritual agency of the same performing experts, who happen themselves to refuse (or support the refusal of) animal sacrifices in publicly open sacrificial events, while preferring “real” sacrificial performances organized in private. This seems to indicate that the Vedic ritual complex, which in principle incorporates animal sacrifices at least theoretically, still remains a socially sensitive and multifaceted issue. As such, it retains a potentially disruptive power in the form of its capacity for mobilizing collective emotions.43 This, however, may vary regionally to a great extent, and what remains conspicuous for Maharashtra (as shown in Lubin 2001) does not necessarily hold true for the situation of Kerala Vedic revivalism, notwithstanding a number of common points and parallels. 44 The same difference pertains probably to the

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Yajur Veda prescribes the slaughter of 11 goats by strangulation on the main day of the ritual. In fact, all Somayagas (of which the Athiratra ritual is one) have the animal sacrifice element as a Vedic stipulation. Accordingly, goats were sacrificed during the 1956 yajna. But the practice had to be abandoned during the 1976 ritual when a public agitation erupted over the issue. This year the option was not even considered by the organizers, who resorted instead to innocuous symbolism. The fact remains that the mammoth turn-out at the yajna site consisted largely of an uncomprehending public”. (http://www.venumenon.com/articles/ article_page.asp?catid=13&artid=23 [last accessed 06/09/2015]). The 1968 Animal and Birds Sacrice Act prohibits the killing of animals in temple precincts in Kerala. As is well known, Vedic śrauta sacrifices, even in their modern revival form in Kerala, do without temples and thus remain outside the legal competency of the aforesaid regulation. For a voice from Kerala academic circles, see Namboodiri 2002, chapter IV. 43 In some generalizations, a bipartite division into Śrautins favouring animal sacrifices and those refusing animal sacrifice is put forward; see Thite 2004: 560. 44 The common feature of both contemporary ritual milieus is visible perhaps in the rhetoric of a universal well-being combined with the poetics of scientifically measurable effects that a somayāga is supposed to bring to the environment. An example of this rhetoric is a website commenting on the 1990 Kundur Atirātra performance: “The Sagnichitya Athiratra Somayaga that held sway for 12 days in the sleepy village of Kundur in Trichur district in Kerala, South India, served as much to preserve a tradition on the verge of extinction as to foster universal well-being. To observe the mechanics of the process, a bevy of scientists arrived with expensive equipment and wired the ritualists for data. [...] Preliminary observations indicated that the yajna had the effect of dramatically reducing fungal spores around Kundur. Long-suffering asthma patients reportedly experienced relief”. (http://www. venumenon.com/ articles/article_page.asp?catid=13&artid=23). Another example of a comment in the same vein concerns the 2012 Atiratra perfomance in Pannal and shows a similar predilection for “scientific” legitimation of the contemporary yāgas: “‘Yaga is known to affect the dynamics of Nature, biosphere and troposphere. A study is being conducted to analyze the impact of Athirathram on biological systems and to find whether it affects germination of plants. Experiments will compare different sets of seeds and plants that germinated before and during the event. Every three days, a fresh batch of seeds is being germinated,’ Dr. Nampoori

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problem of the total denial of Vedic ritualism as such. While a voice of that sort could be heard occasionally in the public reaction to the preparations for, or comments on Vedic ritual performances in Kerala, it perhaps never had a strength comparable with what has been observed in Maharashtra. This might be due to different trajectories taken by regional history in the two areas: a probably much stronger anti-Brahmin movement in Maharashtra confronted with an equally strong blend of nationalist-brahministic ideology and situated against the complex of the regionally specific Bhakti movement, on the one hand, and an altogether different social and religious stand of the Nampūtiri Brahmins in Kerala, on the other, both with respect to other Brahmin communities of the region and to the social and political changes of the 20th century.45 There is one more issue at hand that should probably be addressed in this short essay. This is the relation to, and difference between the “prescriptive” and “performative” structures of ritual and society (Sahlins 1985: xi). A confrontation of the two renders visible the basic working of the growing fabric of culture and history, especially in what Sahlins called a “gamble” played by culture with nature, and representing the “functional revaluation of the categories”. Seen from such an angle, the new revival of Vedic ritualism in South India appears to face the inevitability of unpredictable consequences of the “opening to the public” and turning it into a spectacle.46 The somayāgas prove to lend themselves to the contemporary socio-economic circumstances and to be instrumental in setting up mediatized events, mobilizing power and generating money to an extent worth considering, sometimes in terms of capital investment, and proving the ancient warning against ritual that may misfire or miscarry. In this sense, the revived Vedic rituals just like other rituals, remain venues of social struggle, both in the sense of seeking and mobilizing authority, and denying it.47 By the same token, they keep

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said” (The Hindu, April 12, 2011). Cf. Lubin’s very informative remarks under the headline “Vedic sacrifice as ‘Science’ and a Program for ‘Progress’” in Lubin 2001: 395–397. 45 Seen from another angle, the refusal of animal sacrifice in the revived Vedic ritualism of Kerala can be perhaps better understood as an act of making history, the way that entering public space changed the eltarianism of Vedic ritual for good and created the new order of things on a historical, albeit local, scale. The problem is perhaps worth reconsidering in the optics of the crossroads of culture and history. In more general terms, see Bell 1997: 77—she argues that history is the way in which cultural traditions appropriate new situations. Like other practice theorists, she sees people as making their own history in their own cultural fashion and ritual as a frequently central instance of this activity. 46 Among studies bringing to the fore the spectacular aspect of modern revived Vedic ritualism, see for instance Dejenne 2003 and Lubin 2001. 47 Cf. Dirks’ remarks on historical perspective on rituals: “By historicizing the study of ritual, we can see that while rituals provide crucial moments for the definition of collectivities and the articulation of rank and power, they often occasion more conflict than consensus ...” (Dirks 1991: 220).

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on functioning as loci worthy of investigation in themselves, as well as mirrors of changing cultural patterns.

References Abbreviations AitB ĀpŚS AS ĀŚS BŚS BhP BS ChUp DBhP HGS MārkP MBh RS RSBh RSBhBh ŚB SS ŚaṅkhŚS TĀ TB TS VBhBhS VP

Aitareya Brāhmaṇa Āpastamba Śrauta Sūtra Atharvavedasaṃhitā Āśvalāyana Śrauta Sūtra Baudhāyana Śrauta Sūtra Bhāgavata Purāṇa Brahmasūtra Chāndogya Upaniṣad Devi Bhāgavata Purāṇa Hiraṇyakeśī Gṛhya Sūtra Mārkaṇdeya Purāṇa Mahābhārata Ṛgvedasaṃhitā Ŗgvedasaṃhitābhāşya Ŗgvedasaņhitābhāşyabhūmikā Śatapathabrāhmaṇa Sāmavedasaṃhitā Śaṅkhāyana Śrauta Sūtra Taittirīyāraṇyaka Taittirīya Brāhmaṇa Taittirīyasaṃhitā Vedabhāṣyabhūmikāsaṃgraha Viṣṇu Purāṇa

Primary The Aitareya Brahmana of the Rgveda, ed. by M. Haug, London: Trubner, 1863. The Aitareya Brāhmaṇa of the Ṛgveda with the Commentary Vedārthaprakāśa of Sāyanācārya ..., ed. and transl. by Sudhakar Malaviya, Varanasi: Tara Printing, Works 1980 [= Malaviya 1980]. Aitareya Brāhmaṇa with the vṛtti Sukhapradā of Ṣadguruśiṣya, vol. I., ed. by R. Ananta Kṛṣṇa Śāstrī, Trivandrum: Bhaskara Press, 1942. The Brāhmasūtra Śankara Bhāsya with the commentaries of Bhāmāti, Kalpataru and Parimala, ed. by Anantkṛiṣṇa Śāstrī, Bombay: Pāṇḍurañg Jāwajī, 1938. The Baudhayana Śrauta Sūtra, ed. and transl. by C.G. Kashikar, Delhi: IGNCA, 2003. Keralolpatti, ed. by H. Gundert, Mangalore: Basel Mission Press, 1843

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The Śrīkara Bhāshya by Śripati, ed. by C. Hayavadana Rao, Bangalore City: Bangalore Press, 1936. Śrimaddevībhāgavatamahāpurāṇam, ed. by Rāmatejapāṇḍeya, 1970, no place of publishing. Vedabhāṣyabhūmikāsaṃgrahaḥ, ed. by Baladeva Upadhyaya, Varanasi: Vidya Vilas Press, 1958 (originally published 1934).

Secondary Bell, Catherine. 1997. Ritual. Perspective and Dimensions. Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press. — 2009 (1992). Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice. Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press. McClymond, Cathryn. 2012. “Negotiating Ritual Repair. The prāyaścitta Material in the Baudhāyana Śrauta Sūtra”. In: Hüsken and Neubert 2012, pp. 191–214. Dejenne, Nicolas. 2003. “‘Do you enjoy Somayagam?’. À propos d’un agnistoma célébré à Trichur Kerala) en avril 2003”. In: Bulletin d’Études Indiennes 21.1: 225– 238. Dirks, Nicolas. 1991. “Ritual and Resistance. Subversion as a Social Act”. In: D. Hines and G. Prakash (eds), Contesting Power. Resistance and Everyday Social Relations in South Asia. Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press, pp. 213–238. Galewicz, Cezary. 2003. “A keen eye on details”. In: Bulletin d’Études Indiennes 21.1: 239–253. Handelman, Don. 2005. “Why Ritual in Its Own Right? How So?” In: Don Handelman and Galina Lindquist (eds), Ritual in Its Own Right. Exploring the Dynamics of Transformation. New York: Berghahn Books (first published in Social Analysis 48, 2004), pp. 1–32. Hameen-Antilla, Virppi. 2001. “Back to Sunahsepa. Remarks on the Gestation of the Indian Literary Narrative”. In: Klaus Karttunen and Petteri Koskikallio (eds), Vidyarnavavandanam. Essays in Honour of Asko Parpola. Studia Orientalia 94, pp. 181–214. Heesterman, Jan. 1957. The Ancient Indian Royal Consecration. The Rājasūya Described According to the Yajus texts and annoted. The Hague: Mouton & Co. — 1993. The Broken World of Sacrifice. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Houben, Jan. 1999. “To kill or not to kill the sacrificial animal (yajña-paśu)? Arguments and perspectives …” In: Jan Houben and Karel van Kooij (eds), Violence Denied. Violence, Non-violence and the Rationalization of Violence in South Asian Cultural History. Leiden: Brill, pp. 105–183. Hüsken, Ute and Frank Neubert (eds). 2012. Negotiating Rites. Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press. Itti Ravi Mamunne. 2003. “Agni and the Foreign Savants”. In: IJVS 10.2 (Sept.), http://www.ejvs.laurasianacademy.com/ejvs1002/1002.txt. Joshi, S.D., and S.F.D. Roodbergen (eds). 1986. Patanjali’s Vyākaraṇa Mahābhāṣya (Paspaśāhnika). Poona: University of Poona.

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Kashikar, C. G., and Parpola, A. 1986 (1983). “Śrauta Traditions in Recent Times”. In: Frits Staal (ed.), Agni. The Vedic Ritual of the Fire Altar, Vol. 2. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidas, pp. 199–251. Keith, A. B. 1920. Rgveda Brahmanas. Cambridge Massachusets: Harvard University Press. Knipe, David M. 1986. “Stalking the Sacrifice”. In: The Journal of Asian Studies 45.2: 355–358. — 2004. “Ritual Subversion. Reliable Enemies and Suspect Allies”. In: A. Griffith and J.E.M. Houben (eds), The Vedas. Texts, Language & Ritual. Groningen: Egbert Forsten, pp. 433–448. Lubin, Timothy. 2001. “Veda on Parade. Rivavalist Ritual as Civic Space”. In: Journal of the American Academy of Religion 69.2: 377–408. Mahadevan, T. P. 2011. “In search of a head along a body, darkly” (paper presented at the Fifth Int. Vedic Workshop, Bucharest, 2011). Michaels, Axel. 2007. “Perfection and Mishaps in Vedic Rituals”. In: Ute Hüsken (ed.), When Rituals Go Wrong. Mistakes, Failures and the Dynamic of Ritual. Leiden, Boston: Brill, pp. 121–132. Minkowski, Christopher. 2001. “The Interrupted Sacrifice and the Sanskrit Epics”. In: Journal of Indian Philosophy 29: 169–186. Namboodiri, Govindan V. 2002. Śrauta Sacrifices in Kerala. Calicut: University of Calicut. Osella, Philippo, and Caroline Osella. 2003. “Migration and the Commoditisation of Ritual. Sacrifice, Spectacle and Contestations in Kerala, India”. In: Contributions to Indian Sociology 37: 109–138. Pargiter, F. E. 1917. “Visvamitra, Vasistha, Hariscandra, and Sunahsepa”. In: The Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland (Jan. 1917): 37–67. Parpola, Asko. 1984. “On the Jaiminīya and Vādhūla traditions of South India and the Pāṇḍu/Pāṇḍava problem”. In: Studia Orientalia 55: 429–468. Raghava Varier, M. R. 1986 (1983). “The Nambudiri Tradition (With Special Reference to the Kollengode Archives)”. In Staal, F. (ed.), Agni, Vol. 2. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidas, pp. 279–293. Rappaport, Roy. 1999. Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sahlins, Marshal. 1985. Islands of History. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sathaye, Adheesh A. 2015. Crossing the Lines of Caste. Viśvamitra and the Construction of Brahmin Power in Hindu Mythology. Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press. Schechner, Richard. 1987. “A ‘Vedic Ritual’ In Quotation Marks”. In: The Journal of Asian Studies 46.1 (Feb.): 108–110. Schmidt, Hans-Peter. 1968. “The Origin of ahiṃsā”. In: Mélanges d’Indianisme à la mémoire de Louis Rénou. Paris: Editions de Boccard. Shulman, David. 1993. The Hungry God. Hindu Tales of Filicide and Devotion. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Smith, Morton Frederic. 1987. The Vedic Sacrifice in Transition. Poona: Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute.

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Staal, Frits. 1983. Agni. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidas. — 2008. Discovering the Vedas. New Delhi, New York: Penguin Books. Staal, Frits, and T.P. Mahadevan 2003. “A Turning Point of Tradition”. In: EJVS Vol. 10–1. Thite, G. U. 2004. “Vicissitudes of Vedic Ritual”. In A. Griffith and J.E.M. Houben (eds), The Vedas. Texts, Language & Ritual. Groningen: Egbert Forsten, pp. 557563. White, David Gordon. 1986. “Śunahśepa Unbound”. In: Revue de l'histoire des religions 203.3: 227–262. Witzel, Michael. 1987. “The Case of the Shattered Head”. In: Studien zur Indologie und Iranistik 13–14: 363–415.

Other sources www.athiratram.org (last accessed 05/09/2015). The Hindu April 26, 2004: http://www.thehindu.com/2004/04/26/stories/20040426072 80400.htm. The Hindu April 12, 2012: http://www.thehindu.com/todays-paper/tp-national/findingsfrom-athirathram-to-be-revealed-by-may-15/article1690091.ece (last accessed 05/09/2015). THE KERALA ANIMALS AND BIRDS SACRIFICES PROHIBITION ACT, 1968, No 20: http://www.lawsofindia.org/pdf/kerala/1968/1968KERALA20.pdf (last accessed 05/09/2015).

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Rights versus Rites Bali and Ritual Reform in the Himalayas Rights versus Rites

Lokesh Ohri The Western Himalayas in India are home to several social groups that ascribe sovereignty to tutelary divine kings. One such divine kingdom is ruled by the four sibling deities, the Mahasus, whose realm extends through the regions lying between and along the rivers Tons and Sutlej. Prominent among rituals in the realm of the divine kings is the offering of bali, the sacrificial killing of goats during temple rituals. With animal rights’ groups, backed by state officials and reformists, taking up cudgels against the practice, and with most modernising subjects of the divine kings professing “reform”, the ritual is under attack from all quarters, and in effect, denied to Mahasu subjects. This paper situates itself in the midst of the contentious battle for denial and the restoration of bali, showing how such interventions snowball into negotiations of identity, control, ritual mastery and authenticity. Ubiquity of rituals, religious and political, within social groups is quite evident. If agentive power is understood to be the ability of an action to bring about a substantial transformation in ways of living in a society, change in ritual regimes could alter social life substantially. When a state seeks to further extend its influence over an isolated, peripheral region by altering the political-religious ritual processes in that region, the act itself attains strong political overtones. As for community rituals, they are usually seen as acts that foster unity or engender community feeling. They represent cultural norms and values connected to identity. They bring the past into a living present, enabling participants to share commonalties of mythical times and places, coalescing them with an experience of the present. Ritual performances, thus, are pasts experienced as the present. Quoting Myerhoff, Kertzer (Kertzer 1988: 10) avers that by stating and enduring underlying patterns, ritual connects past, present, and future, abrogating history and time. Bringing Durkheimian analysis into the study of ritual in politics, Kertzer further describes ritual as symbolic activity through which constituents in a society sacralise their mutual interdependencies. Rituals themselves get transformed much the same as ways of living change. In turn, they also reflect the changing identity of social groups in the wider contexts of polities such as the nation states that encompass them. What happens when a particular ritual, intrinsic to a belief system, is suddenly denied to a social group and attempts are made to replace it by another, “less harmful” ritual? The situation

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is further complicated when certain voices within the community also join the clamour for “reform”. Here, we consider the question of ritual denial and attempts at replacement within a community. This situation, I argue, while forcing the pro and anti-“reform” groups to confront each other’s viewpoint, kick-starts selfreflexive processes that begin to look at identity anew. Owing to the polarisation that reform causes, social groups are forced to reflect on the acts they had been performing in the past as routine and natural. The ritual, though it may hold its own and survive in spite of the confrontations and controversies, is itself altered in practice and perception for times to come. This paper looks at instances of ritual, denied to a social group when, in a traditional society, the media and the so-called “civil-society” activists raise the issue of “barbaric practices in the name of religion”. As long as forces that the community construes as external to it enunciate “reform”—for instance, if this comes from the state or its various assimilative arms—government officials, activists, the media; the community is either forced into abandoning or altering the ritual. At times they are forced into a defensive posture, denying the existence of the ritual and even discontinuing its practice. The other option, of course, is a rebellious persistence. When voices from within the community seek a break from the past, there is bound to be resistance. This article looks at ritual denial and its impact on a community in the Western Himalayas in India. Through the case study, we consider how nation-states and voices from within the community seek to deny a ritual seen as regressive, the act itself leaving a void and in course of time bringing the ritual back into currency, but altering it in practice and perception.

A “Tribe” in the Western Himalayas The Indian sub-continent is a complex patchwork of linguistic, cultural and geographic diversities. Within Hindu caste societies here, many significant, heterodox systems exist simultaneously, belying the notion of coherence. The youngest Indian mountain state, Uttarakhand (earlier named Uttaranchal), founded in 2000 at the culmination of a long-drawn-out campaign for separation from the most populous state of India, Uttar Pradesh, exemplifies the political volatility of sub-regional identities and beliefs. Here, cultural differences between the various sub-regions and groups, upland and lowland, rural and urban, tribal and non-tribal, despite a severing of the older links from the parent state, still remain unresolved. In fact, separate statehood has only served to exacerbate these differences, with each group attempting to affirm them even more emphatically. By the turn of the nineteenth century, the Western Himalayas had come under the control of the Gurkha regime from Nepal. In 1816 (Pemble 2009), the British drove out the Nepalese, after suffering heavy losses due to the difficulty of the terrain and Gurkha valour. Having achieved their objective of securing the borders

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of the empire and the coveted trade routes to Tibet through the mountains, the British decided to restore kingships to the minuscule monarchies that had existed in the region before the Nepalese invasion. While kingships were restored in most regions that were earlier ruled by human kings, Jaunsar-Bawar, ruled by the divine kings Mahasu, with no identifiable human as an earthly representative, was retained as part of British territory to offset the heavy expenses incurred during the war. The region, parts of which were under what are, perhaps erroneously, described by Sutherland (1998) as “very little kingdoms”, formed the vast territory of the divine kings or devta-raja, Mahasu, spanning the mountain tracts across the rivers Satluj and Tons. The arrival of the British, then, meant that boundaries were re-drawn, some parts being handed back to traditional kings under the vassalage of the British, while others, like Jaunsar-Bawar and Shimla (later named the summer capital of British India), were retained under their direct control. The Jaunsar-Bawar region had several factors going for it under direct British rule. It was an inaccessible region with pristine forests, with some of the grandest pine found anywhere, offering immense potential for timber exploitation. Social particularities, such as polyandry, bride-price and re-marriage rights to widows, intrigued the new colonial masters, while the weather and vegetation reminded them of the Scottish highlands. Most significantly, the people of the region had risen against the Nepalese armies once the British had secured their initial successes during the war. The British followed a policy of engagement with the divine king, the resident in the region even travelling to the Mahasu shrine in 1836 (Young 1836), the cult centre at Hanol, to seek Mahasu’s adjudication in a land dispute between Mahasu ministers (vazirs) and the king of adjoining Tehri Garhwal, a vassal of the British. In 1883, two documents compiled by a British collector, A. Ross, listed the rights and customs in the region, in an effort to comprehend the complex and particularized social system. Titled the Vazib-ul-Arz and the Vazib-ul-Amal, these documents were accepted as standard references for local customary codes. Using them as a basis, the region was accorded special status under the Government of India Act, 1935, even as the “little kingdoms” around them, with similar caste and cultural compositions, were kept out. After Indian independence, especially in the 1960s, the region fell under the gaze of government planners, owing to reports describing the region as one with perhaps the lowest per-capita income and a parallel economy owing to rampant poppy cultivation. The Extraordinary Gazette of the Government of India (No. 107, 24 June 1967), taking into account precedents of British policy and as a result of intense lobbying by local political pressure groups, included all caste groups within the region into the broad classification of the Jaunsari Tribe. A Hindu caste society had thus leveraged its particularities and peripherality to acquire job reservation benefits and development programmes accruing to the tribal areas of India. The flip

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side of the deal was that these particularities stuck on in the national mindset as defining features of the region. In the region, predominantly agro-pastoral in occupation, for the “tribal” communities a sacrifice of goats at their divine king Mahasu’s palace or temple had always been performed as a sacred ritual. The social order here, a part of the temporal and astrological, follows calendrical cycles of ritual. All festivities and ritual gatherings involve large-scale animal sacrifice. Ample evidence that meat eating is a part and parcel of local identities exists in the folklore. Texts on the region suggest that, for a people described in most colonial texts as volatile and refractory, festivities are marked with boisterous and violent celebrations accompanied with the sacrificial killing of goats (locally referred to as bali), followed by meat eating and what Sutherland (1998: xxii) describes as “the serious political work of drinking”.

Religio-Social Structure of the Cult of Mahasu Specifically, the West Himalayan regions referred to here are Jaunsar-Bawar and Jaunpur in the district of Dehradun, with the mountain regions of Bangan and Fateh Parvat of the neighboring District Uttarkashi, in the state of Uttarakhand and parts of the tiny kingdoms of Sirmaur, Rampur-Bashahr, Jubbal and Kinnaur in the state of Himachal Pradesh, together forming the realm of the divine kings, the four Mahasu brothers. The four are treated as a unified complex, since the eldest sibling sits in the cult capital at Hanol while the other three constantly progress through their respective territories, tracing complex itineraries, and thus uniting the realm. It would be appropriate to refer to the region as the realm of Mahasu, since the four brother deities, even though god-like idols in temples or images carried around (hence, referred to as divine kings), concealed in box-like palanquins called palki along with regalia fit for kings, carried over alpine ridges, precipitous gorges and narrow valleys, embody kingship. They extend patronage and receive abject surrender from their subjects. An elaborate bureaucracy of chief ministers, priests, accountants, drummer-genealogists and oracles runs the cult of Mahasu as his earthly representatives. Mahasu’s kingship is embodied and articulated through his oracle or mali, when he, in a state of possession, addresses his subjects. The Mahasu cult operates from temples usually referred to as the divine-king’s palace or fortress (mahal/kot). The deity resides in the sanctum, in the form of a concealed idol, and it is the temple vazir or the divine king’s chief minister who manages the affairs of the temple. The affairs involve a substantial amount of work, since the divine-kings own large swathes of lands cultivated by subjects, and the minister collects tax or kut in the form of tributes, manages the complicated logistics of the deity’s processions, and runs a permanent kitchen in the temple where meals are offered to pilgrims throughout the year. In his tasks related to managing the realm and protecting his territories, he is assisted by officials or

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kardars, coming from the dominant and hierarchically superior Rajput or warrior caste, who administer the ritual regime, the deity’s accounts and the temple stores. The deopujya or temple priests are Brahmans that ensure the observance of daily ritual. The divine kings choose to speak through their oracles, known as mali, who also usually come from the Rajput caste. The work of waking, moving and dancing the gods rests with the bajgis or drummer-genealogists, a caste category that despite its significant role in Mahasu ritual, is relegated to an inferior position in the social pecking-order.

Flesh Eating and bali That flesh eating is integral to Mahasu’s identity was revealed to me by the divine king’s own musician. According to the Bajgi Madan Das, one of the oldest living genealogist drummers, the name Mahasu is derived from maamsu (maams+su, the deities that consumed the flesh). They arrived to consume the flesh of Kirmir, the demon that had to be defeated in order to establish the Mahasu kingdom. Folklore, as recited by Madan Das and several other drummer bards at all occasions in Mahasu temples, refers to the arrival of the Mahasu kings along with their deputies, invited by the Brahmans, in order to save their clan from the demon’s enormous appetite for human flesh. The origin myth of the Mahasu divine-kings describes an elaborate pursuit, over the ridge that separates Jaunsar from Bawar, leading to the demon’s dismemberment. Once this was accomplished, the four Mahasus and their deputies divided the demon’s flesh amongst themselves and even let some parts escape into the higher reaches to establish their kingdoms in the beyond. The flesh was distributed and consumed. With this bout of ingestion of the demon’s flesh, the Mahasu kingdom was inaugurated. The origin myth also explicates the initiation of bali or the ritual offering of goats at Mahasu temples. As the Mahasu kings arrived with their deputies from the fabled lands of Kullu-Kashmir, and were expected to slay the demon to restore order, they proceeded to the riverine lake, Punnath Tal, where the demon lived. While one of the Mahasu deputies agreed to guard the terrestrial world, the other was deputed to visit the netherworld where the demon lived, for a reconnaissance. Once the deputies had completed their investigation, they procrastinated on confronting and battling with the demon. The Mahasus had to bribe them (risvat dena) with a promise that goats would be sacrificed for their consumption during the night vigils, the Jagra, and other festivals, such as Basant Pancami (locally known as dhaknach), on the fifth day of the arrival of magha (the season marking the arrival of spring). Ever since, the ritual offering of goats for sacrifice, presumably to feed the birs or the deputies, was a prescribed ritual. If, as a subject of Mahasu, you felt that something you deserved was not coming your way or your life was beset with inexplicable troubles, you would make a vow to visit the deity and offer a goat once the problems had been resolved. Otherwise,

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you could visit the Mahasu temple, consult his oracle, and ask for a remedy which, once granted, would culminate in the offering of a goat. This is what thousands of people across Mahasu country do every day. The practice of bali or balidana, (sacrifice or the gift of sacrifice), referring to the ritual killing of a goat or any other animal of value and offering it to the deity, is a pan-Indian tradition. For a pastoralist society, such as that in Mahasu’s kingdom, goats have, for ages denoted wealth and well-being. From replenishing the fertility of the soil, with farmers paying handsomely to shepherds coming down from the mountains with their flocks after the winter grazing to stop with them in the fields being prepared for sowing, to the urine providing the solvent for softening bamboo fibre to be woven into mats and baskets, the value of goats and their functional utility are obvious. In fact, in most alpine homes, the ground floor is reserved for livestock. Humans inhabit the floors above, deriving comfort from the body heat generated by the livestock. Goats fulfill most nutritional needs as well. In a region where the divine kings had established their kingdom with the ingestion of flesh, the offering of a goat at a Mahasu shrine is the least one can do to propitiate a divine king that has complete control over the elements. Besides controlling weather, Mahasu can also exorcise evil spirits, diagnose misfortune, heal sickness, welcome brides, bless first-born males, settle legal disputes, mete out punishment, instil civic sense into his subjects, and collect taxes. Goats, in a sense, still are the most efficacious ritual gift that could sap the poison out of Mahasu’s dos, his retribution for an offence caused, perceptibly or otherwise. The practice of bali is intrinsic to Mahasu worship, an antidote for his anger or dos, whether in temples or in processional ritual. During my fieldwork, I visited various Mahasu temples and over a period of several years realized the functional, as well as ritual, significance of goats to life in the mountains. Early this year, on a freezing winter evening as I approached the little hamlet of Bhotanu on a snowbound ridge in the mountains of Bangan in Uttarkashi, I was warmly welcomed by the sayana or the elder of the village, an old acquaintance. I had been trekking a long distance with the palanquin of Chalda Mahasu or the walking divine king, who was on his way to the cult capital of Hanol, a much anticipated event, expected after the historic river-crossing ritual of the divine king that usually takes place every twelve years. As is usually the case, the host village was in complete preparation to host the large numbers travelling with the procession. The moment I arrived, the sayana insisted that I squat with other Rajput chieftains in the terraced fields for a meal of mutton and rice. A vegetarian by choice, I was confronted with the sight of goats being butchered and skinned right there, with the the flesh going straight into the cauldrons and skins being stretched out to dry for the drummer bards to mount fresh ones on their drums. But refusing a meal from a chieftain is not an option one should consider on these mountain slopes. The meat was cooked in spicy curries for all of us to to have our fill. The goats had been contributed by every hamlet and village, offered to their divine king, to be served

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to the pilgrims who had been trekking with the divine procession for close to a month. The animals were ritual offerings, nutrition, even ritual music through their skins stretched and mounted on the drums—an essential pivot of existence in these hostile mountains ruled by Mahasu. Never before have the dietary habits of the divine kings or their deputies become such a bone of contention as now. During one of my earlier visits to Hanol in the year 1995, goats were being sacrificed at a spot very close to the entrance of the Mahasu temple. In my conversations with several people about ritual practices in the shrine, bali was mentioned casually and there was no specific comment on Mahasu’s food habits. The cooking of meat was done right next door in the rawli pand, Mahasu’s perpetual kitchen. During that visit, I had met a man and his wife, who had trekked to the temple with a goat. While sipping tea at the only tea-shop close to the temple, I saw that the woman was shivering. To me, the symptoms appeared to be that of a high fever that had induced mild delirium, and I offered some tablets of Paracetamol that I happened to be carrying. The medicine was politely refused with the explanation that it was devta’s dos that was causing mischief and the divine-king would not exorcise the spirits plaguing the woman unless propitiated with a goat. To their understanding and mine, killing the goat in the temple was, quite clearly, an offering specifically for the divine king. The couple had trekked for four days to arrive at the temple to get rid of the affliction. Purity and pollution have always been significant to Mahasu and there has always been a strict restriction on the carrying of leather inside the shrines. Wearing of leather, usually equated with the carrying of a dead animal, has been associated with impurity capable of defiling the shrine, as have been menstruating women and lower castes, all of whom are not permitted to enter Mahasu temples, despite specific national laws forbidding selective temple-entry practice. However, bali, or the sacrifice of living goats was never even remotely considered an act of defilement. It was, in fact, a sacrificial propitiation; in the words of Sutherland, (1998: 320), referring specifically to Mahasu shrines, “everyone who eats the cooked flesh of the sacrificial victim, when distributed in its transvalued form as prasad, is biologically incorporated in a community as shared ‘coded substance’ as Chicago ethnosociologists might have called it”. Bali, is thus an act that helps prevent Mahasu’s anger or taking offense due to non-fulfillment of ritual duties towards the divine king, or it causes a reversal of the consequences of what is usually referred to as his dos. Before we look at the denial of ritual and its consequences, it would be pertinent to explain the processes of attribution of dos and its removal through the sacrifice of animals or bali. This would enable us to comprehend how the net of mutual obligations is endangered through the processes set in motion by the denial of the ritual of bali. The divine king’s dos is closely linked to his juridical authority, as also to the notion of propitiation through sacrifice. Dos usually refers to an offense taken by the divine king due to unintentional immoral conduct or violation of social norms

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on the part of his subjects, leading to a social imbalance. The divine king subtly differentiates between two kinds of human faults, pap and dos. What distinguishes the two is the intention of the subject. While pap karma invites irreversible consequences and falls within the purview of ethics, dos could be explained in terms of faults, character blemishes, errors of judgment or pernicious behaviour, all within the ambit of actions and their reactions, cause and effect. Thus, dos and pap not only pertain to intentions and actions in the present physical world, but also past lives. Dos is causative, and the divine king, while possessing the oracle, seeks to diagnose the intentions of members within the clan through an interrogation, a kind of public hearing leading up to a very public confession of the guilt of having acted against the established order. While individuals afflicted by dos, seeking redress, are usually accompanied by members of the immediate clan, they also bring with them rice or soil from the hearth of the family home. These two elements—the presence of clan members and rice or soil from either the hearth or the family fields, are essential to the diagnosis of dos. The clan members come in order to identify the wronged individual who would have caused the dos, and the soil and rice are for the divine king’s power to establish a consubstantiality with the home and hearth where the spirit to be exorcised resides. Dos is usually diagnosed publicly, in the temple courtyard, and cured with the performance of bali and other ritual acts. Families usually arrive with afflicted relatives and wait for their trusted oracle to finish other consultations. They are then seated in a group, with the individual afflicted by the dos directly facing the oracle. A banknote, pledged in Mahasu’s name, is kept alongside a little pile of rice from the afflicted family’s granary. The oracle picks up a few grains and gradually works up into a state of possession, the body shaking violently, voice raised to a high pitch (cheriya boli) in a demeanour quite distinct from his usual disposition. He then tosses the grains at the afflicted individual, intermittently observing the grains in his hand very carefully. Then the public interrogation commences and the afflicted individual, as well as clan members, respond to the divine king’s questions. Oracles are usually Rajput or Brahman and they are permitted to hold consultations only after they can demonstrate the authenticity of their possession through a test before the senior oracles in a temple ceremony.

Who Eats the Flesh? A few years ago I was interviewing Kamlesh Nautiyal, an oracle of Mahasu Devta in the temple courtyard at Hanol, who was explaining to me that he quit his job in the Indian Navy and returned to the village to take up the work of an oracle, because the divine king and his deputies would persistently appear in his dreams and even in a waking state threaten him of a dos affliction if he did not dedicate himself to the divine king’s service.

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At that moment, members of an extended family entered the temple courtyard, the parents, with great effort, trying to subdue a twentyyearold girl who was in a state of hysterical possession. A few men in the family were also in a trance, but not as violent as the young girl. One of the temple officials, the thani, after several attempts to protect himself from her physical assaults, accidentally hit her across the face in an effort to protect himself from her violent behaviour. At that moment, another oracle, squatting near the temple entrance, was suddenly possessed by Mahasu. Shaking violently, he announced: “My official has hit the devta unduly, I shall compensate him for this indiscretion. I shall pay a dand (compensation) to this devta right now, from my treasury! I shall meet the family in the evening”. The temple official who had hit the girl, on hearing the oracle’s pronouncement, rushed inside and from the sanctum of the temple brought a handful of rice and a hundred rupee note as compensation for the indiscretion. Here, the oracle, the embodied form of Mahasu as a king, compensates the spirit embodied in the girl. He does not recognize the woman, but the divinity that possesses her. As a divine king, since he is currently playing host to the visitors that are carriers of spirits awaiting exorcism and adjudication, he or his officials are not supposed to act violently, however extreme the provocation. Therefore, of his own accord, he agrees to compensate the possessing spirit for his official’s fault. The devtas are in conversation with one another at the temple and even Mahasu is susceptible to dos and dand, offence and punitive action, if an indiscretion is committed by his officials. As the family receded to a corner, to await their turn until the evening, the violent behaviour of the girl made a bystander comment to the oracle: “Pandit, this girl is going to give you a tough time, she might just devour you!” The individual, a casual visitor but a Mahasu devotee, acquainted with the functioning of the cult, construed this as an interaction between girl and oracle, a human encounter. But as the exorcism progressed in the evening, it again transformed for the actors and their observers into divine interplay. The girl’s father, himself an oracle of another minor deity further upland, Narsingh, had been unable to help her overcome the spirit possessing her and had therefore sought Mahasu’s help. As a concerned father, he was perturbed by his daughter’s inappropriate behaviour, and was making every effort to subdue the girl. The girl was violent and delirious, but unable to speak. This, my informant (himself a Mahasu oracle, but not presently involved in the consultation) felt, was an indication that she was possessed by Lata Bir, a deaf and dumb demigod. Meanwhile, I was hoping that the sheer physical exertion of the possessed state would soon sap the girl of all her energy and calm her down. Until the oracle returned in the evening for the consultation and exorcism, she retained the same level of energetic violence.

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The rice was placed, the family squatted, surrounding the girl, facing the oracle. As the oracle entered a trance and began to speak in the cheriya boli or the shaking voice of the oracle, the girl only communicated with the embodied Mahasu oracle through gestures. The consultation had begun. Even as the girl jumped up in a silent but energetic manoeuvre, the oracle signalled to her to squat on the floor. Oracle: Why have you dared to possess this woman, Lata Bir? Do you think you can trouble her when she is under my tutelage? (The girl leapt violently, lunging forward as if she would punch the oracle in the face. The family held her down.) Oracle: Oh, you think you can eat her bones. If you think you have the power, try it now, I dare you to do it now, in my presence. (The woman jumped and shrieked violently but did not utter a single intelligible word. The oracle again signaled to her to sit. At this point, the girl’s father also began to work up a possession. He was himself an oracle and was, therefore, possessed by Narsingh. Now the Mahasu oracle addressed him directly.) Oracle: Did you, did you plant an apple orchard last year? Father: Yes, I did. Oracle: And did you extend your orchard into your brother’s land as well, encroaching upon it? (The father was silent. His brother and his family were sitting beside him. A respected public figure, the local deity’s oracle stood accused before a large number of onlookers who knew the family intimately.) Oracle: There is no justice, you are an oracle. Your brother’s wife was anguished over your encroachment. She consulted (vichar kiya) a pandit who has put your daughter in the snare (ghat) of Lata Bir. (The girl again gesticulated violently towards the Mahasu oracle.) Oracle (addressing the father): Do you understand what Lata says? There is no justice. You are eating the gold and the goats that are offered to Narsingh, and then you are also occupying lands wrongfully. Father (hands folded in a gesture of supplication): Please ask him to release my girl. Oracle: You must return your brother’s land. There has to be justice. I will take care of Lata Bir. Come together and sacrifice a goat once you are satisfied. Father (with a gesture of supplication): I return the land. I have given up the claim right now. (Now the oracle asked the girl’s aunt to get up and pat her on the back (peeth jhaar de) and as she did that, the girl relaxed, as if knots within her physical and spiritual self had been unravelled. Within a few moments everyone got back to normal, the brothers reconciled and chatted with each other while the aunt, the afflicted girl’s mother and the girl herself sipped tea at the stall close by).

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My informant, the oracle observing the proceedings, interpreted the adjudication for me, declaring that without seeking permission from the higher devtas, the demigods would not possess anyone. Mahasu himself must have suggested that Lata Bir should do this so that Narsingh’s oracle would have to seek Mahasu’s help. The communication is between deities, the humans merely conduits, irrespective of whether one is an oracle or a possessed victim, and Mahasu, being the king of divinities (devon-ka-raja), has the final word. Significantly, the incident also gives us an insight that goats are perceived as offered to the divine kings with other forms of wealth, as a kind of return gift for the well-being they offer to their subjects. It is an act of oblation. Every oracle and priest in the Mahasu realm claims that the goats are being sacrificed for the birs, the Mahasu deputies and not the divine kings. On the other hand, the afflicting demigod is seen to be living off the bones, a kind of parasite within the victim, while the deity himself (Narsingh, in this case) is seen as consuming the goats offered at the temple. What we see here is that dos is afflictive. Dos may arise and afflict due to unintended disrespect caused to devta or the committing of a reversible violation of the niyam or ethical codes. It arises mainly out of neglect of promises made to the divine king, or misdeeds such as the neglect of caste norms and violation of idealized familial norms. In any case, the causes of dos depend on intentions and the effects are reversible if one comes to Mahasu for redress and agrees to remedy the violation. For instance, a condition like leprosy, a somatic disorder, is a consequence of pap and not dos. Dos can be remedied through atonement, purification, and sacrifice. Removal of dos usually culminates in the practice of bali. In the case of a pap being diagnosed, the deities are known to say that the victim cannot be helped, or increasingly in the present times suggest that the client visit a hospital or report matters to law enforcement agencies. Unlike neighboring Garhwal, bali here is not intimately connected with notions of territory, power, and authority. It is also not linked to the sacrificer’s desire for upward mobility in terms of caste or social status. Usually, it is an act of giving thanks for the removal of dos, and at times it is a punishment or fine imposed for violating codes of citizenship in the Mahasu kingdom.

The Ritual In Mahasu temples, in the present context, bali or sacrifice, as the priests report, is increasingly offered in newer ways. As opposed to the offering of dhal or tribute to the divine king in the form of goats, gold, silver, or the pod of the musk deer in earlier times, it is now increasingly in cash, making it ever more an offering with an end in mind. The intention of the sacrifice, as quite a few testify, is transforming from mere oblation or propitiation to requests for fulfillment of a wish. Whatever the purpose, bali is prevalent as a significant ritual and most sacrificers claim that the performance of the ritual gives them an inner sense of fulfillment.

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The ritual in itself is a judicious mix of paying tribute to the king, returning an obligation, and a propitiation. Goats may also be sacrificed as a purificatory ritual if the temple has been defiled by the entry of low-caste individuals or women. Earlier, the best goats would be picked from the livestock, but with the sacrificers increasingly coming from urban areas or taking to apple horticulture, and abandoning pastoralism, the goats are often purchased. The procedure of sacrificing a goat is quite well established. For an intended sacrifice, the deity is consulted through his oracles. The deity may demand a sacrifice or forbid it when offered. Once the bali is demanded or recommended, a goat is brought into the middle chamber of the temple. As the sacrificer and the goat enter and face the divine-king’s inner chamber, the door of the inner sanctum is opened for a few seconds. The priest, standing inside this pitch dark chamber briefly lights a pine twig, which, for a few instants, illuminates the sanctum. He waves it around the several idols inside, with an invocation. Once the invocation is done, the goat must undergo the embodying ritual of pani-puwai (lit. the sprinkling of the water). The priest sprinkles water in the left ear of the goat with an invocation. Once the goat quivers, shakes its head along with the muscles on the back, the animal is deemed to have been embodied by the divine essence and the sacrifice is considered accepted. The door to the inner sanctum is hurriedly shut and at this point, the sacrificer is congratulated by the priest. The jeunda or the sacrificial goat is quickly dragged away from Mahasu’s line of sight, from a side door out in the open to the left, out of the temple for the sacrifice to be performed. If the goat does not quiver after the first sprinkling of water, the procedure is repeated a few times. If the animal refuses to quiver even after several attempts, the animal is declared ghantua (with connotations that it now lacks virility). The left ear is pierced and the animal is let off, leaving the sacrificer very disappointed. It is construed that the deity has still not relieved the one bringing the sacrifice of his dos and further consultations with Mahasu oracles would be needed. But a goat brought in the name of Mahasu is never taken back by the sacrificer, even if not accepted. Increasingly now, the animals are let off as ghantuas out of the sacrificer’s own aversion to a violent killing. An increasing number of such animals in Mahasu shrines indicates that this practice is on the ascendent, even though most believe that a temple ritual is incomplete without the involvement of a sacrificed animal. Not that the ghantua is not Mahasu property—the goats left to roam free in the temple quadrangle are known to be under the deity’s protection and slaughtering such animals would also invite his wrath. The dismembering of sacrificial goats is done outside the temple. The bajgis or the deity’s drummer-genealogists behead the animal with one clean stroke of a sharp blade. While the head lies toward one side, the gush of blood from the neck is collected in a bowl with the headless animal held upside down. The task of

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skinning and dressing the animal is also performed by the bajgi. The formula for distribution of the share of the meat is pre-determined. After the performance of the rite, the slaughtered animal is treated as prasad, the sacrificer’s share of the offering with the divine king’s grace in it, to be partially returned to the individual bringing the offering. The rest of it is distributed among the temple officials. The kolta or the lowest-caste workers at the temple get the hooves, while the bajgi or drummer gets the blood, the head (siri) and the intestines with a little flesh. The thighs go to the Brahman priest and the remaining parts are shared by the thanis, bhandaris, officiating vazir and other high-caste officials. Groups of officiants can often be seen arguing in temples about the fair share of the meat not being distributed among them. Though often non-vegetarians, the priests, while officiating as the deity’s chamberlains, turn vegetarian while on duty in the temple. Their share of the meat is sent out to their families. As a norm, in the temple, other officials can cook their share of the meat in the temple kitchen only after the priest has cooked his evening meal. There also seems to be a strong correlation between norms of non-vegetarianism in the society and the tradition of animal sacrifice. While Jaunsari people share an aversion to the drinking of milk, as directed by the divine king himself (Ibbetson 1919: 419), they are almost all meat eaters. So, what does it mean to a Mahasu subject to offer a goat for bali? Is it just a practice incorporating the functional value of feeding the deity’s bureaucracy and giving thanks? If that were the case, alternatives would be easily accepted when constitutional or official norms forbid and deny such practices. The connection with the practice seems to go much deeper. The utter dejection and fear one can observe in people whose goats are not accepted for sacrifice point toward the strong emotional connection it establishes.The ritual of bali undergirds a vast net of mutual obligations that are in danger of snapping apart, if the ritual were to be discontinued. The ritual of bali thus points to something more than merely an offering, or an expression of gratitude. Maurice Bloch, in the historical study “Prey into Hunter” (1992: 6), points towards sacrifice as a symbolic act, in itself a denial of the transience of life. Bloch argues that this denial of ephemeral existence is enacted through a symbolic sacrifice of the self, allowing it to participate in the immortality of a transcendent entity. Bloch proposes an understanding of sacrifice, pointing towards the intrinsic dilemma of the human condition, of creating stability out of change, structure out of flux, meaning out of impermanence. It is suggested that the ephemeral nature of human existence is so fundamental that it leads to “quasiuniversal” responses for overcoming the paradox of change and continuity. Bali is one of several such responses. Bloch seeks to identify a “minimal structure” between ritual practices such as initiation, possession, marriage, funerary rights, and of course, sacrifice, described as “rebounding violence”. The idea of rebounding violence stems from the existential dilemma of individual beings embodying both transformation and

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permanence. While in day-to-day life, these two sides remain in harmony, in times of transition—during periods of ambivalence on account of family strife, natural calamities or political disruption—the symbolic ritual mechanism of rebounding violence responds. According to Bloch, life is composed of two elements, the “vital side” and the “transcendental aspect”, and in troubling times humans take recourse to rebounding violence, where, in the initial phase, one moves towards a violent abandonment of the “native vital element”. Bloch gives several examples from different traditional societies (especially the Orokaiva of Papua New Guinea) and arrives at an explanation for sacrificial ritual occurring in two phases, corresponding to two significant and broad moments of transformation circulating around the idea of “vitality”. These two elements are “self-sacrifice” and “consumption”. In the beginning of the ritual, sacrificer and victim forge a common identity, but it is only the “vital aspect” of the sacrificer that gets killed with the victim. In fact, in some temples in neighbouring Garhwal, the priest makes an invocation, whispered in the ear of the goat, where the goat is named and assigned the same gotra as the sacrificer, before the act of dismemberment. By giving the sacrificial victim the gotra or the patrilineal clan name, an attempt is made to establish with the victim an attachment to the “vital aspect”. In doing this, the remaining transcendent aspect is thereby strengthened. The sacrificial victim, as we know, usually the sacrificer’s only companion in perilous journeys to the alpine grasslands, attains, through the intimate association, the capacity to absorb this vitality. While the goats’ identification with the pastoralist is quite strong on account of their domesticity, the livestock also retains elements alien and external on account of being a non-human source of vitality. Once the victim is dismembered, its significance shifts from the alien to the domestic and the community feeding off the flesh reflects the consumption of this new external vitality. Thus, what Bloch offers for a description of sacrifice in stable social structures, like the kingdom of Mahasu, is a double process of violent expulsion of a vitality followed by its restoration. Bloch also demonstrates the significance of violence in an attempt to create and maintain social order. In a way, Bloch also addresses the problem of “human fluidity” in ancient social structures like the Mahasu realm.

The Denial By the year 2000, with the creation of the new state of Uttarakhand, and increased activism over animals’ rights, the sacrifice of goats at Mahasu shrines came under public scrutiny and censure. It was around this time that Mahasu’s vegetarianism began to be talked about. Mahasu, it seemed, had turned vegetarian, or at least there was a very public denial of bali through the circulation of this claim. That Mahasu was himself a vegetarian deity was not a part of the public discourse, even though ritual practice had always indicated an ambiguity over the recipient of the

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sacrifice. Emerson, a British officer, writing in his unpublished manuscript (Emerson 1911: 42), describes Mahasu’s annual festival on the fourth day of the light half of the moon in August, thus: “... During the day little happens, but at sunset a ram and a goat are sacrificed, the first being dispatched while the ram is dragged inside the shrine. But the victim is not slaughtered before the altar, for the family of the Mahasu (perhaps its memory of the ploughshare) dislike the sight of blood, and after the god has signified acceptance of the offering through the trembling of the goat it is brought outside again and slain in the courtyard”. In another reference to Mahasu’s abhorrence of sacrifice and the severity of his dos, describing a conflict between local deities and the expansionist Mahasu, he says, “Mahasu cannot bear the sight of blood, nor should a ewe be ever slaughtered in his name; he abominates the smell of fish and garlic and loathes the taste of liquor. Knowing of his idiosyncrasies, the gods and their followers turned them to their own purpose. Invading the village, they entered every house where Mahasu had received a welcome. His emblems were seized, desecrated and thrown into a torrent. Ewes were sacrificed in large numbers, their blood sprinkled in the houses and their flesh paraded round the village; garlic and rotten fish were rubbed upon the walls, and copious libations of liquor were poured on the floors. Never had the great Mahasu been treated with such indignity. His senses of sight, and taste and smell offended, he fled the place in wrath, while the five gods with their followers chuckled over his discomfiture. But their mirth was short-lived. The village did, indeed, prosper for some years, Mahasu’s worship was abandoned and the circumstances of his visit were remembered only to exalt the prowess of the local gods. Then, one winter, the population was decimated by an attack of typhus fever; the first time the disease had ever visited the neighbourhood”. Ritual practice in Mahasu shrines, in a manner, corroborates Emerson’s observations. All sacrifice is made in the name of his deputies or birs. But the fact also remains that the ritual, marking the acceptance of the victim, is performed before Mahasu’s image. In Mahasu shrines there is no sharing or partaking of food (or at least its subtle substance) from a common receptacle, between deity and human. This is different from bhog in Hindu temples, where the one making the offering “feeds” the icon (Davis, 1999: 1), believing that the divinely animated images consume the “subtle portion” of the offered food. At Mahasu shrines, the person making an offering receives his share as a subject, not as a companion in communion. The disclaimer of the sacrifice being made to Mahasu’s birs or deputies is now enunciated before the performance of every ritual sacrifice, while earlier it was not considered significant as to who received the sacrifice. Many in the deity’s coterie accept, though tacitly, that this stance has been adopted in fairly recent times and is not an ancient tradition. To use Hebdige’s (1998: 35) expression, this could be described as a kind of “hiding in the light”, an arrangement

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whereby sacrifice can continue, the officials are well-fed and the sacrificers gratified, while the “reformists”, especially those within the cult, are silenced, after having been handed a minor victory that the divine-king has accepted their urgings and turned vegetarian. No doubt this conflict between tradition and a conformity to the modern seems paradoxical, since the priests emphasise that Mahasu is vegetarian, even as goats continue to be slaughtered in his temple for the divine king’s deputies. If Mahasu were a deity who abhorred bali, why then would the goats be consecrated in the sanctum before the deity? If bali were aprahast, an impure ritual, somehow lacking in propriety and merit, since the priest on duty at the shrine himself has to turn vegetarian and his share of the meat is passed on to his family, the cooking of meat in the rawali pand, the official kitchen of Mahasu, lends ambiguity to the practice of the ritual. With the carving out of the state of Uttarakhand from the larger Indian state of Uttar Pradesh in the year 2000, the Mahasu region has come into political prominence, since its residents send out members to the Indian Parliament and at least five legislators to the minuscule seventy member Uttarakhand Assembly of public representatives. With increased allocation of development funds, the modernizing influence of a secular state is bringing into sharp focus rituals such as bali, performed in order to propitiate the feared Mahasu divine kings. With the construction of roads increasing accessibility to Mahasu shrines, modern education, and, most significantly, the use of the “tribal” status to secure reserved government jobs leading to townward mobility, a rationality is appearing that questions religious practice. The calls to reform came with a growing public outcry over mismanagement of temple funds by the traditional temple councils headed by the divine king’s chief minister or vazir. To counter growing resentment on account of accusations of misappropriation of temple money, soon after the new state was formed in 2000, the state government constituted a temple committee with the local administrator, the SubDivisional Magistrate (SDM), as the chairman. The committee was given the responsibility of managing temple finances and organizing significant events at the divine king’s shrine. The administrators, like the SDM, inexperienced bureaucrats coming from different parts of India, usually appointed for short tenures to the secluded region on what is widely referred to within bureaucratic circles as “punishment postings”, have little understanding of how the divine king’s cult operates. Temple affairs are quite low on their list of priorities, since administrative duties always demand their immediate attention. They are unable to comprehend how life in these regions could revolve around the deity, his ritual appearing to them to be the exploitation of gullible hillbillies rather than serious political and ritual work. Whenever confronted with controversies related to temple affairs, they are influenced by either “secular” ideals of ahimsa or non-violence enshrined in the constitution, or by their personal religious beliefs.

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The Constitution of India, though enshrining principles of non-violence against animals as enunciated by Mahatma Gandhi in its Directive Principles of State Policy, has left a window open for sacrifice within religious practice through a section in the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals Act, 1960. The section makes an exception to the protection of animal rights, stating essentially “that saving as respects manner of killing prescribed by religion: Nothing contained in this Act shall render it an offence to kill any animal in a manner required by the religion of any community”. This provision, perhaps, has been made owing to the large diversity of religious practices in the country. The central government in India has left the legislation on animal rights to the state governments, even though its animal rights’ laws profess prevention of cruelty to animals, but prefer to leave the issue of use of animals in religious practice ambiguous, as bali is widely practiced in different parts of the country. The state of Uttarakhand has not enacted any law banning animal sacrifice, owing to wide prevalence of the practice across the state. However, there is ambiguity also on the legal position, since, in the absence of any specific law, anti-bali activists would like the law enforcement agencies to invoke laws on pollution, creation of a public nuisance, and the regulations for slaughter in abattoirs while dealing with the temple practice of bali. Where does this leave the divine king and his subjects, even as the cult of Mahasu is pulled in different directions by the national discourse and its own ritual compulsions?

The Mahasu Cult and Ritual Denial The Mahasu divine kings, as mentioned earlier, are four brothers: Bautha at the centre, mediating between the usually antagonistic moieties of Saathi and Pamsya, ruled by Bashik and Pabasik Mahasu, respectively. The one mobile power that traverses the entire realm through a twelve-year cycle of processional ritual in all Mahasu territories is Chalda Mahasu. In the year 2000, when a pipal1 tree fell over the temple roof at Hanol, the cult centre and capital, low-caste carpenters climbed on to the roof, necessitating a new pratistha or consecration once the shikhar2 had been repaired. No purificatory consecration is possible without bali being offered in the four directions on the temple roofs that trace the pattern of an indic mandala. A grand consecration, with more than a hundred subordinate deities invited, was planned. The consecration is usually performed as a grand assembly of the Mahasu divine kings and their subordinate deities, each arriving in their royal regalia, accompanied by officials and devotees, congregating at Mahasu’s temple in a grand three-day event. Influential individuals advocating ritual reform saw this as an opportunity to completely end bali, at this

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The sacred fig tree of India, ficus religiosa. The mountain peak-shaped rising towers, a prominent feature of temple architecture.

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crucial moment in the cult’s history when all the energies of the vast realm of Mahasu had been mobilized and were congregating at one point.

Fig. 1 By this time, Pabasik Mahasu, because the people of Pamsya, his territory, were quite united in their opposition to bali, had already declared an end to animal sacrifice in his shrines, so that when a new temple to him was consecrated in 1998, across the river from Hanol, goat sacrifices were not offered. This was a significant step, as the impurity of low-caste carpenters climbing over the roof of the king’s palace cannot be removed without animal sacrifice. The goats, in any case, were sacrificed some distance away and the non-vegetarian gods visiting the consecration also had to camp at the other end, far from the new temple, to avoid impurity. Basik, on the other bank of the river, had professed that he would go by what his brothers decided on the issue. At the time, Bautha, the presiding deity at the centre of Mahasu’s cult at Hanol, declared that it was not yet time for him to decide on the issue of giving up bali, that he would keep his options open and would give his verdict on animal sacrifice when the time was ripe. He left the question of stopping the bali ritual open. The fact remains that within Saathi, the territory

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where the Hanol temple stands, and in which Basik constantly tours, the cult is vertically split over the issue of banning goat sacrifice. Before the consecration ritual, the demands for “reform” became even more vociferous. A decision would have to be arrived at before the grand assembly. A meeting of the four Mahasus, the divine-kings, was called at Hanol, prior to the main ritual. The three Mahasus arrived at the Bautha Mahasu shrine in their palanquins, with their chief ministers, elders, officials, and drummers. As the meeting of the four deities was in progress, amid heated debates between possessed oracles and the elders on how the grand assembly would be staged, and whether it would involve bali or not, Chalda Mahasu’s oracle declared that he would stick to his stance against “reform”. He would not go with the reformists, making it amply clear that he wanted the consecration done the traditional way, with bali. With Bautha Mahasu, the most powerful voice among the deities adopting an ambiguous stance, the one decisive deity with power of veto was Chalda, the walking Mahasu, who tours the entire realm. Tum apna Puran karo, mien apna khuran karoonga! “Do whatever you want inside the temple (referring to a vegetarian purana recitation by the priests), but there will be sacrifice on the temple roof.” was his unambiguous response, conveyed to the entire realm through his oracle. Sax (2010: 98), who was present during the meeting, informs us that, leaning forward, voice rising to a powerful, high pitch, Chalda’s oracle declared that his traditional ritual knowledge (kashmiri vidya) would not be, indeed must not be, forgotten or diluted; that his followers were free to sponsor a vegetarian ritual involving scriptural recitation—a “puran”—but that he, Chalda, would have his khuran, his khurasao, or hundred hooves (a sacrifice of twenty-five goats). Thus, in one fell swoop, Chalda Mahasu decimated the entire campaign against bali. The “reformers” now had to take recourse to petitioning the government. Political lobbies in the state capital, Dehradun, were mobilized and the District Magistrate, the administrator for the entire district, was handed several petitions asking for a ban on animal sacrifice. The administration announced that they would do whatever was possible to restrict bali. But the deity had already spoken and there was no way his loyal subjects were going to go against their divine king’s dictate. In the year 2004, during the grand assembly of deities at Hanol, known as the shant and khurasao (lit. sacrifice of a hundred hooves), as expected, the issue of goat sacrifice in the temple came to a head. At the grand assembly, held soon after Chalda Mahasu’s outright rejection of “reform”, just before the purificatory ritual of sacrificing goats on the temple roofs was to commence, an activist raised his voice against its performance, exhorting proponents of sacrifice that as community leaders it was incumbent upon them to change with the times, and that it was not the deity, but the ministers and priests who had a vested interest in continuing bali. He stressed that the divine king, in fact, was a protector and by that definition he

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would always be compassionate to these voiceless creatures, the goats. In this sense, he was merely recalling the narrative of royal patronage, pointed to by Sutherland (1998: 336), that Stein (1983) and Dirks (1987) have argued was constitutive of medieval south Indian “sacred kingship”, which replaced the Vedic “sacred king” in the rajasuya/abhishekha and ashvamedha rituals, and was supplanted by a bhakti discourse of enactment in which the king deployed the sovereignty of his tutelary deity in political agency by constructing exemplary temples and granting land to Brahmans to perform pujas in them. “If the deity really wanted the sacrifice he would suck the life out of the goat the moment you sprinkle water in its ears. You (the temple officials) are addicted to meat and blood and therefore you want the practice to continue. How can a deity who cannot even tolerate the sight of leather and the smell of garlic, claim lives of innocent animals?” the activist questioned. He was staking everything—his reputation as a community leader, as well as his personal safety—on this last ditch effort, since opposing the deity in a ritually charged atmosphere could incite anything from physical violence to divine retribution. By articulating publicly that the ritual was meaningless and served no purpose, this activist was ascribing new meanings to the ritual itself. He was altering it, even if his attempts were to be unsuccessful. Alterity, in this case, was inherent in the denial of mimesis. Despite his audacious protest, he was ignored and the sacrifice of the hundred hooves was duly performed. This individual was Surendra Singh ‘Suraha’, himself an avowed devotee of Mahasu and also a dedicated reformist. One of the first “sons-of-the-soil” to have come out of the region to be appointed to the position of Tehsildar, a submagistrate and tax collector, he campaigned all his life against animal sacrifice and alcoholism. He was castigated by the community not only for adopting a stridently reformist stance, but also for acts, which, going by the plains’ discourse of “bhakti” that had motivated him, would be considered acts of devotion, but were anathema to Mahasu subjects. These acts included naming his grandson Maasu (after the divine king) or composing a hymn or arti to the deity. He had added the word ‘Suraha’ (lit. the right path) to his name in order to indicate his strident opposition to what he considered to be malpractices in social life in the region. Despite grave threats from priests and peers, Surendra stood up at this charged moment before the entire community, asking for a complete ban on animal sacrifice. Perhaps he was spared a violent reprisal for daring to oppose Chalda Mahasu on account of his old age, education, and years of service in the government, or (more probably) the presence of administrative machinery and members of the media from the state capital, Dehradun. Once the ritual was underway, with the beheading of goats on the temple roofs in all four directions, he fainted and collapsed. Those present were convinced that he had indeed been afflicted by Mahasu’s dos, the divine king’s retribution for daring to oppose the deity’s verdict. Later, Suraha himself tried to explain it away

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to me, claiming that it was probably the stress of the protest, coupled with age and his chronic blood pressure problem, that had brought about the fainting. The fact remains that none in the milling crowds dared to help him find medical attention. Individuals, including the author, who were present largely out of academic interest, helped him reach a hospital where he was revived. A few years later, his ancestral home in the village in Bangan caught fire and was razed to the ground. His younger brother, who had forever been devoted to Mahasu and the deity’s ritual regime, fell sick and died. His son suddenly took ill. Family and friends, convinced of the deity’s dos, urged him to consult Mahasu’s oracle on the reasons for the sudden downswing in his fortunes. After much coaxing, he consulted Pabasik Mahasu’s oracle and was told that he had been afflicted by Chalda’s dos since he had dared to raise his voice against the deity’s verdict on sacrifice. The deity’s indignation was evident in his instructions that Suraha should not approach him any more and the deity would himself visit him at the opportune moment. Suraha waited patiently for the deity’s next move and indeed in a couple of years’ time, Chalda’s parasol (chatra) passed through his village. Suraha’s family, considering this an opportune moment for him to make his peace with the deity, urged him to go and bow before the parasol. But the deity was in no mood for a reconciliation. Suraha recalls that whenever he would try to approach the deity’s parasol on the street, the parasol, carried by the oracles, would turn away and distance itself from him. After several attempts to approach the deity had been frustrated, and he was beginning to lose all hope, the deity’s oracle finally summoned him to the parasol. Tumne meri bhul bisar kar di... “You forgot all about me and my commands..,” was the reprimand. “Now go forth to my temple at Shiraji with a nisan (symbol) of gold and a sacrificial goat if you want to receive my grace”. For a man who had campaigned all his life against the offering of goats at Mahasu shrines, carrying a goat all the way to Shiraji in Himachal Pradesh, a distance of a couple of hundred kilometers, would make quite a spectacle. He was disinclined to do the divine-king’s bidding, but peers in the village and family insisted that he comply. If he were not worried about his own well-being, at least for the sake of his family’s survival he would have to keep the deity in good humour. After much cajoling, Suraha agreed to embark on this pilgrimage, goat in tow. Partially adhering to his non-violent convictions, he did not touch the goat himself. The defeated activist walked with a heavy heart, the goat being carried by a young companion. Even as he arrived at the temple, he begged before the deity that his prayers be accepted and the deity not insist on claiming the sacrifice from him, a devotee who had dedicated all his life to the cause of eradicating this practice. He wanted to just donate the goat he had brought, leave it in the temple as a living ghantua offering,

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as indeed several people do. The divine-king’s oracle was, however, insistent that the goat would have to be sacrificed or the deity would not be propitiated and Suraha’s exertions would go in vain, with serious consequences for his family. Suraha was averse to even handling the goat he felt he should be protecting rather than dismembering. All his requests to let his young companion hold the goat during the ritual beheading fell on deaf ears. He would have to hold the goat himself even as the quivering animal would be beheaded, the oracle insisted, if he wanted to be free of the dos. Much to his discomfort, he had to hold the goat himself as the sacrifice was performed. While most informants report a cathartic calm descending upon them after performing the sacrifice, Suraha returned home in a state of complete dejection and agitation. The divine-king had forced him to capitulate before his will, erasing his life’s work. A few days later, Suraha was visited by a group of influential people within the Mahasu cult. They consisted of community elders—retired bureaucrats and army men, Mahasu subjects, who had had their brush with the “secular” world of India. They accused him of disappointing them by prematurely abandoning the cause. A visibly broken Suraha revealed what they said to him, “You have done something much worse than what Nathuram Godse did to Mahatma Gandhi! The entire community was looking up to you to take a firm stand, for you had started a movement for change. We would have soon stood up in support. Instead, you chickened out and backtracked”. In this manner, the campaign against bali fizzled out, with Chalda Mahasu insisting on receiving his offerings with the shedding of blood. Having observed the cult over several years, one can say that time and again, whenever attempts are made to “reform” the ritual and offerings are denied to the devta, the complex agency of the village ensures that the ritual reappears. In this case, several subjects, other than the divine king’s kardars or servants, aver that, as a violent ritual that reflects the cult in a poor light before the brethren from the plains, bali must be done away with. In most disputes where community opinion is divided, Mahasu ratifies a decision that has already been taken collectively by the majority, giving a stamp of religious authority to the consensus, the collective voice of the community. Mahasu, speaking through his oracles, articulates the collective intentions of the community. While his usual pronouncements relate to staying with the niyam, his rules, sometimes the gods become ambivalent, just as the community does not know which way to go. In this case, in order to preserve his regime of constant travelling, his bara-basha or the twelve-year travel cycle on both sides of the Tons, Chalda Mahasu must keep his officials—prime beneficiaries of the ritual—in good humour. He cites rules in order to retain bali. The call to reform, though, serves to re-negotiate the cult and the manner in which it operates, every time it is made, in tandem with the denial. In the grand assembly at Hanol, several goats were sacrificed, while, in order to placate the government authorities, the activists and the media, it was declared that

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this was the last of the sacrificial rituals at the temple, and that the ritual would be discontinued henceforth. Later, while conversing with a group of powerful sayanas or chiefs on why goat sacrifice could not be done away with, and the absurdity, in the first place, of discontinuing a ritual by performing it twenty-five times over, I realised that it had only been a ploy to buy time. Reform after excess, in the face of denial everyone knew, was not going to work. The Mahasu vazir explained that the community could not simply discontinue an old practice, deny it through a dictatorial order from the secular reformers. Had the government and reformists, he felt, tried to evolve a consensus to end goat sacrifice, things would have been different. With an air of finality, and irritation, he declared, “How can you announce an end to goat sacrifice, and not institute anything else in its place? What else, other than goats, do our poor people possess that they can offer to the deity? To make a new beginning, the ritual will have to be completely transformed. For instance, you would have to introduce the recitation of ShivaPuran, and then tell the people that we worship Siva, and not Mahasu. Then, ask them to offer sriphal (dried coconut) instead of goats. But as long as we worship Mahasu, we have to go by his decree. If one ritual form of offering is denied all of a sudden, there cannot be a void, a vacuum (khalipan). You have to replace it with another ritual form. If not goats, what else is there with us to offer to the divine king?” In the year 2011, the Sub-Divisional Magistrate, the administrator who heads the temple committee at Hanol, announced a ban on animal sacrifice at the shrine of Mahasu, invoking the decisions made at the grand assembly of divine kings. This happened after the news media and animal rights’ groups ran shrill campaigns against bali in Dehradun, the state capital. A vernacular television news channel3 earlier sensationalised the issue by telecasting on national television a story recreating the bedavart4, the rope sliding ritual from a remote location in Himachal

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Sanjay Bragta reporting for Sahara Samay. Bedas are a nomadic community of the hills. In times of natural calamity, at the temple of Hanol, some informants recount that a beda would be invited to sacrifice himself in order to propitiate the divine kings and undo the effects of their dos. A rope would be tied from the cliff known as Shail Patangan, across the River Tons from the temple. A baithaka or wooden horse would be fastened to a rope, the rope ritually woven by the sacrificial victim himself. On the fateful day of the sacrifice, he was given a flag and pushed, riding the wooden saddle, on the formidable slope towards the Mahasu temple. If he landed alive at the temple quadrangle, the sacrifice was deemed to not have been accepted. The beda was taken into the sanctum, his hair plucked out to be distributed as relics. The victim was usually provided by tabbar (nomadic low-caste families) from the groups of musician-dancer castes. There is little clarity on the beda’s ritual status, and today they are considered low caste. The beda women are usually looked upon as promiscuous, but their presence is essential for certain propitiatory rituals.

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Pradesh. The bedavart, a ritual of human sacrifice that disappeared a century ago, was telecast, where the beda, or sacrificial victim sliding down a rope from a rooftop, now in a harmless acrobatic act, was depicted as an enactment of nar-bali or human sacrifice. The excitement was drummed up, as only vernacular news media in India can, by showing blurbs, on the hour, that they would telecast the ritual of human sacrifice from a remote corner of the mountains. The rope-sliding (Berreman 1961), now performed very rarely even in its truncated form at temples with no violent death or injury, is of course believed to be a symbolic representation of the ritual of human sacrifice at the altar of the deity Mahasu. This provided even more grist for the “reformist” mills. “Ritual Murder,” 5 cried out a local English daily published in Dehradun, claiming that every winter, more than ten thousand goats are sacrificed, daily, during the month long festival of Maroz in the temples of Mahasu and his subordinate deities in the Jaunsar-Bawar region alone. By this count, if one were to include Mahasu territories of Uttarkashi and Himachal Pradesh, the highly exaggerated figures would run into millions. An animal rights activist, in her blog entitled “Ritual Slaughter in Devil’s Own Country”6, gave graphic details of the sacrificial ritual, her own attempts to stop it, and police inaction. She was obviously referring, rather sarcastically, to Uttarakhand’s tourism slogan of dev-bhoomi, or the land of the gods, contradicting this self-representation, describing animal sacrifice as an act of the devil. The “reformists”, in general, contend that a people’s sense of community is not fundamentally threatened if it abandons a "regressive" ritual; that human history is testimony to human ability to adapt to different ways of being. Therefore, to them, it makes sense to reject traditions that promote brutality. In their opinion, it is only correct to reject traditions that compromise animal rights and brutalize individuals by making them witnesses to unsavoury scenes of slaughter. A large network of animal rights groups and non-government organizations has emerged post statehood in Uttarakhand, and attacking animal sacrifice while professing the right of the mute victim, the animal, incapable of defending itself, seems to be the shortest route towards attracting media attention, as well as the grants available for protecting animal rights. In terms of bali as well, it would be prudent to make a distinction between the mass sacrifice of goats at festivals such as Maroz and the offering of goats in temples. Both serve different ritual functions, and the blanket ban on sacrifice, after adverse media coverage during festivities, is like missing the woods for the trees. While a mass killing of goats during festivals is often meant for hospitality and

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http://www.garhwalpost.com/leftnewsdetail.aspx?id=796;&nt=Feature (accessed 01/06/ 2013). http://pfauttarakhand.org/2010/12/pashubali-at-devils-own-country-uttarakhand (accessed 01/ 06/2013).

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feasting, in banning the offering of goats at temples, a ritual function is obstructed. In terms of pure functionality, it also starves people who work for the divine king and depend entirely on offerings at temples for nourishment. In the plains’ discourse, that often becomes the voice of the media and bureaucracy in Uttarakhand, practices such as bali are seen as exploitative of innocent hill folk who tend to have “blind faith” in deities and oracles. It is expected that once peripheral groups, such as the Jaunsaris, officially a tribe, must shed their particularities and assimilate to the mainstream, and indeed the state’s development projects are aimed at achieving the twin objectives of egalitarianism and assimilation. These processes lead to increasing uniformity, aligning marginal groups with the discourse from the larger and mainstream traditions. Therefore, according to the plains’ discourse within India, the Mahasu ritual of bali must adapt and transform itself into the offering of sriphal (dried coconuts) covered with red cloth, a practice widely followed in temples across India. The act merely symbolises the sacrifice of the animal. Quite a few Mahasu devotees aver that this position is reasonable and that tradition must transform in keeping with the times. A former government official, Mahendra Chauhan, a pro-“reform” activist, gave me an elaborately allegorical description of the sriphal bali, saying, “What is bali, after all? Through this ritual, we approach our deity and offer to surrender our ego before the supreme force, Mahasu. Sriphal is the most appropriate symbol of sacrificing the ego since the thick fibrous layer on the outside indicates the several strands and layers of egotism. After we have removed our ego, the fibre, underneath is the soft fruit, symbolic of the self and only when that is also given up do we come to the purifying experience, like the sweet water inside the core”. As a counterpoint to this, the proponents of bali pose questions of practice and functionality, “With coconuts, how can you adjudge acceptance of the sacrifice? A dead bali sacrifice is as good as not making an offering. If you end the practice, what will the drummers, who wake and walk with the divine king, eat? How will Mahasu’s perpetual kitchens run? Soon the grasslands will be overgrazed with all the useless male goats, and then what happens to the productive livestock?” So, where is the conflict between community ritual practice and the modernising influence of a secular state and civil society headed? Will the forces of secular change transform Mahasu ritual? The declaration of the divine king turning vegetarian has not silenced the vociferous animal rights’ activists. What has further complicated the issue are the voices of change within the community. Denial of ritual, thus, seldom occurs in isolation. Several successive layers of denial, accompanied by a series of processes, precipitate denial. Denial is a multidimensional and multi-layered process. The altering of explanations for ritual in terms of for whom the ritual is performed, how the ritual is performed and where it is practiced, proves there is concord between thought and action. The dynamic of a

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ritual practice maybe difficult to predict, but when denials are articulated, communities are forced into self-reflexive renegotiations of identity. In the year 2012, when it was finally time for Chalda Mahasu to cross the river and begin his tour of Saathi, he delayed his arrival by a few days, even as he arrived tantalisingly close at Thadiyar, across the river. His subjects on the other side, already miffed with a nine-year delay, became increasingly agitated at what they perceived as the dilatory tactics of the other side. As the minister and oracle from the Saathi visited Chalda Mahasu to persuade him to cross over, the Chalda oracle of Pamsya inquired if the deity’s niyam, his rules of bali would be adhered to. His subjects were in no position to negotiate if they wanted their divine king back. They gave him assurances that they would disregard the secular government’s statute banning animal sacrifice, that they would argue with the government that all balidana during the festival of Eid be banned before they were asked to end bali. They insisted that all eateries in the state would have to turn vegetarian if their devtas were to be forced into vegetarianism. The moment Chalda Mahasu stepped into Saathi, crossing the river with his retinue, the divine king re-instituted the ritual of bali at the temple of Hanol (despite the administrator’s ban). For the moment, bali is being offered, albeit discreetly, in a secluded spot away from the temple. Probably, this is how denial transforms a ritual. When there is a change through denial, ritual is modified, for instance, here performing the ritual of bali in a secluded spot is a compromise. When the state decides to enforce a ban, the ritual, after a hiatus, returns with a vengeance, as in the khurasao or the sacrifice of a hundred hooves. What emerges from this is that absolute ritual denial is well-nigh impossible unless a substitute is offered to the community and is voluntarily adopted by them. At best, a ritual can be transformed, even as modernity seeks to render the older rituals inoperable. Ritual denial is a series of multi-layered events usually accompanied by conflict and resistance. A social group cannot just abandon a ritual, as the discontinuance of a practice would result in a void, a complete collapse of practice. Rituals are intrinsic to ways of living and follow their own dynamic, encompassing all individual beliefs within the group. Abandoning ritual, one cannot just leave a vacuum, a gap in the ritual regime. The performative aspects of the ritual may undergo gradual change, as this is consistent with ideas of adaptation, but a sudden discontinuance may not be practicable. Ritual, to the people who are born into it and perform it day in and day out, is a way of being. To the practitioners, the grammar of the ritual may be of little relevance. However, when rituals are interfered with, processes of interpretation commence. This interpretation also merely provides a set of rules, a sequential ordering, in terms of which the ritual can be made sense of, but it does not specify what that sense must be. In the case of a ritual such as bali, it can accommodate socio-political change, just as the grammar of a language could accommodate all the radical change in the contemporary world. Rituals in their normal course

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towards modernity are open to flexibility, adaptability, and improvisation. In fact, ritual actors must constantly adapt their practices to changing conditions, including the changing political conditions that manifest themselves. Stable ritual forms, however, are retained, even as content changes over a period of time, owing to flexibility in the ways they are employed and understood. Through their work, Van Gennep (1960) and others have looked at rituals as actions reflecting upon human identity. Durkheim (Durkheim 1912) brought in the notion of “effervescence” as a consequence of ritual, while Victor Turner (1969) looked at ritual in terms of “liminal states” and “communitas”. The notion of “communitas” is indicative of the intensity of collective emotions that communities go through while mass rituals are performed, even as “liminal states” point towards shifts in identity that they account for. On the other hand, Frits Staal (1979) has argued that rituals are “meaningless” because participants in a ritual are seldom able to interpret it, and even when they do so, their interpretation is usually naïve and inadequate. I would argue that rituals, per se, do not need interpretations and when efforts are made to interpret them, by actors themselves, government officials, activists, or anthropologists, the interpretations are seldom likely to have similar meanings for all. Ritual, Staal further elaborates, is purely rule-governed activity “without meaning or goal” (Staal 1979: 9), and its rules, like those of language, are not formally available for critical reflection. Staal, therefore, seeks to separate performance from thought, belief, or articulation. Staal dismissed the effects of ritual in terms of identity as “useful side-effects”. If ritual is so divorced from a social group’s convictions, why is it that collective rituals or their denial becomes a bone of contention? Why is it that forces within a social group get embroiled in conflict, quite often violent, over their discontinuation or continuation? Within traditional societies grappling with secular nation states, there is a constant churning and clamour for ritual “reform” when the performed ritual acts are seen as archaic and outdated. As Kertzer (1988: 12) points out, rites and rituals “have both a conservative bias and innovatory potential. Paradoxically, it is the very conservatism of ritual forms that can make ritual a potent force in political change”. Realizing the innovatory potential of ritual, can, however only be an organic and gradual process. Change in perception also comes along with a self-reflexive transformation in practice, enabling us to bridge the dichotomous gulf between action and thought. Within peripheral social groups that are being sucked towards a centre, prevailing ritual practice must walk the tightrope between the power of traditional thinking, reflected in this case in the divine king’s desire to enforce his own ritual knowledge, and the thought processes of the mainstream. The various dimensions of constitutional controls, politics and reformist stances of the groups that derive legitimacy from the state, indicate an obvious transformation. But it is also clear that beliefs and practices persist in the march towards modernity, with little contradiction, unless a complete break from the past is sought. Change is

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incorporated into continuity without an epistemological break, that is, until the change is well within the matrix of the tradition. In the case study above, the divine king as well as the modern state are performances, competing for ideologies and yet looking at the same paradigms of ritual control through different lenses. Mahasu is yielding ground, with some divine kings doing away with sacrifice, others turning vegetarian themselves, claiming the sacrifice is meant for their deputies, while still others permit mainstream traditions (e.g. using sriphal instead of goats) into the ritual. The state, on the other hand, though generally seen as being on the other end of the ideology, has to implement a Gandhian legacy of non-violence enshrined in the Directive Principles of State Policy in the Indian Constitution. It tacitly accepts the ritual by suggesting that animal sacrifice not be performed in the temple, and that if it is done a little distance away, the state would look the other way. The state’s ambivalence is reflected in the animal rights’ groups leading a delegation to the Chief Minister’s office last year asking for a ban on bali. The chief minister advised them that bali could only end if these groups spent their energies in educating the masses and took them into their confidence. Governments also compete for allegiances, usually in the form of votes. As Holston (1999: 605–631) writes, “They need to display their powers, establish pedigrees, manifest hierarchies, evoke fears, and induce explanations in ways that frequently have more to do with the erasures and re-inscriptions of prophetic movements than with bureaucratic rationalities”. Denying rituals and simultaneously permitting their continuation seems to be the means to this end, while, for the divine kings and their subjects, preserving the tradition is essential to emphasising the community’s identity.

References Berreman, Gerald D. 1961. “Himalayan Rope Sliding and Village Hinduism. An Analysis”. In: South Western Journal of Anthropology (1961): 53–69. Bloch, Maurice. 1992. Prey into Hunter. The Politics of Religious Experience. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Davis, Richard H. 1984. Images, Miracles, and Authority in Asian Religious Traditions. Boulder: Westview Press. Davis, Richard H. 1999. Lives of Indian Images. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Dirks, Nicholas. 1987. The Hollow Crown. Ethnohistory of an Indian Kingdom. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Douglas, Mary. 1966. Purity and Danger. London: Ark Paperbacks. Durkheim, Emile. 1912. The Elementary Forms of Religious Life. Translated by Karen Fields. 1995. New York: Free Press. Emerson, H.W. 1911. Typescript of Unpublished Anthropological Study of Mandi and Bashahr. Personal Papers. Oriental and India Office Collections. British Library. London.

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Hebdige, D. 1988. Hiding in the Light. On Images and Things. London: Routledge. Holston, James. 1999. “Alternative Modernities. Statecraft and Religious Imagination in the Valley of the Dawn”. In: American Ethnologist 26.3 (Aug.): 605–631. Ibbetson, Denzil (Sir). 1883 (1919). Census Report of the Punjab. Kertzer, I. David. 1988. Ritual, Politics and Power. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Mclagan, Edward (Sir) KCIE, CSI. 1892. Census Report of the Punjab. Pemble, John. 2009. Britain’s Gurkha War. The Invasion of Nepal, 1814–16. London: Frontline Books. Sax, William S. 1991. Mountain Goddess. Gender and Politics in the Himalayan Pilgrimage. New York: Oxford University Press. — 2010. “Village Agency”. In: Diane P. Mines and Nicolas Yazgi (eds), Village Matters. Relocating Villages in the Contemporary Anthropology of India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, pp. 89–105. Staal, Frits. 1979. “The Meaninglessness of Ritual”. In: Numen 26: 2–22. Stein, Burton. 1983. “Mahanavami. Medieval and Modern Kingly Ritual in South Indian History”. In: Bardwell Smith (ed.), Essays on Gupta Culture. Duke University Press, Durham, pp. 3–51. Sutherland, Peter. 1998. Travelling Gods and Government by Deity. An Ethnohistory of Power, Representation and Agency in West Himalayan Polity. PhD dissertation, Oxford University. Thompson, Kenneth (ed.). 1985. Readings from Emile Durkheim. Oxford: Routledge. Turner, Victor. 1969 (reprint 2008). The Ritual Process. Structure and Anti-Structure. Foundations of Human Behavior. Hawthorne, NY: Transaction Publishers. Van Gennep, Arnold van. 1960. The Rites of Passage. Upper Saddle River, NJ: Pearson Education. Young, Fredrick. 1836. Papers regarding Rawain Pargana – Objection of the Raja of Tehri (Garhwal) Soordurshun Shah to the revenue settlement of Rawain carried out by Lt. Col. F.Young – Complaints against Soodurshun Shah by Chiefs of Rawain. Oriental and India Office Collections. British Library. London.

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The Making and Unmaking of Rulers On Denial of Ritual in Nepal The Making and Unmaking of Rulers

Astrid Zotter1

Introduction Over roughly the last quarter century, the political system in Nepal has undergone a transition from “the only Hindu kingdom (in the world)” (ekmātra hindurājya)2 towards—as the Interim Constitution of 2007 from its fourth amendment (29 May 2008) states—a “secular ... Federal Democratic Republican State” (§4.1).3 To put it differently, a society formerly ruled by consecrated bodies is being reorganized into being represented by democratically elected organs. As can be expected, tremendous changes have occurred in ritual practices, roles, and obligations, too. Some of these dynamics, as they are observable in the contemporary religious landscape of the Kathmandu Valley, will be approached in the following through the lens of the “denial of ritual”. In the first part of this contribution, a basic scheme for a comparison and grouping of the different examples for the “denial of ritual” will be outlined and discussed. The main part of the paper will then be concerned with the remodelling of royal rituals through denial. The republican recasting of these, often public,

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This paper shares facts and arguments with another contribution (A. Zotter forthc.), in which I discuss the replacement of the Nepalese King in rituals and the example of Pacalībhairava’s Sword Procession in more detail. My focus there is on the implications of substitution by the head of the secular state for the shift of Nepalese society towards secularism. My thanks go to Manik Bajracharya, Axel Michaels, Ian Reader, Christof Zotter, and my colleagues of the study group “denial of ritual” within the Collaborative Research Centre “Ritual Dynamics” at Heidelberg University for their comments on earlier versions of this paper. Furthermore, I am indebted to Mahes Raj Pant for pointing me to the case of the Sword Procession and providing me with the news coverage of it, and to Ritu Shrestha Bajracharya for her help in understanding the sources in Newari. For the history of this phrase in official Nepalese discourse, see Burghart 2008: 269–273. Important political events include the reintroduction of parliamentary democracy (1990); the People’s War (1996–2006); the massacre of the royal family (1 June 2001); the dissolution of the parliament and the resumption of absolute power by the King (2005); the reinstatement of the parliament (2006); the declaration of the Republic (2008). After several deadlines to promulgate a new constitution passed without any consensus between the parties, the constituent assembly was dissolved in May 2012. Elections for a new constituent assembly were announced, repeatedly postponed, and finally held on 19th November 2013.

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performances in many cases has been achieved by substituting the head of the secular state for the king. In a diachronic perspective, this strategy can be linked to the ruptures and continuities in rituals that are known to have accompanied the last dynastic change. In 1768–69, Prithvinarayan Shah, King of Gorkha, conquered the Kathmandu Valley and deprived the Mallas of their powers. Kings of the latter dynasty had been reigning for the past centuries over the valley and its predominantly Newari-speaking inhabitants, first from the city of Bhaktapur, and then, from the late 15th century onwards, in three more or less independent citykingdoms. Ever since the Gorkhalis’ conquest, two ritual cultures have co-existed in the valley: the one of the Newars with their dual religious elites (Vajrayāna Buddhists and Śaivite Hindus), and the one of the Parbatiyas (also called Bahun and Chetri). The new rulers favoured the religious specialists of the latter, i.e. of their own group, over those of the former, but some ritual roles of the Mallas were adopted by the new dynasty and continued to be part of Nepalese royal ritual. The personal recast of ritual by replacing the main actor can be reflected upon as a case of denying a ruler access to his former rituals. I will argue that, unlike other types of denial, this sort is not directed against ritual; rather it is operative in protecting ritual practices and marks them as special. One may say that the rituals concerned made a remarkable career through repeated denial. As will be shown in the case of the autumnal Durgāpūjā festival—more specifically with the example of the Sword Procession (khaḍgasiddhijātrā) of Pacalībhairava—alternative strategies for remodelling royal rituals have begun to be proposed. The denial of the king, and thereafter the denial of the possibility to substitute a divinely sanctioned monarch by a functionary of a democratic state, as it was staged in this ritual, gave rise to multi-voiced public discussions.

Types of “Denial of Ritual” In the present paper, the concept “denial of ritual” is taken to draw a connection between different phenomena in which groups or individuals a) deny the value or efficacy of certain rituals or of ritual in general; b) refuse to carry out ritual obligations; or c) deny persons access to certain ritual practices. These categories help to structure the field under scrutiny, but they are neither meant to be exhaustive nor mutually exclusive. The different forms of denial, of which there may be more, overlap and interlink in actual cases. In looking at “denial”, the particular moments of saying “no” to or in ritual as part of more complex chains of events will be singled out. a) The most obvious Nepalese example for a denial of all religious ritual is the one claimed by the Maoist movement. Backed by Marx’s judgement of religion as “opium of the people”, the Maoists deny the value of religion and its rituals and like to perceive them as tools of a feudal society to oppress the people. And yet, the

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attitude of the Nepalese Maoists towards religion is ambiguous. The cadres are known to publicly demonstrate their break with rituals, and yet one sees the Maoists re-entering the ritual scene “by the back door”, or might even say that they had never left it in the first place. In their propaganda the Nepalese Maoists use images borrowed from the ritual sphere (Lecomte-Tilouine 2004, 2006: 52), they support pilgrimage sites (Zharkevich forthc.), or stage rituals. This ambiguity is justified in ideological terms by a two-layered model for the treatment of religion: the religious beliefs of the masses should be respected, whereas Maoist activists and cadres must take a secular point of view (Letizia 2011: 74 n. 12). Furthermore, a change of attitude is observable from war to post-war times. The transformation of the visual appearance of the Maoist leaders may be seen as iconic for this shift. During the so-called “People’s War” (1996–2006) declared by the Maoists against the monarchy, photographs of Maoist leader Baburam Bhattarai bore a striking resemblance to a well-known image of Vladimir Ilyitch Ulyanov, alias Lenin, with suit, beard and cap (e.g. Lecomte-Tilouine 2004: plate 10). In many photos published by the media shortly after the ceasefire, however, Bhattarai and his Comrade Pushpa Prasad Dahal, alias Prachanda, looked hardly different from Hindu teachers or other reverend persons. Despite their sticking to westernstyle suits instead of the combination of Daura-Suruwal with a jacket (propagated as national dress under King Mahendra), they were garlanded with flowers and wore huge red marks (ṭikā) on their foreheads. The denial of the value of whole sets of rituals can also be noticed in cases of conversion.4 Activists of the Buddhist Theravāda movement have opposed the Vajrayāna, i.e. a Tantric and thus highly ritualized, form of Buddhism practised among the Newars (Letizia 2006: esp. 56–58; LeVine and Gellner 2005). From their perspective many rituals which they like to present as Hindu influences are of no value, very costly and should be abandoned. Along with the reduction of ritual presented as a process of purification, a reorientation towards the teachings of the Buddha is advocated. And yet, not all “converts” share the opinion of the activists. Some simply add the new religious practice to their traditional one or only substitute selected rituals, such as initiations (Gellner 2010). After all, the anti-ritualistic Theravāda movement ends up developing more and more rituals. Arguments against ritual similar to Theravāda activists are raised by Nepalese converts to Christianity. They frequently express a feeling of relief at being freed from the worthless and, moreover, costly burden of Hindu rituals, whose only beneficiary is the Hindu priest (cp. Sharma 2012: 129). The ideological devaluation of ritual through denial can be observed not only on these more general levels, but also on more particular ones, where specific ele-

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For an historical perspective on religious conversion in Nepal, see Gellner 2005; for a discussion of the appropriateness for the employment of the term for Nepalese cases, see Letizia 2006.

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ments may be regarded as outdated or worthless and thus be removed from a group’s ritual culture. Blood sacrifice is a practice whose value is denied by certain groups in Nepal (Michaels forthc.), as elsewhere on the sub-continent, too (see the contributions by Ohri and Schaflechner to this volume), and is thus under discussion. The burning of a widow together with her deceased husband, commonly known as Satī or suttee, may be quoted as another example. In Nepal, it was officially banned in 1920 (Michaels 1993: 28). Remarkably, and in contrast to the discussions leading to a ban on widow-burning in British India, the practice was not dismissed because it was held to be cruel and barbarian; quite on the contrary. Official reasoning had it that the practice itself was praiseworthy, but it was impossible to ascertain if the woman committed to becoming a Satī was not forced into her decision (ibid.: 29). Rather than denying the value of the ritual, the possibility of ensuring its correct performance was denied. As long as the ideas of a “denial of ritual” are shared by the larger social group, they may result in a comparatively quiet abandonment of practices, as apparently had been the case with widow burning. The latter had been rare anyway, and in Nepal, moreover, it had largely been the domain of the warrior (Kṣatriya) elites. Royals’, prime ministers’ and higher officials’ widows are known to have followed their deceased husbands to the pyre. Consequently when Chandra Shamsher Jung Bahadur Rana, at that time the most powerful of Kṣatriyas, included the abolition of widow burning in the amended version of the Muluki Ain, the Nepalese Code of Law, there seems to have been no major resistance. At least to my knowledge, no attempts at widow burning have been reported since its banishment. Typically, however, such a denial of ritual on an ideological plane implies its second form distinguished here, operating on the level of actual ritual practice, that is: b) the refusal of individuals to carry out ritual practices that are (still) demanded by their larger social group. Thus, the Christian converts’ denial to perform death and ancestor rituals for their deceased Hindu parents raises a fundamental problem that nowadays is frequently brought before Hindu ritual specialists who need to find a solution.5 The Maoist leader Bhattarai’s refusal to perform the proper death rituals for his mother or to even shave his head has been a—possibly wellcalculated—public scandal.

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Over the last few years in my work with household priests in Kathmandu I have frequently encountered such cases from a Hindu perspective. For the perspective of Christian converts, see the study by Sharma (2012). Religiously ‘split’ families almost unavoidably face tensions when it comes to the death of a member, be it a Hindu or a Christian one. As Sharma’s case studies (ibid.: 128–178) vividly illustrate there is no singular strategy of how to handle such a situation, which may lead to different creative adaptations of ritual traditions. Depending on the specific situation, this may involve other forms of denial, e.g. denying the Christian converts participation in Hindu death rituals.

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Furthermore, under this type of denial the refusal of groups to carry out ritual obligations may be grouped. It has been observed that purity specialists of lowcaste and untouchable status in particular increasingly refuse to provide ritual services that are perceived as part of their social stigma (Gellner 2003; Gutschow and Michaels 2005: 44–61, 195–197). If still carried out, ritual tasks are remunerated in cash, specialists being often hired for the occasions. This is quite a change from the traditional patronage, in which specialists were bound to their patron (yajamāna) families by inheritance and received regular benefits in the form of raw food or clothing. Nowadays, many low-caste families have quit their stigmatizing ritual professions and bonds for good. Again, death and ancestor rituals form an especially contested field. Thus it has consequently become virtually impossible for the Newars of the Kathmandu Valley to find purity specialists of certain sub-castes (Jugi, Bhā) who would be willing to carry out their functions in death rituals. For the Parbatiya ritual culture, too, examples can be quoted. After the massacre of the royal family in 2001, it proved difficult to find Brahmins consenting to participate in the kāṭṭo khuvāune. In this ritual, performed on the eleventh day after the death of a king, a Brahmin, dressed as the deceased, has to eat a special meal (kāṭṭo) considered highly polluting.6 The two Brahmins finally selected, one for King Birendra and the other for his son Dipendra who had been appointed king while he was in a coma, refused to leave the valley, following a quarrel over the compensation for their services. Thus the ritual failed, as the Brahmins should have ritually absorbed and carried away with them all deeds against dharma any king by his very office is naturally compelled to commit. Another group of practices threatened because of their association with lowcaste status are musical traditions. Doing fieldwork in the late 1980s among the Damāi, whose caste occupation included the playing of a traditional ensemble of instruments (pañcaibājā) at the life-cycle rituals of their high-caste Parbatiya patrons, C. Tingey foresaw that “unless the monetary returns are increased or their social status is enhanced, with the alleviation of the stigma associated with their caste profession, there will be a steady decline in the pañcai bājā tradition” (1990: 113).7 From recent fieldwork in urban Kathmandu on life-cycle rituals of the

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According to textual prescriptions, but apparently not (any more?) in ritual practice, the meal is to contain parts of the dead ruler’s skull-bone. For this ritual, its performance for the late Kings Birendra and Dipendra and its historical background, see Kropf 2002; Mocko 2012: 253–260. This is not to imply that stigmatization is the sole factor leading to a decline of ritual practices. The examples also show that economic arguments are raised frequently; the staging of rituals being viewed as an unnecessary waste of money and time and the provision of ritual services being dropped for more lucrative business activities.

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Parbatiyas,8 it appears that the play of the pañcaibājā has become an exception in initiations (vratabandha). In the observed cases of marriage, which cannot do without music, only in rare cases were Damāi among the musicians, and all of them were hired on a daily basis rather than bound to the families by patronage. If elements of rituals involving purity specialists are not completely abandoned—for example, by simply immersing ritual waste in water or abandoning it on the absorbing stones, consequently leaving its disposal to the municipal waste management—substitutions for specialists are observable. Members of one’s own social group, such as the son-in-law or a co-member of the socio-religious association (guthi), may take over the necessary tasks. Ritual duties may shift to other, higher sub-castes, and thus partly lose their stigmatizing character. In the scarcity of Damāi ready to perform in the live-cycle rituals of the Bahun and Chetri, nowadays the Brahmins themselves have started playing the traditional instruments of their “service caste”. In a marriage observed in Kathmandu in the spring of 2012, the Dhāding Bāhun Beṇḍ Bājā was hired as the Pañcaibājā. Remarkably they proudly announced their Brahmin (Bāhun) status in the name of the ensemble. In the eyes of the marriage parties, the playing of instruments did not affect their caste status. On the contrary, it was welcomed as an act of preservation of cultural traditions. I have heard of another, rather rude, reaction to a “denial of ritual” by a specialist. In one case in Kathmandu, the material remains of a death ritual were simply flung over the fence of a Jugi’s house in order to force the refusing expert into his traditional obligation. c) The thrust of the third form of denial distinguished here is different. Whereas the first two are directed against ritual in that they aim at or imply the abandonment of ritual practices, the last is more apt to single rituals out and mark them as special. The exclusiveness of ritual practices and the limitation of access to ritual communities are long known to have operated as structuring principles of the traditional society in Kathmandu Valley. Firstly, as in other regions of South Asia too, the community is structured in a caste-hierarchy. The castes and sub-castes were and partly still are shut off against each other, forming co-mensal and co-ritual groups. Denial has usually confronted people who at some point found themselves in between the categories. Typically, inter-caste marriages have posed challenges to the traditional system. Even today, long after the official abandonment of the caste system in the 1950s, wives of lower caste status are liable to be refused in the Newars’ and Parbatiyas’ lineage organizations. It must be kept in mind, though, that normally every individual case is negotiated anew, solutions being far from uniform. And yet, the probability of being shut out of the larger family, strung together by a network of collectively

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Within the frame of the research centre “Ritual Dynamics” fieldwork has been carried out by C. Zotter on initiation from 2006 till 2009 (C. Zotter 2009) and by A. and C. Zotter on marriage from 2009 till 2013.

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practised life-cycle rituals and festivals, after a cross-caste marriage, is still raised as an argument among the youth for the preference for a marriage within one’s own group. Children who are born from such marriages face consequences, too. In many cases they are not allowed access to the lineage of their fathers. Secondly, at least from the Malla period onwards, Nepalese elite religion, whether Buddhist or Hindu, has been rooted in esoteric Tantric traditions. There may be exceptions, but in principle the higher the status in the caste ranking, the greater the chances to participate and advance in esoteric practices. The Tantric path, which theoretically should be open to all qualified persons, regardless of their social standing, in Nepalese society appears as the “carefully guarded possession of the elite groups in society” (Lewis 2010: 192). Among the Buddhist Newars, where admission to the Buddhist monastic community is combined with the one to the lineage and is restricted to the two groups at the head of the caste hierarchy (the Śākyas and Vajrācāryas), the traditional system has been severely criticized. On the one hand, new Newar Buddhist monastic communities were established, where children of mixed-caste and low-caste status can be initiated; on the other hand, the refusal to admit mixed-caste children has been one of the motives for adopting Theravada initiatory practices (Gellner 2010: 169–172). So denial provoked denial. Another religious strand that, from its very beginning, has been regarded and guarded as exclusively high-caste, more particularly Brahmin, property is the access to the Vedic tradition. In Nepal, however, access was not only limited to Brahmins, but more specifically to a certain group of Brahmins, the ones of the Parbatiya community (called Upādhyāya), who were raised to the top of the castehierarchy (Höfer 2004: 111–112). Hence, under the Parbatiya Shah Rulers, the religious rights of other groups of Brahmins were curtailed.9 Birth, not ability is decisive for eligibility (adhikāra) to certain ritual functions in Nepal as elsewhere (cp. Hüsken 2010). Denial takes place when individuals or groups try to transgress the boundaries erected to fence off social groups or practices. There is another example for such denial of ritual, namely depriving the last King of Nepal of his privileges and roles in rituals. He, however, is not an individual of suspicious status who is denied entrance to certain roles, but an individual whose status has changed and as a result is denied access to ritual roles he traditionally used to carry out. What I wish to stress with this comparison is the similarity of the statement made about ritual. Through this kind of denial, participation

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The Newari-speaking Brahmins (today called Rājopādhyāya), who served the earlier Malla kings and were then known as Upādhyā(ya), were largely excluded in the Shah period from formal Sanskrit education and public performances of Vedic rituals. For the Jaisi Brahmins, considered to be descendants of remarried Brahmin widows, Shah legislation limited the traditional six Brahmin duties (ṣaṭkarman) to three. They were allowed to study, but not to teach the Veda, to perform sacrifices for themselves, but not for others, and to give, but not to receive religious gifts (Regmi 1970: 277–280).

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in ritual is marked as special and the practice is “fenced off” against unauthorized access. The persons excluded are degraded; regardless of whether ritual is denied to them because they are not at all, not yet, or no longer admitted to certain roles.

Kings in Rituals Before dwelling on the present-day example of denying the last Nepalese monarch ritual competence, the present section shall provide information on the historical background. In the middle of the 18th century Prithvinarayan Shah, king of Gorkha, a small hill state lying some 150km west of the Kathmandu Valley, started conquering surrounding kingdoms of diverse ethnic composition. The successive expansion of the Gorkhalis’ overlordship over neighbouring kings and their territories led to the establishment of Nepal as a territorial state and only came to a halt when after a conflict with the East India Company borders were fixed in 1816 (Stiller 1995). Prior to this “unification”, as it is often called, under the Shah dynasty, and actually up to the 1930s, the terms nepāla or nepāladeśa exclusively referred to the area of the Kathmandu Valley (Burghart 2008: 255), where a sophisticated culture had developed around three urban centres—Bhaktapur (or Bhatgaon), Patan (or Lalitpur), and Kathmandu (or Kantipur). Prior to the Shahs, the closely related and intimately competing kings of the Malla dynasty had reigned over these three cities with some adjacent settlements. As Hindu monarchs elsewhere, the Malla Kings and after them the Shahs too were considered the ritual anchor points of their realms, around which interaction between divine and human inhabitants unfolded. The king himself was considered a deity.10 In accordance with pan-Indian Tantric ideas of kingship, his capacity to rule depended on his śakti, his “might” or “regal power”. The latter is not so much to be conceived of as an abstract concept or impersonal force. The śakti manifests itself in the king’s tutelary goddess, as well as in his human queens. The ritual system patronized by Nepalese kings can be described as a combination of publicly enacted, exoteric practices with secretly enacted esoteric ones. Although the special configurations of the inner and outer circles of the religion were repeatedly subject to reconfigurations, the king was its foremost sacrificial patron (Skt. yajamāna) and premier Tantric practitioner (Skt. sādhaka). Processions (New. jātrā) and dance performances (New. pyākhaṃ), in which deities—either as material representations or embodied in humans—appear in public space, have been vital to the ritual system of the Kathmandu Valley for

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10 As other Hindu kings the Shahs were regarded as Viṣṇu. In medieval Nepal, the king was

also conceived of as Bhairava, a fierce manifestation of Śiva central in Tantric forms of worship (Hoek 2004: 64; Toffin 1993: 51–72). For the relation of the king and other “human gods” see Burghart 2008: 193–225.

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centuries. They were not only patronized by the Mallas,11 some of them even featured regular participations of these kings. In these rituals it appears to have become an established pattern by the end of the Malla period that a sword (khaḍga) could represent an absent ruler.12 A sword, which is also the pivotal element in the sword processions treated below, is a material object that fits well into the Nepalese construct of interlinking exotericism and esotericism. It might even be regarded as a crystallisation point, in which the king and his goddess, the exoteric and the esoteric traditions come together. Furthermore it can be used in public ritual performances without disclosing esoteric identities.13 A sword can not only represent the (absent) king it is also one of his main paraphernalia.14 Likewise, the sword is not only an attribute of the king’s tutelary deity in her different forms,15 it is the goddess herself, both on esoteric16 and exoteric levels. In the latter it is the sword of or as Durgā, a goddess, who in a comparative perspective is the first and foremost exoteric form a royal śakti may take (Gupta and Gombrich 1986).17 Whenever human power shifted in Nepal it was of the utmost necessity for a new king to secure the approval of the śakti and the other deities of the realm. So

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11 The institutions of festivals are usually attributed to a king of the Malla or an earlier dynasty.

Documents attest to royal endowments for their maintenance.

12 See e.g. Locke (1980: 263, n. 24) for the procession of the Red Matsyendranātha or B.

Shrestha (2012: 456–457) for the festival of Vajrayoginī at Samkhu.

13 Another material object almost unlimited in its scope of interpretations is the kalaśa, the jar,

which in many instances serves as a permanent or temporary vessel for deities.

14 A sword features centrally on Nepalese royal seals and coins. It is displayed in the royal arms

of the Shah Kings.

15 In the dynastic chronicles (vaṃśāvalīs) written in the 19th century, the Malla kings’ main

goddess is mostly referred to as Taleju (or Tulajā Bhavānī). There are, however, other goddesses residing in the palaces, such as Māneśvarī or Duimāju (Toffin 1996: 59–80). The royal goddesses were, in addition, invested with different esoteric identities, Kubjikā and Siddhilakṣmī being the most prominent among them (Sanderson 2003–04: 366–372). The relations between these many names and forms still need to be studied. 16 To this day the goddess under the name of Siddhilakṣmī is esoterically worshipped as a sword installed in a room in the ground floor of the Taleju temples, at least in Bhaktapur (P. Śreṣṭha 2003: 60 n. 50) and Patan (personal observation, 10.03.13). This is corroborated by textual evidence, where Siddhilakṣmī is “summoned into her Maṇḍala for worship as ‘the goddess of the king’s mantra present in and as the sword’ (khaḍgasthā, khaḍgarūpiṇī)” (Sanderson 2007: 295). 17 In the Durgāpūjā (Navarātra) festivities, important in many Hindu royal cults, swords as instruments of sacrifice and royal weapons receive special worship (see e.g. Krauskopff and Lecomte-Tilouine 1996: 35–36). Regarding the Parbatiyas’ animal sacrifices on this occasion H.A. Oldfield reports “the belief that it is to the favour of the sword that they owe their prosperity” (1880: 344). In the Newars’ Navarātra practices a sword is honoured during the main festivities from the eighth to the tenth day, both in domestic and royal forms. For more on Durgāpūjā practices, see below.

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when, in 1768, Kathmandu was made the new capital of the Shah dynasty, Indrajātrā, the most important city festival,18 seems to have been strategically chosen as the occasion for the overthrow of the city. This festival features the procession of the goddess Kumārī—embodied in a virgin girl from the Newar Buddhist community and considered another embodiment of the royal śakti. At least the accounts of the event available to us suggest such a deliberate decision: “Virtually every history textbook in the country recounts how, when Prithvinarayan Shah entered Kathmandu during the annual Kumari festival, he first received prasad from the goddess and then decreed that the festival should continue. It is this event that above all is represented as conferring legitimacy on the new dynasty—a symbolic act of great importance still repeated annually when the King comes to receive his tika (i.e. a blessing mark on the forehead, A.Z.) from Kumari” (Allen 1975: 8). Of course, the story of Prithvinarayan walking straight in and taking over rulership by the goddess’ simple gesture of blessing is a highly telescoped and idealized representation of events. But regardless of what exactly happened and regardless of whether it is possible or even useful to determine the “historical truth” in this narration of Prithvinarayan’s “conquest by ritual”, it may be called one of the foundational myths of modern Nepal. It not only became part of the educational canon, was regularly cited in official rhetoric and re-enacted annually, it also survived the end of the monarchy (see below). It has been pointed out by R. Burghart (2008) that Prithvinarayan’s receiving the blessing of his adversary’s tutelary deity was not an isolated incident, but part of a strategy of conquest. With the “displacement of the vanquished king from the worship at his royal shrine” (ibid.: 221 n. 30), the new rulers were able to establish direct relationships with the “territorial and ancestral deities whose claims to the territory pre-dated and transcended the transient claims of kings” (ibid.: 220). This severing of the ritual bond between former kings and their deities may be called a denial of ritual in the third sense outlined above, i.e. denying persons access to ritual practices, and may be viewed as the major template for denying the last king of the Shah line his ritual roles from 2007 onwards. Thus the royal rituals of the Mallas (as those of other local kings) not only continued to be performed, they became meaningful for later rulers.19 This implied

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18 Indrajātrā or, in Newari, Yẽyāḥ (lit. “festival of Kathmandu”), is held around the full moon

day of the month of Bhādrapada, mostly corresponding to the September full moon.

19 The Gorkhalis seem to have taken over the royal patronage of religious institutions in

Kathmandu Valley; cp. Burghart 2008: 220–221; Locke 1980: 321; Toffin 1996: 83. In my ongoing research within the project “Historical Documents from Pre-modern Nepal” conducted by the Heidelberg Academy of Sciences and Humanities since January 2014, I am studying this process, as well as the restructuring of rituals and replacing of ritual specialists

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that the ritual parts the three Malla Kings had enacted needed to be reconfigured. In many instances the kings’ attendances were simply reduced to the symbolic representation as a sword. In this way each of the Malla Kings’ swords has led its own ritual life into the 21st century (see plate 1) and thus the earlier kings’ presence has actually outlived the one of the succeeding dynasty. Some of the Mallas’ ritual roles were, however, adopted by the Shahs and so continued to be personified by the ruling king.

Plate 1: The custodian of the Patan Malla kings’ sword, Bhaiya Lal Manandhar, attends the former realm’s major festivities. He e.g. carries out the function of the ritual patron (yajamāna) when buffalos are sacrificed in the Mulchowk of the palace on the ninth day of the autumnal Durgāpūjā (photo taken on 20 October 2007).

The king’s public appearances in rituals were charged with meaning. Before the eyes of his subjects, the human ruler enacted his relationships with the deities of the realm. He was blessed by the latter and depended on their divine sanction. Festivals with royal participation were public reconfirmations of power,

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involved, for selected temples and festivals on the basis of historical documents and ritual handbooks.

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“reinforcement rituals” as A. Mocko (2012) calls them. At the same time they carried the potential to challenge the king’s right to rule. Many stories are told about ritual mistakes preceding a crisis of the country or a change of rulership or about rulers’ dreams, in which deities disclose their will to abandon the old king and favour another. In these narrations, the awareness of imminent ruptures of human rule is ascribed to the deities. They are presented as the ones who trigger or sanction this change, as in the above-quoted story of Prithvinarayan and the Kumārī. Such stories, which nicely illustrate Burghart’s remarks on divine claims to the territory transcending human ones, abound when it comes to the dynastic break of the 18th century.20 In popular perception deities and, one must add, rituals bridge the gaps between the reigns of individual kings or even dynasties and thus guarantee the continuity of legitimate human rule. Apart from the reassurance or challenge of the king’s right to rule the rituals under discussion provided rare but regular moments at which the king, a (semi-) divine broker between deities and humans, became more or less accessible, but at least visible, to his subjects. His annual public appearances, which required lavish financial, personal, and material support, elevated some rituals over others. In this way, the importance of the royal Kumārī of Kathmandu increased because of her yearly encounter with the Shah King, whereas the significance of the Kumārīs of Patan and Bhaktapur, who had important ritual functions in the independent Malla kingdoms, diminished (cp. Allen 1975: 8). Under Shah rule, the city rituals of Kathmandu in particular and, to a lesser extent, of Patan,21 acquired privileged positions because they featured the king acting in public. But the Shah Kings did not simply take over the rituals carried out by the Mallas, they also continued performing those inherited from their forefathers. Moreover, existing rituals were re-modelled and re-accentuated. Throughout the Shah period, a complex and dynamic fabric of royal rituals gave occasion to public displays of royal pomp and power, in which further cases of a denial of ritual may be diagnosed. The Shah Kings were not the only ones to articulate their vision of rule. After Jang Bahadur Rana’s coup of 1846 it was the post of the prime minister in which all power of governance was centralized and which was made hereditary and passed on in the Ranas’ extended family until 1951. Throughout that time, the Shah Kings, to whom the Ranas gave their daughters in marriage (and thus regularly provided the kings’ mothers), were kept as divine, but muted birds in a golden cage. The public impact of the king was reduced to his appearances in rituals, while the Rana autocrats styled themselves as the promoters of and sole channels for

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20 See e.g. Wright 1877: 197–198; Pradhan 1986: 410. 21 To my knowledge there were only two annual occasions on which the king attended rituals in

Patan; to visit the Kṛṣṇa temple at Mangalbazar on Kṛṣṇajanmāṣṭamī and to attend the Bhoṭojātrā at Jawalakhel. For Bhaktapur, see below.

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modernization: They travelled to Europe, introduced a legal code in the Nepali language, the Muluki Ain (Höfer 2004), and changed the face of Kathmandu considerably, e.g. by erecting palaces in a neo-classical style beyond the old city limits (Weiler 2009). Fancying Western military items and luxury commodities, the Ranas kept the country closed to the outside world. As part of this “restrictive modernization”, they introduced military parades and weapon exhibitions on Tundikhel, an open field east of the old city of Kathmandu, as additions to royal rituals (cp. Pfaff-Czarnecka 1993). In these military shows, the king appeared only as a witness, while the agency entirely rested with the Mahārāja, as the Rana Prime Minister was usually addressed, 22 who, as Supreme Commander-in-Chief (paramādhipati) of the army ran the show.23 In these performances, the Ranas surrounded themselves with the material culture they stood for and celebrated their conception of power. Without interfering with the ritual functions of the divine king, this military extension set to royal rituals operated in its own spatial pattern and material idiom and was an occasion for demonstrating the denial of agency to the Shah Kings. One of the first things King Tribhuvan (reg. 1911–55) did when he, after a spectacular flight to newly-independent democratic India, returned as the ruling King in 1951 was to reclaim the position of the Supreme Commander-in-Chief of the army (Lecomte-Tilouine 2004: 17). Thereafter it was the king who was the major person acting on Tundikhel. Again by a denial of a role, this time to the Rana Prime Minister, royal ritual duties were extended. In the following period of Shah restoration, the kings presented themselves as the liberators from the oppressive Rana regime, not only in the ritual roles of the now overthrown de-facto rulers. New national festivals with their own programmes on the parade grounds of

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22 The title of the Mahārāja of Kaski and Lamjung had been conferred on Jung Bahadur Rana

and was passed on to each successor in the post of the prime minister (Whelpton 2005: 47– 48). 23 For evidence from travel accounts see Pfaff-Czarnecka 1993: 273–275. However, not too much stress should be put on the lack of mention of particular festivals by some authors. While H.A. Oldfield, who stayed in Nepal between 1850 and 1863, already mentions the military parades on Śivarātri (1880: 322) and on the seventh day of Durgāpūjā (ibid.: 350), D. Wright (1877: 42), who followed Oldfield in the post of the surgeon to the British resident, reports the horse race on Ghorejātrā only, without explicit references to military shows. W. Filchner, who stayed in Nepal in 1939–40, also describes this horse race (Filchner and Marathe 1953: 32–35) and also gives a vivid description of the parade on Durgāpūjā and the activities of Yuddha Shumshere J.B. Rana (ibid.: 128–129). At least parts of the activities on Tundikhel on the occasion nowadays known as Ghorejātrā on the new moon day of Phālguna (March/April) to celebrate the beginning of New Year must go back to Malla time (cp. Anderson 1988: 266–269). The practice of racing horses (aśvadhāvanaka) on that day is justified in a Newar manual (NGMPP B 137/16 Varṣakriyā) with reference to the Mahākālasaṃhitā, one of the default textual authorities of the Newar Tantrics.

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Tundikhel were added, such as Democracy Day (Prajātantradivas), celebrated on 18th February to commemorate King Tribhuvan’s return from Indian exile in 1951 (plate 2). The traditional and the modern, which had been ritually staged in Rana time as two poles embodied in the posts of king and prime minister respectively, were now presented in personal union. In his old and new ritual roles, the Nepalese monarch could cultivate his image of a traditional Hindu king and at the same time style himself as the promoter of democracy and development. Royal rituals, such as the marriage and coronation of Birendra Shah, presented an opportunity to showcase a stable and democratizing monarchy, looking perhaps more to the international community than to its subjects.24 Annual rituals were occasions to stage the alliance of the ruling family with the democratic organs of the state. Moreover, the royal rituals gained a new quality in permeating public life when, starting under King Mahendra (reig. 1951–72) and most prominently under his son Birendra (reig. 1972–2001), royal rituals were aired by radio and, from 1985, TV throughout the country. This also implied that the impact of the deities and specialists involved in these rituals radiated far beyond the confines of the city or the valley of Kathmandu.

Royal Durgāpūjā under the Late Shah Kings The complexity acquired by the public royal-cum-national performances by the beginning of the 21st century and the ambivalences of the king’s roles in them may be illustrated with the example of the celebrations of the autumnal Durgāpūjā, also known as Navarātra.25 The beginning of the festival on the first of the bright half of the month of Āśvina (falls in September or October) is marked by the “establishment of the jar” (ghaṭasthāpanā). The special room, in which this is done and the jamara, usually barley seeds, are planted (the sprouts of which are distributed as prasāda on the tenth day, Vijayadaśamī) is called the Dasaĩghar (Nep.). The Shahs’ royal ghaṭasthāpana in the old Malla palace, known as Hanuman Dhoka, was

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24 See e.g. the descriptions of these rituals in the memoirs of the tutor to the Crown Prince

Birendra at Harvard, Francis G. Hutchins (2007: 22–60) published under the title Democratizing Monarch. On these occasions, the international guests were e.g. entertained with cultural shows featuring Hindu deities and Nepalese folklore. The rituals, partly performed under the eyes of the guests, were explained to them over loudspeakers. 25 In Newari this festival is called Mohanī/Mvaḥni, in Nepali Dasaĩ; for Navarātra in various Nepalese settings, see Krauskopff and Lecomte-Tilouine 1996. For the domestic rites of the Newars see, e.g., the Āśā Saphu Kuthi ms. no. 116 (cf. Pradhan 1986: 292–302; Levy 1990: 523–563); for the royal form NGMPP B 132/21, B 132/23 (cf. Pradhan 1986: 307–312; Toffin 1996; Vajrāchārya 1976: 185–188).

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performed with a maximum of material and personnel, 26 but in principle it followed the same procedure as in other households with Parbatiya ritual practice.

Plate 2: Democracy Day (Prajātantradivas) commemorates the return of King Tribhuvan from the Indian exile on 18 February 1951. This Prajātantradivas is still marked by a public holiday, even if another Democracy Day (Loktantradivas) was introduced on 24 April to commemorate the abdication of King Gyanendra.

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26 Unlike Mocko (2012: 303) I would attribute this fact not to the king being too important to

act on his own behalf, but to the financial means at his disposal. In Nepal many wealthy families employ specialized priests to perform their domestic rituals during the Navarātra.

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The same holds good for the major element of the seventh day (Saptamī), the phūlpātī.27 In accordance with ritual prescriptions from the trans-regional Sanskrit tradition, nine goddesses are summoned into a bundle of nine plants (Skt. navapatrikā). As his rulership dictated, the king acted as the realm’s premier worshipper when he received the bundle of plants at the Nasalchowk of Hanuman Dhoka and witnessed its establishment in the royal Dasaĩghar. At the same time, this act marked him as the prime representative of a particular ritual culture, that of Parbatiya Hinduism, because the “entering of the nine leaves” (Skt. navapatrikāpraveśa) seems to be one of the elements that distinguish the two Hindu ritual cultures competing in Kathmandu Valley.28 On the morning of the same day, one of the important events of the royal Durgāpūjā, as it was performed in the Malla period, takes place. The Newar ritual specialists of Hanuman Dhoka are busy shifting the Goddess(es) called Taleju in a short procession from her temple overlooking the palace compound to her own Dasaĩghar in Mulchowk (van den Hoek and Shrestha 1992). There she will be worshipped until the morning of Vijayadaśamī, behind closed doors, which not even the Shah King is to open. The lavish staging of the phūlpātī might be seen as overshadowing what had been a central part of the Navarātra celebration of the Malla dynasty. In this context it seems worth noting that the Shah Kings approached the śakti of their predecessors in the form of Kumārī, but were never initiated into the Taleju cult; instead they continued worshipping the Kālikā of Gorkha as their kuladevatā.29 But even if the Shah Kings may personally have kept distance from the esoteric forms of Durgā cherished by the Mallas, they still financed these, and in return profited from them by receiving prasāda from the hands of the main Taleju priest (van den Hoek 2004: 107). The ritual idiom of the preceding dynasty was not called effective, but the worship of Taleju was denied the centrality it once possessed with the king’s attendance focusing on the “entering of the nine leaves” just a few meters away.30

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27 On phūlpātī, see Mocko 2012: 404–406; Hoek 2004: 107; Krauskopff and Lecomte-Tilouine

1996: 20–23; Vajrāchārya 1976: 186.

28 As far as I know Newar families do not perform the phūlpātī. At the Malla courts this may

have been different, but as so far the only hints to it I am aware of are the mentioning of a patrasthāpana on Saptamī in a journal (thyāsaphu) and in a compendium on annual rituals (varṣakrīya), both given by Vajrāchārya (1976: 186 n. 2, 187 n. 1), I doubt that this element had been much prominent in Mallas’ royal practices. 29 It is, however, not clear who denies what to whom in this construct of royal goddesses. 30 In this light, I would at least qualify what Pfaff-Czarnecka has noted on the development of Durgāpūjā, i.e. that the “expansion of the Dasain Festival (under Shah and Rana rule, A.Z.) goes along with the increasing importance of Durgā worship in the Kathmandu Valley at the expense of the cult of Kumārī and Taleju” (1993: 273). The rituals have somehow been diverted away from Taleju, the lineage goddess of the old dynasty, but I would hesitate to see them shifting to Durgā, i.e. the exoteric sphere. Instead, the changes might be conceived of as more complex reconfigurations of both exoteric and esoteric Navarātra practices.

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In other respects, too, the phūlpātī is carried out as a parallel programme. The bundle of plants is dispatched from the old Shah capital, and the ritual is performed simultaneously and in similar fashion in the temple of the Kālikā residing in Gorkha palace (Unbescheid 1996: 116–9). With its introduction at Hanuman Dhoka, the Gorkhalis not only shifted the accent of the Saptamī rituals, but could also link the śakti worshipped in the palace of Gorkha and the one residing in the Mallas’ palaces.31 While the former might be seen to convey an (esoteric) message of domination over the competing ritual culture, perhaps more addressed to the inner circle of ritual specialists, the latter could be interpreted as an (exoteric) statement of inclusion of the earlier dynasty’s deity, maybe with a view to the public. There is another relevant aspect of the king’s activities around the phūlpātī. Before the bundle of plants is introduced into the Dasaĩghar, it is greeted by a military parade, called the phūlpātībaḍāĩ, at Tundikhel. This element, seemingly placed by the Ranas ahead of the royal welcoming of the bundle in the palace, was likewise supervised by the king, now as Commander-in-Chief of the Army. Thus, on a single day the king acted as head of the army, head of his family, as first worshipper of the realm and practitioner of the superior ritual culture. The parallel working of the two Hindu ritual cultures can also be observed in the animal sacrifices carried out on the eighth and ninth days of Navarātra (cp. van den Hoek 2004: 107–109). The sacrificial procedures of Parbatiyas and Newars differ in their method (decapitation vs. slitting the carotid artery) and personnel (army officers vs. the Khaḍgi, members of the Newar sub-caste of butchers). Moreover on Navarātra the sacrificial activities are located in different parts of the palace premises. While the sacrifices to Taleju of the Newars are staged in Mulchowk, the main arena for the Parbatiya blood offerings is the Kot, a courtyard that served as the military headquarters of the Gorkhalis. Again, the attendance of the Gorkhali rulers probably focused on the latter. 32 In recent times this increasingly unpopular, bloody part of the festival has not been attended by the

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31 The phūlpātī brought to the palace of Patan is dispatched from Nuvakot (Toffin 1996),

another capital of the Shah Kings, where another royal goddess resides.

32 On this occasion, the Parbatiya army officers worship their colours. Reports on the rulers’

attendance are hard to trace, however. Oldfield (1880: 345) reports that the king was present in the sacrifices at the Kot. He also depicted him there in a watercolour drawing kept at the British Library (http://www.bl.uk/onlinegallery/onlineex/apac/other/019wdz000003280u000 00000.html); Filchner and Marathe (1953: 137) say that when the honouring of the flags took place outside the Kot, the Mahārāja, i.e. the Rana Prime Minister, oversaw them. The spatial split between the two ritual cultures is not a clear-cut one, because the Parbatiya army officers also sacrifice at the Mulchowk in front of Taleju’s Dasaĩghar (van den Hoek 2004: 108). These sacrifices, however, take place in the absence of the Newar specialists who, at that time, officiate high up in the Taleju temple, which is open to the public for that single day of the year.

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king in person.33 On that day, Mahāṣṭamī, the monarch busied himself as a devotee of the major goddesses of Kathmandu and was accompanied on this pious temple tour by a retinue of journalists. Vijayadaśamī, the tenth day of the festival, commonly associated with the victory of the goddess Durgā over the buffalo demon (Mahīṣāsura), and that of Rāma, the epic paradigm of righteous human rule, over Rāvaṇa, is known from historical accounts as the occasion for a Durbar, an official reception of the higher administrative staff by the king of Nepal. 34 While the royal Durbar with the officials offering a material tribute to the ruler, seems to have changed its character, up to the end of the Shah period government and army officials were at least compelled to receive the king’s ṭikā on that day. Parallel to the head of any Parbatiya household administering the blessing mark to his juniors, the king could be seen here as acting as the patriarch of the polity. Then, in the night of Vijayadaśamī, twice in twelve years, the king participated in the “procession for (the accomplishment of) the success of the sword” (khaḍgasiddhijātrā),35 a role he had inherited from the Malla king of Kathmandu. For this ritual, a troop of nine Durgās (Skt. Navadurgāgaṇa), embodied by dancers from the sub-caste of garland makers (New. Gathu, Skt. Mālākāra) marches towards the palace occupying the centre of the urban fabric. The divine procession starts outside the city limit from the “(power) seat” (Skt. pīṭha) of, alternately, Pacalībhairava or Bhadrakālī. From their aniconic representations at the pīṭha, the deities of the troop are raised and transferred to their human vessels. The main deity, i.e. either Pacalībhairava or Bhadrakālī,36 carries a shaking sword in front of the body.

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33 Mocko (2012: 419) assumes that the sacrifices at the Kot have been discontinued, but there

are photos available on platforms such as www.flickr.com that clearly show these sacrifices in 2009 and 2010 in the presence of the regimental colours. 34 For the Durbar and its connection to the annual renewal of tenures (pajani), see Krauskopff and Lecomte-Tilouine 1996: 31–34. 35 For this ritual, see Gutschow 1982: 137–139, van den Hoek 2004: 81–106, K. Śreṣṭha 2008: 47–48; Toffin 1993: 67–72, and Visuvalingam and Chalier-Visuvalingam 2004: 136–141. 36 The procession of Bhadrakālī seems to follow four years after that of Pacalībhairava. According to the speaker of the organizing committee (news 1), the procession of 2011 was held after 13 years, because the previous performance in 1998 had been irregularly arranged after 11 years by order of the palace. Before that, too, the ritual seems to have followed an 11-year rather than the 12-year cycle claimed. Attested performances for Pacalībhairava: - *3/10/1976—N. Gutschow (1982: 200 n. 184) gives the year as 1977, but in 1977 Vijayadaśamī fell on the 21st and 22nd October, whereas the 3rd October 1976 fits the date; - 2/10/1987 (Visuvalingam and Chalier-Visuvalingam 2004);—1998 (news 1). For Bhadrakālī: - 18/10/1991 (Hoek 2004); - *2002—There must have been one exchange with King Gyanendra, as there is a picture of him receiving the sword from Bhadrakālī (cover of K. Śreṣṭha 2008), for which, however, no date is given.

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Near the palace, the divine troop meets a Sword Procession (khaḍgajātrā) of former Malla courtiers arriving from the Hanuman Dhoka palace. As long as the Shahs ruled, the main sword of the latter procession that, at least from the esoteric perspective, probably is a form of the Malla Kings’ tutelary goddess, was handed over to the Shah King. The ruler, who had arrived from his new residential palace, then exchanged this sword with that of the deity three times back and forth with the latter standing on one of the stones reckoned as the main “guardians of the field” (Skt. kṣetrapāla).37 This act is said to bestow “success of the sword” (khaḍgasiddhi). Given parallel constructions in the other two Malla palaces of the valley, this ritual may not only be seen as empowering the king and recharging his śakti, as a common interpretation maintains, but also as disseminating the power accrued over the preceding days of the festival in the central śakti of the realm to the Navadurgā deities who are thus empowered to dance for the following nine months (in the case of Kathmandu on 33 occasions) and to carry out their function as protective deities of the realm (cp. Levy 1990: 525). Sword Processions are not only held at the palace, but also at other religious institutions of the city, such as the major goddesses’ temples and Buddhist monasteries. In the Malla period they may have formed the main ritual act of the whole complex of Durgāpūjā38 and belong with pan-Indian practices of ritually going to battle on Vijayadaśamī. As textual sources on the ritual have not yet been located, it is difficult to construct exactly how the encounter of the two Sword Processions in front of the Kathmandu palace might have looked like in the Malla period, but the king himself had been a central actor in the Sword Procession from the palace (Vajrāchārya 1976: 187), probably after having ritually interacted with his tutelary goddess,

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37 The sword exchange with Bhadrakālī takes place at the stone located at Siṃhadhvākā

(Makhan), the one with Pacalībhairava in front of the Kāṣṭamaṇḍapa (Maru). K. Śreṣṭha (2008: 47) quotes the Taleju’s main priest (mūnāyo) Uddhav Kārmācārya that these stones are known as the Uttarāyaṇa- and Dakṣiṇāyaṇakṣetrapāla respectively. 38 Gellner 1992: 379 n. 9; Vajrāchārya 1976: 185. In fact, cālaṃ, the modern Newari name for the day, goes back to Classical Newari cāraṇa (related to the Skt. root car, to go, to wander around), and cāraṇa is what the Sword Procession is called in the journals (also known as thyāsaphus) and Navarātra handbooks of the Malla period; e.g. NGMPP A 1234/26 (written in NS 814 under King Jitamitra Malla) starts navarātrayā cāraṇavidhir likhyate, “the ritual directions for the wandering around (i.e. for the procession on the Victorious Tenth) of the Navarātra (festival) are written down (in the following)”. As a support for his argument that the practice of the Sword Procession “seems to go back at least to the thirteenth century” (Gellner 1999: 147), Gellner refers to Petech’s (1984: 95) quote of the colophone of a manual called Khaḍgapūjāvidhi (Cambridge University Library Add. 1706.1), dated to Vijayadaśamī 1271. As the inspection of this handbook shows, its topic is a Buddhist Sword Worship (khaḍgapūjā) directed at Trailokyavijaya, and to be carried out in the bright half of the month of Āśvina. Yet, it remains to be ascertained in how far this ritual is related to Newar Buddhist practices carried out on the Victorious Tenth.

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Taleju.39 Even more difficult is to look further back in history. And yet, myths and rituals of the main deities of the Sword Procession, in which Bhadrakālī and Pacalībhairava form a divine couple, hint at their importance for royal ritual long before the advent of Malla rule over Kathmandu in the late 15th century.40 There are some more specific hints about what might have happened at the break between the Malla and the Shah dynasties. According to the main ritual actors (news 1, news 2), the first Shah King of Kathmandu, Prithvinarayan, did not take over the role in the Sword Procession from Jayaprakash Malla, his predecessor on the throne of Kathmandu. Instead, the ritual was discontinued and was made part of royal ceremonial protocol again only under Prithvinarayan’s grandson, Ranabahadur Shah. Interestingly, there is a famous story that Prithvinarayan, prior to his invasion of the Kathmandu Valley, went to Benares, performed a ritual to acquire khaḍgasiddhi, and afterwards was given a sword by an ascetic (Acharya 1978: 141–143). This narration exemplifies the pan-Indian topos of a founder of a dynasty being given a conquering sword by a goddess or a Yogi41 and, moreover, mirrors a story told about his antagonist Jayaprakash Malla who is said to have received khaḍgasiddhi and a sword from a Yogī in the temple of the Goddess Guhyeśvarī, an important state temple of Kathmandu (news 2; Śarmā 1968–69: III, 11). Through these mirror stories, the two kings appear like alter egos between whom, in the last instance, the śakti of the realm is to choose. In terms of denial this incident, even though it is only said to have happened, would neither be a case in which the new ruler denied his predecessor a ritual role,

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39 So far this can only be deduced from parallels in the other Malla palaces. At Patan, the

custodian of the royal sword enters the Taleju temple (personal communication of Bhaiya Lal Manandhar) on Vijayadaśamī before he sets forth to the Sword Procession. Probably royal initiation practices were interwoven with the reception of khaḍgasiddhi. K. Śreṣṭha (2008: 41–42) quotes a bahi document (NGMPP B 515/28) to the effect that the kings of Bhaktapur took dīkṣā on Vijayadaśamī in Mulchowk, took up the sword, and then participated in the Sword Procession. 40 The chronicles (e.g. Śarmā 1968–69: II, 8; Wright 1877: 205) and the Gathus (Hoek 2004: 93) both attribute the introduction of the ritual to the early Mallas. In this context, it is, however, noteworthy that the Thakujuju, who traces his ancestry back to the Thakuris, who were reigning in Kathmandu before the Mallas, and still acts as the ceremonial king of lower Kathmandu, has a close relation with the deities involved. For instance, he has to be present in the sword procession, even if only to witness the sword exchange. If one were allowed to speculate, one could venture the hypothesis that the Mallas, when taking the throne of Kathmandu, might have absorbed royal deities of earlier rulers by engaging them in their Navadurgā practices and thus bringing them into the divine retinue of their own tutelary goddess, Taleju, brought from Bhaktapur and newly established in the palace. 41 A. Sanderson (2007: 288–291) gives examples for this theme from the Sanskrit narrative literature and historical incidents; e.g. Śivājī (1627–60), founder of the Maratha dynasty, is said to have received a sword from his lineage goddess, Tulajā Bhavānī; Jayasthiti Malla from Māneśvarī.

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nor one in which—as in the case of the Saptamī rituals—a ritual of the former dynasty was denied the centrality it possessed, but one in which a ritual was devalued. Even though I have not been able to trace any source connecting the discontinuity of the Khaḍgasiddhijātrā of Kathmandu with the story of Prithvinarayan going to Benares, it seems conceivable that with the claim to have achieved khaḍgasiddhi in the prestigious North Indian pilgrimage place, the local source of khaḍgasiddhi, drawn upon by former kings, could have been presented as having become obsolete. Be that as it may, by the end of Shah rule, the sword procession was a fixed point in the ceremonial protocol for the king’s Vijayadaśamī obligations. On the full moon four days later (Kojāgratpūrṇimā), the monarch visited the house of the Navadurgā-troop of Bhaktapur. This element, newly introduced by King Birendra in 1988 (V.S. 2045), was the latest addition to the annual ceremonial schedule of the Shah King that I have come across.42 As the examples from the royal Navarātra practices show, the king’s ritual roles have been multi-facetted, and they repeatedly underwent additions and reductions. The present state of knowledge does not yet allow for laying out exact chronologies of these developments, but what seems obvious is that political changes have always entailed the reworking of the Nepalese rulers’ rituals. As a general tendency, the rituals appear to have grown in complexity by introducing new elements, combinations, and specialists, while older practices were, entirely or partly, left in place. In effect, by the beginning of the 21st century, the Shah King was surrounded by a composite web of ritual obligations, many roles conglomerating in his person. No clear-cut distinction can be drawn between the person of the King as the premier ritual patron of the realm, head of his family, Commander-in-Chief of the army, or head of the national state of Nepal. Moreover, some of the newly introduced celebrations, such as presiding over military parades, call the very applicability of the term “ritual” into question. It stays vague about where ritual begins or ends. One may even ask whether the term “ritual” should be given up in favour of others, such as “public event” (Handelman 1990). The ambivalences of these events and of the king’s position in them was never a problem as long as the monarchy existed. Quite to the contrary, the king profited from his key positions in these faits totaux sociaux, to use a Maussian expression. The close entanglement and near-identity of king and country was part of the official ideology and rhetoric.43 The public performance and propagation of royal rituals, and especially

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42 In P. Śreṣṭha’s (2003: dedication, 116–118) publication on the Navadurgāgaṇa, the special

blessing of King Birendra is invoked in this connection.

43 This does not touch the issue of whether this official rhetoric was believed by the people.

Whereas R. Burghart at least finds some evidence in historical material for its effectiveness and says that “the ritual symbolism of the auspicious body of the king and the identity of king and realm still persist in native belief, but have lost their power to influence the believers. The pomp goes on, but there was a time when the pomp was also powerful” (2008: 224), A.

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their being state affairs, only posed a problem once the Nepalese king and the concept of kingship in general came under attack.

Royal Rituals after the King After public protests against the assumption of absolute power in the spring of 2005 led King Gyanendra Vir Vikram Shah to reinstate parliament in April 2006, he was gradually stripped of his executive rights and titles, until in May 2008 Nepal was declared a secular republic. The loss of the monarch’s political powers went along with the seizure of his ritual privileges. Over this interim period the procedures for the public royal rituals were altered, mostly to the effect that the roles of the king were shifted to the new head of the state, first to the prime minister, then, from the middle of 2008 onwards, to the newly created post of the president (see below). As Anne Mocko has reconstructed in her thesis Demoting Vishnu (2012),44 the strategies of how to treat royal rituals were not preconceived, but negotiated between the interim government and individual ritual actors in a step-by-step process. And yet, as I will argue, the recast of rituals largely followed a model similar to the one that had already been successfully applied by the early Shahs. In the spring of 2006 the king was still a full-fledged monarch, even if he was barred from executive functions of government. Yet he, against whom all oppositional forces had stood united over the last year, remained almost invisible to the public. In this situation the new government had to fear that people could be unwilling to tolerate the presence of the monarch in publicly performed rituals in their “new Nepal”. Still, the government allowed the king and his family to follow the usual ritual protocol in this year too, albeit under tight security arrangements. Public protests were surprisingly mild, but the performances were marked by small, but significant changes: the government and the international community withdrew their personal support for the king’s ritual activities so that the royals stood alone on occasions where they were formerly surrounded by VIP politicians and diplomats. The split between king and government affected the Navarātra celebrations, too. Government and army officials were no longer obliged to receive ṭikā from the monarch on the occasion of Vijayadaśamī, and the welcoming of the phūlpātī at Tundikhel took place without the king, as he was no longer the Commander-in-Chief of the Army.45

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Mocko holds that under Gyanendra it was the king who was “the monarchy’s one absolute believer” (2012: 18). 44 Unless otherwise indicated, in the present section I will draw on this publication. 45 Mocko (2012: 425–426) reports that the king still attended the phūlpātībaḍāĩ in 2006. Bloggers, however, record the king’s non-attendance and applauded it (e.g.

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Actually, this latter incident can be seen as the first in a series of denials of official roles to the monarch. It was, however, only after the promulgation of the Interim Constitution in January 2007, which cemented the removal of the king from power and designated the prime minister as interim head of state,46 and the Paśupati incident on Śivarātri, where the king’s car was hit by stones from the waiting crowd, that the denial affected what we are used to calling religious rituals. Thus starting in May 2007, Prime Minister Girija Prasad Koirala, who as Interim Supreme Commander of the Army had already replaced the king on Tundikhel, started acting as head of the nation in pūjās and jātrās, too.47 On the one hand, this replacement was received well by the general public, though not without ridicule and criticism, and soon became the major strategy for handling royal rituals. On the other, the monarch seemed unwilling to accept the denial. Therefore the interim government tried to tightly monitor and control the king’s movements in public spaces and likewise attempted to exercise control over the ritual actors involved; not always successfully. The most prominent incident in this regard occurred at the concluding day of Indrajātrā on 30 September 2007 and had the effect that Kumārī blessed two rulers. First she received the prime minister, then the still king, who sneaked in when the performance seemed over. Notably, the living goddess applied the mark on the forehead according to the rule, i.e. with the left hand, to the king only; the prime minister received it from her right. The government was not amused, to put it mildly, and the incident was treated as a state affair. The palace was officially questioned as to why the monarch went to the Kumārī without government permission. Following this precedent, and even after Nepal was declared a republic in May 2008 Gyanendra Shah seems to have maintained at least a partially parallel ritual infrastructure. If he was granted access to ritual space and the ritual actors cooperated he typically arrived at a given place of worship after the president had left, and he (re-)performed the rites, appealing to his right to religious freedom as a

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http://blog.com.np/2006/09/30/dashain-holiday-bad-news-from-police-good-news-fromarmy-and-pms-optimism-2/#more-3400 (accessed 10/05/13). 46 §159 (Arrangements regarding the head of the state) is the pertinent paragraph. In the third amendment (December 2007), it stated that: “3a The Prime Minister shall conduct all the functions of the head of the state until the republic is implemented”. From the fourth amendment (May 2008), these provisional regulations were again removed. 47 The first of these incidents occurred when Bhīmeśvara of Dolakha started sweating (Mocko 2012: 189–192). The sweat of this particular deity has traditionally been taken as an omen announcing ill for king and country. In May 2007, it seems not to have been entirely clear in which public functions the prime minister would replace the king. Accordingly two appeasing pūjās where carried out at the temple, one ordered by King Gyanendra and another by Prime Minister Koirala.

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common Nepalese citizen. 48 That he was not just a “normal citizen” and has generally been perceived to be trying to retrieve his potential “kingliness” is indicated by the strong reactions of the government on the one hand, and the involvement of the political right (pro-Hindu, pro-monarchy) on the other. Still as late as in 2010 the attempt to bring the ex-king close to the temporal and spatial arena associated with the former royal—now state—Kumārī developed into a trial of strength between the republican and the monarchist political powers. In September 2010, the ex-king was invited by the Yuba Vishwa Hindu Mahasangha, the “Young World Hindu Federation”, to worship nine former Kumārīs at Basantapur on the day before the yearly chariot procession of the Kumārī started. The home ministry denied Gyanendra Shah the permission to attend the function, arguing that his security could not be guaranteed. So the programme took place without the ex-monarch, but later that day the nine Kumārīs were brought to Shah’s private residence. Afterwards the then Prime Minister, Madhav Prasad Nepal, was quoted by journalists saying that Gyanendra Shah was stopped because “he tried to exercise power as cultural king,” and: “Monarchy is no more. He should accept that”.49 The usual rhetoric Gyanendra Shah resorts to when questioned about his future political ambitions is to delegate the decision of whether Nepal would need a king to the people’s will. In July 2012, he was cited in news reports to be willing to return as king in a “largely ceremonial role”.50 Mocko (2012) has shown that denying the king access to his royal practices has worked as a successful strategy by which the interim government “effectively prevented him (i.e. the king, A.Z.) from reproducing his royalty” (2012: 3) and “attacked his social identity as king” (ibid: 4). His substitution by the new head of state communicated the official statement that the king was not as special as palace rhetoric would have him. But more than looking into what these denials and substitutions do, and what they say about the persons involved, my focus lies on what happens to the rituals. As in their past the former rituals of the King of Nepal, which at least partly had been former rituals of the King of Kathmandu, survived a political upheaval and acquired new importance.

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48 His activities are usually covered by the Nepalese media such as The Kathmandu Post or the

Himalayan Times. He e.g. visited the Janakī temple on Rāmnavamī 2010 (Letizia 2011) or the Paśupatināth temple on the occasion of Śivarātrī. 49 E.g. in Repúblika of 23 September 2010; http://archives.myrepublica.com/portal/index.php?action=news_details&news_id=23607. 50 E.g. http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-18743394 (accessed 10/05/2013).

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A New Proposal for Handling Royal Rituals: Pacalībhairava’s Sword Procession in 2011 Given the ambivalences about the roles of the former king in rituals and the lack of a legally binding regulation of the matter, the first President of Nepal, Ram Baran Yadav, who has carried out ceremonial roles as head of state since his appointment on 23 July 2008, has not faced an easy task.51 President Yadav, as Prime Minister Koirala before him, fills many, but not all ritual roles of the king.52 As A. Mocko has rightly remarked, the republican recasting of the Durgāpūjā practices presents a special problem, because “…monarchy had long conflated the construction of the state with the practices of an individual family, and when it came time to disentangle the state from that family, many of the practices of the royal family presented significant difficulties in determining where the Shah family ended and the state began” (Mocko 2012: 203). The procedure followed now seems to be that the president presides over the “welcoming of the phūlpātī” on Tundikhel, but its introduction into the Hanuman Dhoka palace takes place without him. On the eighth day of the festival, President Yadav pays a state visit to the goddess temples in Kathmandu. On Kojāgratpūrṇimā, he worships the Navadurgāgaṇa at their house in Bhaktapur and on Vijayadaśamī he distributes ṭikā to the public. Parallel to the president, the former king, too, distributes his, as he also pays his traditional reverence to the goddesses on Mahāṣṭamī. Apart from adopting or dropping the roles of the king and denying the latter access, there seems to be no attempt on part of the government to interfere with, or reconfigure, once-royal practices. As far as I can see, the first major alternative was enacted on proposal of the ritual specialists in Pacalībhairava’s Sword Procession of 2011. This incident also entailed a public debate on the possibility of replacing the king. The decision-making process of the ritual actors received great media recognition in Kathmandu Valley, as can be seen from the mass of press conferences, interviews and newspaper articles on the topic released in 2011 and 2012. Referring to the precedence of discontinuity under Prithvinarayan Shah (see above), when the sword procession was to be staged for the first time in republican Nepal, the Gathus discussed whether the ritual should continue, and if so how (news 1). It was decided to carry on with the ritual; but in order to postpone making a decision about who to exchange swords with to the time when a

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51 One of the first occasions to act in place of the king was to confirm the appointment of the

newly installed Kumārī of Kathmandu on Mahāṣṭamī (7 October 2008).

52 Starting from 2008 the distribution of alms to ascetics on Śivarātri was taken over from the

king by the Guthi Samsthan, a semi-governmental institution founded to manage all royal grants to religious institutions.

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constitutional regulation would provide a binding model, rather than simply putting the president in place of the king the place of the ruler would be left empty. The sword exchange would take place with the royal sword kept on a ritual “seat” (āsana). The president would still be invited to attend the ritual, but only as a privileged witness. He would thus have a function similar to the Thakujuju, the ceremonial king of lower Kathmandu. Both would be present at the performance, but would not act. By deciding for an alternative pattern, those involved called the officially promoted strategy for the king’s denial into question. Several factors must be mentioned that eased this deviation from the default option of substituting president for king and allowed for a comparatively high degree of freedom of the Gathus in redesigning a ritual. The Sword Procession is performed twice in twelve years only and takes place in the dead of night. The ritual did not figure as central in public perception of royal ritual as for example the Kumārī’s annual procession and blessing did. The interval between the end of the monarchy and the first performance, as well as the low interest of the “rulers” potentially competing for participation,53 must have further facilitated the emergence of the new pattern. Another layer of denial came into play when the ritual was performed on 6 October 2011. The attendance of the president was cancelled over the telephone at the last minute, invoking the head of state’s busy schedule. This brief statement provoked speculations as to the “real” reasons for this cancellation. 54 Mocko (2012: 463–464) sees it as a sign that the president is slowly starting to relegate his “royal ritual duties” to history. Such a withdrawal would constitute a denial in the first sense described above, i.e. that the efficacy or value of the ritual is denied. If the president stayed away from the formerly royal ritual, it would be denied that the latter is meaningful for the public performance of the Nepalese state. The organization and performance of the Sword Procession was also discussed within the Newar community. In newspaper articles, the main controversy revolved around the question of whether or not it would be a good idea to exchange the sword with the president and what this would mean for the Republic of Nepal, as well as for the Newar community. The model proposed by the Gathus was opposed

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53 According to Mocko (2012: 463), the president had announced several times that he does not

wish to participate. Likewise, there were no reports on the former king’s ambitions to participate. 54 When asked whether the president did not attend because he was denied the king’s role, Bharat Mali (news 1) presumed that it might also have played a role that he had been criticized for only participating in Hindu rituals. Another explanation was offered in a conversation I had in March 2013 with the Vajrācārya priest officiating at Pacalībhairava’s pīṭha. According to him, the president had seen Pacalībhairava in a dream, whereupon astrologers advised him not to attend the ritual, otherwise he would die. As similar stories explain earlier kings’ enduring non-attendance of selected festivals or temples, this explanation clearly establishes a continuity between royal and democratic rulers.

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with different arguments.55 With regard to the denial of ritual, I here wish to highlight one of the opinions in favour of the Gathus’ decision. It was expressed by Nareś Vīr Śākya in a guest column in the Newari language daily Sandhya Times (news 3). Śākya celebrates the Gathus’ decision not to exchange the sword with the president as a step towards the regaining of self-esteem of the Newars. Glorifying the Mallas as modest rulers who celebrated festivals in communion with the commoners, and vociferating his grievances about the cultural oppression of Newar culture by the Parbatiya elites, that he traces back to Prithvinarayan’s above treated “conquest by ritual” in 1768, he moves on to condemning the participation of political stakeholders in ritual in general. According to Śākya, if the śakti of the realm is further put into service of politicians who only misuse their participation in rituals to demonstrate their status and power, it will eventually be spoilt. Thus he welcomes the enactment of a gap between religious and political power; a gap that, at least with regard to the concept of a śakti representing a king’s capacity to rule, did not make sense for a Hindu monarchy. From this argument the same figure of denial can be deduced as is the case with denying the king access to his former rituals. Just like the Kathmandu Kumārī has been elevated to the royal Kumārī, and then to the state Kumārī, by denying her blessing to former stakeholders, by denying the president the main role in the Sword Procession, the ritual is “freed” from misuse by politicians and a new layer of meaning can be claimed, one of “pure” ritual beyond politics. With (re)claiming ritual agency for the Newar specialists, a particular ethnic identity can be solidified.56 This (some may say) clearly political agenda is, however, presented as being apolitical.

Why Deny the King? Why should it be important or even necessary to deny the king his official roles in rituals and substitute him with the new head of the state? Would it not be much easier to leave the king his ceremonial functions, but limit his privileges to the ritual realm, as is the case for many local Mahārājas in India? This could ease the shaping of Nepal as a secular state, to which the close entanglement with Hindu traditions poses a major impediment (Letizia 2011). At the same time, the budgeting of festivals and other religious institutions could be delegated to the private pockets of one of the richest citizens of the country.

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55 To some, keeping the place of the king empty looked as if the sword waited for the king to

return. Others held that it should be exchanged with the president in order not to let the transfer of the śakti of the realm run empty. 56 Interestingly the opposite opinion, too, as expressed by Cuṇḍā Vajrācārya (news 4), can be used for the building of Newar identity. She argues that by replacing the king with the president, the national importance that Newar rituals already have can be maintained.

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For various reasons, this scenario appears inconceivable for Nepal. For the explanation of this complex issue, some of the major reasons have already been adduced. Mocko has shown that it was almost necessary to remove the king from his “kingliness”, and that denying him his ritual roles was a powerful means of turning the king into a citizen (not in all respects successful as the media coverage on the “ordinary citizen” Gyanendra Shah shows). Placing a representative of the people in his stead showed that the “royal” rituals are not, as palace rhetoric claimed, inseparably bound to the consecrated body of a king; that, on the contrary, they can be carried on into the secular state. As Letizia has aptly summarized: “The President’s participation in the Kumari Jatra, his taking the king’s place, is a powerful nonverbal gesture of visual rhetoric … exposing to the nation some core elements of present-day Nepali secularism: eliminating the risk of the monarchy’s return, not displacing religious institutions from the public sphere…, acknowledging the use of religious tradition by the republic, and acknowledging the value of divine support to a new state in need of consolidation” (Letizia 2013: 42). In Nepal, ritual has been, and still is, perceived as one of the building blocks of political and social power. The return of the Shahs to political power from a status where they were reduced to rituals for a full century by the Ranas is vividly remembered. Deities are seen, at least by a Hindu majority, to be divine agents who influence the country and its rulers by their will and power. The story of Prithvinarayan receiving ṭikā from the Kumārī is one of the political myths at the base of the formation of Nepal as National State. The yearly repetition of this blessing of the king was a highly charged moment in the ritual cycle. In public perception, it constituted the most important divine sanction for the king to rule legitimately throughout the next year. Its re-enactment in a republican fashion continues this national myth and updates it. But there is a sting in the tail here. In sending its prime representative to worship the living goddess, to receive her empowering blessing and to act as the patron in other rituals, a secular state seeks ritual legitimization, and, in turn, subscribes to the efficacy, or at least to the value, of a particular set of rituals. The president and his councillors are aware of the double bind in which they find themselves. Two ways to proceed are discussed among the president’s advisors (Mocko 2012: 446–447): Either the head of the state may slowly withdraw from formerly royal rituals, justifying his participation as an interim solution, or he, on the basis of the equal rights policy, may include performances of other religions in his schedule. It must be kept in mind that to substitute the king was more or less an ad hoc decision made in the Interim Period of 2006–2008 and probably seen then as the most apparent solution. Prithvinarayan’s conquering Kathmandu and receiving the Kumārī’s blessing is a deeply internalized pattern. Therefore to deprive a ruler of his powers calls for substituting him in this and other publicly performed rituals.

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There was another reason why the then still King Gyanendra had to be removed from the public sphere as efficiently as possible. As Letizia (2011: 76) has pointed out, the political call for secularism in Nepal was primarily a move against the king. Gyanendra was the only “problem” on which nearly all political parties could agree. In the eyes of the people, the king as person had disqualified himself by a series of unfortunate public appearances and political decisions. He, as demanded by the tradition of not allowing the throne to be empty, ascended the throne on 4 June 2001 the day his predecessor and nephew Dipendra died. This was a moment when the whole nation was still under the shock induced by the royal massacre on the first of June. Since that time Gyanendra tried, but never quite managed, to be regarded as a divine king by a majority of the people. The royal succession rituals were ineffective in many respects (Mocko 2012: 239–297). Moreover, Gyanendra has been styled as an unjust king, especially in the Maoist propaganda, where he was called a butcher of his people (Lecomte-Tilouine 2004: 19). More or less openly, he has been accused of fratricide. Another factor contributing to the need to keep the former monarch away from his ritual roles is the involvement of Hindu fundamentalists in the Nepalese promonarchy movement. The ex-king associates with organizations, such as the Nepalese Shiv Sena, the local branch of the Indian mother organization, which is one of the main players in fuelling religious conflicts in India. The public appearances of the ex-king in ritual performances therefore not only smell of restoration and revisionism (Letizia 2011: 76–77), and provoke protests of the politically dominant left-wing forces, but they also provoke protests against interference from India, from whose Hindu fundamentalists the Nepalese royalists gain support. To these points it should be added that the rivalry between the two main ethnic groups in Kathmandu Valley should not be underestimated. Most of the public state rituals go back to the Malla period. At that time the Newars held the key positions in society, from which they were largely displaced after the Shah dynasty with their Nepali speaking Parbatiya Bahun and Chetri elites took over government. In current debates on the formation of Nepal as a federal republic some Newar activists like to perceive the Kathmandu Valley as the future federal state of the Newars. Ousting the Shah King and his priests from “their” rituals, which they now advance as Newar cultural heritage, is thought to be important in getting rid of the Parbatiya domination, as the discussion about the sword procession illustrates. Denying the former king access to rituals claimed to be Newar becomes instrumental in solidifying Newar identity. It is therefore not surprising that Newars especially criticize the situation where a Parbatiya king is substituted by a president with an equally high-caste and non-Newar background. The call for returning Newar rituals to their ethnic and local context, however, clashes with the fact that the performance of these rituals depends on state funding.

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Effects of Denial The denial of ritual plays an important role in current processes of social and political change in Nepal, either as a means of criticizing ritual or as a mechanism to protect ritual by denying access to it. Such a statement makes a value judgement, which at the same time upgrades and downgrades. It draws a line between those who are in and those who are out. When, from an outsider’s perspective, one’s former or another’s ritual practice is denied, it is devalued. When, from the perspective of the insider, access to ritual is denied, the practice is marked as special. Either way, denial implies the upgrading of one’s own standpoint. My special focus here has been the limiting, and in consequence denying, of access to rituals. This type of denial has a long tradition in Nepal, as elsewhere in South Asia, where the caste system has been maintained by excluding those who violate its purity rules, where Brahmins have restricted access to Vedic learning, as Tantrics have to their esoteric knowledge. In the main case dealt with here, i.e. the formerly royal rituals, denial of access has had an astounding effect. The rituals involved were singled out, marked as special and promoted to a new quality whenever prominent attendance in them was denied: first to the Malla Kings in the late 18th century, when the rituals acquired a central position in the official performances of the newly emerging national state of Nepal, and for a second time, when the last Shah King was denied his former roles and he was substituted by the head of the democratic state. By the denial of the central role to former stakeholders and delegating it to new ones, the rituals involved have achieved ever larger impact, from addressing the inhabitants of the cities of Kathmandu or Patan, to being relevant for citizens of the Republic of Nepal. Throughout their history the rituals have constantly been invested with new settings, elements, and meanings, thus forming a dynamic whole. In this respect, the last change, which transformed the annual ritual obligations of the last King of Nepal into those of the new head of the secular state, might be seen as an exception. In the time of monarchical rule, rulers were always seen to adapt the rituals to their new visions and versions of what is called Hinduism. In contrast, the secular state officially does not promote any particular religion, and thus the president only has the options of attending or not attending the rituals. Beyond the granting or not-granting of funding, the state is not in a position to actively interfere with or change the actual procedures. Moreover, the involvement of the new head of state entails the reduction of the polyvalency of the practices. Whereas formerly the question was left open as to whether the rituals relate to the person of the Shah ruler, to the office of the king, or to the nation of Nepal, with the prime minister now acting in place of the king the paradoxical situation has arisen that only the secular state has fully granted these rituals the status of state rituals. The involvement of functionaries of a declared secular state in ritual procedures of a certain religious tradition does not go unchallenged and might not be the end of the story. The model proposed in Pacalībhairava’s Sword Procession tries to

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avoid the pitfalls implied in the default arrangement of substituting president for king, as far as possible. For the first time, a model was enacted that did suggest that the foundation of Nepal as a secular republic was not just another change of royal dynasties. In their novel scheme for performing a royal ritual without a king, the ritual specialists tried to keep the state presence, but to relegate the president from the central actor to VIP witness. The attendant discussion has shown that even the refusal to let the president take on the role of the king can be interpreted as establishing a new and superior layer of meaning of the ritual, with which the Newars reclaim the ritual as their ethnic cultural heritage and “purify” it from the noxious influence of politics. Denial here has also provoked a shift of, and in some respects curtailing of, the efficacy of the ritual. The Sword Procession in its present casting has lost its function to empower the ruler of the whole realm, but continues to be carried out successfully and stabilizes a particular local and ethnic identity. Another observation on the impact denial has on rituals can be made. Those excluded from ritual by denial may turn to other rituals, either inventing their own initiations or, as the former king does, attending other publicly performed rituals and public functions. In this way, denial can provoke the emergence of new or counter-rituals, as also the example of the reformist Theravada movement in Nepal attests, which started with a clearly anti-ritualist agenda, but ended up developing more and more rituals in order to be competitive.

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News reports News 1: Interview of Bharat Mali by Sylvia Rajopadhyaya for the Nepal Bhasa programme Lahana (06.07.2012); http://lahana90.blogspot.com/2012/07/todayslahana_05.html; http://archive.org/details/TodaysLahana_815.

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News 2: “Khaḍgasiddhijātrā”. By Indra Mālī. Lāyeku 9.4, V.S. 2068 Phālgun 9-15/1327 February 2012. News 3: “Khaḍga jātrāy bvalaṃgu nevāḥ svābhimān”. By Nareśvīr Śākya. Sandhya Times 16.229, 2068 Śrāvaṇ 13/29 July 2011. News 4: “Pacalīyā bhairav phyākhaṃyā khaḍga hilegu”. By Cuṇḍā Vajrācharya. Sandhya Times 16.284, 2068 Āśvin 16/3 October 2011, p. 2.

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Negotiating Text and Denying Practice in a Confucian Context Social Change and the Emergence of the Apotropaic Burial Custom (jiechu) in the Funeral Ritual of the Eastern Han (25–220 CE)1 Negotiating Text and Denying Practice in a Confucian Context

Liang Chen

Theoretical Basis In his classic The Cultural Memory (Das Kulturelle Gedächtnis), Jan Assmann pursues the question of how the fundamental framework of a culture, which he called a “connective structure (konnektive Struktur)”, is constituted and handed down. That happens, according to Assmann, through the way in which a society remembers. For all his recognition that text and ritual both contribute to the formation and solidification of the collective memory of a nation or a state, i.e. cultural memory, Assmann emphasized the central role of text in passing on culture with the key concept of “canonization” (Assmann 1992: 16–17). In line with this, the decisive role of canonization in establishing the basic character of Chinese culture in ancient China has been a focus of Chinese studies for a long time,2 whereas some recent works claimed to attach equal importance to the text and the ritual. Martin Kern, for instance, treated this topic intensively in his publication Text and Ritual in Early China, in that he pursues a closer examination of the ritual structure of the composition and distribution of texts, as well as of the textuality of ritual practice. Michael Nylan, on the contrary, points out definitely in her paper “Toward an Archaeology of Writing” that at every level of society, “text and ritual operated in tandem to enhance authority”.3 However, in spite of their efforts, more emphasis has actually been given to the text.

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2 3

I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Prof. Enno Giele and Prof. Lothar Ledderose for the comments they gave to me at the formative phase of this thesis. I am thankful to Prof. Ute Hüsken and Dr. Udo Simon for their many valuable feedbacks and corrections. To Dr. Douglas Fear and Dr. Nicholas Vogt I owe a lot for their polishment of the English language. See Schwartz 1985: 383–406; Nylan 2001: 307–362. Basing his view on the ritual theory of Confucian thinker Xunzi, Nylan investigates the interplay between text and ritual in a social system of “public display”. Through the ritual distribution of goods and rewards by the state, which was displayed in a lavish and sumptuous way, a relationship of mutual obligation between distributor and recipients (do ut des) was

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Taking into account that the canonized text has to be put into a ritual framework and enacted so that it could contribute to the maintenance of a collective memory, one can question whether the frame of a culture is in fact transmitted without alteration? Based on the notion that culture is formulated more through dynamic, theatrical processes than through material culture and static results of cultural production, Assmann’s overemphasis on text has been questioned in recent academic discussions, while the role of ritual in passing on a culture has been stressed (Schenk 2004: 14). The fact that text and ritual do not always correspond with each other has been theorized by Whitehouse, who labeled textual and experience-dependent media, respectively, the “doctrinal mode” and the “imagistic mode”. The doctrinal mode, which gives more authority to doctrine, is often propagated through orated texts, and exhibited as an integrated body of ideas that is usually heavy on morality, whereas the imagistic mode is non-verbal and best manifested in doing ritual acts and observing taboos. He points out, that the religion of the prescriptive texts may co-exist with an alternative version only known through the imagistic mode (Whitehouse 2000: 54–80). In the light of the fact that the division of classes played an important role in early Chinese society, Brashier has made several modifications in applying Whitehouse’s theory of doctrinal mode and imagistic mode in his study of early Chinese ancestral cult. He has put forward questions such as to what degree the lettered and unlettered classes knew and implemented the ritual prescriptions, and has answered them with three observations. First, the prescriptive texts harbor an agenda, therefore it is reasonable to question whether this elaborate argument was actually implemented. Yet dividing beliefs between lettered and unlettered classes may be misleading. Rather, even if they had not been fully implemented, these prescriptive texts still served as a yardstick from which deviation could be measured (Brashier 2011: 98–99). The deviation of the ritual practice from the prescriptive texts often aroused criticism from the lettered class in early Chinese society, even leading to reforms by the local officials or the central government. The analysis of criticism against and efforts at reforming “incorrect” ritual customs would not only reveal the shifting boundary of ritual practice in ancient China, but also make clear how the asymmetry between the ritual canon and ritual practice became strong enough to be felt. According to Wang Mingming, who made several valuable theoretical observations on the basis of his study on modern Chinese popular religion, such mechanisms could lie, on the one hand, in the adaptation and modification of ritual on the local level, on the other in social change. And the asymmetry manifests

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established, while at the same time authority, solidarity, and social hierarchy were strengthened (Nylan 2005: 23–37).

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mainly in the ways in which the participants of a ritual modify, reinterpret, and even reject the underlying norms and value system (Wang Mingming 1997: 169). That is, the interpretation plays here a crucial role. In this paper, the diversity and ambiguity of searching for ritual norms and rejecting popular ritual customs will be explored through an apotropaic funeral custom, jiechu, in the Eastern Han.

Confucian Classics on Funeral Ritual and the Doctrinal Mode How was a funeral ritual carried out in the Han dynasty? There is no satisfactory answer to this question. But there is a clear answer, for the Confucian thinkers living in the Han dynasty, to the question of how a funeral ritual should be properly carried out. According to the Confucian classic Ritual Canon (Yili 儀禮), a book which prescribes the most important rituals and is established as one of the canons in the Western Han dynasty, the process of the funeral ritual of a shi (士)4 can be divided roughly into the following stages: 1. On the day of death, the soul of the deceased will be ritually called back, as if it exists, directly after the last breath. Afterwards the corpse will be washed, the mouth filled with rice, and then the corpse will be clothed. 2. On the second and the third day after the death, the corpse is clothed twice in further clothes and then laid down in the coffin. 3. On the fourth day begins the time of mourning. Between the day on which the corpse is laid down in the coffin and the interment day, a favorable place for building the grave and a beneficial interment day are chosen through prediction. 4. On the burial day, a series of sacrifices are made before and after the interment procession. Gifts are presented to the leading mourner. The coffin is let down into the grave chamber, and then the burial objects are carried into the grave. 5. Three days after the interment, the third and last yu-sacrifice is performed, which is followed by a sacrifice to end the most sorrowful phase of mourning.5 6. One year after death, the sacrifice xiaoxiang initiates the lessening of the degree of mourning, i.e. mourning restrictions placed on clothes, food, shelter, speech, crying and expressions. 7. Two years after death, the sacrifice daxiang initiates the further lessening of the degree of mourning.

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5

The social attribute of shi changed from the lowest nobles of the Zhou Dynasty to intellectuals in the late phase of the Spring and Autumn period. For the analysis of this change, see Yu Ying-shih 1987: 14–20. Compare also Hsu Cho-yun 1965: Chapter 2, “Changes in Social Stratification”. For a discussion on whether a wooden tablet was to be used in the death ritual in the Han, see Fan Zhijun 2006: 158–160.

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8. Twenty-five months after death, the sacrifice tan marks the end of the mourning period and the transition from mourning to remembrance.

As Brashier has pointed out, although the prescriptive ritual texts enjoyed considerable breadth of circulation among the lettered classes, they were based on the precedent of a Golden Age and therefore functioned just as an imaginary yardstick for ritual performance (Brashier 2011: 98–99). In fact, the real burial practice, which is revealed through both textual and archaeological materials, changed constantly in an age of social change lasting from the Warring States Period to the Han Dynasty.6 Criticism was constantly expressed of the inconsistency between the ritual text and the ritual practice. The criticizers, who often claimed themselves to be ru, a term often translated as “classicist” in recent Chinese studies to emphasize devotion to classical learning (Nylan 2009: 735), insisted on the traditional functions of the funeral ritual and the values it carries. The orthodox interpretations of the Ritual Canon transmitted by Confucian schools and collected in another ritual classic, Ritual Records (Liji 禮記), were accepted by them as common sense and the criticism was often based on their normative prescriptions. For classicists, the meaning of the funeral ritual manifested itself partly in the form of ritual vessels, to which specific symbolic meanings are attributed. The utensils which are displayed on the funeral ritual and are to be buried in the tomb are classified, according to the Ritual Canon, under a specific category: mingqi, which literally means “vessels of brilliance”. The term mingqi is conceptualized in the Ritual Records as a construct which is loaded with Confucian idealization, in that it is made apparent through intentional “framing” that these vessels are made not to be used for everyday life, in order to express the pious attitude of the bereaved towards the deceased.7 “If the [vessels] made for the deceased would make the impression that the deceased has no more perception, that is inhumane and should not be practiced. If the [vessels] made for the deceased would make the impression that the deceased do have perception, that is unwise and should not be practiced. Therefore the [mingqivessels] made out of bamboo are not hemmed; the [mingqi-vessels] made out of clay are not appropriate for being filled with food; the [mingqi-vessels] made out of wood are not cut properly. The qin- and se-zither are stringed, but they are not tuned. The yu- and sheng-reed pipes are offered, but they are not attuned. There are bells and qin-chime stones, however, without [horizontal] rods and [vertical] props [on which they can be hung]. They are called mingqi-vessels, because the spirit [of the deceased] is clear about the [grief and love of the bereaved]” (Yang Tianyu 2004: 83).

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6 7

For an archaeological research of this change, see Gao Chongwen 2006: 447–466. For a detailed discussion on the concept and the practice of mingqi in early China, see Wu Hung 2006: 72–80.

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That this norm was deviated from practice can be seen in the annotations of the Han scholars such as the famous classicist Zheng Xuan (127–200 CE) on the classics. He criticized, in his comment on the mingqi-vessel, the practice of mixing up two kinds of vessels in the funeral: mingqi-vessels, made for the deceased, and the offering vessels (jiqi 祭器), used by the living to commemorate the deceased. “Duke Xiang of the state Song let a hundred jars of vinegar and meat sauce be put into the grave of his deceased wife. Master Zeng said: ‘[It’s unwise to] fill those vessels [with food], which are called mingqi-vessels.’ Zheng Xuan’s comment reads: ‘That is to say, the vessels [made for the deceased] are called mingqi-vessels, but they are, together with offering vessels, filled [with food]. That mixes up the vessels of the ghosts and the vessels of the living’” (Yang Tianyu 2004: 90).

The man-made division between mingqi-vessels and offering vessels further points to the core of the Confucian interpretations, namely that the meaning of funeral ritual lies in the humane and loving attitude of the bereaved towards the deceased, a moral self-awareness which one should show in performing the funeral ritual. This moral self-awareness, made visible through mingqi-vessels, is further interpreted with the as-if-structure of the Confucian ritual theories:8 “Giving offering as if the addressee of the offering were present. Giving offering to the spirit as if the spirit were present” (Yang Shuda 1986: 71). In this ritual interpretation, the question of whether there is an afterlife or whether the deceased exists in the form of a soul is suspended. This theoretical ambiguity leaves space for different interpretations of the ritual participants.

Funeral Ritual Practice in the Han and the Imagistic Mode The most direct evidence of the funeral ritual practice in the Han dynasty comes from archaeological finds. In 1959, a family cemetery was uncovered in the city of Tongguan in Shaanxi province. It comprised seven graves arranged in a line from east to west, separated by distances of between fifteen and twenty-seven meters. The graveyard had long been ascribed to the family of the famous TaiweiChancellor of the Eastern Han, Yang Zhen (59–124 CE), an ascription later confirmed by the archaeological excavation (fig. 1).9

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9

For a detailed discussion of this aspect of the Confucian ritual hermeneutic, see Röllicke 2006: 517–531. All seven graves, the entrances of which faced south, were constructed with bricks using the building technique of a gallery. Every grave consisted of a burial mound with a diameter of around 25 m, a burial ramp about 20m long, a passageway, a rectangular burial chamber, and a rectangular coffin chamber. Most of the graves possessed two side chambers connecting to the main chamber; the exception was grave M4, which had a second main chamber. All

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Fig. 1: Ground plan of the graves of Family Yang at Diaoqiao, Tongguan. Wenwu, 1961:1, 56, fig. 1, processed by Liang Chen.

Graves M2, M4 and M5 contained a peculiarity: nine uniform, slim, clay bottles with big, protruding mouths, as well as two bulbous clay jars with small mouths measuring between 6 cm and 20 cm high. These containers are all unglazed; most bear red writing in clerical script. Based on their small size and exceptional form, it is clear that the clay bottles and jars were neither containers for foodstuffs or beverages nor models of everyday utensils such as dinnerware or storage vessels; rather, they constituted an independent container type. The five clay bottles found in grave M2 were still located in their original positions during the excavation—in the earth above the barrel vault of the main burial chamber—and were filled with a yellow mineral substance, realgar (fig. 2). Their function can be determined beyond doubt with the help of the inscription that they share: “The realgar, which is assigned to the middle, should bring the descendants luck and soothe the [god of the] earth”.

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passageways and burial chambers were roofed over with barrel vaults (Yangshi muqun 1961: 56–66).

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Fig. 2: Grave M2 of Yang Zhen at Diaoqiao, Tongguan, ground plan and vertical plan, 126 CE. Wenwu, 1961:1, 57, fig. 4, processed by Liang Chen.

Similar clay jars have been unearthed from more than one hundred further graves of the late Eastern Han, mainly located in the modern provinces of Henan and Shaanxi, i.e. in the vicinity of the former capitals of Luoyang and Chang’an and their surrounding prefectures (fig. 3). In other provinces, inscriptions on wood slips, lead slips, stone slabs, and bricks, similar to those on the clay jars, have also been occasionally discovered in graves of Eastern Han date.10 The clay jars and other items carrying corresponding inscriptions were mostly placed at the grave doors or in the four corners or middle of the main burial chambers. The number of tombs from which these vessels have been excavated indicates that they were widely used in funeral practice. The usage of these vessels was not recorded in the Ritual Canon, but their function might be understood through comparing the inscriptions and the criticism of funeral customs in the Eastern Han dynasty. The two most often used keywords of the inscriptions are jie 解 (remove, untie) and chu 除 (eradicate, eliminate). They are verbs whose objects are often

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10 For statistics of the archaeological finds of jiechu objects, see Zhang Xunliao 2006: 92–98.

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yang 殃 (malefic influences) and zhe 適 (offences)11, which shows the general function of the jiechu is to get rid of ominous influences. The collocation of the two words jie and chu in the inscriptions reminds one of a popular ritual criticized by the Eastern Han intellectual Wang Chong (27–ca. 97 CE), who mentions that in his time it was customary among the people to carry out a purification ritual, which he names jiechu, after architectural activities such as erecting a house.

Fig. 3: Jiechu pottery bottle M17:10 from the grave M17 at Nanjiaokou, Sanmenxia. Wenwu, 2009:3, 11, fig. 17.

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11 Seidel follows Wu Rongzeng’s opinion in translating zhe as “crime” or “punishment” (Wu

Rongzeng 1981: 57) and interprets it as “misdeeds committed by the deceased during his lifetime”. She further connects jiezhe 解適 with the idea of Taoist hell (diyü 地狱, Seidel 1987: 44), which is questionable, because there is no apparent evidence which shows that jiechu is a Taoist practice.

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“When people have finished the building of a house or a cottage, excavated the ground, or dug up the earth, they propitiate the Spirit of Earth, after the whole work has been completed, and call this appeasing the earth. They make an earthen figure to resemble a ghost. The wizards chant their prayers to reconcile the Spirit of Earth, and, when the sacrifice is over, they become gay and cheerful, and pretend that the ghosts and spirits have been propitiated, and misfortunes and disasters removed”.12

The similarity between the inscriptions and Wang Chong’s description indicates that a similar apotropaic purification ritual jiechu was also carried out after constructing graves. On the day of interment, the jiechu objects, often containers like bottles, and the objects they contained, such as realgar and other minerals, were placed by ritual specialists on the designated positions to protect the grave from misfortune, in that the violation of taboos resulting from turning up earth for the interment would be soothed and neutralized through the ritual placement. How did this ritual practice come into being? Most earlier research emphasized the connection between the jiechu ritual and the emergence of Taoist religion (Seidel 1987: 46–48). However, it is apparent from the diversity of the jiechu inscriptions, especially from the lack of a uniform format, that the jiechu ritual was not carried out by members of an institutionalized official religion. Rather, they were rooted in the popular religion. The analysis of the inscriptions shows that an often seen function of the jiechu is to choose an appropriate day for the interment. As some of the jiechu inscriptions, such as “today is an auspicious day” or “the death day is inauspicious”, indicate, some days were believed to be fortunate for the burial, while some others would bring forth inauspicious consequences. Such ritual practice was not an invention without preceding models. For instance, it is already prescribed in the Ritual Canon that a beneficial interment day is to be determined through prediction. However, in this ritual prescription recorded in the Ritual Canon, no clear idea of the afterlife can be found. In contrast, when this ritual doctrine was put into practice in the Han Dynasty, a new aspect became visible. There is a vivid description of the hereafter and an obvious anxiety about it in the jiechu inscriptions, which are often written in the form of an official letter to the authorities of the netherworld and function as a passport. Most of these letters are issued in the name of the highest celestial deity, introducing the deceased to the netherworld administration13. In such a netherworld passport there is often a long list of the netherworld officials, usually the personification of

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12 Huang Hui 1990: 1041–1047. For an English translation, see Forke 1907: 535. 13 Anna Seidel calls them properly “celestial ordinances for the dead”. See Seidel 1987: 710.

Sometimes the content of a land contract, which attests to the deceased’s ownership of the land in which he is buried, is added at the end of the official letters, as is the case in the jiechu inscription of Wang Dang. For a collection of these land contracts, see Ikeda 1981: 193–278; for a more detailed English description of them, see Kleeman 1984: 1–34.

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different parts of the graveyard, who are informed in this way to ensure the successful acceptance of the deceased by the netherworld.14 Another new element of the jiechu ritual, which cannot be found in Confucian ritual classics, lies in its motive for protecting the bereaved from misfortune, especially further deaths of family members. From many of the inscriptions it can be seen that people believed the time of death of the deceased could affect the fate of his family members. If the time of death of the deceased, i.e. the year, month, day, and hour of the death, enumerated with Chinese enumeration system “Heavenly Stems and Earthly Branches” (ganzhi 干支), was inauspicious, further deaths of the family members might follow. 15 For instance, the connection between the inauspicious death time and the jiechu ritual is apparent in the inscription of Cheng Taochui: “On the day Yiyou, the twenty-seventh day of February, whose first day takes the ganzhi Jiwei, [I], the Envoy of the Celestial Thearch, inform the Deputy of the grave mound, the Sire of the Tomb and the netherworld Two-Thousand-Bushels official, that today the deceased of the family Cheng with the surname Taochui [will be buried here]. The day and hour of his death [are inauspicious], which [will cause] further deaths. The number which determines his lifespan is implicated in those of the living family members and [these numbers] are recorded on the same register. Upon receipt [of this letter], these numbers which determine their lifespan should be eliminated, the sentences about the implication pared and the entangled register dissolved. The dead and the living are to be recorded in different files. For one thousand autumns and ten thousand years, they shall never again do harm to each other. [The above mentioned] is very urgent, [and it should be treated] in accordance with the statutes and ordinances”. The popularity of this burial custom reflected in jiechu inscriptions was also confirmed by the criticism of Wang Chong of the custom of using a kind of manual, Calender for Burials, to choose a proper burial day in the Eastern Han dynasty. In this calendar, the names of some calendrical spirits (shensha 神煞), which are a kind of impersonal agency16, are listed. These spirits are thought to move regularly. In the circle of their movement, the days on which they appear and therefore on which they exert power are not appropriate for burial: “For burials, avoid the Nine Spaces (jiukong 九空) and Earth Ladle (dixian 地臽), as well as hard and soft days and odd and even months. If the day is auspicious, there will be no harm. Hard and soft complement each other, odd and even

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14 For the English translation of some jiechu inscriptions, see Poo Mu-chou 1998: 168–169 and

Seidel 1987: 29–33.

15 For another version of English translation of this inscription, see Seidel 1987: 33. 16 For the study that supernatural beings function as real social agents in systems of ritual, see

Sax 2006: 479.

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correspond with each other, so these are auspicious times. If not in accord with this calendrical principle, it becomes inauspicious”.17

When the death took place on such a taboo day, an apotropaic jiechu ritual has to be held, in order to dispel the misfortunate entanglement between the deceased and the bereaved. Therefore it was repeatedly emphasized in the jiechu inscriptions that the dead and the living belong to two different worlds and should not interfere: “Heaven above is blue, limitless is the underworld. The dead belong to the realm of Yin, the living belong to the realm of Yang” (Seidel 1987: 31). The position of the jiechu objects also strengthens their function of secluding the dead from the living. The clay bottles were often placed precisely on the borderline between the grave and the world above, marking a division between the world of the dead and that of the living. Here we encounter a funeral custom which is hardly recorded in the Confucian ritual classics but nevertheless widely practiced. The owners of the graves out of which jiechu vessels have been excavated are not only common people, but also members of powerful families, even of royal families. The variety of the jiechu vessels indicates that specialists who carry out the jiechu ritual were not members of an institutional religion like Taoism. Instead, this funeral custom is differently practiced and interpreted.

Criticism of the jiechu Custom The jiechu custom was attacked by quite a few writers of the Eastern Han dynasty. Among them the most provocative, and thus most famous, one is Wang Chong (27–97 CE). After his description of the aforementioned jiechu ritual, he adds one comment: “But if we get to the bottom of it, we find that all this is illusive”. Then he demonstrates through deduction that there exists no Spirit of Earth or any similar such ghosts. Finally, he doubts the usefulness of exorcism at all. “As regards exorcism, exorcism is of no use, and as regards sacrifices, sacrifices are of no avail. As respects wizards and priests, wizards and priests have no power, for it is plain that all depends upon man, and not on ghosts, on his virtue, and not on sacrifices” (Forke 1907: 537). He further attacks the practice of choosing fortunate days, which constitutes the basis of the jiechu custom: “It is a common belief that evil influences cause our diseases and our deaths, and that in the case of continual calamities, penalties, ignominious execution, and derision there has been some offence. When in commencing a building, in moving our residence, in sacrificing, mourning, burying, and other rites, in taking up office or marrying, no lucky day has been chosen, or an unpropitious year or month have

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17 Huang Hui 1990: 989–990. For an English translation, see Liu Tseng-kuei 2009: 920.

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not been avoided, one falls in with demons and meets spirits, which at that ominous time work disaster. Thus sickness, misfortunes, the implication in criminal cases, punishments, and even deaths, the destruction of a family, and the annihilation of a whole house are brought about by carelessness and disregard of an unfortunate period of time. But in reality this idea is unreasonable” (Forke 1907: 525).

He points out that the popularity of such belief results in part from the fact that the ritual specialists such as horoscopists and seers try to fool the common people, in that they ascribe happiness or misfortunes to observing the proper time or not. For him, on the contrary, luck and misfortune of a person is determined by his destiny, which will not be affected by observing the taboos of time (Forke 1907: 526). “Happy and unhappy events are determined by time, the moments of birth and death, by destiny. Human destiny depends on Heaven, luck and misfortune lie hidden in the lap of time”. Although Wang Chong was regarded by some modern scholars, such as Hu Shi and Forke, as a great thinker with a sharp critical spirit and a rational view of nature,18 he did not enjoy great respect before the twentieth century. Rather, he was often criticized for many theoretical loopholes and the lack of a coherent system of theory in his work. For instance, he denied the connection between natural disasters and political disorder, but he often praised auspicious omens and regarded them as the result of the good public order of his time. Furthermore, he believed firmly in fate, which according to him cannot be changed through human endeavors. His attitude towards prediction is also ambiguous.19 Although criticizing the predicting practice of common seers who made their living through divination on the marketplace or in different rituals, he did not deny the efficacy of divination per se. “Omens and signs are true by any means, if good and bad fortunes do not happen as predicted, it is the fault of the diviners who do not understand their business” (Forke 1907: 190). Similar criticism was also made by other classicists in the Eastern Han dynasty. Wang Fu (83–170 CE) attacks the practice of observing “trivial” taboos of building activities. These time taboos were named in a way as if they were terrifying spirits in the language of commoners and diviners. “As for secret spells of the wu-shamans and shamanesses, feared by the commoners, the seven spirits of the Earth Lord, the Flying Corpse, the Evil Ghost, the Northern Lord, Xianju the Way Blocker, the Straight Talisman, as well as the various taboos

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18 Forke praises Wang Chong as a great natural philosopher like Epicurus and Lucretius. See

Forke 1907: 13–14.

19 For a recent re-evaluation of Wang Chong, see Gong Pengcheng 2005: 211–215.

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concerning building activities and some trivial matters, these should not be the concern of the Heavenly King”.20

He himself insists that one’s happiness or unhappiness is not affected by observing taboos, but he, just like Wang Chong, also believes in fate. “Whether one gets luck or unluck is mainly dependent on his moral cultivation and decided by his destiny”.21 Zhong Changtong (180–220 CE) reiterates the value of moral cultivation and despises the usage of jiechu objects with cinnabar inscriptions. “In the degenerate world … subsequently emerge the extravagant and grotesque rituals, cheating and bizarre words, and apotropaic objects carrying inscriptions written in cinnabar. Ridiculous taboos are observed by the ordinary people and regarded as fashions in society, but they are deeply despised by the learned”.22 But he also believes that there exists a law of the circulation of the nature, which functions as the ordinances of four seasons and should not be violated. “If one reduces the offering of sacrifices to the Heaven and Earth, treats the sacrifices to the ancestors with neglect, violates the Ordinances of time and transgresses the Law of the revolution of the cosmos, whereas he seeks for fortune by means of inauspicious objects and looks for belief through stupid and cheating persons. Isn’t that fallacious?”23

Transforming Vulgar Customs The criticism of the three aforementioned classicists, Wang Chong, Wang Fu and Zhong Changtong, against popular ritual practice lies in their motivation of transforming vulgar customs into good ones. This motivation was even more clearly expressed by another classicist, Ying Shao (ca. 153–196 CE), who collected comprehensively almost all the customs he knew, and criticized the improperness in popular customs in his work Clarifying Meanings in Customs (Fengsu tongyi 風 俗通義), in order to rectify them, as he claimed in his preface: “[The book] comprises altogether eleven volumes and is titled Clarifying Meanings in Customs. It endeavors to clarify the improperty and errors of the popular customs and to restrain them with [Confucian moral] norms”.24

From the titles of the lost chapters, such as On Taboos (huipian 諱篇), Explaining Taboos (shiji 釋忌), On Funeral and Offering Sacrifices (sangji 喪祭) and On

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Peng Duo 1985: 306. For the English translation, see Poo Mu-chou 1998: 189. For the Chinese text, see Peng Duo 1985: 301. For the Chinese text, see Yan Kejun 1958: 89.11–12. For the Chinese text, see Yan Kejun 1958: 89.12. For the Chinese text, see Wang Liqi 1981: 4.

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Erecting House (gongshi 宮室),25 it is clear that a large part of the book was dedicated to the practice of observing taboos of time and space. Transforming vulgar customs was not only a spontaneous endeavor of the classicists, but also fully in line with an important culture policy of the Eastern Han dynasty. Concerning the funeral ritual, the emperors issued edicts to prohibit extravagant funeral rituals in the first half of the Eastern Han dynasty.26 In the second half of the Eastern Han, such measures were not continued, because they were ineffective. The edict issued by Emperor Cheng (reigned 51–7 BCE) in the Western Han already revealed why these edicts failed to have the desired effect. Members of the royal house and mighty families did not like to abide by the ritual regulations. They competed with each other in spending money on carrying out a grand funeral ritual, in order to gain fame. “At the present time the customs are extravagant and beyond the limits of the ritual regulations. The ministers, marquis, members of the royal house and the personal attendants of the emperor, all those whose behavior should be a model for the people, are not cultivating their moral characters and abiding by the ritual regulations. … The carriages and clothes, the sumptuousness of the marriage and funeral rituals of their family members go beyond the ritual norm, which is imitated by the lower officials and the common people. Gradually the extravagant customs have come into being” (HS 1962: 324–325). Choosing a fortunate burying place and a proper interment day to avoid bad luck was regarded as an important part of a proper funeral ritual. It is through the criticism of the classicists that we get to know how widely and variedly choosing fortunate days and observing taboos of time were practiced in the Han dynasty. In the archaeological finds, the popularity of such practice has also been attested by a genre of hemerological texts, excavated from twenty-odd sites, 27 which are generally named Rishu 日书 (daybooks), after one found at Shuihudi. They are written on bamboo or wooden slips.28 The inscriptions on some slips suggest that in choosing an appropriate burial day one should often take the death day into consideration. For instance, if a person dies on a yin (literally “female”) day and is then buried on a yin day rather than a yang (literally “male”) day, there would be a second death.29

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25 For the titles of the missing chapters, see Wang Liqi 1981: preface of the editor. 26 These edicts were issued in 31 CE, 69 CE, 77 CE, 99 CE, 107 CE and 118 CE (HHS 1965:

51, 115, 134–135, 186, 207, 228).

27 For a list of these sites, see Kalinowski 2010: 353–358. 28 Sometimes it can be inferred from the physical features, such as the length and column lines,

of the slips that one or more hemerological manuals were copied and bound together. For a discussion on the reconstruction of the texts excavated, see Giele 2010: 127–129. 29 See Liu Lexian 1994: 69–72. The translation is slightly modified. For a discussion of the meaning of the female/male day, see Liu Tseng-kuei 2009: 920.

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How influential the jiechu custom was in the Eastern Han dynasty can be seen in the story of Wu Xiong, who refused to follow this practice. This story was recorded just because it was rare at that time. “When the mother of [Wu] Xiong died, he was young and poor. He built a tomb at a site which nobody regarded as fortunate, and buried her there. The funeral was carried out quickly [after erecting the tomb] without waiting long for choosing a fortunate burial day. The shamans all said it would lead to the eradication of his entire clan, but [Wu] Xiong paid no heed [to their warning]” (HHS 1965: 1546). Besides criticism against the apotropaic burial practice jiechu, there have been more active efforts at transforming vulgar customs. For instance, Wang Jing (c. 30–85 CE), one of the many “good officials” who brought the ideals of the classical Confucianism to the people in ways that they could understand,30 took measures to eliminate the inconsistency among different divination manuals. “[Wang] Jing thought there were records of divinations in all the six classics, and the decision of an affair was often made by means of turtle and milfoil. But the result of the same divination was often recorded chaotically in different books, with one book saying fortunate, the other book unfortunate. Therefore he compared texts of different schools of Computations and Arts (shushu 數術), manuals concerning taboos on erecting tombs and houses, and divination technologies such as topomancy (kanyu 堪舆) and calendrical astronomy (rixiang 日相), selected those parts which he regarded as applicable, and compiled them into a book entitled ‘Foundations of the Mysterious Great Change (Dayan xuanji 大衍玄基)’” (HHS 1965: 2664). Wang Jing, as a local official, did not simply discard the divination manuals; instead he tried to improve them, because the practice of divination was widely applied in the everyday life of the common people whom he governed. Divination and using apotropaic objects have their roots in the cosmology of the Han dynasty.31 According to the dominant theory of ganying 感应 (interacting with phenomena one encounters) the human being is firmly combined with the universe.32 That the natural order—birth in spring, growth in summer, harvest in fall, rest in winter—cannot be gone against, has not only become the basis of the time taboos, but also the core of the Monthly Ordinances (yueling 月令), an edict issued to every local government to conduct the everyday activities of peasant society.33

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30 For the research on the “good officials”, see Yu Ying-shih 2005: 42–111. 31 Over the last fifty years, the terms “correlative cosmology” or “correlative thinking” have

become standard in the field. For a recent reinvestigation of the term “correlative cosmology”, see Nylan 2010a: Appendix. 32 For research on the basis of the theory of ganying, see Gentz 2004: 307–337. 33 For an English translation of one such edict, the Monthly Ordinance Decree of the four Seasons, which was dated 5 CE and found written on a wall of a Han ruin during the excavation, see Liu Tseng-kuei 2009: 886.

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Therefore a complete denial of the divination activities which are related with time taboos was impossible. From the official side, the effort of transforming vulgar customs such as time taboos could not be thoroughgoing either, so long as the prevailing cosmology was not doubted. On the contrary, they were even, to some extent, fuelled by the official promotion of apocryphal texts (chenwei 谶纬).34 The conflict between the old doctrinal canon and the apocryphal texts newly established as classics by the central government in the Han Dynasty reflects social change. It was also the result of this change.

Social Change and the Emergence of the Apotropaic jiechu Custom The apotropaic jiechu custom emerged and flourished, in spite of criticism of it and efforts at transforming it, in the Eastern Han dynasty, a time when mourning becomes more visible in the textual record. In contrast to the Western Han dynasty, the personal obligation to observe extended mourning gained priority in public opinion over the fulfillment of official duties in the Eastern Han.35 Such emphasis on family morals results more from social change than from the official propagation of filial piety (xiao 孝), which was already established as the core of the state ideology at the beginning of the Western Han dynasty.36 The profound social change which began in the late Western Han dynasty and lasted throughout the Eastern Han dynasty, was the transformation of the mighty families, who constituted the backbone of the ruling classes and who had based their power originally on military exploits, into classicist families (shizu 士族), whose power was based on the nomination of their family members to official positions, achieved through the mastery of the classics.37 Although according to the classics, the funeral ritual should be held in a moderate way and not too luxuriously, for these families holding a splendid funeral ritual was the most

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34 The founder of the Eastern Han dynasty made use of the popular apocryphal texts in seizing

power during the collapse of the previous dynasty. Although apocryphal texts were despised by some classicists as unorthodox and ridiculous at the beginning of the Eastern Han, they became prominent and widely studied under state promotion. Huan Tang (23 BCE–56 CE) was almost sentenced to execution for criticizing apocryphal texts in the face of Emperor Guangwu (HHS 1965: 961). 35 According to the statistics of Miranda Brown, the number of extant accounts of Eastern Han men and women wearing hemp mourning garments, burying their relatives, or expressing grief at the death of family members increased more than ninefold from the Western Han, from 21 to 192 (Brown 2007: 42). 36 For an analysis of the political function and social meaning of this policy, see Hsu Fu-kuan 2001: 194–196. 37 See Yu Ying-shih 1987a: 220, 284–285; Hsu Fu-kuan 2001a: 115–116.

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important occasion to expand the power and influence of their families, in that colleagues, former subordinates and students of the deceased gathered at the funeral. With the emergence of the custom of offering sacrifices in front of the grave and the following ritual reform of Emperor Guangwu (5 BCE–57 CE), the place where the most important part of the funeral ritual took place and where the guests were gathered became the graveyard instead of the ancestor temple. 38 Therefore, the practice of choosing a fortunate interment day and the usage of apotropaic objects became customary, which was regarded widely as necessary for the welfare not only of the family members, but also of the other ritual participants, as revealed by some of the jiechu inscriptions. One can say it is actually the burial practice of mighty families that promoted the development of the jiechu custom in the funeral. Parallel to the development of jiechu custom, the practice of erecting inscribed stelae in front of the grave became popular in the graveyards of the powerful families of the Eastern Han dynasty.39 Four such stelae were also erected in the family graveyard of Yang Zhen. The inscription of the stele dedicated to Yang Zhen praises him, through the usage of metaphors and expressions from the Confucian classics, as a learned classicist, a beloved teacher, a loving governor and a loyal subject, in a word, a personification of the Confucian ideal (fig. 4). “... He followed the way of loyalty and righteousness, and was truly exquisite and noble-minded. Being erudite, he studied the profound in detail, and he did not leave out any branch of knowledge. He was also clear about the interpretations of the Book of the Ouyang School (ouyang shangshu 歐陽尚書), Graphs from the Yellow River (hetu 河图), Book from the Luo River (luoshu 洛书), Apocryphal Texts on the Seven Classics (qijing wei 七經緯), Astrologicial Text on the Book of Change (yiwei qianzaodu 易緯乾鑿度). He fathomed out the mysteries of the creatures and knew the Law of Change, being equal to a saint. Swan geese descended on his hut, and the blossoms of youth streamed like masses of cloud to him. The number of those who drank together from the stream of his knowledge amounts to over three thousands. …”40 The list of books whose interpretations he has mastered shows an interesting combination of Confucian classics and the apocryphal texts, to which the four latter books belong. It demonstrates how deeply the interpretations of the classics were permeated by the apocryphal texts, which were full of materials of Computations

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38 Wu Hung reveals the shift of the funeral ritual center from the ancestor temple to the tomb.

He points out that the motivation of the ritual reform of Emperor Guangwu lay in solving the tough issue of the legitimacy of his power. See Wu Hung 1988: 102–104. 39 For a graph demonstrating the time distribution of extant stelae, funerary stelae, and stele titles from the Commentaries on the Classics of Waterways, see Brown 2007: 50. 40 For a transcription of the inscription, see Nagata 1994: 176.

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and Arts, as well as of omens.41 Since the knowledge structure of the literati of the Eastern Han dynasty is composed of both moral doctrines and technical computations and arts, it is no wonder that they could easily accept the jiechu custom. The stele was erected by the subordinates of the son of Yang Zhen, in order to praise the moral achievements of Yang Zhen and to strengthen the relationship between them and their superior. The strong tone of Confucian morality also reveals the function of the stele as a reaffirmation of their collective identity as followers of Confucius in the face of oppression from the interest group of eunuchs.42 It seems, at the first glance, contradictory to erect a stele in front of the grave mound, which is full of sentences praising the deceased as a beloved literati, and at the same time to place apotropaic objects on the borderline between the grave and the world of the living, which function above all to secure the division of the worlds of the dead and the living. For the participants of the funeral ritual, however, the function of these two kinds of inscribed objects were not incompatible. As seen from the jiechu inscriptions, the jiechu vessels were applied often to achieve several aims: to avoid the time taboo of burial, to guarantee the acceptance of the deceased into the administrative system of the hereafter, and to stabilize the grave per se. The diversity of the jiechu inscriptions reflects different attitudes towards death and the hereafter. But their general concern is to seek welfare for the family members, which is in common with the major function of the stele inscriptions. The ambiguity of the jiechu custom reveals the social change in the Eastern Han dynasty, in which the mighty families accomplished their transformation into classicist families and thus gained the most important social resource, in that their family members were nominated as officials through their mastery of Confucian classics or through their gaining the fame of filial piety, in which public display in the local societies during the funeral ritual played a crucial role. 43 Since the powerful families, which in the Eastern Han were often at the same time classicist families, occupied a predominant position in the power structure of the local societies, the family morals gained an ever greater importance.

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41 For a study on the relationship between the Computations and Arts and the apocryphal texts,

see Chen Pan 1993: 99–140.

42 For a brief outline of the clash between the interests group of literati-officials and that of

eunuchs and the role Yang Zhen played in this clash, see Loewe 1986: 297–316.

43 For an early but still important piece of research on the powerful families in the Eastern Han,

see Yang Liansheng 1936. For recent, comprehensive research on the relationship between the mighty families and local societies in the Eastern Han, see Cui Xiangdong 2003: 227– 281.

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Fig. 4: Rubbing of the Stele of Yang Zhen. Nagata, Hidemasa 永田英正, Kandai sekkokushûsei 漢代石刻集成：圖版·釋文篇, Kyoto：Dôhôsha 同朋舍, 175, fig. 96.

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It was against this social-historical background that a state conference was held to regulate the mourning degrees for members of more and more complicated family structures. Interpretations of ritual classics were promoted by the state as prominent branches of knowledge. New kinds of works appeared, which no longer concentrated on interpreting classics, but focused on the customs of the current time and society. There was a demand not only for collecting and commenting on different customs, but also to provide a practical manual of behavior in the mighty families. The prominent classicist Cui Shi (ca. 103–170 CE) suggested, for instance, in his work Monthly Ordinances for the Four Classes of People (simin yueling 四民月令), how the economic and ritual practice should be organized in accordance with the natural order in a large, rich family.44 Burial customs were criticized and attempts were made to transform them, but at the same time they were practiced and differently interpreted. The ambivalence of the attitude towards ritual classics reflected exactly the profound change the society underwent. The ever-growing power of the mighty families, which gradually challenged the power of the dynastic court, led later to the collapse of the Eastern Han dynasty and the beginning of a new phase of Chinese history.45 It is questionable whether an everyday ritual, such as a funeral ritual, can be carried out completely according to the doctrinal mode at all in a rapidly changing society. For different political, astrological and economic reasons, new factors of a ritual are invented. Variants of the same ritual are unavoidable in the course of this. Furthermore, as the practice of mixing up two kinds of vessels shows, components from different ritual contexts are often arbitrarily put together. Criticism was expressed of such inconsistency between the new ritual customs and the doctrinal ritual classics, and efforts were made to transform them. But on the whole, such denial was never successful, since these customs were developed to fulfill the need of soothing the worry and fear of the uncertainty of the hereafter, which had not been settled completely in the canon of the Han Dynasty. They were favored by both mighty and poor families, for they provided a technical solution to this fundamental concern. Thus, one can further doubt whether it is possible to draw a clear-cut line between the religion of the literati and the religious belief of the common people.

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44 For an English translation of this book, see Hsu Cho-yun 1980: 215–218. 45 For the analysis of the collapse of the Eastern Han and its relationship with the development

of mighty families, see Beck 1986: 317–376.

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Denial of Ritual in Zen Writing Denial of Ritual in Zen Writing

Stuart Lachs When ‘Zen Buddhism’ is mentioned, the average 21st century American would most likely think of a Japanese religion associated with enlightened Zen masters who act in charming, iconoclastic, and often baffling ways. These masters are known to give verbal replies that often confound common sense, leaving the listeners perplexed and perhaps a little amused. The Zen master is thought of as always being in the moment, unattached and free. One associates these masters with having reached their exalted state by practicing meditation for many years under the guidance of their own, older enlightened Zen master. One also learns that these masters received a special transmission which made them part of an unbroken lineage of enlightened Zen masters going back to sixth century China, and further back to India and the historical Buddha some 2500 years ago.1 It is very rarely mentioned that Zen Buddhism is a religious tradition that is for a good part practiced in a highly ritualized manner.2 In fact the daily actions in the meditation hall are virtually all prescribed: how to step into the hall, or hold the hands, the order and manner of bowing to the hall and from one’s sitting cushion to the actual sitting itself. This is especially so in Japanese monastic settings where most other actions are highly ritualized too—from greeting the teacher, other monks or lay people, to eating, how to stand, going to sleep, even how to mop the floor, and going to the toilet. This aspect of Zen Buddhism stands in contrast to the perception mentioned above, especially the picture of the Zen master as someone representing confidence, spontaneity, individuality, and immediacy. Yet even the master’s talks are ritualized affairs, and one could argue that their inbuilt interactive replies are ritualized responses. Both the written and spoken self-depiction of the Zen master as the epitome of the Zen tradition is of someone living completely in the moment,

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The idea of a special transmission linking a lineage in China to the historical Buddha actually began with the founder of the Tientai sect of Buddhism, Zhiyi (538–597 CE) and his disciple Guanding (561–632 CE), who wanted to create a Tientai lineage directly connected to the historical Buddha. The earliest known Zen lineage claim dates to shortly after 689 CE. See Schlutter 2008: 18. Foulk 2013: 47–58 argues persuasively that the imputation of the “denial of ritual” in Zen was an attempt by Japanese and Chinese scholars in the late 19th and early 20th century to shield Zen from the charges against Buddhism that it was a superstitious religion, antithetical to the advance of modern civilization.

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responding selflessly to the needs of the person and situation occurring uniquely at that moment. Following a similar pattern of contrast between assumed spontaneity and actual ritualization, all Zen schools base their legitimacy and authority on a direct connection with the historical Buddha through the mechanism of mind-to-mind transmission, which however is institutionalized in the ritual of Dharma transmission. From its onset, Dharma transmission between a master and disciple was a main feature of Zen’s identity and orthodoxy (Welter 2006: 4). Supposedly it is a special transmission outside the scriptures, directly pointing at an essence, not depending on words or letters, enabling one to see the true nature and become a Buddha.3 Dharma transmission imputes enormous power and authority to people who have received this institutional sanctification. Only the person who has received it and who thus is in the lineage, in the Buddha family, speaks and acts with all the authority the tradition imputes to transmission. In contrast, a person without Dharma transmission speaks and acts only as himself, as an individual (Bourdieu 1991: 107–116). Dharma transmission divides humanity into two sets: enlightened Zen masters and everyone else, the unenlightened masses. Through the ritual of Dharma transmission,4 at least rhetorically, the Zen master becomes the equivalent of the historical Buddha. Therefore, the legends of the life of the Buddha are often reflected in the legends of Zen masters. Tradition is often about replicating the predecessors’ authority. Today’s authority, god or truth has to look like yesterday’s and the day before’s and so on, back to a supposed origin. In Zen, that person of authority representing truth is the Zen master or roshi. The main devices to accomplish the “samefication of time, being, and person”5 are repetition and genealogy. But the “samefication” has to look unfabricated and natural in order to be convincing. Keeping in mind the need for “samefication” will help in understanding Zen biography, language and reference to nature and spontaneity and what I refer to as ritualized writing. This paper considers a specific side of ritualized Zen, namely Zen writing. Whether the writings are poetic death poems, post-enlightenment verses, stories displaying enlightened Zen activity, recorded sayings, transmission records, narratives of the mother’s conception of the master and their early years, commentaries on the enigmatic literary form known as koans, I argue that in all of them the

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This four part self definition of Zen first appeared as a whole in 1108 CE. It was a contested part of Zen’s self-identity. See Welter 2000: 75–109. There exists no uniform or standardized ritual of dharma transmission. Each Zen master performs it as he sees fit. It can be an elaborate performance with hundreds of people attending, or it can be done in private, with no public display. Irrespective of the way the ritual is performed, it makes the disciple part of the lineage of the master. He or she is henceforth considered a Zen master and empowered to give dharma transmission to others. The concept of “samefication” is Alan Cole’s, mentioned in a private conversation.

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process of ritualizing is in operation. All these literary forms present supposedly unique experiences or expressions of a pure and enlightened being. Though the literary tropes are recycled through the ages, are repeated with slightly changed details, they are always presented as expressions of a unique individual enlightened being. These literary genres thus encompass both ritualized expressions and a ritualized form of writing, and the presentation of the respective Zen master as a unique enlightened being—his every word and action is presented as a unique expression of a pure and enlightened mind, responding freshly to immediate circumstances. In this sense, I argue, the denial of any ritualized form of writing is accomplished. Admitting to the ritualization of writing would call into question the iconoclasm, spontaneity, freedom and lack of attachment that the Zen master is supposed to represent. In this sense the denial of any ritualized form of writing is instrumental in maintaining the idealized picture of the Zen master. I will look at two tropes in particular: (1) the trope of the master’s miraculous conception and exceptional childhood, (2) the trope of the master, who, living among wild and ferocious animals, by the power of his spiritual attainment tames these animals. Often the master being among wild animals is accompanied by the trope of cold and snowy weather. While being among wild animals the master lives off the land- scavenging for roots, berries, pine fruits, whatever he can find. These tropes often run together in a given story of a Zen master.

Zen Writing Before giving examples of the ritualized form of writing that I claim Zen is rife with, I shall consider the potential purposes of Zen writing. Writing in Zen—as in many other religious traditions—in part was and is meant to persuade the reader or potential supporter external to the Zen tradition, as proselytizing or missionary work. The persuasion however does not necessarily concern doctrinal issues, but can also be a display of the superiority of the Zen master’s words and deeds, and hence of the Zen school and its inherent truths that he represents (Anderl 2012: 4). Of course Zen texts are also meant to inspire, encourage, and teach those who are already followers of the tradition. The Zen texts were also written in response to what others wanted to hear and would accept. The master’s experience was created with a sense of what the imagined public expected. With changing times Zen’s selfrepresentation changed too. Thus the redactors of the texts adjusted the narratives to match Zen’s new self-definition with new expectations of their audience towards the specific literary genre. Moreover, as with any large religious movement, sectarian struggles among the Zen schools generated much writing, more often than not highlighting the superiority of a specific Zen master, the terms with which Zen would be identified and his faction or lineage over other Zen schools. The stories of Zen masters always have been important devices to connect to the

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tradition and authority of previous Zen masters and lineages and the texts attributed to them.6 Much of the history and teaching in Zen has come to us in the form of the biographies of the masters, narratives about their interactions with students, and sayings of Zen masters in a given lineage. This is not surprising, as Zen bases its authority and legitimacy on lineage based on mind-to-mind transmission. However, the line between biography and hagiography is hazy. Although historical people and existing places may be mentioned, one should not necessarily assume that things happened as described. Rather, the authors of these hagiographies “used them for a specific end” (Jorgensen 2005: 26). Zen texts are written and read for a number of reasons. Therefore, taking them at face value is misleading.7

Genres of Zen Writing There are three literary forms that developed from the Zen schools in China: tenglu, the “transmission of the flame or lamp”, yulu (Jp. goruku) or recorded sayings, and the koan (Ch. gong’an) which is a short saying, dialogue or anecdote taken from biographies and recorded sayings of Zen patriarchs and masters, singled out for special examining. The koan and yulu are rooted in the tenglu. Tenglu document lineal relations among Zen masters; they show where individual masters belong in the Zen family or “clan” and show how they can trace back their lineage to the “grand ancestor” Shakyamuni Buddha. This is closely connected to the Zen claim that it possessed the purest form of the Buddha’s dharma, namely the mind of the Buddha as opposed to the Buddha’s words. However, because tenglu were constructed and shaped to underline revisionist claims to Zen orthodoxy, they should be viewed as historical fictions rather than biographical records.8 However yulu9 are presented, like most classical Zen texts they are compilations formed from several different types of earlier textual and oral sources, all with independent origins. Perhaps the best known yulu is the Mazu yulu. It was first

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Anderl 2012: 4 and 27. Interestingly, until about twenty-five years ago, these stories were taken at face value by western academics, intellectuals, and artists. See Faure 1991: 38 for the example of Victor Turner accepting D. T. Suzuki’s notions uncritically. On tenglu see Welter 2006: 13f, 2004: 138 and 141. In the idealistic image of Chan, yulu (recorded sayings) are presented as the words of the master secretly recorded by his students in spite of his warning not to cling to his words. This view is not supported by evidence. Not only was the success of the Chan school dependent on the large body of Chan literature but publications associated with the master’s name were crucial for their careers. It seems likely that certain students were formally given the task of recording sermons and were given access to the master’s notes. See Schlutter 2004: 196–200.

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published as part of a collection of four yulu and is dated three hundred years after Mazu’s death (788). The structures of most yulu follow that of the Mazu yulu. This Mazu yulu consists of three distinct parts: biography, numerous transcripts of Mazu’s sermons and thirty-two short dialogues between Mazu and his disciples, often referred to as “encounter dialogues”. In the text there is no evidence of awareness that an “encounter dialogue” took place at the time Mazu lived, let alone that it was the main form of Zen instruction, as is often assumed (Poceski 2004: 54). Yet it is “encounter dialogue” imputed to the well known Zen masters of the so-called Golden Age of Zen with its shouts, and kicks, and iconoclastic words and actions that has come to mark so much of Zen. It is mostly, if not completely, a literary creation of the later Song dynasty (960–1279). The most widely known form of Zen literature today is the koan (Ch. gong’an) which has come to us in the form of koan collections. Though more than twenty examples10 survive, the three best known collections in the west today are The Blue Cliff Record, The Book of Serenity, and The Gateless Gate. The first two date from early 12th century while The Gateless Gate dates from the early 13th century. It is not clear how the collections were actually used in their day. In all koan literature, the Zen master represents the position of awakening, speaks with great authority and acts as a judge.11 A fourth literary form, namely stone stele inscriptions, was used by the Zen schools, though their use was not limited to Zen. They were erected not long after the death of eminent monks and were publicly accessible. They serve as biographical material originally made to extol the moral influence of their subjects.12

The Buddha Legend As Zen bases its legitimacy on an assumedly unbroken lineage of enlightened masters going back to the historical Buddha, it is not surprising that the biographies of many Zen masters match or mimic that of the of historical Buddha. We know very little for certain about the actual life of the historical Buddha. Some legends depicting his life give very elaborate details and others less, some stress miraculous events, some play down this aspect. Yet within this large range of legends, some prominent features are fairly consistent.13 1. He was born to a royal family. 2. His conception and birth were accompanied by miraculous circumstances.

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Heine and Wright 2000: 7. For a thorough discussion of koan literature see, Foulk 2000: 15–45. For a discussion of stele inscriptions, see Anthology of Stele Inscriptions 2012: 3–34. The typical features of Buddha biographies listed here are often depicted in art, as the presentation on the website of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City shows: http:// www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/buda/hd_buda.htm (last access: 02/04/2014).

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3. His mother conceived him when she dreamed that a white elephant entered her right side. 4. There is no mention of the father’s role or of sexual intercourse. 5. There is no mention of pain, difficulty, impurity, or of bodily fluids normally associated with childbirth. 6. The child was born fully formed and—according to some accounts—took seven steps after his birth. 7. A seer predicted that the child would become either a great ruler or a great religious leader. 8. The child mastered all the arts and mathematics, was physically splendid and extraordinarily wise, while being skilled at sports and martial arts. 9. His father did not want him to become a religious leader and surrounded him with every luxury in an attempt to keep him from seeing the realities of life. 10. Eventually he left the palace grounds and encountered sickness, old age and death. 11. On a subsequent trip outside the palace, he met a religious ascetic who inspired him to lead an ascetic life to escape the suffering of life. 12. The Buddha to be left the palace, his wife and child and family, along with its luxurious life style to follow an ascetic life in an attempt to conquer his desires for sex, wealth, and comfort.

Mirroring the Buddha’s Conception and Birth Buddhist miracle tales are often meant to provide evidence of a witness to the truth of the hidden sacred order, the ineluctable law of karma. Biographies, commonly hagiographies, are accounts of deeds illustrating moral principles for the benefit of posterity (Schmidt 2002: 969f). I will now show how especially in the Korean Zen tradition, the legends of the conception and birth of eminent Zen masters reflect the miraculous elements in the legend of the historical Buddha. The texts describing these eminent monks were composed by literati representatives of the time, inscribed in stone by dominant calligraphers, and placed in open public places. The inscriptions were created to extol the moral influence of their subjects. They were meant to be read. The content of the steles reflect the values of their time, and gave prestige to the monastery responsible for their erection, since they display the backing of the elite who financed their construction.14 The following selection of stele inscriptions is from Volume 12 of the Anthology of Stele Inscriptions of Eminent Korean Buddhist Monks from the Collected Works of Korean Buddhism published in English in 2012. It contains of a selection

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14 For a discussion of the inscription, see Anthology of Stele Inscriptions 2012: 5–12. The

statements here summarize central points of this introduction.

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of twelve stele inscriptions of monks and an appendix with stele inscriptions of three nuns, all spanning a period of 800 years beginning in 804 CE. The monks included in the collection are considered by the scholars involved in the Korean Canon project as a representative selection of the eminent monks covering this long time period. What is striking in reading through these inscriptions is how similar they are to each other and how strongly they echo the story of the conception, birth and early life of the historical Buddha. These narratives seem to consist of set pieces, almost like short stories in popular weekly magazines. Here as there, the stories are repeated with some minor changes to names and particularities. However, while in weekly magazines the background for this strategy is an attempt to make what is essentially the same tale appear new and unique and hence compelling to the reader, in the stele inscriptions “newness” is not compelling, but rather “sameness”: the fact that the person described in the text is so much like the historical Buddha. We shall now look at four of these stele inscriptions in more detail.

Stele Inscription of Sŏn15 Master Pojo Ch’ejing16 Sŏn Master Pojo was born in 804 into the Kim clan of Ungjin. He is described as the third patriarch of the Sŏn School in Korea. His stele was erected four years after his death, in 884. After describing the source of the stele and Zen ideas, the text mentions the profundity of Zen and the difficulty of “obtaining the way”. Then it expands on the wondrousness of Zen and how difficult it is to obtain true teaching while living in an age of the decline of the teaching. The stele then goes on to describe the deceased master’s background and life: “The Sŏn Master’s [Dharma-] name was Ch’ejing. His ancestral surname was Kim. He was a person from Ungjin. His family handed down its distinguished reputation, his pedigree inherited the tradition of humaneness. Therefore propitiousness [descended] from heaven and virtue descended from mountain peaks. Filial piety and righteousness were honored in [his family’s] native village. [Its members achieving] high government office were covered in canopy [and proficient] in rites and music. In the year of the Sŏn Master’s conception, his esteemed mother dreamed of the sun disk riding in the sky and shining down its light to penetrate through her abdomen. Because of this, she woke up surprised and realized that she was pregnant. As his birth did not occur even after a full year elapsed, his mother followed up on her auspicious dream, praying that [her unborn child] may become a good cause [to the

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15 Sŏn is the Korean word for Zen. Zen, in turn, is the Japanese pronunciation for Chan, which

is Chinese. Chan is the Chinese transliteration of the Sanskrit dhyāna which means meditation. 16 Ch’ejing lived from 804 to 880 CE. Anthology of Stele Inscriptions 2012: 12.

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world]. She abstained from consuming meat and drinking alcohol, instructed her fetus by keeping the pure precepts and making offering to the field of merit. Thereby she overcame the pain of labor and experienced the felicitous event of giving birth to a son. The countenance of the Sŏn Master was majestic like a towering mountain peak, his lustrous countenance was like that of a river spirit. The alignment of his teeth was natural and his shining hair uniquely different. Villagers voiced their admiration and his close relatives were all surprised. His intention to depart from the secular world was persistent from his infancy. When he reached the age of losing the milk teeth, [eight for boys, seven for girls] he harbored the aspiration to forever abandon his connection with the secular world. His parents permitted him to go forth [a child must obtain its parents’ consent to leave home and become a Buddhist monk] knowing that it would be difficult to keep him back by wealth and fame, and that he was not to be tied down by wealth or women”.17

Here we see the master coming from a highly respected family with a “distinguished reputation” with “propitiousness descending from heaven”, matching the royal family of the Buddha legend. “Filial piety” is mentioned, which was highly valued in Korean culture, though not a feature of Indian culture and not mentioned in the Buddha legend. Mirroring the Buddha’s mother dreaming of a white elephant entering her right side, here we learn that the master’s mother dreamed of a sun disk riding in the sky and shining down its light to penetrate through her abdomen. Here, too, there is no mention of the father’s role, of sexual intercourse, or of anything that could be taken as merely human. The master, as in the Buddha legend, had an outstanding countenance “like that of a river spirit”, and he was admired by villagers and close relatives. Importantly, his parents recognize from an early age that he wants to leave the secular world, and that exactly as in the Buddha legend, wealth and fame or women would not keep him from following the religious life of a monk.

Stele Inscription of Sŏn Master Chin’gam Hyeso18 “[The Sŏn Master’s] father was named Ch’angwŏn. While being a layman, he practiced the [the Buddhist] monastic life. His mother was from the Ko clan. Once, while sleeping during the day, she dreamt of an Indian monk who said to her ‘I wish to be [born as] your child’. Therefore he gave her a vessel of lapis lazuli glass. Before long she became pregnant with the Sŏn Master”. “When he was born he did not cry. Then, from an early age he was outstanding and restrained [the sound of] his voice. He was an excellent sprout who desisted from speaking. Already at the age of losing baby teeth, when playing he was certain to

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17 Anthology of Stele Inscriptions 2012: 43f. 18 Hyeso lived from 784–850, see Anthology of Stele Inscriptions 2012: 12.

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burn leaves as incense and to pick flowers for offerings [to the Buddha]. Sometimes he sat straight facing west, without shifting his posture even as the shadow of the sun moved. This acknowledges that his good roots, that definitely had been planted [into him] hundreds of thousands of aeons ago, cannot be approximated even by standing on tiptoe. From his childhood until he reached adulthood, his determination to repay his parents was so intense that he never forgot it for even half a step”.19

Again we see the master’s conception related to a dream of his mother. Again there is no mention of sexual intercourse or the father’s role, aside from mentioning that he lived as a monk, though being a layman. That is, he lived a pure life. We are also informed that the master’s birth was not ordinary (he did not cry) and that he was an “outstanding” child. Even as a young boy he acted monk-like, burning leaves as incense and sitting still for long times as if meditating, indicating his good roots. Also his sense of indebtedness to his parents, filial piety, is mentioned, an important aspect of Korean culture.

Stele Inscription of Venerable Sŏn Master Pogak Iryŏn20 “His secular surname was Kim. He was a native of Changsan County in Kyŏngju. His father’s name was ŏnp’il. His father did not serve as an official but acted as a teacher, therefore he was [posthumously] granted the office of Vice Director of the Left. His mother was from the Yi clan, she was [posthumously] installed as Lady of Nangnang County. First, his mother dreamt that the disk of the sun entered in her house, its brightness shining into her stomach. This happened for three nights. Consequently she became pregnant and gave birth to him on the xinyou day of the sixth month, the third year of the sexagenary cycle, in the Taihe era [1206]. He was eminent since his birth, his demeanor was correct and strict, his facial features balanced, his mouth taciturn, and he had the gait of an ox and the [piercing] eyesight of a tiger. At an early age he had the intention to depart from the secular world. When he just reached the age of nine, he went to Muryang-sa in Haeyang, where he began his studies and his intelligence and sharp wit was matchless. Sometimes, he sat upright throughout the whole of the night. The people were amazed at him. In the sixteenth year of the sexagenary cycle [1219] in the Xinding era, he shaved his hair and received the full precepts from the Venerable Elder Taeung at Chinjŏ nsa. Thereupon he wandered through the Sŏn meditation halls, his reputation

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19 Anthology of Stele Inscriptions 2012: 74f. 20 Pogak lived from 1206 to 1289 CE, see Anthology of Stele Inscriptions 2012: 13.

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[becoming] immense. At that time, his peers recommended him as the first candidate for the four [levels of] selections of the Nine Mountains school of Sŏn”.21

We see the master comes from a good family. Again, as in the first case mentioned above (Sŏn Master Pojo Ch’ejing, born 804 CE), the master’s mother dreamt of a sun disk entering her house, its brightness shining into her stomach and thus causing the pregnancy. Also here again the child was outstanding from the time of birth. When the boy was nine years old, people were amazed by him as he showed qualities of an accomplished monk, that is, “he sat upright throughout the whole night”. By sixteen his reputation is “immense” in Zen meditation halls.

Miraculous Birth Followed by Miraculous Life These accounts of the conception, birth, and the childhoods of eminent Korean Zen masters as described in the stele inscriptions are an introduction to set the stage for presenting the rest of their exemplary lives. 22 These masters are presented as heroic and benevolent bodhisattvas who are commonly recognized and bowed to by secular powers. But miraculous conception and birth stories are also followed by miraculous interactions with the natural world, as we shall see shortly. In these stories above there is a highlighting of filial piety, a trait highly valued in cultures influenced by Confucianism, but not so prominent in Indian culture and hence missing from the Indian versions of the Buddha story. Stories of miraculous conception are also found in Japanese Zen into modern times. Yasutani roshi 23 (1885–1973), the founder of the new Sanbokyodan 24 school of Zen, had a sense of a personal spiritual destiny. Besides having a regular Dharma transmission in the Soto Zen lineage, he felt he had received in a dream a direct Dharma transmission from Dogen (1200–1253), the famous founder of Soto Zen.

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21 Anthology of Stele Inscriptions 2012: 388f. 22 Interestingly, two of the conception stories, that of Pojo Ch’jing born in 804 and of Pogok

Iryŏn born in 1206, though born four hundred years apart, are almost identical in that a disk of the sun enters the mother’s abdomen or stomach. 23 The Japanese term roshi is in the West understood to be the same as Zen Master. Zen writing almost always highlights the great spiritual attainment of the roshi (Zen master). In contrast with the imputed attainment of Zen roshi that fills Zen writing, Yasutani roshi’s real life, as that of many other roshi, displayed less than admirable qualities. For example, Yasutani roshi followed anti-semitic and right-wing ideology. For Yasutani roshi’s extreme right-wing views, see Victoria 1997: 167f. 24 The Sanbokyodan (Three Treasures) sect of Zen founded by Yasutani is arguably the largest and most influential sect of Zen in the West, though much less important in Japan. See http:// www.ciolek.com/wwwvlpages/zenpages/haradayasutani.html for their list of sanctioned teachers reaching well over 100.

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Yamada roshi (1907–1989), the Dharma successor of his teacher Yasutani roshi, promoted the following story highlighting Yasutani’s mysterious birth: Yasutani’s mother took care of a blind nun who lived in a small temple. The nun chanted the Heart Sutra, a short sutra popular in Zen. She had a rosary for counting while reciting the sutra. When she heard that her helper was pregnant, she gave Yasutani’s mother one bead and told her to swallow it for an easy delivery. Yasutani’s mother accepted the bead and swallowed it as directed. The birth turned out to be easy. When his mother gave Yasutani his first bath, she discovered the rosary bead clutched tightly in his left hand. Yasutani is reported to have heard the story from his mother and sister when he was seven or eight years old, but that he didn’t think much about it. Later, when he studied biology in school he felt that the story was foolish and could not be true, yet he could not believe that his mother would lie. The question of the rosary bead remained a heartfelt question for Yasutani for a long time. According to Yamada, this incident was the prime factor causing Yasutani to have a deep affinity for the dharma (Buddhist teachings). “As he progressed into the depths of Buddhism he came to accept the incident without reservation” (Sharf 1995: 442). Interestingly, Yamada, before becoming a roshi, had been an important administrator of a hospital in Japan; he was a modern man. Yet he underlines that his teacher Yasutani had a mysterious element to his birth and he emphasized that it is important “not to forget” this. Clearly, Yamada wanted his Zen followers to know that even from the time of his birth, Yasutani was not an ordinary person, that the miraculous was part of his coming into the world. As mentioned earlier, miracle tales are meant to provide evidence that the person involved was connected to the truth of the hidden sacred order. Even though the majority of Yasutani’s and Yamada’s followers were modern, college educated people, Yamada may have felt a need to stress the miraculous aspect to Yasutani’s birth in order to emphasize not only Yasutani’s state of extraordinariness, but thereby also his own special status. We see in the examples from the Korean stele inscriptions the conception of the masters to be accompanied by a dream, mirroring the conception of the historical Buddha. Two of the stories are almost identical in mentioning a sun disk and its light entering the mother, in another an Indian monk desires to be reborn, and in yet another a dragon enters the bosom of the mother of the eminent monk to be. In the latest version, the Japanese Yasutani roshi version, his mother swallows a bead from a blind chanting nun, that at birth appears in the clenched fist of the future founder of a new school of Zen. The father plays no role in the conception in any of these accounts, and there no is mention of sexual intercourse. Similarly, as with the historical Buddha’s birth, there is no mention of birth pain, bodily fluids, impurity, or any of the complications that may accompany the birth of an ordinary mortal. In each of these stories, the holiness and specialness of each child is evident at an early age. Most showed a predilection to becoming a monk when other children

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at the same age would be concerned with play or more ordinary aspects of life. As with the historical Buddha, they also were physically outstanding and were recognized by others as being special, while in a number of cases it is also mentioned that the secular attractions of wealth, fame, and women would not deter them from their Buddhist mission.

The Snow—Food—Wild Animals Motives The Zen school of Buddhism supposedly began when the historical Buddha Shakyamuni transmitted25 the dharma to his disciple Mahakashyapa26 who silently smiled when the Buddha held up a flower.27 According to legend there continued an unbroken lineage of enlightened masters in India from Mahakasyapa, with Bodhidharma being the 28th Indian master in the lineage and the first Chinese Patriarch. Huike received Dharma transmission from Bodhidharma, thus becoming the second Zen Patriarch28 and the first Chinese to be in the lineage.29 Today, Bodhidharma is presented as the First Zen Patriarch. Here is one version of Huike’s Dharma transmission,30 which is considered to be the beginning of the Zen lineage in China. “Dazu Huike (the 2nd Zen Patriarch) was born in China in

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25 Zen talks of mind-to-mind transmission from master to disciple. It is often referred to as

dharma transmission or for short, transmission.

26 For an in-depth analysis of the development of the Mahakashyapa Dharma transmission

legend, see Welter 2000: 75–109.

27 Silence is another stock Zen trope, but will not be looked at in this paper. 28 Zen legend has six Zen Patriarchs in China, the last being Huineng (638–713 CE). After

Huineng the lineage divided so that there was more than one Zen master living at a time. This allowed for fast growth and the spread of Zen across China and later to Korea and to Japan. For instance, the famous Zen master Mazu (709–788 CE) was said to have 120 dharma heirs and one of his heirs was said to have 40 heirs. 29 In fact, there was some contention over who would be the first Patriarch of Zen in China. Sengchou (480–560 CE), a famous meditation master and thaumaturge, was Bodhidharma’s main rival in the formative stage of Zen lineage legend making. Sengchou was known for taming wild animals and famous for separating two fighting tigers with his staff. Some people think that over time, the figures of Bodhidharma and Sengchou merged. For a full look at Sengchou see, Anderl 1995. See also Faure 1993: 130, for the Bodhidharma/ Sengchou rivalry for position of First Patriarch. 30 This version of the story is taken from the Windhorse Zen Community website. Many other versions of the story not only mention Huike standing in the snow all night but describe the snow as being above Huike’s knees or waist by the morning. Other versions too mention Huike imploring Bodhidharma for teaching in order to end the suffering of human beings. For another version of the story, see Jorgensen 2005:127. Huike's enlightenment story is studied as a koan in Rinzai Zen, as it is case 41 in the famous koan collection, The Mumonkan (The Gateless Gate). For another version of the story, see Jorgensen 2005: 127.

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487 CE. He was a respected scholar both in Buddhist and non-Buddhist classical writings. He yearned, however, to experience the truth directly for himself. Hearing of the “Red-bearded Barbarian,” that is, Bodhidharma, he traveled to Shaolin Temple. Bodhidharma was apparently staying nearby in a mountain cave. When they met, Huike was in his early forties and Bodhidharma had not yet accepted any disciples. Despite the scholar’s begging him for his teaching, Bodhidharma simply sat silently in zazen (Zen meditation), “wall-gazing”. Huike stood all night in the falling snow outside the entrance to Bodhidharma’s cave. Finally Bodhidharma spoke. “How”, he asked Huike, “can you hope for the true teaching with little virtue, little wisdom, a shallow heart, and an arrogant mind? It would just be a waste of effort”. Supposedly, it was only when Huike proved his determination by cutting off his arm that the master finally accepted him as a disciple. Huike stayed with Bodhidharma for six years, until his teacher died (or sailed back to India on a reed, depending on which version you choose). Huike’s enlightenment experience was triggered by the following exchange with his teacher: “Master, my mind is not at peace. Please pacify it,” said Huike. Bodhidharma replied, “Bring me your mind, and I will pacify it”. Huike said, “Although I’ve sought it, I cannot find it”. “Then”, Bodhidharma replied, “I have already pacified your mind for you”. Henceforth, right from the first Chinese Zen Dharma transmission, the Zen master bearing severe cold and snow becomes a trope that persists in Zen lore up to the present. Though Huike’s cutting off his arm was finally what convinced Bodhidharma of Huike’s determination to realize the Great Dharma, it was Huike’s standing in the snow all night that became an important iconic element in the Zen tradition.31 Interestingly, the standing in the snow aspect of the Huike story seems to have been borrowed from a mini-biography in an early Buddhist Encyclopedia of an extremely ascetic monk named Huiman.32 Clearly, in early Zen biographies there was much borrowing of stories that were previously accepted by readers, while lineage connections were fabricated as needed.33

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31 Perhaps cutting off one’s arm was too severe a gesture to be made into an iconic element?

Self-inflicted violence is, however, far from absent in the history of Chinese Buddhism and Chan. See Yu 2012 and Benn 2007. 32 Cole 2009: 185. See also Broughton 1999: 62–65. Broughton discusses both an earlier and slightly later version of the Huike story, what he refers to as Huike A and Huike B. Huike B is quite different from the A version, describing miraculous feats, asceticism, and imperturbability despite Huike’s arm being amputated. Huiman never experiences fear, sleeps without dreaming and meditates in a cemetery through the night covered with snow over his head. 33 There is much written on this aspect of early Zen lore as we know it today. Cole, Faure, Foulk, McRae, Poceski, Schlutter, and Welter, are just a few scholars among many who have dealt with the topic.

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We shall see that being in the snow or references to snow, with various inflections and attributed meanings, became a repeated element in Zen hagiographies down to the present. Here we see a common element of religious hagiographies and rituals: both are concerned with changelessness and continuity. However, there is always a tension between change and continuity. Since change is inevitable, continuity is established through the adaptation to changing circumstances. I will show how this interrelation of change and continuity is established with Zen’s early beginnings by introducing elements of change that repeat the basic trope, but are adapted it to fit different times and places. The story of the dharma transmission from Bodhidharma to Huike began with the Zen adept standing motionless in the snow. Here the cold and snow indicate the extreme determination needed by the disciple to gain the teaching and enlightenment. It also demonstrates the difficulties in the transmission of the true Jewel of the Dharma, and thus puts Zen enlightenment in contrast to the two other Jewels of the Buddha and Sangha (ordained monks and nuns). Huike was so intent on gaining the teaching from Bodhidharma that even the immediacy of biting cold and standing alone in constant falling snow did not deter him from his determination. In other Zen texts, snow flakes also came to represent impermanence and the shortness of life, while snow landing on a red hot furnace, an often repeated phrase in Zen, can represent sudden enlightenment. Sudden enlightenment became one of the defining characteristics of Zen in opposition to gradual enlightenment, proposed by Shenxiu (606–706), the most prominent figure of the Northern School of Chan.34 However, over time in other instances snow took on wider symbolism, namely the aspect of Zen of not depending on words, mind-to-mind transmission, simplicity, and an immediate connection to nature devoid of mediating thoughts. Snow came to represent nature’s immediate, direct and unplanned preaching, in contrast to communication through words which usually goes along with the mediation of concepts. Non-reliance on especially the written word became one of the more important slogans of Zen.35 It was important to rhetorically separate itself from more scholarly and canonical approaches to Buddhism and to justify the claim of a transmission of the truth beyond the realm of language (functioning from personto-person and mind-to-mind; Anderl 2012: 39). Zen claims to be beyond words and concepts while directly pointing to the mind. In this context, Zen embraced nature as a direct preaching that bypassed concepts.

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34 For a look at the Northern School of Chan see McRae 1987. Also see Faure 1997. 35 Though Zen claims not to rely on the written word, it has the largest corpus of written words

of any sect of Chinese Buddhism. One Song Dynasty bibliophile “mockingly twists the Chan school’s self-description of ‘not dependent on words’ into ‘never separated from words”. See Schlutter 2004: 181.

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While the snow motif is also found in the context of stories depicting the Zen master living in an isolated mountainous area foraging for food, “snow” came together with the motif that, by the power of the master’s attainment, wild animals act tame or like domesticated dogs. Reproducing such myths became crucial as a number of rival, lineage-specific hagiographic collections with genealogies beginning with Bodhidharma appeared (Jorgensen 2005: 115). In 713 the “Annals of the Transmission of the Jewel of the Dharma” added a different aspect of “being beyond nature’s forces” by including the narratives of Bodhidharma’s poisoning by rivals, and the poisoning of Huike, who, however, remains unaffected by the poison. In this text also the narrative of Seng-ts’an (d. 606) is added. He was the third Patriarch of Zen during a period of Buddhist persecution and is described as living in the wild mountains where animals attacked people.36 In the Korean Zen tradition, the trope of the close relation of Zen masters and nature, and the idea that the “mastery” of nature is one of the defining features of a Zen master, became an important part of hagiographies, too. Let us return to the Zen master Hyeso (784–850) introduced earlier, and take a closer look at his later life as depicted in the Korean Canon. Hyeso, who was conceived when an Indian monk came to his mother in a dream saying that “he wished to be born as your child”, travelled from Korea to China where, for three years, he lived in remote areas surviving by eating pine fruits. There he cultivated calm and insight in silence and solitude. In 830 he returned to Korea and settled down. Soon his dwelling was filled with people seeking help. Seeking solitude, he moved to a new location. While traveling to his new place, “there were several tigers roaring and guiding him in front, avoiding dangerous spots and following the level ground, no different from bypassing horse riders. His attendants were without fear, as if [the tigers] were domesticated dogs. This is identical to Master Shanwuwei (an Indian master of esoteric Buddhism) who, when undertaking the summer retreat, was led by wild animals along the way and entered deep into a mountain cave, where he saw a standing statue of the Buddha Shakyamuni or to that of Zhu Tanyou (a famous Songdian monk) who tapped the head of a sleeping tiger to make it listen to sutras (the words of the Buddha)”.37 Another such story from the Korean Canon is of the tenth century master Pobin T’anmun. While Pobin T’anmun lectured, flocks of birds surrounded the space in

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36 Interestingly, Seng-ts’an’s enlightment story mirrors his teacher Huike’s story with ”sick-

ness” replacing Huike’s “mind”. After Seng-ts’an mentions his being filled with sickness caused by sin, Huike says, “bring me your sickness” which naturally Seng-ts’an cannot find. Huike replies, “I have absolved you”. Seng-ts’an was in fact a shadowy figure with little if anything surely known about him, making him a perfect transitional character to connect the 2nd Patriarch, Huike to the 4th Patriarch, Daoxin. 37 Anthology of Stele Inscriptions 2012: 81, 82.

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front of his room and tigers lay down below the stairs [leading to his room]. His disciples all trembled with fear at this sight. But the great master, with a joyful face and remaining self-possessed said, “Be quiet! These rare birds and beasts merely rely on me for taking refuge in the Dharma”.38 Zen hagiographies through the ages are peppered with stories of Zen masters living in remote forests unharmed by wild animals, referring back to earlier famous masters who also displayed this same quality. These stories get recycled, referenced, and updated. Thus, the leading Zen master in China during the 20th century was Hsu-yun (Empty Cloud) who supposedly lived for 120 years, dying 13 October, 1959. Near the end of 1901, in his 62nd year, he recalled living in snowcovered mountains in freezing cold. One day while cooking taro in his hut he involuntarily went into samadhi. A few weeks later another master who was in a hut nearby came by to see how Hsu-yun was doing and to present New Year’s greetings. Outside the hut they “saw tiger tracks everywhere”. They woke him from his samadhi which apparently had lasted for a few weeks. We see here Hsuyun effortlessly living in an unheated hut in freezing cold snow-covered mountains, sitting in meditation for weeks and without eating. Outside his hut tigers, no doubt quite hungry from the cold and looking for food, walk around like tame dogs and do not see the master as a possible meal.39

A Good Story Calls for Repetition: A Modern Day Variation As mentioned earlier, tradition is concerned with changelessness and continuity. But as the context changes, a good level of creativity is needed to adapt to a new historical and geographical setting, and at the same time to maintain the sense of continuity and connection to the distant past, especially the iconic Zen masters of the past. Essential aspects, like elements of a construction plan, are borrowed to maintain an imagined historical and social continuity and rootedness, while simultaneously responding to and legitimizing change. The auto-hagiography of the Zen master Sheng Yen (1930–2009) is a very creative example exhibiting these qualities of tradition. Zen master Sheng Yen was a mainland born Chinese monk who moved to Taiwan with the communist takeover of China. He eventually arrived in New York City in 1975. He was abbot of a large monastery in Taiwan, and he also maintained a Zen Center in New York City, splitting his time roughly equally between these

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38 Anthology of Stele Inscriptions 2012: 260. 39 Luk 1988: 51f. Most of the leading Chinese Zen masters living in the 20th and 21st centuries

connected themselves to Hsu-yun.

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two locations for about thirty years. His English autobiography was published in 2008.40 After narrating a number of events in which he connects himself to the eighth century iconic Zen master Mazu, Sheng Yen paints a picture of himself as being only concerned with helping his students and with spreading the dharma. He claims that in order to be closer to his students living in New York City, he chose to leave a comfortable living arrangement at Bodhi House on Long Island as the guest of his benefactor, Dr C.T. Shen41. Dr Shen told Sheng Yen that if he left he would not be able to support him. Sheng Yen replied ”That’s okay, I will wander”. The story continues, “I had no money for rent, so I slept in front of churches or in parks. I learned how to get by from three of my students, who had experience living on the street. They taught me to find discarded fruit and bread in the back of convenience stores and food markets. They showed me that I could make a little money here and there from odd jobs, sweeping up shops or tending a pretzel stand. I learned that I could store my things at a locker at Grand Central Terminal and wash clothes at a Laundromat. My students pointed out the fast food restaurants that were open twenty-four hours, and they told me that I could spend my nights at these places, resting and drinking

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40 Sheng Yen 2008. Though entitled an autobiography, in fact the book is an auto-hagiography.

However, it is widely accepted as a straightforward biography by the Buddhist community in the West. Chapter 16 was excerpted in Tricycle Magazine (Winter 2008 issue), perhaps the largest circulation Buddhist magazine in the West. At a time when Zen in the West was suffering from a repetition of scandals, based on the book and the Tricycle article, Sheng-yen was referred to as the “real deal”. Unfortunately, the “real deal” only occurred in the land that never was. For a critical look at ShengYen’s auto-hagiography see my paper, “When the Saints Come Marching In: Modern Day Zen Hagiography,” published online, http://www. thezensite.com/ZenEssays/CriticalZen/When_the_Saints_Go_Marching_Marching_In.pdf, last viewed 23/04/2014. 41 C.T. Shen was a multimillionaire committed to supporting Buddhism and other religions. He co-founded the Buddhist Association of the United Stated (BAUS). His efforts and financial support in 1971 led to the formation of the Institute for Advanced Studies of World Religions in New York. In 1968 he donated a property in San Francisco to Rev. Hsuan Hua to establish the Buddhist Text Translation Society for just that purpose. In 1971, he furthermore helped found the Institute for the Translation of the Chinese Tripitaka (ITCT) in Taipei, Taiwan. He and his wife donated the property for the Temple of Great Enlightenment (TGE) in the Bronx and established Bodhi House on Long Island, which has been used as the headquarters of the 16th Karmapa in the US and as a conference center and gathering place for other Buddhist and religious meetings. In 1980 he donated a 125 acre parcel of land to build the Chuang Yen Monastery in N.Y. State which, with its Great Buddha Hall houses a 37-foot statue of Buddha Vairocana. At that time, the late 1980’s, it was the largest Buddha statue in the Western hemisphere. Other buildings included a library, the living and dining quarters, an area for urns holding the ashes of cremated devotees and family members, landscaping, etc. See the Buddhist Association of the United States (BAUS) website at http://www.baus.org/en/?p=100 last visited 12/ 11/2013.

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coffee. I wandered through the city, a monk in old robes, sleeping in doorways, nodding with the homeless through the night in coffee shops, foraging through dumpsters for fruit and vegetables. I was in my early fifties, no spring chicken, but I was lit from within by my mission to bring the Dharma to the West. Besides, what did it matter? The lessons Dongchu [Sheng-yen’s teacher of a few years] had taught me made it a matter of indifference to me whether I slept in a big room or a small room or in the doorway of a church” (Sheng Yen 2008:168).

We see here Sheng Yen translating the story of the fearless and self-contained Zen master living in a remote mountainous area inhabited by wild animals to modern day New York City.42 Sheng Yen converts the remote and dangerous mountains of early China into the streets of New York City which—to judge from the context— most likely is a run-down and dangerous section of the Bronx. He transforms wild and dangerous animals into homeless street people, many of whom, at that time in NYC, were alcoholics or drug abusers or both. A flimsy mountain hut or cave is translated into sleeping on church steps or in doorways or parks or nodding in all night coffee shops. Instead of foraging for wild food or eating pine fruits as is often mentioned in Zen stories, Sheng Yen morphs this into “foraging through dumpsters for [discarded] fruit and vegetables,” no doubt damaged or rotten. At the time in NYC this was known as “dumpster diving”. These classic Zen narrative elements that Sheng Yen inventively incorporated into his hagiography are aimed to demonstrate the determination and the great difficulties one encounters in the transmission of the true Jewel of the Dharma. A few pages later in the next chapter of his auto-hagiography we learn from Sheng Yen, “When I was wandering homeless for six months, it was winter and I greatly enjoyed my freedom. The city was windy and cold. Late at night, when the city was quiet, I wandered through the streets, wrapping my robes tightly around me. It often snowed. I called myself, “the wandering monk in the snow”.43 So not only was Sheng Yen roaming cold and dangerous New York City streets throughout freezing and snow driven winter nights, while living on damaged and discarded fruits and vegetables, he was also enjoying this freedom.

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42 It should be mentioned that at this time Sheng-yen was not alone, as he had his first ordained

American monk with him, though this monk is written out of the auto-hagiography. Paul Kennedy (Guo Ren) was Sheng-yen’s first ordained American monk. He was in his twenties and spoke Chinese well, that he had learned in university studies. He returned to lay life after a few years. 43 Sheng Yen 2008: 173. Interestingly, though presenting himself as being totally selfless and only concerned with his students and spreading the Dharma, he maintained enough selfconsciousness to think of describing himself with the catchy epithet, “the wandering monk in the snow”.

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Perhaps the best known of this type of freewheeling, unattached, wild Zen figure is the poet Han Shan or Cold Mountain, named after the cave he chose for a home. Han Shan lived some time during the Tang dynasty (618–907) and was known for writing poems he left on trees of the mountains where he freely roamed. 44 However, in the case of Sheng Yen at least, most of the story is purely made-up fantasy. Sheng Yen had a weak constitution, trouble digesting food, had trouble with cold weather, coming from semi-tropical Taiwan, and was in poor health in general. Earlier in his biography when describing his life in Japan, he mentions, ”if I took off my clothes and poured cold water on myself, I would catch a cold for sure” (Sheng Yen 2008: 142). But Sheng Yen, like a modern jazz musician, was able to take standard Zen tropes and improvise on them in such a way that they were still recognized as mirroring the actions of the iconic Zen masters from long ago and far away, bringing them into the present. Importantly, Sheng Yen created a modern version of the classical Zen master that was acceptable to his audience of modern western Zen followers.45 Whereas in America, Zen masters have knowable lives, capable of being documented, in the ancient Far East, we know almost nothing about them, or whether they even existed. Hence, creating hagiographies and painting oneself or being painted by disciples to look like iconic Zen masters of old is fraught with danger these days as a number of Zen masters have found out.

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44 Porter 2000 and Henricks 1990. 45 For a critique of the part of Sheng-yen’s book that was excerpted in Tricycle Magazine, see

my paper “When the Saints Go Marching In: Hagiography in Modern Zen,” at http:// www.thezensite.com/ZenEssays/CriticalZen/When_the_Saints_Go_Marching_Marching_In. pdf, last viewed 5/27/2013. The modern Zen master, while enjoying the advantage of being part of a tradition that imputes near-divine qualities to him, suffers from the disadvantage of living in an age of the almost instant spread of information. The World Wide Web has taken the control and spread of information out of the hands of print media with its limited access and titled people and their loyal and often uncritical followers. Transgressions of Zen masters that in the past may have remained hidden, sooner or later today are plastered over the internet. The accessibility to the lives of modern masters allows us to examine them more accurately than their counterparts, the ancient masters of China, Japan and Korea. Downing 2001 and Butler 1983: 112–123 discuss the sexual scandals and other problems associated with Richard Baker roshi of the San Francisco Zen Center. Boucher 1988: 225–235 discusses sexual improprieties associated with Soen Sa Nim, leader and founder of the Kwan Um Zen School in Providence, R.I. These are but three examples discussing improprieties with post WWII Zen masters in America. See Victoria 1997 for extending back to the late nineteenth century this closer look at Zen masters in Japan. Importantly, many of the Zen masters Victoria examines were influential in bringing Zen to America. See also papers by the author available on the internet. For perhaps the two most fully documented examples highlighting the transgressions of modern roshi, see Malone 2013 for the cases of Sasaki roshi of Los Angeles and Shimano roshi of New York City.

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It is this type of standardized and repetitive writing, which I have given examples of and which are so common in Zen, that I call ritualized writing. Ritualized writing evolved early in Zen’s development, where the Zen master was presented as embodying the heart of all Buddhist attainment. This was in opposition to and in competition with other Buddhist sects that favored texts, which according to Chan, were open to translation mistakes and misinterpretation, and were mediated by thought. As in ritual in general, these Zen hagiographies are packed with symbolic meanings. These meanings are meant to shape the individual’s worldview, while at the same time impart a sense of identity, community, social relationships and, importantly, hierarchy. They can reduce ambiguity and hence lend a sense of security (Wulf 2013: 215, 217). However, despite promising to give identity and inclusion, one is never fully in Zen’s Buddha family, aside from the few receiving Dharma transmission, that is, a Zen master. In this scheme, one really only has one’s identity when one is sanctioned to give identity to others (Cole 2009: 28). The repetitions of these tropes are, in a sense, re-enactments of social hierarchies. They also add a magical efficacy to institutional sanctions. This is an especially important feature in Zen, where the Zen master stands for the whole tradition and is the embodiment of all Buddhist attainment. It is through these ritualized writings that readers are instructed on the relationship between themselves and the sacred. It is through this mechanism that not only is a collective religious view and community created, but also a person’s self conception is located. In Zen, however, there is a special twist, as it is believed that all sentient beings have Buddha nature, and are hence sacred. However, the vast majority of beings have not realized this feature of sentience, so in a sense, they possess the dumb or unrealized sense of Buddha nature, as opposed to the Zen master, who supposedly has fully realized his Buddha nature. Hence, in these ritualized written biographies we see the sacred. The Zen master separated from the profane is a feature of the confessional or theological side of ritual (Michaels 2006: 249f.). These ritualized forms of writings are both prescriptive and descriptive at the same time. On one hand, the prescriptive aspect informs upcoming Zen masters what a Zen master is to sound and act like. We have seen above how certain tropes in Zen writing have remained largely unchanged or have been presented with only minor variations over periods of hundreds of years or more. The earlier writing informs the later writing and most likely the actions and words of later masters. We saw in the biographies of Korean masters separated by 400 years almost the exact same mystical conception stories. In the hagiography of Sheng Yen we saw perhaps the most creative repetition of, and improvisation, on the Zen master living in freezing cold snow-covered mountains unharmed by wild animals. Yet in all these repetitions, the reader is led to believe that these are unique and authentic experiences of sacred people, enlightened Zen masters.

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Another example of this mechanism can be found in Rinzai Zen46 in Japan. There are books containing “capping phrases” (jakugo, Jp.), that is, books containing poetic phrases taken mostly from Chinese literature and ordered by length. A koan47 student uses the book when seeing the master in private, a meeting known in Japanese Rinzai Zen as sanzen48. Going to sanzen is a highly ritualized activity, from the signal during the meditation period to go to the sanzen room, to racing to get on the sanzen line, to the formality of entering the room and of repeating one’s koan, presenting one’s understanding, being dismissed by a bell from the master, and the procedure for leaving the sanzen room and returning to one’s place in the meditation room (zendo). Sanzen is usually held at the same time each day. Some sanzens are voluntary, but there are times when it is obligatory. Under intense pressure during week-long retreats (Jp. sesshin), some monks who refuse to go are physically forced to do so, quite roughly with harsh beatings at times. The student in his attempt to “see through”49 his koan may, among many ways of replying, present to his master a capping phrase that he understands as an expression of the meaning of the koan. Or, after “seeing through” a koan (as judged solely by his master), the monk may be asked to give a capping phrase chosen from the book of phrases. Capping phrases may also be used by advanced koan students who are required to write essays on koans or topics of interest to Zen, that are then judged by their master. A koan studying monk may go through between dozens and a few hundred koans in his studies under a master. Some monks work with this book of capping phrases for ten to fifteen years or more as part of their koan study and thus

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46 In Japan there are two major schools of Zen, Rinzai and Soto, with Soto roughly having 15

times more followers. There is also a smaller Obaku school and the modern Sanbokyodan school founded by Yasutani roshi, which is popular in the West. 47 Koan (Jp.) or Kung-an (Ch.) literally means public case as in law. In Zen however, it is an encounter, a dialogue, a story, etc. used for meditation purposes. In some sects of Zen it is used to raise doubt, while other sects may emphasize to become one with the koan. In any case, the koan is used to test a student’s ability and to recognize the depth of understanding Zen’s view of reality or Buddha nature. 48 Daily private meetings with the master as part of the meditation schedule are called sanzen in Rinzai Zen. It is arguably considered the most important part of Rinzai Zen training. During sesshin (Jp.) there may be as many as five sanzen meetings a day. Sanzen adds great pressure to each monk’s meditation practice. In Soto Zen, the private meetings with the master are called dokusan and are held less frequently. 49 See Hori 2003. The book contains over 4,000 translated phrases mostly from Chinese with some from Japanese. It is a new compilation that combines two twentieth century phrase books. What “seeing through” a koan means varies from roshi to roshi and from time to time with a given roshi. In addition, advanced koan students are required to write essays explaining the koan and to compose Chinese style poetry. Also see Anderl 2012: 37 for a short description of how technical is the language of capping phrases.

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these phrases become fully memorized. 50 In essence these students then have memorized a technical poetic Zen sounding language that they are able to give back as part of their talks and responses to everyday encounters. Their words then sound fresh and Zen-like and are understood as uniquely coming from their enlightened mind. Even many Zen students hearing the master’s words do not know that this is a ritualized way of talking, memorized and rehearsed over a long period of study. Essentially, the new roshi has been trained to reply spontaneously,51 yet groomed to look and sound in a predetermined way. This is particularly misleading, as having mastered the indirect and allusion-filled language of Zen is taken as a sign of a Zen master’s spontaneity, accomplishment, and authority. Similar to this mechanism in which new Zen masters talk and act in a scripted manner, yet seemingly spontaneously,52 the ritualized writing, too, can be viewed as both prescriptive and descriptive. It is prescriptive because this ritualized writing informs upcoming masters how to talk and act, so that they appear as authentic masters. Once they bite this bullet and act in the prescribed manner, their biographies are in fact descriptive. It is a system that feeds on itself, while updating and accommodating to changing situations as it moves forward in time. Master Sheng Yen’s hagiography, described earlier, is a perfect example of this process. Yet this process is, at least among Zen followers, not recognized as part of a ritual. The repetition of the sacred history of Zen accompanied by the physical acts of practice creates a space, a disposition with Zen followers that precludes seeing any ritual in Zen writing. 53 Hence, among Zen followers there is no denying the ritualized aspect in Zen writing as it is essentially unthinkable. I also refer to Zen writing as ritualized writing because in its repetition it points to a timeless, constant and invariable validity, a perfect and static past. However, though being far away from the present, this past is still fully available in the

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50 Hori 2003: 32. Hori mentions that after passing the Mu koan he could not find a capping

phrase that “summed up” Mu. He went through the Zen phrase book unsuccessfully “countless times” from “cover to cover” over a period of weeks. It was only after receiving a “hint” from his roshi that he felt “every verse expressed Mu”. 51 Faure 1993: 211: “As soon as spontaneity itself becomes an ideal, however, its nature changes drastically; like the koan, it is eventually appropriated by performance discourse and tends to become a form of mystical mystification”. On p. 215 Faure also mentions that what may have been originally spontaneous encounters, eventually becomes a literary genre; a highly ritualized form of discourse. 52 In seventeenth century China Zen encounter dialogue was performed as scripted by the texts. Chan monks lively performance was identified as “putting on a popular drama” on stage. See Wu 2008: 157–161. 53 Bourdieu 1991: 12–14 for a discussion of “disposition” in connection with his terms habitus and hexis.

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present.54 A sense of continuity with the past is established which gives the impression that this is the way things always have been, in an almost natural order. This process and the resulting look of naturalness are completely dependent on denying any ritual aspect to Zen writing. An interesting aspect of people identifying themselves or being identified with invariability and timelessness is that they resist the uncertainty of past and future, life and death. Through this ritualized form of writing Zen masters become eternal, related to something that has always been there, never changed and detached from everyday life and profanity. These writings in a sense are then “staged productions of timelessness,” an effort to oppose change, which implies finality and ultimately death (Michaels 2006: 261). Through the ritual of Dharma transmission all Zen masters are tied together as an unbroken chain so that the timelessness and sanctity of the last in the line, that is, the living Zen master is enhanced, often accompanied by noncritical adulation.

Conclusion I have presented a cross-section of writing covering a fifteen hundred year time span from the Zen corpus that claims to represent the life and teachings of specific Zen masters. I claim that at least good parts of these stories not only have been produced to be used in ritualized settings, but are themselves a form of ritualized writing that follow given topoi. The Zen master is the embodied religious authority who claims to possess the totality of Buddhist teaching and attainment. This is based on Zen’s mind-to-mind transmission, institutionalized as Dharma transmission. The Zen master then speaks as the voice of the institution, its delegated spokesperson. In that role, he gives ritually prescribed talks to his followers, as well as meeting with them privately in ritually defined one-to-one meetings relating to their meditation practice. Both in his talks and in private meetings, these ritualized forms of writing are presented as real events of real Zen masters, rather than being stories following accepted Zen tropes developed in Zen’s formative period. These stories highlight the master’s devotion to practice and ability to endure great difficulties in pursuit of the Dharma while highlighting the past masters’ great attainment. They also quite naturally separate the master from the great mass of unenlightened humanity. A circle of self-affirmation is formed where ritualized writing is seamlessly incorporated into talks, teachings, and comments of the Zen master, which then enhances the authority and attainment of the living Zen master performing these activities. The ritualized writing becomes blended into important and self-defining

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54 Cole 2009. See the Introduction, pp. 1–29 for a discussion of the constructedness and

“borrowing” in Zen biography and lineage creation in early Zen writing.

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Zen rituals that further inform and encourage more ritualized Zen writing. It is a system that must deny any insinuation of ritualized writing in order to maintain its legitimacy and authority.

References Anderl, Christoph. 1995. Sengchou (480–560). Studie über einen chinesischen Meditationsmeister des 6. Jahrhunderts unter besonderer Berücksichtigung seiner Bedeutung fur die frühe Periode des Chan-Buddhismus. Unpublished M.A. Thesis, University of Vienna. Anderl, Christoph. 2012. Zen Buddhist Rhetoric in China, Korea, and Japan. Leiden, Boston: Brill. Anthology for Stele Inscriptions of Eminent Korean Buddhist Monks. 2012. Ed. by John Jorgensen, transl. by Patrick R. Uhlmann (Collected Works of Korean Buddhism, 12), The Compilation Committee of Korean Buddhist Thought, Jogye Order of Korean Buddhism, Seoul. Benn, James. 2007. Burning for the Buddha. Self-immolation in Chinese Buddhism. Kuroda Institute Studies in East Asian Buddhism 19. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1991. Language and Symbolic Power. Harvard University Press. Broughton, Jeffrey L. 1999. The Bodhidharma Anthology. The Earliest Records of Zen. Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press. Boucher, Sandy. 1988. Turning the Wheel. American Women Creating the New Buddhism. New York: Harper and Row. Butler, Katy. 1983 “Events are the Teacher”. In: The CoEvolution Quarterly, Winter 1983. http://www.katybutler.com/publications/wer/index_files/wer_eventsteacher. htm; last access: 25/08/2015. Cole, Alan. 2009. Fathering Your Father. The Zen of Fabrication in Tang Buddhism. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Downing, Michael. 2001. Shoes Outside the Door. Desire, Devotion, and Excess at San Francisco Zen Center. Berkeley: Counterpoint. Empty Cloud. 1988. The Autobiography of the Chinese Zen Master Xu Yun. Transl. by Charles Luk. Dorset: Element Books. Faure, Bernard. 1991. The Rhetoric of Immediacy. A Cultural Critique of Chan/Zen Buddhism. Princeton: Princeton University Press. — 1993. Chan Insights and Oversights. An Epistemological Critique of the Chan Tradition. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Faure, Bernard. 1997. The Will to Orthodoxy. A Critical Genealogy of Northern Chan Buddhism. Transl. by Phyllis Brooks. Stanford, California: Stanford University Press. Foulk, T. Griffith. 2000. “The Form and Function of Koan Literature”. In: The Koan. Texts and Contexts in Zen Buddhism. New York: Oxford University Press, pp. 15– 45.

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— 2013. “The Denial of Ritual in the Zen Buddhist Tradition”. In: The Journal of Ritual Studies 27.1, Special Issue: The Denial of Ritual and Its Return: 47–58. Heine, Steven, and Dale S. Wright (eds). 2000. The Koan. Texts and Contexts in Zen Buddhism. New York: Oxford University Press. Heine, Steven, and Dale S. Wright (eds). 2004. The Zen Canon. Understanding the Classic Texts. New York: Oxford University Press. Henricks Robert G. 1990. The Poetry of Han-Shan. A Complete Annotated Translation of Cold Mountain. Albany: SUNY Press. Hori, Victor. 2003. Zen Sand. The Book of Capping Phrases for Koan Practice. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Jorgensen, John. 2005. Inventing Huineng, the Sixth Patriarch. Hagiography and Biography in Early Ch’an (Sinica Leidensia). Leiden: Brill. Lachs, Stuart. 2013. “When the Saints Go Marching In: Hagiography in Modern Zen”, http://www.thezensite.com/ZenEssays/CriticalZen/When_the_Saints_Go_Marching _Marching_In.pdf, last viewed 05/27/2013. Malone, Kobutsu, www.sasakiarchive.com and www.shimanoarchive.com, both last viewed 06/2013. McRae, John. 1987. The Northern School and the Formation of Early Chan Buddhism. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Michaels, Axel. 2006. “Ritual and Meaning”. In: Jens Kreinath, Jan Snoek and Michael Stausberg (eds), Theorizing Rituals. Issues, Topics, Approaches, Concepts. Leiden: Brill, pp. 247–261. Poceski, Mario. 2004. “Mazu yulu and the Creation of the Chan Records of Sayings”. In: The Zen Canon. New York: Oxford University Press, pp. 53–80. Porter, Bill. 2000. The Collected Songs of Cold Mountain. Port Townsend, Washington: Copper Canyon Press. Powers, John. 2009. A Bull of a Man. Images of Masculinity, Sex, and the Body in Indian Buddhism. Boston: Harvard University Press. Schlutter, Morten. 2004. “The Record of Hongzhi and the Recorded Sayings Literature of Song-Dynasty Chan”. In: The Zen Canon. New York: Oxford University Press, pp. 181–206. — 2008. How Zen Became Zen. The Dispute Over Enlightenment and the Formation of Chan Buddhism in Song Dynasty China. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Schmidt, Neil. 2002. “Tun-huang Literature”. In: Victor Mair (ed.), The Columbia History of Chinese Literature. New York: Columbia University Press, pp. 964–988. Sharf, Robert. 1995. “Sanbokyodan. Zen and the Way of the New Religions”. In: Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 22/3–4: 417–458. Sheng Yen. 2008. Footprints in the Snow. The Autobiography of a Chinese Buddhist Monk. New York: Doubleday. Victoria, Brian. 1997. Zen at War. New York: Weatherhill. Welter, Albert. 2000. “Mahakasyapa’s Smile. Silent Illumination and the Kung-an (Koan) Tradition”. In: Steven Heine and Dale S. Wright (eds), The Koan. Texts and Contexts in Zen Buddhism. New York: Oxford University Press, pp. 75–109. Welter, Albert. 2004. “Lineage and Context in the Patriarch’s Hall Collection and the Transmission of the Lamp”. In: Steven Heine and Dale S. Wright (eds), The Zen

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Canon. Understanding the Classic Texts. New York: Oxford University Press. pp. 137–179. — 2006. Monks, Rulers, and Literati, The Political Ascendency of Chan Buddhism. New York: Oxford University Press. Windhorse Zen Community, http://windhorsezen.org/2012/01/abbreviated-ancestralline-part-ii.html, last accessed 28/07/2015. Wu, Jiang. 2008. Enlightenment in Dispute. The Reinvention of Chan Buddhism in Seventeenth Century China. New York: Oxford University Press. Wulf, Christoph. 2013. Anthropology. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Yu, Jimmy. 2012. Sanctity and Self-Inflicted Violence in Chinese Religion, 1500 – 1700. New York: Oxford University Press.

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Afterword On Denials, Inclusions, Exclusions and Ambivalence Afterword

Ian Reader The essays in this volume add to the diverse discussions and debates over ritual practices and theories, by focusing on an area—the multivalent nature of denial— that has until recently been paid relatively little attention in the field. By examining the ways in which various forms of denial—for instance, denials of the validity of particular practices, or of the rights of particular persons to be included in specific rituals—the editors and contributors thus are seeking to open up new avenues for examination and discussion in the study of ritual. Yet what they identify as “denial” is not simply or solely something concerned with negativity and exclusion for, as the editors indicate in their introduction, denial also incorporates the processes and dynamics of inclusion. Rituals are mechanisms through which expressions of inclusion and exclusion can be articulated and manipulated; what is denied and excluded is significant in structuring and articulating what is incorporated and included. Denial, in other words, is not specifically negative but can be positive and, as various chapters indicate, contain creative dimensions. In dealing with such issues the editors and their contributors are in essence drawing attention to the ambivalent nature and potential of ritual, capable of being embraced as a manifestation of tradition and deeply-held values critical for the upholding of identity and meaning, and of being simultaneously critiqued as manifestations of superstition and backwardness out of kilter with modern times. This theme recurs throughout the chapters, and indicates how ambivalent ritual can be, containing multiple tensions, in which negativity and creativity jostle with each other, and in which the seemingly negative dimensions of denial can be utilised to open up the path for ritual innovations and new developments. Thus, while Hüsken and Simon speak of denial in terms of rebuttal, refutation and the refusal to accept certain facts, they equally emphasise that it is also a factor in the solidification, reformulation and reaffirmation of traditions. The ensuing chapters reiterate such themes, showing how denial can simultaneously mean exclusion (for instance, of certain people from ritual processes, of particular forms of ritual practice), reaffirmation (of the ritual processes through which such denials occur), and invention (of new modes of expression, to replace or revitalise those that are being denied). Ritual processes are, of course, rarely stable or unchanging, and they inevitably have to contend with changing contexts, whether in the light of shifting political circumstances, such as that which occurred in Nepal, where new

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political alignments have necessitated new ways of handling state rituals, or as a result of the changing attitudes of shrine-goers and the emergence of new secular agencies that (as the various cases of disputes over animal sacrifices discussed in the book indicate) have emerged in modern times to challenge the validity of longfollowed ritual practices. New contexts usher in new interpretations or spur demands for changes that, while appearing to hark back to “traditional” modes of practice, also serve as mechanisms of eradication, in which the very nature of a traditional ritual can be challenged as out of step with the modern day. Often such challenges, questions and denials (of the value of a particular ritual, of the morality of particular ritual forms, or of the participation of certain people in ritual practices) can be a means of renovation and transformation, enabling adaptation, through ritual reformation, to new circumstances. Denials as such, rather than being repudiations of ritual practice, are in essence modes of ritual recalibration. Denial also, as the volume shows in sharp relief, can be used a means of affirming or proclaiming superiority and difference—a theme outlined in the chapters by Chen and Lachs, who both show how certain elitist groups or traditions gain potency and assert a sense of self-received spiritual superiority by denying any engagements with ritual forms and practices. The Chinese literati and elites discussed by Chen, criticise ritual practices (such as ancestral veneration and funerary rites) as archaic and suffused in superstition; they are the stuff of ignorant peasants, and the elite’s rejection of and distance from such ritualised activities is thus a marker of their advanced nature and superior status. Likewise, the advocates of the Zen tradition discussed by Lachs present themselves and their tradition as a refined and highly spiritual one unencumbered by formalism and ritualism— something that Zen proponents have criticised much of the rest of the Buddhist tradition for being immersed in. In both cases such overt rejections and criticisms of ritual(ism) serve, in the eyes of their proponents, to elevate themselves, their cultural milieu and, in the case of Zen, their particular Buddhist tradition, above others whom they perceive as backward and ritually hidebound. The irony, as both chapters show, is that neither the literati nor the Zen adepts are free from ritual engagements; far from it, indeed, for the Chinese literati also die and have mortuary rites, while, as Lachs shows, and as others who have worked on Zen (myself included) have pointed out, Zen temple life is heavily embedded in ritual practices and steeped in a formalism in which ritual performance is elevated and presented as a manifestation of spiritual prowess. 1 The spontaneity of Zen, manifest for example in transmissions from master to disciple, is in reality very formalistic and ritualised.

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I discuss this issue in Reader (1995) where I look at how Zen temple life can be excessively ritualised, especially in the context of temple work, which often has far less to do with actual practical work than with ritual performance.

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There is an interesting articulation, in these denials by Chinese elites and Japanese Zen protagonists, of the views utilised by Protestant critics (discussed among others by Catherine Bell (1997)) who portrayed their (supposedly non-ritualised) ways of life and beliefs as being grounded in rationalism and in textual authority, rather than in the “superstition” and ritualism of “others”. This “us and them” perspective was a central legitimating element in the proclamations of Protestant “superiority” and its concomitants, such as colonialism. Denial of ritual and of ritualism, it would appear, is a recurrent means of constructing a sense of selfproclaimed moral superiority that serves to promote particularist interests. Such patterns of approach repeat themselves time and again, not just in Protestant colonial machinations and in the claims of Chinese literati and Zen adepts, but in numerous other contexts. A number of chapters, for example, show how certain types of ritual practices are denied legitimacy and are passed off as manifestations of an uncivilised realm in need of modern reform in ways that assert the presumed superiority and moral standing of their proponents. The focus in a number of chapters on how various Hindu groups and activists in the present day, as well as other interest groups and secular government agencies, have questioned animal sacrifice as out of step with the modernising forces of contemporary Indian society. Animal sacrifice may be a ritual practice with a long history in Hindu contexts, one viewed by its advocates and participants as a marker of their identity and as an important and efficacious rite central to their well-being. However, for some Hindus, influenced by Gandhian thought or conscious of their emerging status as middle-class professionals, and for secular agencies and pressure groups, such ritual sacrifices have come to be seen as highly problematic symbols of backwardness that need to be eradicated in the context of the modernising culture of the contemporary Indian sub-continent. In their contributions both Schlaflechner and Ohri, for example, note how the practice has been challenged in different regions, the former detailing how some Hindus attending a shrine in Pakistan have come to view animal sacrifices there as an outmoded product of an uneducated environment. Denying the validity of the ritual and getting it proscribed not only demonstrates (in the eyes of those who advocated proscription) that the shrine and its supporters belong to the modern world, but serves as a mark of their (self-perceived) spiritual superiority over the surrounding Muslim culture, which continues to practice animal sacrifices. The views of those who see such sacrifice as an important and efficacious ritual have been swept aside in this process. Likewise Ohri points to the newly-formed Indian state of Uttarakhand, where goat sacrifice, long been practised at Hindu shrines, and holding particular significance for local mountain tribal peoples, has acquired the aura of superstition in the eyes of interest groups keen to promote what they see as their modern worldview over and against the seemingly backward and antimodern thinking of those who practice the ritual. This is a concern shared by secular government agencies in the new state, and by animal rights groups, who

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have worked to eradicate animal sacrifice. The practice, too, has been portrayed, by its critics, as a form of exploitation of those—the mountain people—who most readily seek it. Denying the efficacy and moral value of the ritual is thus underpinned by accusations of exploitation that clearly suggest that the mountain people who want to engage in animal sacrifice are backward and in need not just of the benefits of modern reforms but of protection by those who think they know better. It also, of course, implicitly asserts the moral stature of the advocates of reform, who simultaneously ban the practice and pose as the defenders and protectors of those who wish to perform it. Galewicz’s contribution also reaffirms such themes by noting further instances where Hindus as well as politically motivated groups, have turned against animal sacrifice and sought mechanisms—including substituting non-animate items in the ritual sacrificial process—to amend the practice. In such terms, the ritual format may be retained and modified for modern consumption, rather than being repudiated entirely. One might note here that such practices of substitution are common in ritual terms, as noted long ago by Edward Evans-Pritchard in his classic study of the Nuer of the southern Sudan, in which he describes how the importance of ox sacrifice as a ritual process among the Nuer. However, since oxen were both costly as sacrificial items and useful as living animals, sacrifice was often impractical, so that those who performed the ritual were frequently obliged or keen to find a way around this issue. Normally this was done by substituting a cucumber in place of the ox. The cucumber was renamed for the occasion as an oxen and “sacrificed” in its place, with the result that the ritual could be performed efficaciously by and for those who needed to do it (Evans-Pritchard 1956: 28). As such, one could argue that the Nuer understanding and interpretation of their rituals involved an implicit denial, in which it was recognised that there was no absolute and rigidly essential form of the ritual process, and that innovative and expedient ways of performance that did not cause logistical or economic problems were perfectly legitimate. The Japanese practice of hanging up votive tablets known as ema (literally “horse pictures”) is considered by some scholars to be grounded in a similar and practical substitution process in which horse votives (and later still, wooden tablets with pictures of horses on them) were offered in place of actual horses when making supplications to the gods.2 In such contexts, denial (of the absolute nature of a ritual substance) plays a significant part in the efficacious ritual actions that can be carried out. The cases cited by Galewicz, Schlaflechner and Ohri thus in many ways also reiterate the themes Lachs and Chen have noted, in which a disengagement (often claimed rather than real) from ritual performance is toted as a marker of cultural

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See Iwai (1980, 1983: 16–18) and Reader (1991: 26–28). As Iwai has shown, these votives later came to bear numerous images, not just horses, on them, even though they continue to be termed ema (horse pictures) in Japan.

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and spiritual suuperiority. Yet denial is not eradication; not only do the elites who proclaim themselves opposed to rituals, engage in them but, as Galewicz, amongst others, indicates, their denials can lead to innovations and new ritual modes to replace those that are deemed unacceptable. This process of “modernising” or making rituals more “respectable”—and in so doing, producing alternative modes of expression that may themselves become ritualised—is evident, too, in Flaskerud’s discussion of how authorities in Iran have been keen to stop the ritualised practices of blood-letting via flagellation that have been practised during Shia commemorations of Moharram. While practitioners who engage in the bloodletting may see it as crucial to the wider ritual process they are engaged in at Moharram, some government authorities (like, one might suggest, the regional government of Uttarakhand in its keenness to demonstrate its modern nature by banning animal sacrifices) take a different view. In seeking to build new relationships with the wider world, the Iranian regime appears keen to counter commonly held images of the country as suffused in fanaticism, and as such, it (or at least some parts of the government) has come to view blood-letting as antithetical to the image the country wishes to present to the world. Banning the practice is supported by some religious scholars, who argue from their textual research, that it is not validated in scriptural sources. At the same time denying blood-letting as part of the ritual is opposed by other scholars, who are able to find, in their readings of textual sources, a legitimation of the practice. One might here remark on the often contradictory and problematic nature of religious texts, that can be read variously in ways that can deny and affirm particular points of view, interpretations and practices, often at the same time. Yet this denial of blood-letting can also open up spaces for new modes of practice as participants discuss new ways to deal with the wish to shed blood—and come up with such intrinsically modern and secular practices such as blood donation that can be encouraged and presented as an alternative, tinged with religious meanings, to blood-letting. In Simon’s discussion of how Wahhabi Muslims repudiate a ritual that has become popular in most parts of the Muslim world, namely the celebration of the Prophet’s birthday, we see another example of how particular ideological positions grounded in textual readings, can lead to denials that serve to promote a particular vision of the universal. Wahhabi scholars, based in their textual studies, argue that their Prophet and his contemporaries did not celebrate his birthday- and hence that later Muslims should not either. Their criticism is also grounded in other motivations, notably the wish to affirm a universalised Islamic practice that has no localised deviations such as the mawlid or birthday celebration rituals that have developed in some parts of the Islamic world but that are rejected by the Wahhabis. Their denial of this particular ritual is a means of affirming something that, in their eyes, is more important—namely, a universal vision of Islam (albeit one grounded wholly in their own particularism). Such examples inform us, if we needed reminding, that even within religious traditions and agencies there are multiple

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divergences of opinion and plentiful denunciations and repudiations of practices, along with multiple and often contradictory understandings about the meanings and values of rituals in which all may engage—as well as hegemonic voices that are ready to deny the agency of some practices that to the outsider might look quite understandable (such as celebrating the birthday of a key figure in a tradition’s development) in order to impose their particular understanding upon the wider tradition. At times it may be necessary, for political and pragmatic reasons, to deny certain ritual forms or processes, or to use modes of denial in order to construct and affirm new realities. This is evident in Astrid Zotter’s account of how ritual processes have changed in Nepal in the aftermath of political upheaval. The monarchy has been overthrown, and a new secular Nepal has come into being, driven by political forces that have been inimical to many traditional (and religiously-oriented) Nepali rituals. This new political settlement has required new ritual processes to help shape its formation for, as Zotter indicates, ritual is one of the building blocks of political and social power in the nation. Previously the King was imbued with sacred powers, and his political position at the head of state was underpinned by and united with his spiritual status that was affirmed in rituals that articulated this former reality. The changes that have occurred, and the overthrow of the monarchy, with the former king now just a private citizen, have required that the rituals that evoked and affirmed his special, sacred nature and position in the state structure, now need to be amended to reflect the new political reality. Yet although the former King is now denied a public participatory role in state rituals he cannot entirely be barred from taking part, in his new status as a private citizen, in publicly open rituals and events. However, now he does so as a private citizen, so that his ritual engagement now serves to emphasise his lack of kingly status and to affirm the secular power of those who deposed him. State rituals thus are not so much denied as reformed to fit the new secular order. Practical concerns also underpin Hüsken’s account of how women have become Hindu priestesses in recent times. Certainly it has clearly taken the advocacy of a powerful and charismatic male figure in one particular area to subjugate traditional Hindu notions that only males can be priests. Here we see how charisma and individual ascetic power can play a role in challenging, subverting and yet simultaneously reaffirming traditions—an area that perhaps needs more discussion in future, given the potential of charismatic figures as religious agents of change. In the case at hand, the agency of a charismatic figure has clearly been a factor, but critically it has been practical needs that have been crucial to this denial of male exclusivity. The practical problem—yet again, one might note, a product of modernity and new modes of thinking in a secularising society—is that male priests are in decline and their public status has increasingly been demeaned by

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critics. The priesthood may itself be viewed in an ambivalent light by Hindus (as it is in many parts of the world),3 required for rituals yet viewed somewhat contemptuously as mercenary, corrupt and of low status. As such, many males have pursued other, secular, careers there has developed a dearth of appropriately trained male ritual specialists. In this context the development of women as priestesses helps to confront a gap; it has a highly practical dimension in which challenges to male hegemony can be underpinned by practical necessities. Together the forces of charismatic authority and pragmatism have served to deny the former male prerogative of priestly exclusivity and to bring about innovative reform. This has clearly been welcomed by many (notably middle- and uppermiddle class Hindu households) not just because the women concerned are seen good ritual performers but because, by supporting female priestesses such clients can demonstrate their modern nature, free from old and superstitious ways and able to act as model citizens in a modernising nation. At the same time the female practitioners rearticulate their engagement by portraying themselves as reviving and strengthening the Hindu tradition. Denying the male control of the priesthood thus appears to have been ritually efficacious and capable of regenerating enthusiasm not just for the rituals but for the status of priests as a collective category. At the same time, however, one must make one caveat here. It would appear that there are lines that cannot (at least at present) be crossed and some forms of ritual structure that cannot be denied. The Brahmin caste dominance of the priesthood has not been challenged, for the women who are now being ordained are all of that same caste. In that sense, the denial of male exclusivity is balanced by an affirmation of the continuing ritual dominance and priesthood monopoly of the Brahmin caste. Christof Zotter’s account of the practices and ritual performances of Aghorī ascetics in such places as cremation ground rituals, does show that there are occasions when Brahmanic norms can be challenged, while indicating how asceticism itself presents a potent repudiation of normal life patterns through a classic ascetic mode of reversing normal actions. From ritual fasting instead of eating to the performance of ritual practices in an arena associated not with the world of spiritual transcendence but of death, danger and impurity, Aghorī ascetics contradict standards notions of mortality and of the everyday. Denial in such forms is a common ascetic mode, an avenue through which empowerment and transcendence are believed to emerge; not uncommonly, as in the Aghorī case, this empowerment

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In Japan, for example, Buddhist priests have traditionally be seen as necessary in order to perform vital ritual forms, notably funerals and caring for the dead, but have simultaneously been the focus of contempt, seen as little more than ritual specialists and performers of formulaic actions at a time when people are grieving because of family deaths—and of accruing financial rewards for such formulaic actions. See Inoue (2010) for a fuller discussion, and for an English summary of Japanese views on this topic (and for a distillation of Inoue’s discussion) see Reader (2011: 246–248).

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is not wholly or necessarily positive in that the empowered ascetic is not just a spiritually powerful figure able to grant blessings but is also a rather frightening and ambivalent one, whose empowerment also confers the ability to bestow curses. In this context the Aghorī can be seen as a good example of the point Mary Douglas (1966) made many years back, which she emphasised that the notion of the “sacred” as embedded in its Latin original term sacer, contains a duality and conveys both positive and negative dimensions, and in which purity and danger are intertwined, as concomitant aspects of the whole. Douglas, of course, was deeply interested in ritual practices as means of expressing culturally significant views of what should be excluded as well as what should be included, and her argument, in Purity and Danger, drew attention to dirt (and to boundaries in general) not as an exclusively negative substance but as something relative, that could be redefined and demarcated according to particular cultural contexts, situations and prevailing religious ideas. One might suggest that denial, as articulated by the contributors to this volume, not only resonates to a degree with such views, but takes us beyond than the rather rigid grid-like structures that characterised Douglas’s work on ritual by enhancing our awareness of the ambivalence that suffuses so many of the cases of denial outlined here— cases where often, indeed, denial itself becomes a mode of affirmation. Through examining and analysing the processes of denial, we can see not just how boundaries are formed and matters are deemed in or out of place, but how inclusion and exclusion are tied together in often creative and innovative ways. Denial in its multivalent modes and manifestations can generate renovations and re-articulations of ritual forms as well as proscribing them; it can provide avenues through which changing social, cultural, political and religious circumstances can be manifested and their boundaries redrawn. In rapidly changing socio-cultural contexts, too, the processes of denial can also serve as a means of demonstrating modernity by offering ways through which rituals can be challenged and the notion of tradition can be questioned. That may be one of the most pertinent themes found in the essays in this book, many of which show how attempts to be modern and free from the travails and bonds of the past (often portrayed as backward and traditionally hidebound) are bound up with the process of ritual denials that, in their turn, become ways of ritual reformation and restatements of the values of ritual(ism). In contemporary contexts, where “tradition” has so often become a tensely dualistic notion, valued for its apparent manifestation of cultural depth, endurance and identity formation yet seen by many as a barrier to progress and a manifestation of pre-modern and irrational customs, one might suggest that the notion of denial, with all the dualities, contradictions and tensions it encapsulates, has a particularly powerful resonance and offers a valuable way through which to consider ritual processes in modernising societies.

© 2016, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 978-3-447-10570-5 — ISBN E-Book: 978-3-447-19520-1

Afterword

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References Bell, Catherine. 1997. Ritual. Perspectives and Dimensions. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Douglas, Mary. 1966. Purity and Danger. An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Evans-Pritchard, Edward E. 1956. Nuer Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Iwai, Hiromi. 1980. Ema o tazunete. Kobe: Kobe Shinbun Shuppan Senta. Iwai, Hiromi. 1983. “Ema tenbyō”. In: Iwai Hiromi (ed.), Ema hisshi. Tokyo: Nippon Hōsō Shuppan Kyōkai, pp. 14–77. Inoue, Kido. 2010. Bukkyō bijinesu no karakuri. Tokyo: Asahi Shinsho. Reader, Ian. 1991. “Letters to the Gods. the Form and Meaning of Ema”. In: Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 18.1: 23–50. Reader, Ian. 1995. “Cleaning floors and sweeping the mind. Cleaning as a ritual process”. In: Jan van Bremen and D.P. Martinez (eds), Ceremony and Ritual in Japan. Religious Practices in an Industrialized Society. London: Routledge, pp. 227–245. Reader, Ian. 2011. “Buddhism in Crisis? Institutional Decline in Modern Japan”. In: Buddhist Studies Review 28.2: 233–263.

© 2016, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 978-3-447-10570-5 — ISBN E-Book: 978-3-447-19520-1

Ritual, as universal mode of human action, is always evaluated and criticized. Humans seem to need rituals, but they also reject them. Criticism is an inevitable part of ritual traditions, and is often part of the ritual itself. Even new or renewed traditions strongly relate to the old and rejected. Ritual then becomes an ideal ground to negotiate and fight over ideologies, modernity and backwardness, tradition and innovation, and diverging ideologies. This volume deals with different forms of denial and the critique of rituals, and uses ritual denial as a lens to learn more about the role of rituals in their performers’ lives, and about the ambivalences this denial uncovers. The ambivalence, complexity, and processuality of denial are consequences of the fact that there is usually not only one, but a chain of denials, one responding to the other.

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© 2016, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 978-3-447-10570-5 — ISBN E-Book: 978-3-447-19520-1